Atheism likes to present itself as the adult in the room. Faith, by contrast, is cast as a childish indulgence for people afraid of the dark.

Christopher Beha’s "Why I Am Not an Atheist" examines this framing and demonstrates, with real precision, why atheism itself may be the most adolescent worldview of them all.

Atheism has a curious habit. It borrows Christian language — dignity, justice, compassion — while denying the metaphysical foundation that gives those words meaning.

This isn’t a book of defensive apologetics. Beha doesn’t hurl Scripture at doubters or claim that God can be demonstrated like a physics equation. Instead, he treats atheism as a coherent position and then tests it against reality. He walks its reasoning to its natural conclusion and reports back on the damage. What he finds there isn’t liberation but emptiness — sometimes dressed up as sophistication, sometimes as certainty, but emptiness all the same.

Godless

Beha’s journey begins in familiar territory. Like many sane, decent people, he wanted honesty. He wanted to “look the world frankly in the face,” to set aside inherited beliefs that, at that stage of his life, he believed couldn’t withstand scrutiny. God, to him, seemed unnecessary. Worse, He seemed embarrassing. Atheism, on the other hand, felt like intellectual courage.

Beha embraced the godless creed at first, wholeheartedly. But it didn’t take long for cracks to appear.

Rather than joining the professional atheist class — the permanently outraged and faintly condescending set, à la Harris and Dawkins, who mistake self-indulgence for insight — Beha asks a far riskier question: What replaces God once He’s gone? Not as a thought exercise, but in real life. In daily choices. In suffering. In death.

Here, the book begins to shine.

Motion and chaos

Beha identifies two dominant atheist positions. The first is scientific materialism, which holds that only what can be measured is real. Everything else — mind, love, conscience, beauty — is reduced to physical process. Choice becomes brain chemistry. Human life is explained as motion and chance, sorted into probabilities.

The second is a newer, trendier alternative: romantic idealism. Instead of reducing the world to atoms, it centers everything on the self. Meaning is something you create. Truth is something you feel. The highest good is authenticity, and the highest crime is judgment. God disappears, and the individual assumes His place.

Both, Beha argues, fail in opposite but equally revealing ways.

Materialism reduces the human person to a biological incident. Consciousness becomes a chemical glitch. Love becomes an evolutionary strategy. It is an impressively sterile system, one that explains everything except why anyone should bother getting out of bed.

Romantic idealism reacts against this coldness by putting the individual will on the throne. The view seems warmer, and perhaps it is, but it is still incoherent. If everyone creates meaning, meaning ceases to exist. If truth is personal, truth dissolves. The self becomes both king and casualty, crowned with responsibility and locked in solitude.

Between them, Beha shows, modern atheism swings between delusion and despair. That may explain why so many of its most visible champions — from Bill Maher to Ricky Gervais to Penn Jillette — sound less liberated than irritated. Atheism can take things apart, but it can’t hold them together.

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Philosophical freeloading

What makes this critique effective is Beha’s refusal to hide behind abstractions. He doesn’t pretend that these systems fail only in theory. They fail in lived experience. They fail when existential angst arrives uninvited.

Atheism, Beha observes, has a curious habit. It borrows Christian language — dignity, justice, compassion — while denying the metaphysical foundation that gives those words meaning. It wants human rights without a human giver. What looks like intellectual bravery is closer to philosophical freeloading.

Beha is especially critical of the arrogance that often accompanies unbelief. Atheism flatters itself as fearless while demanding a strangely narrow universe — one small enough to fit inside a laboratory or a podcast episode. Anything that resists measurement is dismissed as childish. Transcendence is treated as something reserved for uncultured troglodytes.

Christianity, by contrast, has never sold comfort by making reality smaller. It doesn’t reduce the world to what feels manageable. It claims that meaning is real whether we want it or not, that God isn’t a projection of human wishes, and that right and wrong aren’t personal inventions. It doesn’t erase suffering. Instead, it meets it head-on. To be alive is to bear pain, and to bear pain is to be alive.

The way back

It is from within that hard-earned contrast — after years in the wilderness of unbelief — that Beha finds his way back, not to a vague faith, but to Christianity itself and finally to the Catholic Church. This isn’t a story of conquest. It’s an acknowledgment that atheism, however confident it sounds, left him more miserable and taught him to call that misery freedom — something he came to see clearly when his brother Jim nearly died in a car crash and later when he himself faced death with stage-three lymphoma.

Crucially, Beha isn’t arguing that faith banishes doubt. He would laugh at that idea. He remains a skeptic in the classical sense — aware of human limits, suspicious of tidy conclusions, allergic to ideological shortcuts. Faith, as he presents it, is the decision to live as though truth, goodness, and meaning are not clever hallucinations generated by neurons killing time.

For conservative Christians, "Why I Am Not an Atheist" matters because it doesn’t preach. It doesn’t wring its hands over secularism or bulldoze unbelievers. It does something far more damaging: It lets atheism talk, at length. Given enough space, its confidence begins to crack, its claims lose shape, and its bravado gives way to a worldview that can’t deliver what it promises. Atheism isn’t undone here by counterargument, but by relentless exposure.

In an age when disbelief markets itself as adulthood and faith as regression, Beha offers a bracing reversal. Atheism, he suggests, is a creed without the slightest bit of substance, built entirely on what it denies.

Christianity, whatever one’s denomination, remains the only worldview bold enough to say that life matters, suffering is not pointless, and belief answers to what is, not what we want.

Forget Greenland — we’re losing the real green land that feeds America

The world is abuzz with chatter about the United States’ pursuit of Greenland, but Daniel Horowitz, Blaze Media host of “Conservative Review with Daniel Horowitz,” says we ought to consider prioritizing a different kind of green land: “our pastures, our farms, our ranches.”

America’s food security, or lack thereof, is an issue that should deeply concern every American, he says. Between rising beef prices, the “endless shrinkage of ranchers exiting the farming business,” “the consolidation of corporate farms,” the “corporate monopoly of meat processors,” “inflation-driven land depreciation,” and the “government’s steering capital to data centers instead of ranches,” America’s ability to feed her people is growing weaker by the day.

Horowitz confesses he has grown weary of the Trump administration’s geopolitical distractions and obsession with building AI data centers when “the future of [America’s] food security is what matters.”

“We should be pushing for a Manhattan project for cheap and abundant food, for more ranchers, more farmers, more utilization of the land to produce American-made beef rather than cloud-based AI slop that's actually now about to pop as a bubble and is not really getting us anything,” he says.

Yet Horowitz sees this prioritization not as a purely conservative misstep, but as a clever pivot by the left.

The shift toward prioritizing AI over food production, he argues, is just progressives’ latest trick in their long game: “jiu-jitsuing” conservatives’ support for “functional energy” and funneling it toward “building their surveillance, transhumanist cloud” to create a world where “we own nothing, are dependent on government,” small businesses (including ranchers and farmers) are crushed, and we’re all forced to “put our lives on the cloud.”

Based on several Davos speeches delivered at this year’s World Economic Forum conference, it appears that fossil fuels are back in style with the elites, but Horowitz warns that their plan is to “siphon it all off for their cloud-based, transhumanist" trashing of the internet.”

“Consuming all of our land — not for food, farming, ranching — but for cloud. That's what this is all about,” he says.

He accuses the Trump administration of “literally digging our own grave” by handing power-hungry elites tax breaks, streamlined regulations, and priority land access for massive data centers, all while pushing policies that would block states and localities from using basic zoning rules to safeguard farmland and ranching.

In short, their efforts are paving the way for the destruction of farmland to build “massive power-sucking dung holes,” where our data will be stored and likely used to surveil us.

What this administration should be doing, Horowitz says, is “getting out of the way of ranchers and farmers so that we have safe, healthy, abundant, cheap food and protein in this country.”

To learn more about the boots-on-the-ground fight for food security in America, Horowitz interviews Texas cattle rancher and co-founder of the Beef Initiative Cole Bolton.

To hear their conversation, watch the full episode above.

'28 Years Later: The Bone Temple' brings new life to horror franchise

Like the post-apocalyptic Britain of the "28 Days Later" franchise, Hollywood has become a wasteland, teeming with the stripped-down, lethally efficient shells of once-vital creations. Nostalgia-driven reboots swarm the multiplex, satisfying audience cravings for familiarity and studio appetites for certainty — even as they leave the surrounding creative landscape increasingly barren.

This year's "28 Years Later" could just as easily have been another of these living-dead productions. While previous installment "28 Weeks Later" (2007) — made with nominal participation from the original creative team — delivered competent scares, it hardly cried out for a follow-up.

The movie is littered with British cultural references — decontextualized and repurposed by survivors struggling to find meaning in a world they no longer understand.

But the return of director Danny Boyle and writer Alex Garland proved worth the wait. "28 Years Later" demonstrated that this universe could still surprise, ending with a tantalizingly bizarre coda in which our hero Spike is rescued by Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell) and his blonde-wigged, track-suited minions. Clearly the infected are not the only menace stalking the British countryside.

Charity cases

"28 Years Later: The Bone Temple" picks up right after this moment, confirming our suspicions that Spike's troubles have just begun. After a gruesome kind of initiation, Spike is forcibly enlisted as one the "Jimmys," who turn out to be a gang of satanic killers. Led by Jimmy Crystal, who believes himself to be the son of "Old Nick," they prowl the land inflicting gruesome ritualized violence — which they call "charity" — on those unfortunate enough to meet them.

While Garland returns as screenwriter, Boyle (who stays on as producer) cedes the director’s chair to Nia DaCosta, whose striking use of lingering close-ups and tightly framed compositions inject the film with a raw, anarchic energy. The result is a legacy sequel that both pays homage to its origins and reimagines them — one that weaves graphic violence together with incisive observations on culture, faith, and survival in a world irreversibly altered by catastrophe.

Doctor Sleep

Many of those observations come straight from the kindly and philosophical Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), an eccentric recluse who provided shelter for runaway Spike and his dying mother in "28 Years Later." In this grisly sequel, the iodine-covered, blowdart-wielding former physician is searching for a cure to the rage virus, using an infected “alpha” zombie — whom he names Samson — as his pet project.

He also continues work on the titular bone temple, a memorial to the outbreak’s victims, until his optimism and ingenuity is tested by the new and horrifying human adversary we met in the beginning.

While Boyle’s 2002 film focused on urban chaos, this installment widens its lens, exploring the virus’ impact across the countryside while delving into deeper philosophical terrain. Beneath the skin-flaying, stabbings, "Mortal Kombat"-style spine removals, and Iron Maiden needle drops lies a poignant meditation on a once-beautiful country sliding into social and spiritual decay.

This is England

DaCosta, an American director, deftly preserves the distinctly English identity of the original films. The movie is littered with British cultural references — decontextualized and repurposed by survivors struggling to find meaning in a world they no longer understand.

The Jimmys, with their blonde wigs, tracksuits, and gold jewelry, are intentionally modeled after Jimmy Savile, one of Britain’s most notorious sex offenders. In this universe — where society collapsed in 2002, years before Savile’s real-world crimes were exposed — the cult reveres him as a benevolent, almost mythical figure. Their so-called acts of "charity" grotesquely invert Savile’s public image of philanthropy, turning it into a rationale for cruelty and sadism.

The dynamic between Sir Jimmy and Kelson is magnetic. O’Connell and Fiennes deliver outstanding performances, moving seamlessly between surrealism and melancholy. Some of the film’s most compelling moments occur when these two simply share the screen in conversation.

Sir Jimmy and Kelson represent competing philosophies of survival. In desperate times, humanity creates belief systems — sometimes as tools of power, sometimes as mechanisms of self-preservation. Through these two figures, Garland weaves a thoughtful exploration of evil, faith, and meaning.

Tim P. Whitby/Getty Images

Feral faith

Religious symbolism runs throughout the film. The Jimmys repurpose Savile’s catchphrase “Howzat!” as a ritual chant — stripped of its original meaning and reconstituted as a signifier of violence. Kelson, meanwhile, assumes the role of a secular creator. His humanist liturgy centers on music and literature, which function as sacred texts connecting him to the past and preserving his sanity.

Samson’s transformation becomes an allegory for rebirth: emerging from the hell of infection into renewal. Where the biblical Adam becomes aware of his nakedness after eating from the tree of knowledge, Samson’s recovery inspires modesty as he clothes himself with memories of his return. It is the Fall in reverse — self-awareness as ascension, rebirth without grace.

"The Bone Temple" manages to inject genuine life into a franchise nearly 25 years old. I may regret saying this, but I am genuinely curious to see where the story goes next — especially with Boyle returning to direct the third and final installment. The film’s closing scene teases the return of a familiar face, and John Murphy’s fuzzed-out guitar theme suggests that hope remains, for both the survivors and the fans.

Orthodox saint meets Chicago gang life in gritty crime flick 'Moses the Black'

50 Cent is going from sin to sanctity.

Hot on the heels of his recent Netflix documentary on the debauched downfall of hip-hop mogul Sean "Diddy" Combs, the rapper turned producer is set to release an urban crime drama inspired by the life of fourth-century Ethiopian monk Moses the Black.

Even in our compromised state, saints remain scandalous and alluring precisely because they cut against our deepest desires and despair.

Fans of Fox Nation’s "Martin Scorsese Presents: The Saints" will remember the violent bandit turned desert-dwelling ascetic as one of the series' most fascinating subjects. Officially recognized by Pope Leo XIII in 1887, the former slave has long been venerated as the patron saint of nonviolence and is widely praised as a symbol of the power of peace and repentance.

Out for blood

"Moses the Black," a loose retelling of that story set against the backdrop of modern-day Chicago, follows Malik (Omar Epps), a gang leader fresh out of prison and seeking to avenge his murdered friend.

Complicating his quest his is grandmother, an Orthodox Christian who gives him an icon of St. Moses, whom she describes as a "saint who was also a gang member." Haunted by frustration, loss, and a lifetime of sins, Malik starts having visions of the saint, who warns him that the bloody path he has embarked upon is one he will regret.

"Moses" — which also features hip-hop notables Wiz Khalifa and Quavo — makes for an interesting companion piece to director Yelena Popovic’s previous outing, 2021 St. Nektarios biopic "Man of God." Where that film depicts sanctity as something preserved through obedience and suffering, "Moses" imagines it reclaimed from disorder.

Mean streets

Malik navigates an inner city filled with dealers and enforcers locked into violent criminal lives, casually killing rivals or shooting up funerals over petty grudges. These sequences are among the film’s darkest and do not soften their portrayal of brutality or drug use.

"Moses" is clearly a personal project for the platinum-selling artist born Curtis Jackson, whose own background mirrors Malik's. Raised by a single mother in Jamaica, Queens — herself a drug dealer who was murdered when he was 8 — Jackson entered the drug trade at a young age. After barely surviving an attack by a rival in 2000, Jackson released his debut "Get Rich or Die Tryin'" in 2003.

Although that album cemented Jackson's association with the violence and materialism of gangsta rap, its cover found him wearing a jewel-encrusted cross necklace. The tension between survival and transformation is one Jackson understands firsthand.

As he has said:

I believe in God. I didn't survive being shot nine times for nothing. I didn't claw my way out of the 'hood just 'cause it was something to do. I know I've got a purpose, a reason for being on this planet. I don't think I've done everything I'm supposed to do yet. But I do know this: I ain't going nowhere 'til I've done it all.

Redemption song

There is something unsettling and compelling about the lives of saints. Even in our compromised state, they remain scandalous and alluring precisely because they cut against our deepest desires and despair. The film’s greatest strength is its depiction of how Catholics and Orthodox Christians turn to saints during moments of trial, seeking models of repentance and change — models Malik strains toward but does not easily inhabit.

Steven Ferdman/GC Images/Getty Images

The film’s ambitions, however, exceed its budget. Extensive handheld camerawork — whether a stylistic or budgetary choice — sits uneasily beside green-screen flashbacks and CGI-heavy desert scenes. The rough Chicago footage clashes with these elements, and the film might have benefited from a tighter focus on Malik’s interior struggle. Exaggerated performances from the supporting cast further push many scenes into melodrama.

Despite its "faith-based" trappings, "Moses the Black" is emphatically not a family film. It includes graphic violence, coarse language, and crude sexual innuendo, narrowing its audience to those inclined to receive its warning. Still, its central claim — that mercy extends even to the gravest sinners — lands with force in a culture starved for hope.

"Moses the Black" will be released through Fathom Entertainment on January 30.

Rush reunites. Let the hate begin.

The Rush reunion announcement landed like a Neil Peart cymbal crash heard from two continents away.

For some, it was a benediction. For others, a blasphemy. In America especially, Rush has always been a band that splits the room in two. On one side: devotion bordering on reverence. On the other: a curled lip, a sigh, a muttered word like “soulless” or “show-off.”

Rush endured because they never chased cool. Cool is perishable, but craft is not.

Few great bands inspire such loyalty and such irritation at the same time. Even fewer manage it without changing who they are.

A Farewell to Kings

The power trio we know as Rush formed in 1974 in Toronto, three young men chasing something bigger than barroom rock. They were loud, fast, and committed to mastery. As the years passed, they grew tighter, more disciplined, more deliberate. While other bands burned out or sold out, Rush stayed true.

That mindset carried them for four decades. Album after album. Tour after tour. By the time they bowed out in 2015, Rush had become one of the most reliable live acts in rock history. No scandals (despite a well-documented affection for Bolivian marching powder). The farewell felt final, especially as drummer Peart’s health declined. When he died in 2020, the door seemed closed for good.

Which is why this reunion lands so satisfyingly. It doesn’t feel forced. It doesn’t feel desperate. It feels natural. Two old friends picking up guitars, laughing through familiar songs, and realizing the music still matters to millions.

To others, it matters in the way a neighbor’s power drill matters — piercing, relentless, and likely to trigger a migraine.

Working Man

Rush has never fit comfortably into the American rock myth. The band wasn't blues-rooted, booze-soaked, or born of Southern swag. Geddy Lee sang like a caffeinated banshee. Alex Lifeson mixed power with precision. And Neil Peart — the irreplaceable center — treated drums like an Olympic event.

To rock traditionalists, however, something about this just felt off. Rock, to them, was meant to feel dark and dangerous. Think Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, the Who, AC/DC. Part of the gig was bringing chaos — both on and off stage. Treating hotel rooms like demolition sites and sanity as optional. Consider the late, great Ozzy Osbourne: a man who built a Hall of Fame career out of conduct that would have ended most working lives in a padded room.

Rush never subscribed to that model. And for a certain kind of American critic, that alone was enough to raise suspicion.

Rock wasn’t supposed to sound so organized. It wasn’t supposed to sound like the band had talked things through. So the complaints piled up. Too clean. Too lame. “Cheesy” and “corny” became the easy shortcuts, a way to dismiss what they didn’t want to engage with.

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Limelight

Take “Tom Sawyer,” still my personal favorite. Purists love to pick it apart. The synth line is too bright. The lyrics are too earnest. The chorus too triumphant. It doesn’t brood.

But that’s the point. “Tom Sawyer” isn’t trying to sound dangerous. The aim isn’t menace but momentum. It captures motion, confidence, and propulsion — three qualities rock critics often mistake for shallowness. Look past the childish nitpicking, and what’s left is undeniable. A song that still fills arenas, still hits hard, still makes people feel 10 feet tall.

For some critics, Rush was the band you loved if you owned graph paper and color-coded your homework. Rush's music was for the kids who finished the test early and then checked their answers. Not rebels, not wreckers, but students of the thing itself. In rock culture, that kind of seriousness was treated like a social crime.

Subdivisions

Rush is hardly alone in this. Steely Dan took the same beating, dismissed as music for dental offices, waiting rooms, and people who alphabetize their spice racks, despite writing some of the sharpest, most venomous songs of the era. Yes was mocked as bloated and indulgent. Genesis, especially after Peter Gabriel left, got the same treatment.

America has always had a complicated relationship with genuine greatness. It celebrates brilliance, but only when it looks accidental. Genius is best received if it arrives late, drunk, and a little out of control.

You see this pattern everywhere. Adam Sandler spent decades being treated like a joke because his films made money and audiences laughed until they nearly lost bladder control. Jim Carrey wasn’t taken seriously until he stopped being funny and started looking permanently unwell. Rush refused that trade and paid the cultural price.

Headlong Flight

What the reunion clarifies — especially now, in an age of irony fatigue — is that Rush endured because they never chased cool. Cool is perishable, but craft is not. When Lee and Lifeson talk about laughing while jamming, about the music “dispelling dark clouds,” they’re describing something purists often forget. Music is allowed to be joyful. It’s allowed to be exhilarating without being mystical. It can be thrilling without pretending to be profound every second.

The dark humor is that Rush’s biggest sin may have been optimism. In an era increasingly allergic to it, they believed in improvement — musical, personal, even societal. That’s unfashionable.

Cynicism sells. Rage Against the Machine built an entire brand on permanent fury, screaming about “the system” while cashing checks from it. Nine Inch Nails turned self-loathing into an aesthetic. Nirvana mattered because they captured the feeling that nothing worked and no one was coming to fix it. Misery read as honesty. Anger read as depth. Enjoyment, by contrast, looks unserious.

But why? We’re here for a good time, not a long one. Rush understood that early.

Music doesn’t always need to diagnose the human condition. Sometimes it just needs to move, lift, and hit you square in the chest. Half a century on, they’re back. Not to win over the skeptics, who never wanted convincing anyway. But to reward the faithful and quietly remind everyone else that having a good time isn’t a crime.

How the right got Dave Chappelle wrong

For years, Dave Chappelle has been treated as a kind of honorary dissident on the right. Not because he ever pledged allegiance, but because he irritated the correct people. He mocked pronouns, needled sanctimony, and refused to bow. That was enough. In a culture addicted to easy binaries, irritation became endorsement. Chappelle was recast as the anti-woke jester, the last free man in a room full of rules.

"The Unstoppable..." puts an end to that fantasy.

The right’s long flirtation with Chappelle rested on a misunderstanding. He was never an ally. He was a contrarian whose targets briefly overlapped with conservative concerns.

As the Netflix special begins, Chappelle emerges on stage wearing a jacket emblazoned with Colin Kaepernick’s name across the back, a symbol doing more work than most monologues. It is declarative. Kaepernick, a distinctly mediocre quarterback who parlayed a declining football career into a lucrative role as a full-time political brand, has long functioned more as an abstraction than as an athlete. His protest became performative, his grievance a commodity, his kneel a credential. Before a word is spoken, the audience is told where power, sympathy, and grievance will be placed. Identity is not the backdrop. Quite the opposite. It’s the billboard.

Black and white

From there, the special settles into a familiar groove. Race becomes the organizing principle, the master key, the lens through which every topic is filtered and fixed. America is again framed as a racist hellscape, a uniquely cruel experiment, a place where whiteness looms as a near-mythical menace.

This is not observation so much as obsession. The fixation risks alienating white viewers almost immediately. Some in the audience likely sense it. Others — liberal self-flagellators by instinct — laugh along anyway, even as they become the punch line of nearly every joke.

Chappelle takes aim at Elon Musk, at Trump, at the culture of DOGE-era absurdity, but the jokes rarely travel. They circle. Musk becomes less a human eccentric and more a symbol of tech-bro whiteness run amok. Trump is reduced to a prop, wheeled on whenever the set needs a familiar villain. That might be forgivable — useful, even — if the material pushed somewhere unexpected. It doesn’t. For a comedian of Chappelle’s ability, too much of the set feels curiously unambitious.

Left hook

The most telling moment comes in Chappelle’s account of Jack Johnson. Johnson, the first black heavyweight champion, endured explicit racism. That history is real. That is not in dispute. What is striking is how Chappelle treats that history. Johnson becomes less a man of his time and more a stand-in for black people in the present, besieged by the same “demonic white man.”

And so Chappelle conflates Johnson's struggles with with the lives of rappers T.I. and the late Nipsey Hussle — and celebrates all three heroes for opposing white America.

As BlazeTV host Jason Whitlock recently posted on X:

This comedy special exposes [Chappelle] as highly controlled opposition, the ultimate plant, a fraud. He pretends to be a fearless speaker of truth to power. It's laughable. No one with a brain can witness the Charlie Kirk assassination and then argue/suggest that Nipsey Hussle, T.I., and Jack Johnson were/are the real rebels, the real threats to American hegemony. Dave quoted Jack Johnson as saying his life was dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. He was a boxer with the worldview of a modern gangsta rapper.

Some kings?

And then comes Chappelle’s praise of Saudi Arabia.

Not cautiously. Not ironically. He recounts performing at a comedy festival in Riyadh, openly boasting about the size of the paycheck. He describes feeling freer speaking there than in the United States. Freer. In a society where speech is monitored, dissent is criminalized, and punishment still includes public canings and amputations.

The audience laughs on schedule, applauding with the enthusiasm of trained sea lions. I found myself wondering why.

There is something almost surreal about hearing a man who has spent years describing America as uniquely oppressive extol the virtues of a monarchy where speech is tolerated only when it is toothless. The contradiction is never addressed. It simply floats past, buoyed by bravado and bank balance.

This isn’t hypocrisy in the cheap sense. It is something more revealing — and easier to miss because Chappelle is such a gifted orator. His moral compass isn’t anchored to freedom, but to grievance. America is condemned because it fails to live up to an ideal. Saudi Arabia is praised because it pays well and demands little beyond discretion.

It would be easier if "The Unstoppable..." were simply bad. It is not. Chappelle remains a master of timing. His cadence still carries. The problem is less talent than trajectory.

Photo by Arturo Holmes/Getty Images

Punching inward

What once felt dangerous now feels dutiful. What once cut across power now reinforces a different orthodoxy. Chappelle no longer punches up or down so much as inward, tightening his world until everything is interpreted through race alone.

The right’s long flirtation with Chappelle rested on a misunderstanding. He was never an ally. He was a contrarian whose targets briefly overlapped with conservative concerns. When he mocked trans men in women’s sports, it landed during a moment of peak absurdity, when the subject was everywhere and ripe for satire. It was easy. It was funny. But it was never a statement of allegiance.

"The Unstoppable..." makes that clear. The jacket, the Johnson parable, the Saudi sermon, the relentless racial framing — all of it points in the same direction.

Comedy, at its best, unsettles everyone. It exposes what our certainties conceal. In this special, Chappelle appears more interested in confirming his own.

Unstoppable, perhaps. But no longer subversive.

Pizza Hut Classic: Retro fun ruined by non-English-speaking staff, indifferent customer service

Pizza Hut Classic is evidence that even if a company gets its branding right, customer service is the oil that keeps the machine running.

Since 2019, Pizza Hut has been spreading its retro vibes across the continent by reintroducing its 1990s decor, design, and dining experience.

'The interior features cozy red booths and old-school Pizza Hut lamps.'

From Warren, Ohio to Hempstead, Texas, the iconic Pizza Hut chandeliers are being rehung, and the fantastic buffet is being put out once again. According to Chefs Resource, some locations have even brought back the beloved dessert bar.

Slice of life

With the return of the 1974 logo and nostalgic appeal, Pizza Hut did the inverse of Cracker Barrel. Instead of trying to modernize and simplify their decor, the pie-slingers retrofitted and cluttered theirs.

A page called the Retrologist dissected the formula and determined exactly what the word "Classic" in Pizza Hut Classic really means. To meet the new (old) standard, the writer pinpointed that each location must include the following:

1. The old logo is used in pole signage as well as at the top of the (usually but not always) red-roofed restaurant. The pole sign features the addition of the word "Classic."
2. The interior features cozy red booths and old-school Pizza Hut lamps.
3. Stickers featuring the long-discarded character Pizza Hut Pete are found on the door.
4. Posters feature classic photos from Pizza Huts of yore.
5. A plaque displays a quote from Pizza Hut co-founder Dan Carney, explaining the concept as a celebration of the brand’s heritage.

While many of the revamped locations have received rave reviews, there still exists a way to make such a fine dining experience awful, even if surrounded by everything that made customers flock to the buffet 30 years ago.

Photo by Andrew Chapados/Blaze News

Word salad

For a Pizza Hut Classic ruined by modern belief systems, look no farther than north of the border, in the Toronto suburb of Scarborough.

While the restaurant did include the iconic chandeliers and some of the retro furnishings, it did not have old soda fountains or the memorable menus spotted at other locations. Instead, this unique eatery represented a new (low) standard of lackluster customer service, coupled with sprinklings of unfettered immigration policy.

These accommodations, or lack there of, will surely split customers down political lines. Yes, there are retro red Pepsi cups, but the waitress who literally speaks no English may fill that cup with Diet Pepsi with ice instead of "water with no ice."

Is there a salad bar? Yes. Is the salad bar limited to plain lettuce and croutons? Also yes. Were there pieces of lettuce dropped in the ranch dressing (the only available dressing) for the duration of the visit? Definitely.

Photo by Andrew Chapados/Blaze News

Meat and greet

A steady rotation of cheese, deluxe, and Hawaiian pizza was only broken up by one couple's complaints about the lack of variety. A manager — also largely unintelligible in her speech — replied first with a refusal to change the rotation. Strangely, about 10 minutes later, she eventually brought out two meat lovers' pizzas, in an apparent act of defiance.

The damaged seating in the restaurant combined with a chip out of the "Hut" portion of the building's exterior revealed years-old paint and, along with it, a yearning for more care to be given. A restaurant that could be so nostalgic, but ruined by the apparent comforts of a district that has voted Liberal in its last three federal elections for a woman from the U.K. who holds citizenship in three countries, including Pakistan.

"I wanted to go to a dine-in, because in most places, including the U.K., you can't do that now," said reporter Lewis Brackpool, who visited the location. He added, "I come to one, and what do you know — it sucks."

In at a massive discount due to the exchange rate, Brackpool could not help but feel like many who are from the area: that what had been promised was robbed.

The experience can be summed up in the words of an anonymous would-be customer who, upon seeing a commercial of what a Pizza Hut buffet looked like in the 1990s in comparison to the location in question, said, "They took this from us."

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Dinesh D’Souza’s new documentary faces anti-Zionism head-on

I must admit to having a complicated relationship with Dinesh D’Souza’s documentaries.

As much as I have enjoyed several of them, I find that they falter in a few ways: They often lack staying power, offering little incentive to return to them after the moment has passed; they are too self-referential — filtering every issue through D’Souza’s own perspective; and they are preoccupied with energizing sympathetic audiences rather than persuading skeptical ones.

Where the film is likely to receive its fiercest pushback is on the subject of eschatology — the theology of the end times.

This last flaw is especially frustrating. Catering to the conservative base is easy, but with D’Souza’s resources and backing, his films could be far sharper — and far more enduring — if they focused on timeless themes rather than re-litigating the 2020 election or attacking whoever happens to be running for president that year.

Chasing the 'Dragon'

It was with this in mind that I went into D’Souza’s newest effort, "The Dragon’s Prophecy." A loose adaptation of the Jonathan Cahn book of the same name, the Angel Studios production examines the fallout of the October 7 terrorist attacks and the subsequent two-year war between Israel and Hamas (which effectively ended with a ceasefire on October 10).

Sharpness, at least, is not a problem this time. The film arrives at a harrowing moment. Tucker Carlson is condemning “Christian Zionism” as heresy; New York City has just elected a mayor who wants to arrest the prime minister of Israel; and bipartisan resentment toward American Jews hasn’t been this pronounced since Pat Buchanan implicitly blamed them for supporting the Gulf War.

Anti-Zionism — and its adjacent anti-Semitism — is enjoying a fashionable resurgence, while support for the Israeli government sits at an all-time low.

D’Souza confronts these trends head-on. He calls out Carlson — as well as the far-left bloc of House Democrats known as "the Squad" — by name, even integrating footage from Carlson’s combative June interview with Ted Cruz. The result is a forthright defense of Israel, one that bluntly characterizes Hamas as rapists, murderers, and terrorists — and depicts the group's atrocities in unflinching detail, including phone calls in which militants boast to their parents about their killings.

Intentional shock

It’s a grisly watch. The film includes insurgents shooting dogs and civilians, and it lingers on the aftermath of violence. But the shock is intentional. As Ambassador Mike Huckabee tells D’Souza, the war is “an eternal battle between good and evil,” with Israel on the side of the angels and Hamas aligned with “the Dragon.”

Amid this devastation, D’Souza wanders the Holy Land and laments that Israel is a place where “nothing is ever solved or resolved,” a region with “no solutions and no idea what the problems even are.” Yet his moral clarity never wavers. He even calls the construction of the Islamic Dome of the Rock on the Temple Mount “the true colonialism.”

His mission is to locate meaning in the conflict. To that end, he speaks with Jewish victims, archeologists uncovering evidence of ancient Israelite history, and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who uses the occasion to swat at his American critics and to praise Donald Trump.

Disputed dispensation

Where the film is likely to receive its fiercest pushback is on the subject of eschatology — the theology of the end times.

Because D’Souza’s target audience is predominantly Christian, the most vocal critics may be anti-dispensationalists, whose views have become increasingly common among Catholics and mainline Protestants. They correctly note that dispensationalism is a 19th-century American theological development and that the popular notion of a “rapture” is relatively recent.

As the Protestant theologian Brian Mattson writes, “In the grand historical sweep of Christian theology, Dispensationalism is a new arrival.” He explains that its architects argued that salvation unfolds across distinct dispensations, meaning that God’s promises to Israel remain intact for ethnic Jews even as the New Testament opens salvation to Gentiles. “God has two separate ‘tracks’ for the salvation of humanity,” he writes. Thus the national promises to Israel persist in perpetuity.

This is the framework behind the "Left Behind" franchise — 16 books and five films — and it places the modern state of Israel at the center of Revelation in a way that traditional Christian readings do not.

There are legitimate biblical critiques of dispensationalism, just as there are bad-faith motives for attacking it. Mattson notes that many Gen Z “America First” Catholic converts now regard Israel as an unnecessary “foreign entanglement,” while others deploy “heresy” language as a thin veil for anti-Semitism.

Phelim McAleer

End-times evidence

Still, D’Souza’s film is thoroughly dispensationalist. Israel’s present turmoil is portrayed as evidence that the end times are near, that evil is intensifying, and that God is making Himself more visible through signs and miracles. The fate of Israel, in this reading, is inseparable from the fate of the world.

The film’s second half is a series of interviews with Israeli archeologists who discuss evidence for figures like King David and Pontius Pilate, treating their discoveries as confirmations of Scripture. When combined with commentary from a Messianic Jew such as Jonathan Cahn, the Israeli-Gaza conflict becomes a mystical drama between cosmic good and cosmic evil.

That argument rests on a contested theological system. However one responds to the film’s defense of Israel, it must be filtered through the angular lenses of American dispensationalism — a hurdle many viewers may be unwilling to clear.

Centrist appeal

There are smaller criticisms as well: The film appears to lean heavily on AI-generated imagery, which raises its own questions about execution. But in the main, the film is preaching to the broad American center — those who support Israel without belonging to either extreme.

Despite these theological quirks, the film ultimately does something I have long wished D’Souza’s documentaries would do: It speaks clearly and with conviction about an issue that possesses lasting moral weight.

Israel will remain a defining struggle for decades. October 7 is only one chapter of that broader conflict. In taking it on, D’Souza presents a moral argument to a conservative audience that is increasingly drifting from him. Whether one agrees with his conclusions or not, he is operating on the level of enduring questions of faith rather than the transitory skirmishes of electoral politics. For once, he isn’t simply preaching to the choir.

'The American Revolution' keeps founders at arm's length

If America had an official "documentarian laureate," Ken Burns would be a shoo-in for the job.

Over the last four decades, the filmmaker has devoted his career to capturing the country's history and culture, in works ranging from "Baseball," "Jazz," and "The National Parks: America's Best Idea" to his groundbreaking 1990 masterpiece "The Civil War." And despite his avowed "yellow-dog Democrat" tendencies, he has done so with remarkable nuance.

Those rallying around the American cause are portrayed as a loose collection of criminals, anarchists, slavers, and exiled aristocrats united by high Enlightenment ideals.

Now, just in time for America’s 250th anniversary, Burns has returned with a new six-part PBS series exploring how it all got started.

Fanfare and apprehension

"The American Revolution" arrives with suitable fanfare — and an almost absurdly star-studded cast of voice-over artists. Tom Hanks, Morgan Freeman, Samuel L. Jackson, Paul Giamatti, Josh Brolin, Meryl Streep, Ethan Hawke, Edward Norton, and Michael Keaton are among the luminaries who provide narration.

Even so, there has been a level of apprehension surrounding the show, particularly among conservatives. Could a commemoration of America's founding even work in our current moment — when even mild appeals to patriotism and national unity seem to stir up bitter partisan disputes?

Burns seems to have a found a way around this by making his retelling as clinical and unromantic as possible. He is clearly passionate about the American project, but he is unwilling to embrace the mythological or nationalistic sides of that passion.

Whose revolution?

“It’s our creation story,” historian Rick Atkinson says as he discusses the importance of the Revolution. But most of the experts Burns showcases prefer to focus on the negative, puncturing what one calls the “unreal and detached" romanticization of the founders.

Instead, we're invited to ponder the role that slavery and the theft of Native American land played in the fight for independence — not to mention a fair amount of unsavory violence perpetrated by the revolutionaries.

While the series does a good job of covering the conflicts between 1774 and 1783, it takes frequent detours to discuss the issues surrounding the revolution: the role of women contributing to the war, the perspectives of English Loyalists as they became refugees fleeing the conflict, the madness of the Sons of Liberty’s antics, and the perspectives of slaves trying to survive and find liberty too.

Interim Archives/Boston Globe/Getty Images

Living in the tension

A pronounced classical liberalism pervades the storytelling, one reflecting the secular Enlightenment idealism that a “new and radical” vision for mankind could be found through self-determination and freedom, apart from the aristocratic and theocratic haze of Europe.

This vision acknowledges progressive criticism of the era’s slavery and classism, but tries to integrate those faults rather than use them as grounds to discard the entire experiment. It attempts to live within the tension of history and sift out what is still valuable, rather than abandon the project altogether.

Indeed, Burns is generally good about avoiding any sort of score-settling or modern politicking, shy of a few buzzwords. He constantly uses the word “resistance” and ends with a reflection on the potential ruination of the republic by “unprincipled demagogues,” proudly quoting Alexander Hamilton that “nobody is above the law.”

The show’s consensus is overwhelmingly that the values of the Revolution were greater than the severely flawed men who fought it. To Burns, it was not merely a war, but a radical ongoing experiment in human liberty that escaped the colonies like a virus and changed the world forever. He certainly doesn’t want to throw out the liberal project, and so he constantly circles back on defending the war’s idealism.

Idealism and discomfort

This accounts for the show’s title, focusing on its revolutionary implications. It wasn’t just a war, but a change in the way people thought. The show argues that “to believe in America … is to believe in possibility,” and that studying the Revolution is important to understanding “why we are where we are now.”

Unfortunately, the intervening 12 hours require the viewer to swallow a fair share of dubious and rather inflammatory claims, including that George Washington was primarily driven by his class interests as a landowner, that popular retellings often “paper over” the violent actions of the revolutionaries, and that the founders were, on balance, hypocrites.

Its overall perspective is that it is impossible to tell the nation’s origin story in a way that is “clean” and “neat,” with clear heroes and villains. Those rallying around the American cause are portrayed as a loose collection of criminals, anarchists, slavers, and exiled aristocrats united by high Enlightenment ideals.

"The Revolution" wants both this idealism and discomfort to sit equally in your mind, as you ponder how morally compromised men could change the world. As one of the historians asks, “How can you know something is wrong and still do it? That is the human question for all of us.”

Overall, Ken Burns’ latest proves a very bittersweet watch, hardly the sentimental reflection on Americanism that the country’s approaching 250th anniversary demands, but also too idealistic and classically liberal to comfortably fit anyone’s agenda. It wants to lionize the founding’s aspirational values of democracy, equality, and revolution, while assiduously avoiding praising the people involved.

It's a remarkably watchable and entertaining work of sober disillusionment.

Do we love the 'Wicked' movies because we hate innocence?

As I watched Jon M. Chu's "Wicked: For Good" last week, I kept thinking about another, very different filmmaker: David Lynch.

Specifically, the Lynch that emerges from Alexandre Philippe's excellent 2022 documentary "Lynch/Oz," wherein we discover just how deeply the infamously surreal filmmaker was influenced by one of cinema's sweetest fantasy films: the original "Wizard of Oz."

In the era of #WitchTok ... a story like 'Wicked' has built-in appeal.

Philippe's film includes footage from a 2001 Q and A in which Lynch confirms the extent of his devotion: "There is not a day that goes by that I don't think about 'The Wizard of Oz.'"

The logic of fairyland

And that shouldn't be surprising given how much it shows up in his work. From Glinda the Good Witch making an appearance in "Wild at Heart," to the hazy, dreamlike depiction of suburbia in "Blue Velvet," his films exist in a dual state between the realm of fairyland and the underworld.

Indeed, Lynch doesn't reject either. In proper Buddhist fashion, these two forces exist in balance, equally potent and true. There is both good and evil in his world. Neither negates the other's existence. And when darkness spills over into the light, it may be tragic, but it is also just another part of the world. Like Dorothy, his protagonists find themselves walking deeper into unknown territory. The protagonists of his films truly "aren't in Kansas anymore."

"The Wizard of Oz" is potent because it captures the logic of fairyland better than almost any film ever made. Channeling the fairy stories of J.R.R. Tolkien, Lewis Carroll, and George MacDonald, it transports the mind to a realm that is more real than real, where even the most dire intrusion of evil can be set right according to simple moral rules.

As G.K. Chesterton famously puts it:

Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon.

Wicked good

"Wicked" and its new sequel reject this comforting clarity for something altogether more "adult" and ambiguous. Instead of presenting good and evil as objective realities that can be discerned and defeated, the films show how political authorities manipulate those labels to scapegoat some and exalt others.

They do so by swapping the original's heroes and villains. The Wonderful Wizard is a cruel tyrant. Glinda is foppish and self-obsessed. Dorothy is the unwitting tool of a corrupt regime. And Elphaba — the so-called Wicked Witch — is reimagined as a sympathetic underdog with a tragic backstory, a manufactured villain invented to keep Oz unified in ire and hatred.

Elphaba exudes a whiff of Milton's Lucifer — an eternal rebel in a tragic quest to upend the moral order. But unlike "Paradise Lost," "Wicked" presents rebellion against its all-powerful father figure not as a tragic self-deception, but as a justified response to systemic cruelty.

Witch way?

"Wicked: For Good" takes the ideas of its predecessor even further than mere rebellion. If "Wicked: Part One" is about awakening to the world's realities and becoming radicalized by them, "Wicked: For Good" is about the cost of selling out — the temptation to compromise with a corrupt system and the soul-crushing despair that follows.

This is where the irony of the film's title, "Wicked: For Good" comes in. Once a person sees the world for what it truly is, they can't go back without compromising themselves. They've "changed for good." They've awakened and can't return to sleep.

It's worth considering why the "Wicked" franchise is so wildly popular. Gregory Maguire's original 1995 novel has sold 5 million copies. The 2003 stage show it inspired won three Tony Awards and recently became the fourth longest-running Broadway musical ever. And the first film grossed $759 million last winter, with the sequel poised to make even more money.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that this outsize success comes at a time when Wicca and paganism have grown into mainstream cultural forces. In the era of #WitchTok, in which self-proclaimed witches hex politicians and garner billions of views on social media, a story like "Wicked" has built-in appeal. It offers glamorous spell-casting and a romantic tale of resistance to authority.

Photo by The Salt Lake Tribune / Contributor via Getty Images

A bittersweet moral

The temptation of witchcraft is one that always hovers over our enlightened and rationalistic society. Particularly for young women, witchcraft offers a specific form of autonomy and power — over body, spirit, and fate — that patriarchal societies often deny. Many view witchcraft as progressive and empowering; "witchy vibes" have become a badge of identity.

Thus the unsettling imagery of Robert Eggers' 2015 film "The Witch" comes into focus: A satanic coven kidnaps and kills a Puritan baby, seduces a teenage girl, and gains the power to unsubtly "defy gravity" through a deal with the devil.

"Wicked" is all about this power to transcend. Even as its protagonist grows despairing in the second film and abandons her political quest for the freedom of the wastelands, the film presupposes that it is better to resist or escape a corrupt system than submit to it.

Ultimately, the two films leave their audience with a bittersweet moral: Society is dependent on scapegoats. The Platonic noble lie upon which all societies rest cannot be escaped — but it can be redirected. A new civic myth can be founded that avoids sacrificing the vulnerable and overthrows the demagogues atop Mount Olympus. And the witches play the central role in overturning the world of Oz. Their rebellion sets it free.

But because the films blur the clear, objective distinction between good and evil — even while acknowledging that real evil exists — the characters in "Wicked" often drift in moral grayness, defining themselves mainly in relation to power. The world becomes overbearing, radicalizing, and morally unstable.

Sad truth

This is far afield from the vision of Oz presented in the 1939 film, the one David Lynch venerated as vital to his understanding of the world. But it reflects how modern storytellers often grapple with Oz. Almost every sequel or spin-off struggles to recapture the sincerity of the original. The 1985 sequel "Return to Oz" reimagined the land with a dark-fantasy twist. 2013's "Oz the Great and Powerful" comes closest to the original tone but centers on fraudulence and trickery.

"Wicked," too, falls in line with the modern tendency to subvert and complicate traditional stories of good versus evil. "Frozen," "The Shape of Water," "Game of Thrones," and "Star Wars: The Last Jedi" all explore morally conflicted worlds where bravery is futile or where Miltonian rebellion is celebrated.

Of course, seeing the stories of our childhood with a jaundiced adult eye can be quite entertaining; it's perfectly understandable why even those not in covens love these films. They are well-made, well-performed, and especially irresistible to former theater kids (I am one).

Their popularity isn't inherently bad either. They are perfectly fine in isolation. It is only when we contrast them with the clarity and beauty of the original — and place them within the context of our society — that a sad truth emerges: Finding fairyland is hard. Most of us prefer to live in the Lynchian underworld.