Self
César Fierro
Self
Overview
This documentary tells the story of César, the oldest Mexican prisoner on death row in the United States. César has waited for his execution date for more than 30 years, always insisting that he is innocent. Los años de Fierro is a reflection on justice, imprisonment, punishment, guilt and brotherly love, through the eyes of César and his bother, Sergio.
Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Architecture of Men
In the vast, often monotonous canon of military cinema, the training montage is usually a prelude—a rhythmic, muscular bridge between innocence and the battlefield. But in *Boots*, the new eight-part Netflix series adapted from Greg Cope White’s memoir *The Pink Marine*, the training *is* the war. Set in 1990, just before the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy codified silence into law, the series enters the Parris Island crucible not to glorify combat, but to dissect the very architecture of masculinity. It asks a question that feels both retro and urgently modern: When an institution is designed to break you down to build you back up, what happens to the parts of yourself you’re forced to hide in the rubble?
Visually, the series is a study in claustrophobia and contrast. Director of photography maneuvers through the barracks with a sweaty, anxious intimacy that recalls the early training sequences of *Full Metal Jacket*, yet without Kubrick’s cold detachment. The color palette is dominated by drab olives and sterile sands, making the rare glimpses of the outside world feel like hallucinations of a lost life. The sound design is equally oppressive; the constant, rhythmic barking of drill instructors becomes a kind of violent metronome governing the recruits' heartbeats. However, the show avoids becoming misery porn by injecting a surprising, vibrant theatricality into Cameron Cope’s internal world—a necessary survival mechanism for a closeted boy in a hostile ecosystem.
At the center of this storm is Miles Heizer as Cameron, delivering a performance of quiet, trembling defiance. Heizer, known for his work in teen dramas, graduates here into a complex maturity. His Cameron is not a victim but an observer, a young man who learns that survival in the Corps is less about physical strength and more about performance art. He is acting "straight" in a theater where the critics are lethal. The chemistry between him and his straight best friend Ray (a heartbreakingly earnest Liam Oh) provides the show’s emotional ballast. Their relationship deconstructs the "buddy film" trope, revealing the fragile dependence that exists between men when the social armor is stripped away.
The series truly shines, however, in its refusal to paint the Marine Corps as a monolith of evil. It is a nuanced beast—a machine that teaches resilience and brotherhood even as it enforces a toxic conformity. The inclusion of Vera Farmiga as Cameron's erratic, eccentric mother offers a jagged counterpoint to the military rigidity, reminding us of the chaotic home life Cameron is fleeing. But the real tension lies in the barracks, particularly in the unspoken, charged dynamic between Cameron and Sergeant Sullivan (Max Parker). Their interactions are a masterclass in subtext, where every order and reprimand carries the weight of a secret shared but never acknowledged.
Ultimately, *Boots* succeeds because it treats the Marine Corps not just as a setting, but as a high-stakes metaphor for the closet itself. It is a story about the terrifying discipline required to be someone else, and the eventual, messy courage required to be yourself. It suggests that the "brotherhood" promised by the military is real, but it is incomplete so long as it requires the erasure of the individual. In a landscape of television often obsessed with loud spectacles, *Boots* offers a gripping, human-sized drama about the silent wars fought behind the uniform. It validates the struggle of those who served in silence, proving that sometimes, the bravest thing a soldier can do is simply exist.
In the vast, often monotonous canon of military cinema, the training montage is usually a prelude—a rhythmic, muscular bridge between innocence and the battlefield. But in *Boots*, the new eight-part Netflix series adapted from Greg Cope White’s memoir *The Pink Marine*, the training *is* the war. Set in 1990, just before the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy codified silence into law, the series enters the Parris Island crucible not to glorify combat, but to dissect the very architecture of masculinity. It asks a question that feels both retro and urgently modern: When an institution is designed to break you down to build you back up, what happens to the parts of yourself you’re forced to hide in the rubble?
Visually, the series is a study in claustrophobia and contrast. Director of photography maneuvers through the barracks with a sweaty, anxious intimacy that recalls the early training sequences of *Full Metal Jacket*, yet without Kubrick’s cold detachment. The color palette is dominated by drab olives and sterile sands, making the rare glimpses of the outside world feel like hallucinations of a lost life. The sound design is equally oppressive; the constant, rhythmic barking of drill instructors becomes a kind of violent metronome governing the recruits' heartbeats. However, the show avoids becoming misery porn by injecting a surprising, vibrant theatricality into Cameron Cope’s internal world—a necessary survival mechanism for a closeted boy in a hostile ecosystem.
At the center of this storm is Miles Heizer as Cameron, delivering a performance of quiet, trembling defiance. Heizer, known for his work in teen dramas, graduates here into a complex maturity. His Cameron is not a victim but an observer, a young man who learns that survival in the Corps is less about physical strength and more about performance art. He is acting "straight" in a theater where the critics are lethal. The chemistry between him and his straight best friend Ray (a heartbreakingly earnest Liam Oh) provides the show’s emotional ballast. Their relationship deconstructs the "buddy film" trope, revealing the fragile dependence that exists between men when the social armor is stripped away.
The series truly shines, however, in its refusal to paint the Marine Corps as a monolith of evil. It is a nuanced beast—a machine that teaches resilience and brotherhood even as it enforces a toxic conformity. The inclusion of Vera Farmiga as Cameron's erratic, eccentric mother offers a jagged counterpoint to the military rigidity, reminding us of the chaotic home life Cameron is fleeing. But the real tension lies in the barracks, particularly in the unspoken, charged dynamic between Cameron and Sergeant Sullivan (Max Parker). Their interactions are a masterclass in subtext, where every order and reprimand carries the weight of a secret shared but never acknowledged.
Ultimately, *Boots* succeeds because it treats the Marine Corps not just as a setting, but as a high-stakes metaphor for the closet itself. It is a story about the terrifying discipline required to be someone else, and the eventual, messy courage required to be yourself. It suggests that the "brotherhood" promised by the military is real, but it is incomplete so long as it requires the erasure of the individual. In a landscape of television often obsessed with loud spectacles, *Boots* offers a gripping, human-sized drama about the silent wars fought behind the uniform. It validates the struggle of those who served in silence, proving that sometimes, the bravest thing a soldier can do is simply exist.