Guillermo Del Toro’s Frankenstein isn’t horror, it’s resurrection. It moves like scripture, lit by thunder and guilt. Every frame feels touched by obsession and grace, from the trembling hands of Victor Frankenstein to the sorrowful stillness of his creation. The cinematography glows with holy menace, the lab a cathedral of flickering light and sin. By the end, you don’t fear the monster. You mourn him. Del Toro doesn’t remake Shelley’s myth, he worships it, then bleeds into

Westminster Magistrates’ Court, London. Another damp weekday, another headline about Kneecap. This time it was Mo Chara (real name Liam...

Verses GT  feels like a body moving through smoke, pulse steady, lungs full of heavy air. It is not an album that explodes or shouts; it...

This record doesn’t ease you in. It doesn’t even open like an album. It convulses, spits, and then clamps its jaws around your skull. The...