This week, the dads take on 1997's Face/Off, and Steve is practically vibrating with excitement because he's been waiting to do this one since before they even started the podcast. The John Woo-directed, Nicolas Cage-starring bonkers masterpiece gets the full breakdown treatment, starting with a delightfully nerdy timeline tracing how Sam Raimi, Quentin Tarantino, and the Oscars accidentally conspired to give us a movie where two A-listers literally swap faces. They dig into the absurdity of the premise, the logistics of the surgery, the unhinged performances, and the question of whether anyone on earth could have sold this role better than Cage. It's a love letter wrapped in gleeful confusion.

The conversation careens through John Travolta's "dead son revenge plot," the infamous peach-eating scene, speedboat terrorism, and a prison that somehow operates like a gladiatorial death arena with absolutely zero oversight. They marvel at Cage's face doing all the heavy lifting, debate whether the movie is too long, and try to unpack why the film ends with what might charitably be called "problematic child acquisition." The dads also wrestle with the tonal whiplash of a movie that's simultaneously a gonzo action spectacle and a deeply weird meditation on identity, family, and face-touching. They can't decide if it's brilliant or dumb, so they settle on both.

It's Cage at his unhinged best, Woo at his most operatic, and two dads at peak "we need to talk about this" energy.

This week, the dads drop into Raising Arizona (1987), a madcap pivot in their Cagevember journey, trading military convicts and green flares for baby snatching and pomade-covered jailbreaks. Steve confesses he’s never actually seen the film all the way through—cue Nic’s delight—while both marvel at the Coen brothers’ signature weirdness already in full bloom. They dig into Cage’s charmingly chaotic performance as Hi, debate whether this version of his southern accent is the best he’s ever done, and immediately start crafting a headcanon where Hi and Cameron Poe exist in the same cinematic universe. And yes, Ed is a cop, dammit.

What follows is an affectionate roast of the movie’s cartoon logic and impeccable visual gags: babies stacked like zombies, Goodman and Forsythe crawling out of the ground like feral worms, and the unforgettable phrase “a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.” The dads laugh over the prison group therapy session, note the early signs of Coenisms like stilted yet poetic dialogue, and bond over how these “young, hungry” filmmakers brought so much style to every scene—even the dirty laundry is artfully tossed. Ed’s deadpan fury, Hi’s Playboy panic, and the disaster children of Frances McDormand’s clan all get loving shoutouts in a film that feels like Looney Tunes grew up and got a wife.

By the time they’re comparing diaper duty to Shawshank and Ace Ventura’s rhino scene, it’s clear Raising Arizona delivers exactly what Cagevember needed: a riotous left turn. A little sweet, a lot strange, and unmistakably Coen, this movie is pure chaos with a heart of gold.

This week, the dads storm Alcatraz with The Rock (1996), continuing Cagevember with a Bay Area blast that hits all their shared sweet spots: peak Nic Cage, unkillable Connery energy, and that VHS-era swagger that begs for popcorn at midnight. They kick off by reveling in the pairing and the setting, swapping personal history about first watches and how wild it felt to see familiar San Francisco locations on screen, even while clocking a few geography sins that only locals would notice.

From there they ride the movie’s big set pieces: the nonlethal heist of those VX rockets, the nerve-jangling glass beads that make every stumble feel fatal, and the satisfying nerd-spy teamwork of yanking guidance chips to turn doomsday into splashdown. The dads love the production design around the missiles, then crack up at the underground “Big Thunder Mountain Railroad” chaos that arrives like a theme-park left turn, because of course it does. They also enjoy the movie’s early lab vignette that introduces Goodspeed as a biochemist in over his head, which sets the tone for the scientist-meets-spy rhythm that powers the middle stretch. It’s a lot, it’s loud, and it’s fun.

They linger on Ed Harris’s gravitas and the way his final choices complicate the villain label, then savor the infamous Rocket Man gag, which they admit is ridiculous and still completely unforgettable. The conversation keeps that late-night, two-dads cadence: a little nostalgia, a little eye roll, and a lot of affection for a movie that plays like a recruitment ad and a buddy comedy at the same time. On the scale of Cage chaos, the dads clock this as the “believable” end of the spectrum while still grinning like teenagers who just snuck into an R-rated show. The Rock remains a big, brawny, spectacle of Bay and The Bay that turns nonsense into pure Saturday-night joy.

This week, the dads climb aboard Con Air (1997), where Nicolas Cage’s mullet meets maximum security at 30,000 feet. From the first moment, Steve and Nic can’t decide if they’re watching an action classic or a fever dream stitched together from discarded Garth Brooks lyrics. They marvel at Cameron Poe’s mix of chivalry and chaos, debate whether that accent is a war crime, and lose it over the idea of anyone willingly sitting next to Steve Buscemi on a flight.

As the plane fills up with larger-than-life convicts, the dads track every glorious one-liner and explosion with equal parts admiration and disbelief. Nic admits he’d probably root for Cyrus the Virus in real life, while Steve argues that John Cusack looks like he wandered in from a rom-com and never found the exit. The dads go deep on the logic (or lack thereof) of the Las Vegas crash landing and how somehow, against all odds, this ridiculous movie makes them feel something by the end.

Between digressions about mid-90s soundtracks, Nic’s obsession with the stuffed bunny, and Steve’s theory that every Michael Bay wannabe was taking notes, the episode becomes a love letter to the last great age of dumb spectacle. It’s big, loud, sentimental, and just smart enough to know it’s stupid.

Con Air is the kind of movie that soars precisely because it never should have gotten off the ground.

This week, the dads close out Shocktoberfest with a Halloween movie that dares to ask: “What if we removed the only thing people liked?”

Halloween III: Season of the Witch is the Michael-Myers-less oddball of the franchise, and both dads went into it as first-timers—Steve because he wanted to finally see what the fuss was about, and Nic because, confession time, this is his first Halloween movie. Ever. And no, the Love Guru doesn’t count. What they got was a synth-heavy, jack-o’-lantern-lit fever dream about murderous masks, ancient pagan sacrifices, and android assassins who self-immolate like it’s their job. (Because it is.)

Tom Atkins stars as Dr. Dan “Deadbeat Daddy” Challis, an aggressively unconvincing heartthrob with a mustache that actively subtracts charisma. He stumbles into a plot involving Stonehenge, evil corporations, and masks that melt children’s faces into snake pits—like you do. Meanwhile, a jingle that will haunt your dreams (“Eight more days ‘til Halloween, Silver Shamrock!”) plays on loop enough times to qualify as psychological warfare. Ellie, the hot daughter of a dead toy store owner, teams up with Dr. Dan for an investigation-slash-motel-stay that rapidly turns into softcore, plot-free chaos.

There’s no Michael Myers, but there’s a ton of Carpenter synth, an uncomfortable amount of middle-aged sleaze, and the kind of practical effects that make you both gag and applaud. Is it good? Not really. Is it memorable? Oh hell yes. And hey, it made money. Just not after people realized they got bait-and-switched out of a slasher icon and into an unhinged anti-capitalist druid conspiracy thriller.

Shocktoberfest goes out with a bang (literally—RIP gasoline android guy), and the dads are left confused, intrigued, and lowkey obsessed. Happy Halloween indeed, Silver Shamrock. You weird little freak.

This week, the dads sink their teeth into The Silence of the Lambs (1991), Jonathan Demme’s unnervingly polite horror-thriller that turned dinner conversation into a crime scene. Nic, who picked this one, calls it one of the rare prestige films that’s also straight-up terrifying, while Steve revisits it for the first time in decades and can’t believe how well it still hums. From the opening FBI training sequence to Lecter’s glass cell, the guys get lost in that strange mix of elegance and menace that makes this movie unforgettable. It’s not just the horror of what’s happening — it’s the dread of who’s watching.

They zero in on how perfect the casting is. Steve can’t stop praising Jodie Foster’s control and vulnerability, while Nic’s in awe of how Anthony Hopkins turns charm into a weapon. The dads geek out over the camera work — those unblinking close-ups that feel like confessions — and debate whether Lecter is terrifying because he’s monstrous or because he’s right about everything. They also have fun with the details: the night-vision sequence that still makes Steve squirm, the “quid pro quo” exchange that somehow feels flirtatious, and Buffalo Bill’s dance that launched a thousand bad impressions. Somewhere between fascination and revulsion, they admit they can’t look away.

The episode hits that sweet spot between film-school analysis and pure dad awe, where admiration meets discomfort and both hosts can’t decide who’s scarier — Lecter or the system that bred him. It’s tense, funny, and full of those “how did this ever win Best Picture?” moments that only 90s Hollywood could produce. The Silence of the Lambs remains chilling, brilliant, and disturbingly human, and the dads savor every bite.

This week, the dads take on The Thing (1982), John Carpenter’s icy paranoia-fest that’s equal parts monster movie and trust exercise gone wrong. Steve brought this one to the table as a personal favorite, while Nic admitted he’d somehow gone his whole life thinking he’d seen it — only to realize five minutes in that he hadn’t. What follows is a gleeful descent into suspicion and slime, as the guys break down how this Antarctic nightmare manages to feel both enormous and claustrophobic at once. It’s Carpenter at his most controlled, and the dads are here for every quiet stare, sudden scream, and flamethrower blast.

They revel in how the movie forces you to play detective right alongside the crew at Outpost 31. Steve can’t stop grinning over the slow escalation of distrust, while Nic fixates on how often the film makes you second-guess who’s even human. They talk about the practical effects that somehow still hold up, the perfect setup of that blood test scene, and how Russell’s MacReady feels like the last guy you’d want in charge — and yet, maybe the only one who could survive it. They even get sidetracked unpacking the film’s pacing, that eerie quiet before the chaos, and how Carpenter lets the camera linger just long enough to make you sweat.

By the end, the dads are equal parts chilled and impressed, laughing about how this “weird little alien movie” somehow turns into a masterclass in tension. It’s a tight, talky, brutally effective film that earns every ounce of its reputation. For two dads who’ve seen their share of horror, The Thing still got under their skin — and maybe stayed there.

This week, the dads descend into Jacob’s Ladder (1990), the psychological horror that proves sometimes your mind is the scariest place on Earth. Nic, who picked the film, revisits a movie that left him rattled years ago, while Steve watches for the first time—instantly confusing it with The Lawnmower Man, because of course he did. As part of their Shocktoberfest series, the guys dive headfirst into Adrian Lyne’s trippy Vietnam fever dream, where Tim Robbins plays a mailman haunted by demons, memories, and the occasional post-shower existential crisis. It’s weird, it’s grimy, it’s got Danny Aiello as a chiropractor who might be God.

They dig into the movie’s shifting realities, grimy 1970s New York subways, and a post-war trauma story that’s both deeply human and completely unhinged. Steve’s delight at discovering Kyle Gass of Tenacious D buried in the credits gives way to a full-on Macaulay Culkin conspiracy rant, while Nic admits he still doesn’t know what’s real by the end. There’s appreciation for Tim Robbins’ haunted performance, disgust at the hospital-from-hell sequence, and genuine awe for how much this movie inspired later horror aesthetics like Silent Hill. When Danny Aiello shows up to literally adjust Jacob’s spine and his soul, the dads realize they might be watching the most disturbing wellness commercial ever filmed.

The result is an episode that feels like one long fever dream, equal parts philosophical and filthy. Between the dad jokes, theology tangents, and mild PTSD, this one nails what Shocktoberfest is all about: horror that sticks to your ribs. It’s not fun, it’s not cozy, but it’s unforgettable—like watching your own nightmares on VHS at 2 a.m.

This week, the dads dive into A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984), Wes Craven's slasher masterpiece that introduced the world to Freddy Krueger and his very particular brand of sleep therapy. Steve—who's been a horror devotee since begging his mom to take him to Gremlins at age 4—picked this one to kick off their Shocktoberfest theme month, while Nic admits he stayed away from slashers until college, traumatized by an ill-advised childhood viewing of Pet Sematary. Both hosts marvel at how Freddy became such a cultural icon that kids trick-or-treated as him before ever seeing the films, complete with that jump-rope chant everyone somehow knew.

The conversation digs into what made this film revolutionary: the dream logic that feels genuinely universal, those stairs that won't let you run, the walls pushing through like fabric, the way reality keeps slipping. They geek out over the practical effects—that rotating room murder, the bed eruption requiring more blood than exists in the human body, all on a shoestring $1.8 million budget that somehow returned 31 times its cost. Steve points out the moral undertones running through these slashers, the unspoken rules about who survives. They both appreciate Heather Langenkamp's Nancy as a genuinely smart protagonist who figures out the rules and actually tries tactical solutions, even if Johnny Depp's Glenn keeps falling asleep on the job. The hosts also explore the darker subtext: a town that collectively committed vigilante justice, then buried the truth, leaving their kids vulnerable to supernatural blowback.

This is classic 2 Dads territory—two guys who can appreciate both the craftsmanship and the cheese, who know these films cold but still get a kick out of revisiting them. They're here for the crop tops on dudes, the talking watches, the priest who absolutely roasts a dead teenager at his own funeral. It's a love letter to the movie that made an entire generation afraid to sleep, delivered by two dads who clearly never outgrew it.

This week, the dads tackle Pee-wee's Big Adventure (1985), Tim Burton's directorial debut that introduced audiences to both his distinctive visual style and Paul Reubens' beloved man-child character on the big screen. Nic picked this one after rediscovering it through his filmmaker friend who always championed the film's creative inventiveness, and both hosts were shocked by how well it holds up after decades away from it.

Steve and Nic explore how Burton's low-budget magic creates an entire enchanted world around Pee-wee, from the Rube Goldberg breakfast machine to the secret bike garage to Large Marge's claymation face transformation. They discuss the film's cartoon logic and how it balances genuine childlike wonder with sophisticated filmmaking techniques, particularly praising Danny Elfman's whimsical score that perfectly complements Burton's dark-edged fantasy aesthetic. The hosts dive into memorable set pieces like the "Tequila!" dance at the biker bar, the studio chase sequence reminiscent of Blazing Saddles, and how the film essentially functions as a feature-length road trip through Tim Burton's imagination.

The conversation touches on everything from the film's surprising emotional sincerity (everyone genuinely likes Pee-wee despite his weirdness) to Paul Reubens' later controversies and unfair treatment by the media, plus whether Pee-wee's bike was actually cool or just parent-friendly marketing. Both hosts admit they went into the rewatch with low expectations but came away genuinely charmed by a film that proves Burton was already a master of absurdist storytelling and visual invention in his very first feature.