Within Black Lake there lurks a predator, it glides silently through calm, dark water. Beth and Michelle do a flailing back‑roll entry into Lake Placid, which is what they wanted to call it but the name was taken. They dog‑paddle frantically through a creature feature that can’t decide if it’s a horror movie, a romcom, a sitcom or a very specific kink for sarcastic paleontologists. They marvel at Brendan Gleeson’s permanent state of exasperation, Betty White’s feral‑grandma energy, and a crocodile so large it feels like the filmmakers lost a bet with the laws of physics.

In Dark Harbor (1998), Alan Rickman, Polly Walker, and a young Norman Reedus drift through a rain-soaked psychological thriller about a bitter marriage, an isolated island, and a stranger who may be far more dangerous than he appears. Beth and Michelle unpack the film’s slow-building tension, intimate power games, emotional cruelty, and deliberately murky motives.

The movie saves its biggest reveal for a queer relationship treated as a final-act gotcha, even though the real horror is manipulation, control, and murder. Alexis is mocked, ignored, and ultimately used as the device that frees the men around her, leaving the film’s poetic reflections on love sitting beside some deeply regressive choices.

In the Stitch Count, Dark Harbor earns 2 out of 9. It offers atmosphere, strong performances, and a few beautifully written moments, but its thin characterization, entirely white cast, sexualized gaze, and disposal of its central woman leave Beth and Michelle asking whether this slow burn has anything new beneath all that very familiar smoke.

I found a better copy to view - Dark Harbor 1998

Beth and Michelle reunite with A Mighty Wind, Christopher Guest’s affectionate 2003 mockumentary about three nearly famous folk groups gathering for one memorial concert and dedicate the episode to the incomparable Catherine O’Hara.

O’Hara’s death left Beth and Michelle grieving an actress who had quietly accompanied them through much of their lives. From Beetlejuice and Home Alone to Christopher Guest’s ensemble comedies and the indomitable Moira Rose, O’Hara created characters who could be absurd, wounded, commanding, and deeply human, sometimes all within the same breath. Her work remains, but the knowledge that there will be no new performance carries a particular kind of sadness.

As Mickey Crabbe, O’Hara gives one of her gentlest performances. Mickey and Mitch were once a celebrated musical and romantic partnership before heartbreak destroyed both. Their reunion is not about restoring the past or beginning their relationship again. It gives them the opportunity to confront what their music preserved, complete the emotional conversation they abandoned years earlier, and share one final kiss at the end of the rainbow.

The film’s other musicians face their own relationships with nostalgia. The Folksmen discover that friendship can survive distance and obscurity. The New Main Street Singers perform beneath the weight of a legacy belonging mostly to other people. Across the ensemble, fading fame is treated not as failure but as another stage of life - one where the music can still matter even after the audience has moved on.

Beth and Michelle celebrate the film’s extraordinary improvisational cast, its lovingly specific folk satire, the partnerships that remain fragile after decades, and the trans reveal of Mark Shubb. Her identity is never treated as something monstrous or shameful; the humor remains rooted in the group’s personalities and musical arrangement rather than in the mere fact that she transitioned.

In the newly consolidated Stitch Count, A Mighty Wind earns 7 out of 9. It passes the Castellini portion through independent, consequential women including Mickey, Laurie, Sissy, and Amber. It distributes competence and agency without insisting that its women apologize for themselves, and it includes a surprisingly affirming transgender character. Its score is held back by an overwhelmingly white cast, limited racial representation, and little meaningful disability inclusion.

A Mighty Wind understands that nostalgia can be funny, comforting, and painful at the same time. The people change. Partnerships fracture. Fame fades. Eventually, the performers themselves leave us.

But the song still lingers.

Beth and Michelle go downtown, where the guys are drips, the rent is overdue, and nearly everyone dreams of escaping Skid Row. This week, they revisit Little Shop of Horrors, the 1986 musical comedy where a strange new plant offers Seymour Krelborn everything he has ever wanted, recognition, financial security, and perhaps even a future with Audrey - provided he keeps feeding it.

Beneath the puppetry, doo-wop harmonies, and gloriously theatrical performances is a story about longing. Seymour wants love and stability after a childhood spent as an orphan and an adulthood spent living in the basement of his employer’s flower shop. Audrey dreams of a quiet suburban home somewhere green, but does not believe she deserves safety or tenderness. Both accept mistreatment as a substitute for love because it is the only emotional economy they have ever known.

Audrey II promises them a way out, but the opportunity is toxic from the beginning. Seymour’s success depends on blood, secrecy, and increasingly serious moral compromises. The plant becomes the hungriest possible version of the American dream: it offers wealth and freedom while quietly removing every meaningful choice. Even the idyllic ending suggests that Seymour and Audrey may have escaped Skid Row only to enter a cleaner, prettier cage.

Beth and Michelle also discuss Audrey’s abuse by Orin, Seymour’s exploitation by Mr. Mushnik, the film’s casual racism, the way its Black Greek chorus carries the narrative without being fully permitted inside it, and the extraordinary practical effects that make Audrey II feel less like a puppet than a dangerously charismatic performer.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, Little Shop of Horrors narrowly passes the Castellini Test through Audrey and the Greek chorus of Crystal, Ronette, and Chiffon, with Audrey essential to Seymour’s choices and the entire story. The film features a visibly diverse supporting cast, but its principal characters remain overwhelmingly white, and its racial representation is complicated by stereotyping and by characters of color carrying much of the film’s emotional and musical labor. LGBTQ and disability representation are minimal.

The Tremors Index produces a rare split decision: Michelle gives the movie 9 Audrey II pods out of 10, carried by her love of its songs, performances, and memories, while Beth lands closer to 6 out of 10, unable to overlook the accumulated injustices beneath the fun.

It is funny, sinister, romantic, abusive, catchy, and coated in the soot of Skid Row. The music may invite you to sing along, but the plant is always waiting for supper.

Beth and Michelle revisit Death Becomes Her, the 1992 dark comedy where two lifelong rivals drink a potion promising eternal youth, only to discover that immortality is considerably less glamorous when your neck is broken, your stomach has a shotgun-sized hole in it, and your continued existence depends on industrial quantities of paint and putty.

What once seemed like a deliciously camp battle between Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn now lands very differently. Beneath the extraordinary visual effects, Isabella Rossellini’s impossible glamour, and the endlessly quotable cruelty is a story filled with ageism, fat-shaming, ableism, and a rigid belief that women lose their value when they stop being young, desirable, and useful to men.

Madeline and Helen spend decades defining themselves through rivalry. Rather than being permitted careers, growth, friendship, or genuine reinvention, they are pushed into treating one another as the enemy. Ernest, meanwhile, profits from women’s insecurity as a plastic surgeon, descends into alcoholism, participates in Madeline’s death, and still receives the film’s redemptive ending. He is allowed to refuse immortality, build a meaningful life, and be remembered as a complete human being. The women remain the cautionary joke.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, Death Becomes Her passes the Castellini Test through Madeline, Helen, and Lisle, all of whom are essential to the plot. Its broader representation is extremely limited, however. People of color are almost entirely absent from speaking roles, mental illness and physical disability are used as comic devices, and the film offers little meaningful LGBTQ inclusion despite becoming a queer cult favorite. Beth and Michelle give it 3.5 out of 10 on the Tremors Index.

The performances remain excellent and the effects still impress, but the movie’s beautiful surface cannot conceal how little space it gives its women to become anything other than rivals. The potion promises freedom from aging. What it actually offers is an eternity trapped inside the same expectations.

Beth and Michelle return to Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga, the 2020 musical comedy where two lifelong performers from a small Icelandic town stumble into Europe’s largest song competition through talent, persistence, technical catastrophe, and an intervention from the elves that may have gone considerably too far.

Released during the isolation of the early pandemic, the film arrived like a loose piece of disco ball reflecting light into a dark room. Beneath Will Ferrell’s costumes, giant hamster wheels, exploding boats, and relentlessly requested performances of “Jaja Ding Dong,” Beth and Michelle find a surprisingly tender story about music, identity, family, and the dreams we carry from childhood.

Lars has spent his life believing that winning Eurovision will earn his father’s respect and prove that his ambitions were never ridiculous. In pursuing that validation, however, he repeatedly overlooks Sigrid, the person whose love, voice, and quiet belief have supported his dream from the beginning. Their story finds its emotional resolution when Lars abandons spectacle, sits beside her at the piano, and finally makes room for her to sing from the heart.

The conversation also explores masculine shame, fathers who cannot express love, Icelandic folklore, national pride without nationalism, and Alexander Lemtov’s painful insistence that there are no gay people in Russia. His flamboyant confidence conceals the reality that wealth and international fame still cannot make him safe enough to live openly at home.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, the film passes the Castellini Test through Sigrid, Mita, Nina, and the other women surrounding the competition, with Sigrid essential to both Fire Saga and the story itself. Its international cast provides substantial racial and LGBTQ representation, including actual Eurovision performers and drag artist Conchita Wurst, although disability representation is limited. Beth and Michelle give it 9 out of 10 on the Tremors Index.

Fire Saga does not win Eurovision and the movie is better for it. Success may bring applause, but music is not always about winning. Sometimes it is about being heard, honoring where you came from, and finding the person beside whom you can finally become yourself.

Music from #Uppbeat (free for Creators!):

Directory + rapid response numbers (including Monarca Rapid Response Line and COPAL Navigators Line)

https://www.mnnoice.org

(Hosts the statewide immigrant support helpline used by IDN and MN NOICE)

https://www.copalmn.org  

Immigrant Rights & Anti‑Deportation Organizing

Grassroots, abolitionist immigrant‑rights organization fighting raids, deportations, and anti‑immigrant laws

https://miracmn.org

Statewide coalition of 90+ nonprofits coordinating legal defense, rapid response, and community protection

https://immigrantdefense.org

Provides immigration legal assistance including naturalization, family petitions, TPS, and more

https://www.arriveministries.org

Comprehensive list of Minnesota orgs offering immigration legal support

https://www.immigrationadvocates.org/nonprofit/legaldirectory/ 

Curated list of trusted Minnesota groups supporting immigrant and refugee communities

https://www.spmcf.org

Beth and Michelle enter the Thrombey mansion for their first viewing of Knives Out, the 2019 mystery where an enormously wealthy crime novelist dies after his birthday party and every member of his seemingly close-knit family has a motive, a grievance, and a carefully edited version of the truth.

What begins as a classic country-house whodunit becomes a sharp satire of inherited wealth, entitlement, immigration, and the stories privileged people tell about themselves. The Thrombeys insist they are self-made, welcoming, and united, while living on Harlan’s money, casually misidentifying Marta’s country of origin, handing her empty plates, and threatening her undocumented mother the moment Marta possesses something they believe should belong to them.

At the emotional center is Marta, whose compassion and inability to lie without vomiting make her appear vulnerable. Instead, her kindness, intelligence, and professional competence become the source of her strength. Benoit Blanc may direct the investigation with doughnut metaphors, piano notes, and a magnificent Southern accent, but it is Marta whose anxiety, guilt, tenderness, and growing empowerment carry the audience through the mystery.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, Knives Out easily passes the Castellini Test through Marta, Linda, Joni, Meg, and Fran, with Marta indispensable to every part of the story. Its cast includes meaningful racial representation through Marta’s family and Lieutenant Elliott, although most characters of color remain positioned outside the wealthy white family at its center. LGBTQ and disability representation are minimal. Beth and Michelle give it 9 out of 10 on the Tremors Index—or nine knives out.

Cozy, energetic, funny, and meticulously layered, Knives Out earns an immediate place in the regular rotation. It is less like a conventional thriller than a particularly satisfying trifle: mystery, social commentary, tenderness, tension, and just enough absurdity stacked into one deliciously elaborate dessert.

My house. My rules. My coffee.

Music by Melody Ayres-Griffiths from Pixabay

On a serious Note:

To demand answers and accountability for the recent death at the Robert A. Deyton facility in Lovejoy, GA, you can point listeners to Georgia Detention Watch (GDW) and their partners at El Refugio.

These cards are designed to be shown through a window or slid under a door so residents do not have to open the door to agents.

In the Twin Cities, the primary line to report "Operation Metro Surge" activity, masked agents, or raids is the Monarca Rapid Response Line.

Beth and Michelle return to 1920s Egypt for The Mummy, the 1999 adventure where a brilliant librarian, a world-weary gunslinger, one extremely lucky brother, and several deeply unqualified treasure hunters accidentally awaken an ancient priest determined to resurrect the woman he loves.

What initially looked like another attempt to imitate Indiana Jones became something far warmer, funnier, and more romantic. Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz bring effortless chemistry to Rick and Evelyn, whose attraction grows through mutual respect rather than instant declarations. He notices her intelligence and replaces the archaeological tools she lost; she discovers the humanity beneath his swagger. Meanwhile, Imhotep and Anck-su-namun provide the story’s darker romantic mirror, a love powerful enough to survive death, but destructive enough to consume everyone standing in its way.

Beth and Michelle celebrate the movie’s swashbuckling energy, cozy sense of adventure, perfectly blended comedy, impressive effects, and pansexual dream of a cast. They also examine its fictionalized Egyptian history, colonial archaeology, cultural appropriation, exploited labor, and the uncomfortable habit of Western adventurers treating another civilization’s dead as treasure waiting to be claimed.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, The Mummy passes the Castellini Test through Evelyn and Anck-su-namun, both of whom are essential to the story’s existence and resolution. Its cast offers meaningful racial diversity, but that representation is complicated by colonialism, cultural substitution, and the absence of LGBTQ inclusion. Even with those problems, Beth and Michelle award it a formidable 9 out of 10 on the Tremors Index.

It has romance without becoming syrupy, horror without excessive gore, history without much historical accuracy, and enough Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz to leave nearly everyone questioning something about themselves.

Background Music by Ruud from Pixabay

Beth and Michelle talk about Ghostbusters II, the strange, slimy, emotionally contagious 1989 sequel where New York has forgotten its former heroes, the team has fractured into separate lives, and five years of resentment are accumulating beneath the city as a river of psycho-reactive pink goo.

Recorded at the end of 2025 and marking the podcast’s sixty-first episode, the conversation becomes partly a reflection on the film and partly a celebration of the community Beth and Michelle have built together. Friendships do not survive through nostalgia alone. Community is never automatic, it has to be chosen, nurtured, protected, and sometimes rebuilt after it has fallen apart.

They explore the Ghostbusters’ search for redemption after being dismissed rather than defeated, New York’s apathy as an active force, Winston’s continuing lack of screen time, Dana’s limited agency, Peter’s questionable romantic persistence, Egon’s quiet leadership, and the gloriously excessive soundtrack Michelle still knows by heart. There is also mood slime, a historically real pneumatic transit system, a surprisingly complicated Statue of Liberty rescue, and several plot holes large enough for a Mack truck.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, Ghostbusters II passes the Castellini Test through Dana and Janine, with Dana essential to the plot. Its broader inclusion remains weak, however: Winston is the only principal character of color, and there is no meaningful LGBTQ or disability representation. Beth and Michelle give it a 4 out of 10 on the Tremors Index. Manic, nostalgic fun with an affecting message about community, but nowhere near the pinnacle of inclusive, tightly constructed monster cinema.

It is silly, inconsistent, and occasionally inexplicable. It makes Beth and Michelle feel good, then bad for feeling good and somehow that remains part of its charm.

Beth and Michelle revisit Trading Places, the 1983 comedy where two wealthy brothers wager one dollar that privilege and deprivation can be exchanged as easily as office keys, tailored suits, and a Philadelphia townhouse. Louis Winthorpe loses everything overnight, while Billy Ray Valentine is lifted from the street and placed inside a world that suddenly treats him as intelligent, respectable, and worthy of attention.

The experiment exposes how arbitrary wealth and status really are but the movie’s satire comes with some enormous potholes. Beth and Michelle confront its racism, homophobia, ableism, casual misogyny, blackface, and stereotypes that land far differently now than they did during childhood viewings. What once felt like uncomplicated justice is now more like driving a luxury car down a badly broken road: the destination remains satisfying, but the impacts are impossible to ignore.

At the heart of the film are Ophelia and Coleman. Ophelia’s warmth, intelligence, confidence, and refusal to apologize for sex work give Louis the compassion and shelter his privileged world never taught him to offer others. Coleman’s loyalty is not blind; when the Dukes reveal that everyone beneath them is disposable, he joins Billy Ray, Louis, and Ophelia in creating a genuine found family, and in delivering some richly deserved financial comeuppance.

In the episode’s proto–Stitch Count, Trading Places passes the Castellini Test through Ophelia and Penelope, with Ophelia essential to reaching the film’s ending. The cast offers considerably more racial diversity than many movies of its era, but that inclusion is undermined by its treatment of disability and LGBTQ people. Beth and Michelle give it a 5 out of 10 on the Tremors Index: halfway to the pinnacle, with meaningful representation sharing space with some painfully dated choices.