HISTORY LESSON (SEASON 33)

 

Welcome to History Lesson, where we take a closer look at the movies that dare to tackle real-life events with varying levels of accuracy, drama, and WTF casting choices. These films promise to educate and entertain, but more often than not, they rewrite history with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. We’ll be your guide through the land of miscast biopics, dramatic embellishments, and historical “inspired-by” liberties, breaking down whether these flicks are Golden Reel Award-worthy masterpieces or just a big-budget Wikipedia summary. Either way, it’s more fun than your high school history class—and there’s popcorn.

This time around we will take a look at Season 33's fact-based slate....

HISTORY LESSON: NIGHT STALKER

Night Stalker is Zodiac’s cracked-out cousin: jittery, brutal, and bathed in a sweaty, satanic neon. Danny Ramirez delivers a performance so skin-crawlingly dead-eyed as Richard Ramirez, you’ll want to deadbolt your soul. Director Trey Edward Shults trades procedural tropes for raw dread, giving us a Los Angeles soaked not in glamour but in blood, roaches, and late-night paranoia. It’s part horror film, part true crime freakshow - and somehow also a psychological breakup letter to the 1980s. And yes, it’s historically accurate enough to remind you that this wasn’t just some urban legend - this guy was real, and people married him. You know, for love.

The film doesn’t glorify Ramirez - it paints him as the human embodiment of a burnt-out motel hallway. But it does make a meal out of the cops’ exhaustion, the city’s unraveling psyche, and the fact that a literal mob beat the killer down before the LAPD could. Michael Peña and Michael Chiklis play the detectives like two men caught in a biblical nightmare with only stale coffee and corkboard string to guide them. And then there’s Zoe Kazan as Doreen Lioy, giving a fresh look at prison marriage to serial killer rapist drug addicts. Night Stalker isn’t here to soothe - it’s here to curdle your blood, make you Google Avia sneakers, and remind you that evil sometimes just wears sunglasses indoors and draws pentagrams on its hand like a 9th grader in detention.

HISTORY LESSON: BROADWAY JOE

Broadway Joe struts onto the screen like a Marlboro ad in motion: cocky, messy, and weirdly irresistible. Jeremy Allen White slips into Joe Namath’s white cleats and fur coat like he was born doing tequila shots in the end zone. Directed by David O. Russell in his most caffeinated state, this fever dream of a biopic is part sports drama, part disco hallucination, and all swagger. It plays like Raging Bull if Jake LaMotta had better hair and worse knees. Namath bounces from hick-town wunderkind to pantyhose model to accidental feminist icon - winking at the camera with all the subtlety of a Times Square billboard. There’s historical accuracy here, but the film wisely filters it through a fog of nightclub smoke and post-game hangovers. 

But beneath the sequins and scandals is a surprisingly sad elegy for the man behind the myth. The football scenes hit hard, both literally and emotionally - each sack echoing through Namath’s brittle body like a tolling bell. The third act pulls the fur coat off the legend to reveal a guy who just wanted to matter, and maybe get a few phone numbers while doing it. Emma Mackey shows up to play the only woman ever to tell Joe Namath to read a book, and somehow that’s the movie’s most romantic scene. By the end, Broadway Joe isn’t dancing in nightclubs - he’s walking into a diner, ordering coffee, and not being the center of attention for once. And honestly? That might be his biggest victory.

HISTORY LESSON: SPLENDOUR

Splendour dives headfirst into the murky waters of Natalie Wood’s tragic death, and for once, Hollywood handles its own scandal with a level of respect that feels, dare we say, accurate? Brady Corbet delivers a haunting, atmospheric take on the events surrounding the 1981 mystery, balancing Hollywood glamour with an unsettling sense of unease. Rebecca Hall embodies Wood with grace and melancholy in her flashback scenes, while Ashton Kutcher delivers a surprisingly nuanced Robert Wagner - grieving, defensive, and dripping with just enough ambiguity to make you wonder if he’s hiding more than his emotions. Meanwhile, Michael Pitt leans all the way into his Walken weirdness, and Wyatt Russell gives us the guilt-ridden captain we all expect from the story’s shadowy lore.

What sets Splendour apart is its commitment to historical accuracy, no small feat considering how much of this case has been chewed up by tabloids and spit out as conspiracy fodder. The film respects Wood’s daughter, Natasha Gregson Wagner, who publicly supports her father’s account, refusing to paint Wagner as a Hollywood villain just to sell tickets. Instead, it highlights the conflicting recollections from those aboard the Splendour, treating the audience to a slow-burn mystery steeped in uncertainty rather than cheap dramatics. It’s less whodunit and more what even happened? Sure, the pacing can be a bit self-indulgent at times, but with a mystery this iconic, why not luxuriate in the suspense? After all, no one watches a yacht-based Hollywood scandal for restraint - and this film, thankfully, gets the balance just right.