Movie Recommendation: Deep Water (2022)

 

If someone asked me to recommend a movie that blends psychological tension, relationship drama, and a constant feeling that something is “off,” I would choose Deep Water (2022). It’s not a traditional thriller filled with jump scares or chase scenes. Instead, it’s a slow, unsettling unraveling of a marriage—one that pulls you in because of how strange, uncomfortable, and fascinating it is. What makes Deep Water stand out to me is how it explores jealousy, manipulation, and the blurry lines between love and control. The story is suspenseful, but what kept me hooked was the way the movie made me think about the characters long after it ended. For anyone who likes thrillers that focus more on psychology than action, Deep Water is a memorable and gripping watch.

The movie centers on Vic and Melinda Van Allen, a married couple living with their young daughter Trixie in the small town of Little Wesley, Louisiana. On the surface, their life looks comfortable, even calm. Vic is retired early after making a fortune developing guidance chips for military drones, and Melinda seems carefree, almost bored, drifting from one interest to another. But the further the movie goes, the clearer it becomes that the Van Allen marriage is anything but ordinary. The couple lives by an unspoken but clearly fragile arrangement: they sleep separately, and Melinda openly brings other men into her life—even into their home. It’s not a secret, either. Their friends see it, the town sees it, and Vic quietly tolerates it, at least at first.

What makes their relationship compelling to watch is that it’s filled with contradictions. Melinda claims Vic lacks passion, yet she keeps choosing men who seem to exist mostly to provoke him. Vic claims not to care, but he watches everything with a tense, controlled calm that feels unsettling. It’s like watching two people who know exactly how to hurt one another, and who keep pushing the boundaries of what the other will tolerate.

The story moves into darker territory when Melinda invites her newest lover, Joel, to a neighbor’s party. Vic confronts Joel privately and casually tells him that he murdered one of Melinda’s previous lovers, Martin, who recently disappeared. It’s unclear whether Vic is joking, lying to scare him, or confessing something real—and that uncertainty becomes one of the movie’s most suspenseful elements. Joel is terrified enough to leave town, and the rumor spreads through their circle, especially catching the attention of a local writer, Don Wilson. Soon after, the news reveals that Martin was found shot to death and that someone else has been arrested. Whether Vic is guilty or simply using the situation to intimidate Melinda’s boyfriends is left for the viewer to interpret, but the movie makes it clear that whatever Vic and Melinda share, it’s far from healthy.

Melinda’s next lover, Charlie, becomes the focus of Vic’s jealousy. She brings Charlie to a party and plays with Vic’s reactions, clearly enjoying the tension. When a sudden rainstorm forces everyone indoors, Vic and Charlie end up alone in the pool. Melinda later finds Charlie drowned, and though the police question everyone, Melinda immediately accuses Vic. What’s chilling is not whether Vic did it—the movie almost wants the audience to keep guessing—but how calmly he interacts with Melinda afterward. She tells him she isn’t afraid of him; instead, she suggests that he kills because of her. Their conversations reflect a twisted attachment where danger becomes part of their connection.

As suspicion grows, Melinda and Don start openly discussing Vic as a murderer. Don and his wife even hire a private investigator to follow Vic. The marriage spirals even further when Melinda reconnects with an old boyfriend, Tony, and insinuates that she might take Trixie and move to Brazil with him. Vic overhears this conversation, and it becomes clear that whatever control he thought he had over the situation is slipping away.

Vic eventually lures Tony into his car and drives him to a cliffside area that he and Melinda used to visit. There, he provokes Tony by throwing stones, causing him to fall to his death. After sinking Tony’s body in a creek, Vic seems to think the problem is solved—at least until Melinda later takes him and Trixie to the same spot for a picnic. When Tony’s body resurfaces, Vic rushes to cover his tracks while Melinda grows increasingly suspicious. Yet, instead of running from Vic, she invites him into her bed for the first time in a long while, as if danger and affection have become intertwined.

The movie’s suspense peaks when Don witnesses Vic trying to deal with Tony’s resurfaced body. Don flees to alert the authorities, and Vic chases after him on his bike. The chase ends abruptly when Don, distracted by his phone, swerves to avoid Vic and accidentally drives off a cliff. It’s one of the movie’s strangest moments because Vic doesn’t technically cause Don’s death, yet he benefits from it. That blurred line between intention and accident defines much of the film’s tension.

Back at home, Melinda finds Tony’s wallet hidden in one of Vic’s snail tanks, proof of what happened. Instead of calling the police or confronting him directly, she begins packing a suitcase to leave. But in a surprising moment, Trixie throws the suitcase into the pool, begging her mother not to go. It’s a small but powerful reminder of the child caught in the middle of their toxic marriage. When Vic finally returns home, Melinda tells him she “saw Tony”—a statement loaded with both accusation and understanding. But then she does something unexpected: she burns Tony’s wallet and identification. Whether this means she accepts Vic, fears losing him, or has simply grown too emotionally tangled to leave is left intentionally ambiguous.

What makes Deep Water worth recommending is not just its plot, but the mood it creates. The movie is quiet but tense, slow but emotionally charged. It’s more about psychology than action, more about what the characters don’t say than what they do. Watching Vic and Melinda is like watching two people trapped together, neither willing to leave, both testing the limits of how far love—or obsession—can go.

I would recommend Deep Water to anyone who likes thrillers that explore the darker side of relationships and the hidden motivations behind people’s choices. It’s unsettling without being graphic, mysterious without being confusing, and it leaves space for the viewer to interpret the characters’ true intentions. The movie doesn’t give clean answers, and that’s exactly what makes it so thought-provoking.

How Can You Make a Positive Impact on Someone Else’s Life Today?

When people talk about “changing someone’s life,” it’s easy to imagine something huge—saving someone from danger, donating millions of dollars, or inventing something world-changing. But the older I get, the more I’ve realized that most of the positive impact we make happens in incredibly small, almost invisible moments. And today, right now, I can make a difference in someone else’s life in ways that take almost no time, cost nothing, and still matter more than I might ever know.

For me, the simplest way to make a positive impact is by being aware—paying attention to people around me instead of rushing through my day on autopilot. When I actually slow down enough to look, I start noticing things: a friend who laughs a little too quickly, a classmate who has been sitting alone more often, or even a family member whose tone is slightly quieter than usual. These small signals aren't dramatic, but they’re real, and responding to them is the first step toward making someone’s day a little better. Even something as simple as saying, “Hey, are you doing okay today?” can open a door that someone didn’t know they were allowed to walk through.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that impact isn’t about having the perfect words—it’s about showing up. I’ve had days where someone just sitting next to me, or acknowledging that I looked stressed, honestly changed my whole mood. Remembering that helps me treat others the same way. Today, for example, I could check in on a friend I haven’t talked to in a while. Not with a heavy, dramatic message—just a simple “I was thinking about you today—how’ve you been?” That tiny act can remind someone they’re not drifting through the world unnoticed.

Another way I can make a positive impact is by practicing patience—something I’m definitely still learning. It’s so easy to get annoyed at people when they’re slow, distracted, or acting in a way that feels inconvenient. But lately I’ve realized that the times when someone is being “difficult” are usually the exact moments when they need the most understanding. Being patient with a sibling who’s in a bad mood, helping a classmate who doesn’t understand the assignment, or answering someone kindly even when I’m busy—all of these choices have ripples that go way further than I can see.

And then there’s kindness—the kind that isn’t performative, dramatic, or posted online. I’m talking about the quiet, behind-the-scenes kindness that’s easy to underestimate. Holding the door for someone. Complimenting someone’s new haircut or hoodie. Saying “thank you” to the cafeteria staff or the bus driver. These things seem tiny, but they create a sense of warmth that people carry with them. I know I do. The number of times a small compliment or a simple smile changed the direction of my day still surprises me, and it reminds me that I have the same power in reverse.

Something that’s become important to me recently is choosing to listen—really listen—when someone is talking. Most of us listen just long enough to come up with something to say back, or we get distracted by messages, notifications, or our own thoughts. But when I take moments to genuinely let someone talk—without interrupting, without judging, and without planning my next sentence—it shows them that their words matter. That they matter. Sometimes people don’t need advice or solutions; they need space to let their feelings exist without being dismissed. Offering that space is one of the kindest impacts anyone can make.

Another thing I can do today is fix something small that I’ve been avoiding. Maybe it’s apologizing for something I said too sharply or clearing up a misunderstanding I’ve been ignoring. It’s uncomfortable, but taking responsibility, even for something minor, can remove a weight from someone else’s shoulders. Apologies don’t erase mistakes, but they rebuild trust—sometimes even stronger than before.

I also remind myself that making a positive impact doesn’t have to involve talking at all. Today, I can help someone simply by sharing my time. If a friend wants to study together, I can say yes. If someone needs help carrying something heavy, I can offer. If my family needs an extra hand with chores or cooking, I can step in before being asked. Acts of service—even tiny ones—often speak louder than anything I could say.

But maybe the most important way I can positively affect someone today is by choosing to be my best self in the small moments. When I take care of my own mental and emotional state, I show up calmer, kinder, and more patient. When I treat myself with compassion, I don’t walk around accidentally passing stress or negativity onto other people. Self-kindness isn’t selfish—it’s preparation. The better I feel, the better I act. And the better I act, the more naturally I make the world around me lighter.

And even though it might sound strange, I think making a positive impact is also about remembering that everyone—including people who seem confident, funny, popular, or unbothered—has invisible struggles. No matter how someone appears on the outside, they might be dealing with pressure, insecurity, loneliness, or fear. Keeping that in mind helps me treat others with gentleness instead of judgment. Today, if I choose to give someone the benefit of the doubt instead of assuming the worst, that alone can make the world feel safer to them.

At the end of the day, the question isn’t whether I can change someone’s entire life in one moment. It’s whether I can make today—this one day—easier, lighter, or more hopeful for someone else. Even the smallest actions can echo through someone’s week or month in ways I’ll never know. A kind word can interrupt a cycle of negative thoughts. A moment of patience can prevent an argument. A simple message can remind someone they matter. And even though these things take almost no time, they make the world feel less cold.

So how can I make a positive impact on someone’s life today? By paying attention. By choosing kindness. By listening. By apologizing. By helping. By being patient. By being present. And most importantly, by remembering that every interaction carries the possibility of making someone feel a little more valued and a little less alone.

Even if no one else notices, even if it only changes the day—and not the whole world—impact is impact. And today, I can choose to make mine a good one.

The Goddess Returns

 

I still remember the first moment I saw them—the boots everyone now calls Ascension / Retribution. I didn’t design them to be beautiful. I didn’t design them to be worn. I designed them because I needed to understand what power looked like when it stopped apologizing for existing. People talk about muses, about inspiration, about gentle little sparks of creativity. But these boots weren’t a spark. They were a strike—lightning straight to the ribs. A reminder that divinity doesn’t always arrive with grace. Sometimes it arrives with temper.

When I began sketching them, I didn’t picture a sweet, celestial goddess. I didn’t imagine soft clouds or gentle light. I imagined the one they stopped worshipping because she became too powerful. The one temples tried to forget. The one stories tried to erase. The one who doesn’t descend to earth, because the earth rearranges itself around her feet. I realized, slowly but absolutely, that these boots weren’t just footwear—they were the footprint of her return.

The silhouette came first: knee-high, razor-sharp, unmistakably confrontational. They follow the leg like ritual armor, not fabric. No seams. Nothing to indicate they were crafted by human hands. They look forged—born of heat and pressure, like something pulled from the core of the earth. I wanted them to feel inevitable, as if they had always existed and I merely dug them up.

Then came the materials, and that was when the design stopped being a design and started becoming a story. The base is a molten-gold toned metal leather. Not shiny: brushed, intentional, ancient. Gold that looks like it remembers something. I inlaid cracked alabaster-white veins through it—lines like living marble, as if the boots themselves were waking up. Under light, they shift with a subtle iridescence, the kind you notice only if you’re paying attention. Not glitter. Not sparkle. Something closer to a celestial pulse. Inside, there’s blood-red silk, though no one ever sees it unless the wearer moves. It’s a secret. A heartbeat hidden inside armor.

And then, of course, the heel. The part that always makes people pause because they don’t understand how it exists. Sculpted like a falling star frozen at the moment of impact, jagged and asymmetrical. It looks like it shattered the ground when she arrived. Tiny gold fractures glow faintly, the way hot metal does before it cools. To me, it feels like trapped divine energy—dangerous in a beautiful way, the kind of danger that isn’t reckless but righteous. A reminder that the stiletto, in this case, is not seductive. It is architectural violence: a vertical refusal to soften oneself for space.

The divine detailing was the last thing I added, and probably the part that makes the boots feel most like her. Symbols etched into the surface—not a readable language, but a remembered one. Inspired by lost scripts, star maps, and the ruins of temples long ago swallowed by sand. On the knee, the guard curves like a halo split in half, as if to say: once whole, now sharpened. Embedded within the gold are tiny sculptural relics: a sun disc, a crescent shard, a broken crown fragment. Not ornaments—warnings. Each one represents power taken back, not gifted.

I wrote a list of rules for how the boots must be worn, though I’m not sure I ever showed it to anyone. No pants over the boots. Ever. Skin or sheer fabric only, because armor needs contrast. The walk must be slow, deliberate, unbothered. Gods don’t hurry. And most importantly: no smile. Not because she isn’t capable of joy, but because she doesn’t perform for approval.

As the design took shape, I started imagining her story. She was once worshipped for her beauty. Then feared for her power. Then erased from the stories when mortals decided she had become too much—too strong, too independent, too uncontrollable. But divinity doesn’t disappear. It waits. And these boots are modeled after the moment she returns—not as myth, but as proof.

They carry the weight of temples built in her name.

They carry the silence after prayers stopped.

They carry the fury of a goddess who realized she never needed belief to exist.

I wrote a manifesto to go with them—something personal, something sharp enough to match the boots themselves:

I am not divine because you worship me.

You worship because I exist.

I do not descend.

I arrive.

I am not gentle.

I am eternal.

At first, I thought I wrote those lines for the goddess. But the more time passes, the more I realize I wrote them for myself. Or for anyone who has ever shrunk themselves to make others feel comfortable. For anyone who has ever been told they’re “too much.” For anyone who forgot their own power and needs something to shake it awake.

When I finally finished the boots, they didn’t feel like a creation. They felt like a confrontation. Like the universe looking back at me and saying: “Now do you understand?” They frightened some people. Confused others. A few loved them immediately, which almost concerned me, because pieces like this aren’t meant to be loved instantly. They’re meant to be absorbed, wrestled with, questioned. If they frighten you, they’re working. If they confuse you, they’re evolving.

And if you love them immediately…

you’ve misunderstood them.

There will only ever be one pair. Not because of rarity, though people like to think that. Not because they were difficult—though they were. But because not every idea deserves to be repeated. Some things are meant to exist once. Singular. Untamed.

That’s why the boots aren’t named after a goddess.

They’re named after what happens when she comes back.

People ask me what Ascension / Retribution is meant to be—fashion, sculpture, costume, armor? The truth is, it’s none of those things.

This is not fashion.

This is evidence.