Why on earth do I increasingly hesitate to write reviews? Well, there are three reasons: For one, I’m utterly bored with mainstream cinema. It’s a special effects bravado with little to no story, it’s predictable, hollow and not even entertaining. Secondly: I’m utterly bored with Indy movies. They’re either poorly made in some attempt to adhere to Dogma or whatnot, or they’re gritty, pessimistic, cigarette smoke filled ego trips with no point other than stroking the filmmaker’s vanity. The third point surprises me in myself: I’m utterly bored with Netflix. I respect the acting prowess of Tatiana Maslany in ORPHAN BLACK or the idea behind ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK, but the lesbian stuff is just offputting. Yes, there are nice little entertainment pieces to be discovered, but much of what Netflix did recently is – sorry to say it – a failure. DEFENDERS is the most boring thing I’ve seen in ages. I stopped watching HANNIBAL out of sheer desperation toward the final seasons. And I’m already wary of STAR TREK: DISCOVERY. So I pull out my DVDs of TRUE BLOOD or STAR TREK – THE ORIGINAL SERIES and revel in real entertainment. See, the art of storytelling needs little more than a narrator and a campfire. This fire is in the heart of a showrunner like Alan Ball or a storyteller like Gene Roddenberry. And it spreads to my heart very easily. Wish that I had this feeling again.