Dare Devil: Born Again > Review > Episode 3: The Hollow of His Hand

"Daredevil: Born Again" reaches a narrative zenith in its third episode, "The Hollow of His Hand," masterfully intertwining the suspense of courtroom drama with the rich tapestry of Daredevil's comic book heritage.

This episode not only continues the high standard set by its predecessors but deepens our understanding of Matt Murdock's world, where the line between the law and vigilante justice is as blurred as ever. This resonates deeply with the "Born Again" arc from the comics, where Murdock is dismantled and reborn, exploring themes of redemption and resurrection, which are echoed in his relentless pursuit of justice in this episode.

The core of the episode revolves around the gripping murder trial of Hector Ayala, the White Tiger.

Here, the narrative skillfully uses the courtroom as a battleground, juxtaposing Murdock's legal strategies against his internal vigilante instincts. The tension of Ayala defending his actions under Murdock's counsel mirrors pivotal comic scenes where Murdock must reconcile his dual identities.

This duality is central to Daredevil's character in the comics, often portrayed as both his strength and his Achilles' heel, a theme that is explored with nuance and depth in this episode.

Kamar de los Reyes's portrayal of Hector Ayala in what becomes his swan song performance adds a layer of tragic gravitas to the episode. Ayala's character, imbued with nobility and a touch of naiveté about the hero's path, aligns closely with his comic book counterpart, who often grapples with the weight of his responsibilities as White Tiger. 

Reyes's performance captures this beautifully, making Ayala's final stand in court a poignant highlight of the episode, reflecting the often heavy personal cost of heroism depicted throughout superhero lore.

Murdock’s decision to reveal Ayala's identity as White Tiger in court is a narrative gamble that pays off dramatically but raises ethical questions, reflecting the comic book theme of the personal cost of being a hero. This act of unmasking parallels Murdock's own secretive existence as Daredevil, where every revelation has far-reaching repercussions. 

This episode cleverly critiques this superhero trope, examining the consequences of such revelations not just for the hero but for the community they protect.

Wilson Fisk’s character development is subtly portrayed in this episode, depicting his attempts to reform his Kingpin image in his new role as mayor. This character evolution is reminiscent of Fisk’s narrative arcs in the comics, where his complex relationship with power and identity often plays a central role. His internal conflict and his external political maneuvers echo Murdock's struggles, setting up a parallel narrative track that enhances the show's exploration of identity and redemption.

The subtle incorporation of the Punisher’s symbol via a piece of wall graffiti not only ties into the larger Marvel Universe but also introduces a darker tone to the series. 

This element hints at future conflicts... come on down at your leisure Jon Berenthal.

The episode's use of MCU lore, like the Spider-Man references and indirect mystical elements associated with the White Tiger amulet, serves to enrich the narrative. These details not only link the show to the broader Marvel narrative but also ground the fantastical elements within a more relatable reality.

The cinematography and sound design in the episode's climactic scene—Ayala's shooting—are executed with a poignant emphasis on the tragic elements of the hero's journey. The use of coquí frogs in the background is a subtle nod to Ayala's Puerto Rican heritage, which is central to his character both in the comics and in this adaptation. 

Overall, episode three of "Daredevil: Born Again" stands out for its sophisticated blending of legal drama and superhero lore. The episode pays homage to the complexities of Matt Murdock's character as depicted in the comics while advancing new narrative threads that challenge and expand the viewer's understanding of what it means to be a hero in a morally ambiguous world. The show respects its comic roots while charting a new course, making it a defining piece in the Daredevil saga and a deep exploration of themes central to the superhero genre.

Let's see how episode 4: Sic Sempre Systema played out.

Dare Devil: Born Again > Review > Episode 2: OPTICS

After the thunderous opening of Daredevil: Born Again, which reintroduced the vigilante world in shocking, bloody fashion, episode two, titled “Optics,” dives deeper into the messier, more personal stakes of Matt Murdock’s life. Gone are the explosive action set pieces of the premiere, replaced with a more deliberate exploration of the new status quo in Hell’s Kitchen, where Matt wrestles with his dual identity while Wilson Fisk redefines his own. What we’re left with is a captivating, though quieter, episode that sets the stage for inevitable chaos, weaving together political maneuvering, legal battles, and personal drama.

Wilson Fisk’s political transformation continues to be one of the most fascinating aspects of Born Again. In his first episode, he was a man attempting to shed his Kingpin persona for a more polished image as New York City’s newly elected mayor.

 Now, in “Optics,” we see just how far his desire for control stretches. His televised speeches, full of anger towards vigilantes, continue to solidify his grip on the city. It’s a masterful move, echoing the sentiments of a population who has grown tired of the unchecked chaos in their streets. Fisk’s rise is one part populist rhetoric, one part personal vendetta, and his plan to rid the city of vigilantes like Daredevil is clear.

His power is further cemented by the unwavering loyalty of his staff, including his campaign manager, Sheila Rivera, and his new protégé, Daniel Blake, who eagerly help him push forward this agenda.

Fisk’s push to cleanse the streets from masked crusaders is a brilliant narrative choice, especially as it mirrors the internal conflict brewing in Matt Murdock’s heart. A year removed from the tragic loss of Foggy Nelson and the emotional toll that followed, Matt is trying to put away his Daredevil persona for good. He’s doing what he can to live a "normal" life, partnering with Kirsten McDuffie (Nikki M. James) in a law firm that prioritizes justice by the book. But despite his best efforts, Matt is still pulled toward the darkness he tries to repress.

A case involving Hector Ayala, also known as White Tiger, brings Matt right back into the world of vigilantes.

Ayala, Marvel’s first Hispanic superhero, is a complex figure in this episode. What starts as a simple defense case quickly unravels to expose a deeper moral dilemma. Ayala, having intervened in a subway altercation between cops and a civilian, is now accused of being a cop killer after one of the officers he fought with was hit by an oncoming train. Matt’s instincts tell him Ayala is innocent, but there’s more lurking beneath the surface. The reveal that Ayala is hiding his true identity as White Tiger is a crucial turning point in the episode, forcing Matt to confront his own views on vigilantism. The line between right and wrong becomes even murkier when he learns that Ayala is not just a man seeking justice, but a hero in hiding.

The courtroom scene with Ayala’s trial is a standout moment in the episode. Matt’s brilliance as a lawyer is on full display as he defends his client against a stacked deck of corrupt cops and a biased judge. The interplay between Matt and District Attorney Ben Hochberg (John Benjamin Hickey) adds to the tension, as Matt fights to keep Ayala’s secret identity from the jury. The stakes are high, and Matt’s skill as an attorney is tested in ways that echo his former alter ego’s tactics.

This legal procedural component adds a layer of depth to the narrative, showing that not all battles need to be fought with fists.

Meanwhile, Fisk’s political savvy is tested as he navigates the complex relationships with city officials. The episode dives deeper into his strained dynamic with Vanessa (Ayelet Zurer), who is still distant from him after his time away in recovery. Their therapy session, led by Heather Glenn (Margarita Levieva), is a subtle but powerful moment that shows the cracks forming in their once unshakeable bond. Vanessa’s discomfort with Fisk’s new political life is palpable, as she struggles to reconcile the man she married with the power-hungry figure he’s becoming. The tension in this relationship promises to spill over, and with Heather’s role in their therapy, things are bound to get more complicated for Matt as well.

The inevitable crossover between Matt’s personal and professional life, especially with Heather’s growing influence, adds an intriguing layer of suspense.

The episode also introduces us to BB Urich (Genneya Walton), the niece of the late Ben Urich, a journalist who played a key role in uncovering Fisk’s criminal empire in the original series. BB’s role as an ambitious young journalist looking to get close to Fisk adds another layer of intrigue. Her connections to the previous series only deepen the stakes, as we know that Fisk, who is now in the mayor’s office, has no qualms about silencing those who threaten his power.

Her presence raises the question: will she become another pawn in Fisk’s game, or will she bring the truth to light in a way that could shatter his carefully crafted facade?

One of the most compelling elements of “Optics” is the quiet exploration of Matt’s inner turmoil.

While Matt works tirelessly to help Ayala, his frustration with his own identity builds. There’s a palpable sense of conflict as Matt begins to accept that he cannot separate his two selves — the lawyer and the vigilante. His outburst at the end of the episode, where he finally lets his rage take control in a brutal fight against two corrupt cops, is a stark reminder that Daredevil is never truly gone. This moment not only re-establishes the raw, visceral action that defined the original series but also illustrates the ongoing internal struggle that Matt faces. His actions may be justified, but the cost is always high.

In terms of Easter eggs, “Optics” keeps the continuity of the Marvel universe alive. BB Urich’s connection to her uncle Ben is an obvious nod to the original series, where Ben’s investigative work put him in direct opposition to Fisk.

Additionally, the references to Spider-Man during Fisk’s televised rants serve as a delicious breadcrumb for fans, further intertwining the worlds of Daredevil and Spider-Man in ways that could pay off down the road. The appearance of the White Tiger suit and amulet, as well as the brief mention of Ava Ayala, hints at future storylines involving this character and his legacy.

While the episode doesn’t deliver the same level of intensity as the premiere, it succeeds in pushing the story forward by focusing on the deep personal and political battles of its central characters. It’s clear that Born Again is building toward something bigger, with Matt and Fisk on an inevitable collision course that’s set against a backdrop of corruption, loss, and redemption. The emotional stakes are high, and the show has set a strong foundation for the complications to come.

Overall, Daredevil: Born Again continues to find its rhythm in this second episode. It’s a slower burn than the pilot, but its political intrigue and legal drama set the stage for what’s sure to be a thrilling, explosive season. We’re witnessing the unraveling of two characters — one trying to keep his darker nature at bay and the other embracing it — and it’s a dynamic that promises to be both tragic and electrifying as the season unfolds.

We'll take a chance, you want to know how episode 3 The Hollow of his Hand played out.

Victory for Villains: List of Sci-Fi Films Where the Bad Guys Win

Resistance is futile they say...

In the shadowy corridors of science fiction, not all stories herald the triumph of caped crusaders or intergalactic heroes. Instead, some of the genre’s most compelling tales are those where the bad guys clinch a sinister victory, compelling audiences to confront their own notions of morality and heroism.

From the cold reaches of space to the dystopian futures on Earth, these narratives where villains triumph serve as chilling reminders that in both cinema and reality, the end doesn't always belong to the righteous. Films like The Empire Strikes Back and The Mist leave us with more than just cliffhangers or shock; they leave us questioning the very nature of victory and defeat.

It’s this bold storytelling that not only captivates but also resonates long after the credits roll, painting a world where sometimes, darkness does win.

Classic and Modern Sci-Fi

The Empire Strikes Back (1980)

Released as the middle chapter of the original Star Wars trilogy, The Empire Strikes Back plunges its audience into the depths of despair, showcasing a rare moment in cinematic history where the bad guys hold the upper hand. The film concludes with the Galactic Empire striking devastating blows: Han Solo is captured and frozen in carbonite, Leia and Chewbacca are fugitives, and Luke Skywalker grapples with the shattering truth about his parentage. This climax is a dark orchestration of loss and uncertainty, illustrating the fragility of the Rebel Alliance and the ruthless efficacy of the Empire’s might.


The Thing (1982)

John Carpenter's The Thing is a masterclass in psychological horror and alien terror, set against the isolated, icy backdrop of Antarctica. The film ends with a tense standoff between MacReady and Childs, both unsure if the other has been assimilated by the shape-shifting alien. This unresolved conclusion, thick with paranoia, is emblematic of humanity’s struggle against forces that are not only external but also intimately invasive, leaving viewers to ponder the unnerving possibility of an enemy within.


Planet of the Apes (1968)

A cornerstone of sci-fi cinema, Planet of the Apes ends with one of the most iconic twists in film history. Astronaut George Taylor, played by Charlton Heston (Soylent Green, I am Legend), discovers the ruins of the Statue of Liberty, realizing the "alien" planet he’s been struggling to escape is Earth, ravaged by nuclear war and now ruled by apes. This revelation is a poignant commentary on humanity’s self-destructive impulses, with the real antagonist being our own capacity for self-annihilation.


Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)

In this chilling remake, the insidious spread of alien pod people reaches its terrifying conclusion. The film’s climax, with Donald Sutherland’s character emitting an eerie, inhuman scream, marks the completion of the alien takeover. Humanity is not conquered by force, but replaced through stealth and assimilation, symbolizing a profound loss of individuality and the chilling triumph of conformity.


Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines (2003)

Despite the desperate efforts of John Connor and Kate Brewster, Terminator 3 concludes with the chilling inevitability of Judgment Day. As they bunker down in a fallout shelter, it becomes clear that Skynet’s activation and the subsequent nuclear apocalypse were never events to prevent, but harsh inevitabilities to delay. This narrative cements the dominance of technology over humanity, underscoring a fatalistic view of our future with machines.


Avengers: Infinity War (2018)

In a stark departure from typical superhero victories, Avengers: Infinity War concludes with Thanos succeeding in his genocidal goal to balance the universe by erasing half of all life. The Avengers are left defeated and broken, scattered across the galaxy. The film’s somber ending emphasizes the scale of Thanos’ resolve and the profound impact of his actions, leaving audiences to grapple with the complexities of his twisted moral logic.

The Mist (2007) 

Frank Darabont’s adaptation of Stephen King’s novella ends in one of the most harrowing twists in horror cinema. David Drayton makes the ultimate sacrifice, killing his son and fellow survivors to save them from a gruesome death by monsters which plunges him into the depths of despair. This brutal conclusion serves as a grim meditation on the fragility of hope and the devastating consequences of premature despair.

Dystopian Narratives

Brazil (1985)

Terry Gilliam's Brazil is a surreal dive into the nightmarish intricacies of a bureaucratic dystopia. The film follows Sam Lowry, a low-level government employee, who finds himself entangled in a Kafkaesque nightmare as he attempts to correct an administrative error. His journey through the labyrinthine and oppressive government machinery ends in tragedy. 

After being captured and subjected to severe torture, Sam retreats into a fantasy world, a mental escape from his intolerable reality. The film concludes with a haunting image of Sam lost in his delusion, a poignant metaphor for the crushing power of totalitarian regimes and the futile resistance of the individual under such oppressive forces. 

This bleak ending not only underscores the pervasive control exerted by authoritarian governments but also chillingly illustrates the ultimate victory of system over spirit.


Children of Men (2006)

Alfonso Cuarón's Children of Men paints a grim future where humanity faces impending extinction due to a mysterious, global infertility crisis. The film’s protagonist, Theo, a disillusioned bureaucrat, becomes an unlikely hero as he protects Kee, the first pregnant woman in nearly two decades. Their harrowing journey through a dystopian Britain teeming with chaos and despair culminates in Theo's ultimate sacrifice. He dies from his injuries shortly after securing Kee's passage to the "Human Project," a group of scientists dedicated to curing infertility. While the film leaves a glimmer of hope with the sound of children's laughter overlaying the credits, it is deeply shadowed by the immense personal losses endured. Children of Men offers a profound reflection on the paradox of survival in a dying world, emphasizing the heavy toll that hope can exact in times of despair.

Snowpiercer (2013)

Bong Joon-ho's Snowpiercer offers a stark portrayal of class warfare set aboard a perpetually moving train that houses the last remnants of humanity after a catastrophic climate change event. The train, divided into rigid social classes from tail to engine, becomes a battleground as Curtis, the protagonist from the impoverished tail section, leads a violent revolt against the elites controlling the front. The climax is catastrophic: the train is derailed during the conflict, leading to the deaths of nearly all aboard. Onlya few survivors emerge from the wreckage to face a desolate, ice-bound Earth with no promise of safety or survival. This bleak ending serves as a powerful allegory for the destructive potential of societal divisions and the uncertain future of humanity when it prioritizes oppressive hierarchical systems over cooperation and unity.

Alien (1979)

Ripley escapes the Nostromo, but the alien’s destructive presence serves as a warning about unchecked corporate greed and the exploitation of unknown dangers. The company’s willingness to sacrifice the crew for the alien highlights humanity’s moral and ethical decay. This betrayal underscores the film’s dark commentary on corporate greed and the expendability of human lives in the quest for profit. The company’s willingness to sacrifice the crew for the alien highlights humanity’s moral and ethical decay, serving as a chilling reminder of the real monsters—corporate entities willing to risk humanity itself for gains.

Experimental and Psychological Sci-Fi

A Clockwork Orange (1971)

After being “rehabilitated” through a controversial psychological process, Alex is deemed "cured" by the government and allowed to resume his violent behavior. The film’s conclusion, with Alex reverting to his original violent tendencies, serves as a cynical commentary on the moral compromises and corrupt motives of societal institutions, revealing a world where the state's desire for control overrides any genuine pursuit of justice or rehabilitation.


Coherence (2013)

The protagonist, Emily, descends into madness after realizing she cannot return to her own timeline. She murders an alternate version of herself to steal her place, only to be caught in an inescapable loop of identity and reality, signifying the existential chaos caused by her choices.

Gattaca (1997)

Gattaca presents a future where genetic engineering and eugenics dictate one's place in society. The film follows Vincent, born naturally and thus considered genetically inferior, who dreams of traveling to space—a field reserved for the genetically elite. By assuming the identity of a genetically superior but paralyzed individual, Vincent defies the oppressive social order and achieves his dream of space travel.

Vincent achieves his dream of space travel, but the eugenics-based society remains unchallenged. His success, while inspiring, highlights the persistence of genetic discrimination and the oppressive system he leaves behind.

Mickey 17 review - directed by Bong Joon Ho

Oh Mickey you're so fine, hey Mickey....

Bong Joon-ho's latest cinematic adventure, Mickey 17, plunges into the icy waters of sci-fi comedy with an unnerving twist, starring Robert Pattinson (The Batman, The Lighthouse) in a dual role that challenges the very notion of identity and expandability. 

The film serves as a dark mirror to our current socio-political climate, marked by its dystopian view of a future where life is as disposable as the bioprinted clones it features.

Set against the backdrop of a corporatized interstellar colony, the film’s title character, Mickey Barnes, played by Pattinson, becomes a guinea pig in the most literal sense. Signed up as an “Expendable” to escape Earthly debts, Mickey’s existence is reduced to a series of painful deaths and resurrections via a 3D bioprinter, each time retaining memories of his demise. This horrific cycle questions the value of life when it can be endlessly replicated.

He's dying to save mankind...

Pattinson’s portrayal of Mickey is nothing short of a tour de force. He brings a gremlin-like charm to the role, his physical comedy tinged with a palpable sense of despair. As Mickey 17, he's a slumped, tragic figure; as Mickey 18, he embodies a sharper, survivalist edge, showing Pattinson’s range in a script that demands it constantly.

Bong’s film, loosely based on Edward Ashton’s novel Mickey 7, takes considerable liberties with its source material, emphasizing less the philosophical ruminations on self and more the absurdities of its premise. The icy alien colony of Niflheim serves as the stage for a satirical take on human expendability and corporate malfeasance, driven home by the film's antagonist, Kenneth Marshall, played with gusto by Mark Ruffalo (Poor Things). Marshall, a white-supremacist politician-cum-corporate mogul, embodies the worst excesses of power, with Ruffalo’s performance a clear, if over-the-top, critique of contemporary political figures.

Toni Collette’s Ylfa, Marshall’s equally nefarious wife, turns in a deliciously wicked performance, her culinary obsessions serving as a bizarre metaphor for the colonial and exploitative appetites of the ruling class. Together, they caricature a political elite obsessed with genetic purity and corporate control, their villainy painted in broad, satirical strokes that resonate uncomfortably with real-world parallels.

The film's visual style is a stark departure from the grounded realism of Parasite. Cinematographer Darius Khondji brings a cold, metallic sheen to Niflheim, its landscapes a perfect reflection of the film's chilling themes. The special effects, particularly the bioprinting sequences, are both impressive and grotesque, illustrating the cheapness of life in Bong's envisioned future.

However, Mickey 17 is not without its faults. Its pace is frenetic, at times sacrificing coherence for style. The subplot involving the indigenous alien species and their clash with human colonizers adds a layer of complexity and moral questioning, yet it sometimes feels underexplored, lost amid the film’s many twists and turns.

Despite these criticisms, the film achieves a disturbing relevance. Its release amidst the socio-political turmoil of 2025—echoes of autocracy, corporate overreach, and human rights abuses—makes it all the more poignant. Bong uses the medium of sci-fi not just to entertain but to provoke, asking uncomfortable questions about the direction in which our world is headed.

Mickey 17 ultimately stands as a testament to Bong Joon-ho's enduring ability to blend genre with message. While it may not reach the heights of Parasite in narrative tightness, it extends his exploration of themes like class disparity and human dignity into new, visually striking territories. It's a bold, if imperfect, entry into his filmography, one that confirms his status as a filmmaker unafraid to confront the bleak facets of our reality through the lens of dark comedy and dystopian fear. Pattinson, under Bong's direction, delivers a performance that’s both endearing and repulsive—an apt reflection of the film's jarring, dualistic nature.

As Mickey 17 navigates its complex narrative and thematic territory, it challenges the viewer to consider not just the value of the individual in a disposable society, but the very essence of identity in a world teetering on the brink of moral and ecological collapse. Bong Joon-ho has not just made a movie; he's crafted a cautionary tale for the modern age, one that resonates with chilling clarity in the echo chamber of contemporary cinema.

Who created the Silo and why?

Hugh Howey’s Silo series, composed of Wool, Shift, and Dust, is a labyrinthine exploration of power, control, and survival in a post-apocalyptic world. But at the heart of this tightly wound narrative lies an unsettling question: 

Who created the Silos, and why? 

Through the layered storytelling across three novels, Howey offers a profound meditation on humanity’s instinct to preserve itself—at any cost—and the lengths to which those in power will go to safeguard a dying world. 

But this is no simple tale of survival; it's a tale of manipulation, a “social experiment” disguised as salvation. In the Silo world, technology is both a tool for control and a mechanism of fear. Nano-tech, surveillance, and the illusory promise of safety all play pivotal roles in maintaining the delicate balance of power between the Silos—and in the eventual unraveling of that control. 

The Silos were built by shadowy hands, shaped by secretive agencies with their own agenda, but their downfall is as inevitable as it is devastating. 

Let's uncover the architects of the Silo system, explore their motives, and dissect how their vision for saving humanity ultimately led to its demise. Howey’s dystopian world poses an unsettling philosophical question—can you save humanity by killing it? And, more disturbingly, who decides which humanity survives?

Who created the Silos?

The creation of the Silos, a massive underground network designed to preserve humanity after an unspecified apocalyptic event, remains one of the most chilling elements of Hugh Howey’s series. However, the identity of those behind the construction and management of the Silos isn’t immediately clear. It unfolds gradually throughout Shift and Dust, offering readers a series of complex revelations. 

Ultimately, the Silos were designed and constructed by a coalition of powerful, unnamed government agencies and private corporations—each motivated by the goal of preserving a select portion of humanity while controlling the broader population’s fate.

In the first book, Wool, the protagonist, Holston, and others within the Silo are unaware of their origins, as the truth has been deliberately obscured by a manipulative system of information control. But as the series progresses, Shift provides a more detailed picture. It reveals that the Silos were part of a clandestine project orchestrated by a group known as the "United States Congress," though in name only. In reality, these figures are a shadowy elite faction composed of scientists, politicians, and business moguls, whose motives blend pragmatism with an unsettling disregard for individual lives.

The creators of the Silos were driven by the belief that they could save humanity by isolating its survivors from the ravaged surface world. However, their true intention wasn’t just survival—it was to control who would be allowed to live and under what conditions. They built the Silos to serve as both sanctuaries and laboratories, places where they could experiment with social order and governance, using technology and strict regulations to shape the population within. 

These creators were part of a larger group, known in the later novels as the Silo Project initiators, whose designs were carried out through a sophisticated infrastructure. The purpose of the Silos, initially, wasn’t solely to protect humanity from environmental collapse, but to create a controlled environment where a select few could rebuild civilization according to a specific blueprint.

In Shift, readers discover that the creators of the Silos did not merely build them as a last-ditch effort to save humanity—they built them as a form of social experiment. This “experiment” was not simply about survival; it was a calculated attempt to design a society that could endure the collapse of the world around them, but only on their terms. 

The Silo system was designed with the understanding that, to preserve the human race, certain brutal measures would need to be taken to control the population’s growth and limit the chaos that might arise from unchecked autonomy. Thus, the “who” behind the creation of the Silos is not just a matter of government policy or corporate greed, but a combination of human arrogance and scientific hubris.

These elites saw themselves as the architects of a new world order, one that would emerge from the ashes of a decimated Earth. But there was no room for dissent, individuality, or democracy. The Silos were intended to be authoritarian systems in which the survival of the group mattered more than the freedoms of the individual. Over time, as Howey’s narrative unfolds, we see the contrast between the creators’ vision of salvation and the lived reality of those confined within the Silos: their lives reduced to rigid routines, constant surveillance, and a system of strict obedience that ultimately leads to the destruction of the very thing they sought to protect.

The nature of the creators’ involvement in the Silo system evolves as the novels progress. What starts as a nameless, faceless group of bureaucrats soon becomes a more defined collective, eventually revealing that the project was always about power—the preservation of it. They are the ultimate engineers of the Silos' oppressive systems. In the end, they may not have been acting in humanity's best interest after all, but rather pursuing a twisted form of survivalism that sacrificed personal liberty for the illusion of safety. The ultimate irony, of course, is that while they intended to preserve humanity, their actions also ensured its eventual downfall. The ‘experiment’ outlived its creators, who vanished long before the inevitable collapse of their controlled world.

Ultimately, the question of “who” created the Silos points not to a single individual, but to a cadre of powerful elites who believed they could control the future of humanity. They built the Silos not to protect society as we understand it, but to create a New World Order—one that they could guide, monitor, and manipulate from the shadows. Their vision, as we learn over the course of the trilogy, was never one of democratic survival but a rigid, hierarchical system in which they held the keys to humanity’s future, with little regard for the cost of maintaining that power.

Juliet - the dice were loaded from the start...

Why were the Silo's created?

The creation of the Silos is rooted in a paradoxical, morally complex premise: to save humanity, society must be tightly controlled, regulated, and even subjected to an engineered form of oppression. In Hugh Howey’s Silo series, the question of why the Silos were created isn’t just a matter of survival—it's about preserving a specific, elite vision of the future at the expense of the greater human population. The Silos were born from a belief that humanity, in the wake of environmental collapse, could only be saved through strict population control, information manipulation, and the suppression of free will. At their core, the Silos represent the dystopian notion that to save humanity, certain freedoms must be sacrificed—a chilling but timeless commentary on the limits of utopian ideologies.

The genesis of the Silos is grounded in the aftermath of a catastrophic event. Shift reveals that the Earth’s surface had become largely uninhabitable, rendered toxic and uninhabitable by a combination of nuclear fallout, climate disaster, and environmental degradation. For the elites who designed the Silos, the immediate, existential threat posed by this ecological collapse required a drastic, top-down solution.

Their reasoning was simple: to protect humanity from extinction, survival could no longer be left to the whims of nature or the chaotic unpredictability of the masses.

It had to be meticulously controlled.

The Silos were, in essence, an experiment in preserving human civilization under tightly regulated conditions. The creators of the Silos did not envision a free society or one based on equality; they designed a world where the hierarchy of power was reinforced by strict technological surveillance, subjugation, and information control. The desire to preserve humanity, then, became intertwined with the desire to control it.

By building self-contained, highly controlled environments, these elites could manipulate every aspect of life, from reproduction to resource allocation. There would be no uncontrolled growth, no unpredictable behavior, and no risk of mass panic. In this world, survival would be governed by regulation, not by the whims of individuals or external forces.

Furthermore, the creators believed that the "experiment" of the Silos was a way to select and preserve the "best" of humanity. In a twisted reflection of Darwinian thought, the Silos became a test of who would survive, not just based on merit, but on the selective parameters set by the system itself. It was less about allowing for human potential to blossom and more about maintaining a status quo that served the interests of those in control. There would be no room for deviation, no room for autonomy. The Silo was designed to ensure compliance with the system—because in the eyes of the creators, compliance equaled survival.

This belief in controlled survival is further amplified by the use of nano-technology to monitor and regulate the population. In Wool, Howey introduces the technology of "cleaning"—a punishment where the inhabitants of the Silos are sent to the surface to die in the toxic wasteland. But more insidiously, the creators also used nano-tech to keep the populace in check, manipulating both the body and the mind to prevent uprisings or rebellion. It was this nano-tech that allowed the system to control the people not just through external forces like the leadership, but internally, through their very biology. The creators knew that for the system to maintain its stability, they needed to ensure compliance on every level, even at the molecular level.

Beyond mere survival, the creators' motives were linked to the idea that humanity could be reborn in a controlled, perfected form. They viewed the Silos as an opportunity to rebuild a "new" world, one where the mistakes of the past (environmental destruction, warfare, political corruption) could be avoided. Yet, in this vision, there was no room for the messy complexity of human freedom or diversity. Every Silo was essentially a microcosm of the old world, reconstituted in a new, more controllable form, with individuals consigned to their roles and positions for the sake of order.

The question of why the Silos were created also extends into the realm of philosophical debate.

At the heart of this dystopian scenario is the paradox of "killing humanity to save it." The creators believed that humanity’s survival was tied to sacrifice—sacrifice of freedom, of autonomy, of personal agency. In their eyes, the survival of the human race was so critical that the price of control and obedience was worth it. But it was a vision that saw people not as individuals with agency and rights but as pawns in a grander, albeit flawed, plan.

As the series unfolds, it becomes clear that the Silos were never truly a place of salvation for all. The creators’ actions reveal an authoritarian mindset—an assumption that humanity’s survival was best ensured not through democratic means, but through surveillance, secrecy, and manipulation. Their intention was to engineer a society that was compliant, where citizens would never question their place, and any rebellion or dissent would be swiftly crushed.

In the end, the “why” of the Silos is a reflection of humanity’s darker instincts—the desire to control, to manipulate, to play god. While they claimed to act for the greater good, their actions only highlighted the dangers of centralized, authoritarian power.

The Silos were not merely a survival mechanism; they were a response to fear—a fear of chaos, of an uncontrollable world, of a human race that, left unchecked, might destroy itself.

 

What happened at the end of the Silo trilogy?

At the end of Dust, the final book of the Silo trilogy, the tightly controlled world of the Silos collapses, leading to a tentative victory for the survivors who manage to escape the oppressive system. The downfall of the Silos is set into motion by the unraveling of the control mechanisms that had kept the populations in check for so long—chiefly the technological manipulation and surveillance by the mysterious governing bodies.

Through the actions of key characters like Juliette and the realization of the truth about the Silos’ origins and purpose, the rigid systems of control are ultimately exposed and overthrown. A small group of survivors, including Juliette, make it to the surface, discovering that the world is not as destroyed as they were led to believe.

They find a way to rebuild outside the confines of the Silos, ushering in a new, uncertain beginning for humanity.

While the Silos' creators lose their grip on power, the people who were trapped inside them emerge as victors, though the road to true freedom is fraught with challenges.

The collapse of the Silo system is driven by its inherent flaws—namely, the unsustainable nature of an authoritarian society built on lies, fear, and extreme control.

The nano-tech, surveillance, and constant indoctrination were insufficient to prevent the inevitable human desire for freedom, truth, and self-determination. The architects of the Silos, though initially successful in maintaining their power, ultimately lost because their society was based on a flawed premise: that humanity could be controlled in the long term through technological means. The true cost of their "experiment" was the erosion of trust and the repression of individuality.

As the layers of control were stripped away, the people within the Silos rejected their imposed roles, leading to a revolt that shattered the system.

While the survivors may not have fully escaped the psychological scars of their captivity, the collapse of the Silo project marked the triumph of human resilience over oppression, signaling the failure of the creators' vision and the possibility of a new, freer world.

Captain America: Brave New World Review

Brave? 

New? 

In this economy!?

 
Sam Wilson has had one of the most tumultuous arcs in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and his ascension to the mantle of Captain America was anything but smooth. But while Captain America: Brave New World aims to cement his legacy, it often feels weighed down by Marvel’s past rather than soaring into its own future. 

Anthony Mackie’s first cinematic outing as Cap had the opportunity to redefine the character for a new era, but instead, it finds itself retreating to familiar territory, echoing the beats of Captain America: The Winter Soldier without matching its impact.

Marvel has not always been successful when its supporting characters have stepped up to lead roles. Even in The Falcon And The Winter Soldier, Anthony Mackie (Hurt Locker) and Sebastian Stan’s charisma and chemistry were hamstrung by a messy script and shifting priorities. Brave New World at least offers Mackie a stronger and more focused story, yet it still struggles to break free from Marvel’s increasingly formulaic structure.

 

One of the film’s biggest challenges is the overwhelming density of the MCU’s ever-expanding lore. With over 40 interconnected films and television series, Brave New World feels obligated to catch audiences up on decade-old plotlines, often in clumsy expository dumps. The title suggests bold new territory, but the film quickly reverts to familiar Marvel tropes. Almost immediately, archival footage and newscasts rehash past events with a “Previously on…” approach, giving the impression that Marvel Studios hopes recycled nostalgia will suffice in place of meaningful storytelling.

Building a new story out of mostly old parts is nothing new in Hollywood, but Brave New World feels especially uninspired in how it pecks around the Sacred Timeline for structure. The film leans heavily on the Winter Soldier template—political intrigue, secret military outposts, double agents—without adding much that feels fresh.

 
Marvel touts Brave New World as a “political thriller,” but its attempts at weighty themes feel undercooked. The film gestures toward real-world divisions, asking if unity is possible in an increasingly fractured society, yet it shies away from any substantive critique. The film presents a “Can’t we all just get along?” message but avoids directly confronting the real-world issues it lightly gestures at.

Harrison Ford’s (Blade Runner, Starwars) turn as Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross is a fascinating presence—both a political power player and an inevitable ticking time bomb—but the film ultimately uses him more as spectacle than substance. Given how grump Mr Ford is in real life, he gives this gig a fair crack. 

The narrative’s setup has potential, especially in Ross’ attempts to broker an international accord while facing an assassination attempt, but Brave New World doesn’t fully explore the deeper implications of its geopolitical conflicts. His transformation into Red Hulk, spoiled by marketing well before the film’s release, ends up as a predictable moment rather than an impactful surprise.

Like c'mon my dudes, how cool would have the surprise reveal been?  

Meanwhile, Sam’s conflicts with the government and his attempts to define his role as Captain America have potential but lack the urgency and depth needed to make them resonate. Sam's struggle is supposed to be about proving that Captain America does not need super-soldier serum to be a hero. Yet, the film undermines this idea by emphasizing his need for technological upgrades, including a shield enhancement taken straight from Black Panther’s playbook. Instead of highlighting Sam's unique qualities, it often feels like he's being retrofitted into Steve Rogers' mold.

 
If there’s one thing that keeps Brave New World from completely collapsing under its own weight, it’s the performances. Mackie continues to embody Sam Wilson with warmth and conviction, emphasizing his humanity and leadership. His mentorship of Joaquin Torres (Danny Ramirez) is one of the film’s more engaging subplots, even though Torres mostly serves as a sidekick with little agency of his own.

Carl Lumbly once again delivers a powerful turn as Isaiah Bradley, but his arc feels disappointingly redundant for those who have seen The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. His character serves as a cautionary figure, warning Sam about misplaced trust in the government. However, his screen time is minimal, and the film struggles to balance the weight of his history with its broader action-driven plot. A prison visitation scene between Sam and Isaiah carries emotional weight, but the film undercuts it by introducing Bradley with an ill-timed joke about his imprisonment.

Harrison Ford’s portrayal of Ross is a standout, bringing a mix of gravitas and gruff charisma, while Tim Blake Nelson’s Samuel Sterns finally transitions into The Leader, offering a memorably eerie presence even if his role feels underdeveloped. The film builds up the Leader as a key antagonist, but his actions never amount to a real threat, making his presence feel like setup for future projects rather than a compelling part of this story.

 
On a technical level, Brave New World is functional but uninspired. The action sequences, while serviceable, lack the innovation seen in other MCU entries. The film rarely takes advantage of Sam’s unique fighting style, and despite some mid-air thrills, the set pieces feel restrained.

Marvel has often struggled with CGI consistency, and Brave New World is no exception. The overall aesthetic is uneven—Cap’s new suit is a highlight, but Falcon’s costume looks like a lost Mandalorian extra, and Shira Haas’ Ruth Bat-Seraph barely registers beyond her functionary role.

 
Despite its promising premise and committed performances, Captain America: Brave New World struggles to justify its existence beyond being another cog in the MCU machine. It neither fully embraces the political complexities it hints at nor delivers the action spectacle audiences expect. While Anthony Mackie’s Cap is a compelling and worthy successor, he deserves a film that dares to break new ground rather than one that merely recycles the past.

While not as disastrous as Eternals or Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania, Brave New World still exemplifies Marvel’s ongoing identity crisis, where the franchise’s nostalgic recycling often outweighs its creativity.

Score: 6/10

The Themes of Dune Messiah: an inversion of the hero’s journey

Dune Messiah: An Autopsy of Power

The Collapse of the Myth

Frank Herbert’s Dune Messiah isn’t a triumphant sequel. It is an autopsy of power, a slow implosion of the myth that Dune so brilliantly constructed. If Dune gave us Paul Atreides, the messianic warlord who led the Fremen to revolution and seized the Imperial throne, Dune Messiah asks:

What happens when the war is over?
When the hero is no longer fighting to win, but to endure?

Twelve years have passed, and Paul isn’t the savior he once seemed. He’s an emperor trapped in a web of prophecy, a reluctant god drowning in the religion built around him. Despite wielding absolute power, he is powerless to halt the forces he unleashed.

Herbert, ever the iconoclast, uses Dune Messiah to dismantle the idea of the “chosen one.” Paul is no longer the noble liberator of the desert. He is the architect of a galactic jihad that has left billions dead. Haunted by prescient visions that show him the horror of every possible outcome, he finds no path that avoids destruction. Religion, government, and prophecy merge into a single system too vast for any individual to control. Herbert makes it clear: once myth and governance intertwine, they devour their creator.

This novel is Dune’s shadow self. Instead of a hero’s ascent, there is decline. Instead of triumph, there is grief. Power becomes a cage, and the savior becomes the prisoner.

Through its study of fanaticism, political inevitability, and the futility of foresight, Dune Messiah tears apart its own legend, forcing the reader to ask:

Was Paul ever in control, or merely a vessel of history?

Themes of Dune Messiah

---

Religion as a Tool of Power and Its Consequences

In Dune Messiah, religion is no longer a belief system but an institution of control. When Dune ended, Paul’s rise was tied to the religious fervor of the Fremen, who saw him as their long-promised Mahdi. That prophecy was seeded centuries earlier by the Bene Gesserit’s Missionaria Protectiva, a program of implanted superstitions meant to manipulate primitive worlds. What began as survival becomes empire.

By Dune Messiah, that faith has metastasized into a galaxy-spanning jihad. Paul may sit on the throne, but his rule is dictated by the zeal he inspired.

Herbert shows that once belief fuses with power, it ceases to serve; it commands.

Paul is no longer the man Muad’Dib. He has become an untouchable symbol, a god who cannot make human choices.

Herbert’s warning is unmistakable: when religion hardens into dogma, it no longer needs its founder. The priesthood of the Qizarate perpetuates Paul’s legend without his consent, their devotion transforming into bureaucracy and violence. Paul, once the manipulator of prophecy, becomes its prisoner.

Guilt and Longing: The Burden of Power

Paul Atreides may rule the known universe, but he is spiritually desolate. Herbert strips him of the illusion that victory brings peace. The jihad carried out in his name has burned worlds, and every shrine built to honor him is another reminder of his failure to prevent the slaughter. His prescience, the power that once gave him near-divine foresight, now tortures him with an unending awareness of doom.

The universe moves toward a destiny he cannot alter.

Paul’s longing for escape - his dreams of fleeing with Chani to live as desert nomads again - becomes a quiet tragedy. His love is the last remnant of his humanity, yet it too is poisoned by destiny. Chani, the fierce Fremen woman of the sietch, is reduced by the Bene Gesserit and the Imperium to a vessel of political importance, a potential mother of the Kwisatz Haderach bloodline.

The Limits of Power: Paul as a Prisoner Emperor

Paul’s throne is made of sand. His empire appears unshakable, yet it rests on forces beyond his command. The Spacing Guild monopolizes travel and trade through the spice melange, the Bene Gesserit pursue genetic control through selective breeding, and the Tleilaxu manipulate life itself with their gholas and shapeshifters. Herbert builds a web of competing systems, each ancient and self-serving.

Paul stands at the center, aware of every threat, but paralyzed by the knowledge that acting against one power only strengthens another. His prescience grants him vision but strips him of freedom. The Fremen, once his kin, now revere him as a god, and any sign of weakness would shatter the illusion that holds the Imperium together.

Scytale, the Face Dancer, becomes the perfect antagonist for this age of instability - a shapeshifter exploiting the cracks in an empire built on myth. In Herbert’s world, deception is not a tactic but a currency, and Paul’s every move is constrained by the fragile faith of his followers.

The Inescapable Nature of Systems

If Dune Messiah teaches one truth, it is that individuals are shaped and destroyed by systems. Ecology, economy, religion, and politics form a single engine that no hero can dismantle.

Paul, despite his visions, cannot end the jihad, nor can he free the Imperium from the spice addiction that keeps the Spacing Guild and the noble Houses dependent on Arrakis.

This realization echoes across the series. In Children of Dune, Alia succumbs to her own inner corruption, possessed by ancestral memory, proving that even divine bloodlines are vulnerable to systemic rot. By God Emperor of Dune, Leto II accepts what Paul rejected: to control the system, one must become it. His transformation into the sandworm-human hybrid is both ascension and imprisonment, an act of total submission to historical inevitability.

Paul, by contrast, remains human. That humanity dooms him.

Betrayal and the Fragility of Empire

Power in Dune Messiah corrodes from within. Paul’s enemies - the Bene Gesserit, the Guild, the Tleilaxu - do not rebel through open war but through manipulation. They seek to restore balance to a universe destabilized by his messianic revolution. Betrayal becomes the language of governance, the natural consequence of systems in decay.

Scytale’s infiltration, the resurrection of Duncan Idaho as a ghola, and the Bene Gesserit’s quiet hand in every scheme expose the hollowness of Paul’s rule. Even loyalty, in Herbert’s universe, is conditional. No empire, no matter how divinely sanctioned, can survive the entropy of politics.

The Tragic End of Paul Atreides: A Messiah’s Fall

Paul’s end is not heroic. Blinded by the Tleilaxu plot and stripped of purpose, he chooses the ancient Fremen death walk into the desert. It is both suicide and absolution, the final act of a man surrendering to the world he created.

In that moment, Paul ceases to be emperor, prophet, or god. He becomes again what he was born as: a man of House Atreides, burdened by vision and broken by it.

Herbert’s subversion of the hero’s arc finds completion here. Paul does not conquer his destiny; he accepts annihilation as the only path left. Yet his legend survives him. The myth of Muad’Dib becomes unassailable, feeding the empire that persists in his name. His son, Leto II, will carry that legacy further, transforming into the God Emperor who will rule for millennia.

Paul’s fall is not the end of his empire. It is its justification. Herbert’s final truth is merciless: history does not belong to the hero. It belongs to the structures that outlive him.

Afterword: Herbert’s Philosophy of History and Power

Herbert once said that he distrusted heroes because they lead to the degradation of societies.

Dune Messiah is that warning embodied. It is a meditation on charisma as a weapon and foresight as a curse. Herbert’s later novels, especially God Emperor of Dune, turn Paul’s failure into a grim lesson: true peace requires tyranny of vision. The “Golden Path” conceived by Leto II is built on Paul’s tragedy - a future that enslaves humanity in order to save it from extinction.

Herbert understood that the worship of leaders and the seduction of certainty are humanity’s oldest traps. Dune Messiah is not about the fall of a man, but about the collapse of belief itself.

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