J. Clarke articles

Anybody can toss on a “reggae classics” playlist, hear Three Little Birds once, and declare themselves spiritually Jamaican. But really knowing reggae—the songs that built the sound, pushed the culture forward, and got sampled, covered, and quoted into eternity is a whole different thing. This genre isn’t just beach vibes and good moods. It’s love, protest, faith, survival, celebration, sometimes all in the same track.

Some movies end so perfectly that audiences walk out satisfied, emotionally complete, and ready to move on with their lives. Naturally, Hollywood looks at that moment and says, “But what if we did it again… worse?” Sequels can be incredible when there’s a real story left to tell, but when the original already wrapped things up neatly, a follow-up can feel less like a continuation and more like an awkward reunion no one asked for.

Every few years, someone declares that cinema is dead. And every time, movies like these quietly prove them wrong. Arthouse films don’t exist to please algorithms or launch sequels—they exist to explore ideas, emotions, and images that don’t fit neatly into boxes. These are the movies that remind you film isn’t just content. It’s craft, risk, obsession, and sometimes beautiful confusion.

There’s a reason so many adults can still quote cartoon dialogue from memory. The 2000s weren’t just a strong decade for animated TV—they were a creative explosion where writers, artists, and networks stopped playing it safe and started trusting kids (and adults) to handle smarter jokes, bigger emotions, and stranger ideas. These shows didn’t talk down to their audiences. They grew with them, shaped their humor, and quietly became cultural cornerstones.

For years, Elton John was already one of the biggest stars on the planet before the public had any real idea who he was offstage. He wore outrageous costumes, wrote intensely emotional songs, and built a persona that felt flamboyant but carefully controlled. In an era that wasn’t exactly welcoming to queer artists, that distance wasn’t accidental—it was survival.

Some years don’t fade—they hover. And 2016 is one of those years that still shows up uninvited, sliding into your playlists like it pays rent. If the cultural mood is looping back (again), then the soundtrack has to come with it: the pop confessionals, the late-night bangers, the gleeful earworms, the songs that made you text someone you absolutely should not have texted. Here are the 21 tracks that defined the year—and if 2016 is truly returning, they’re not optional.

Johnny Cash never pretended to be neutral. While much of Nashville tried to tiptoe around the Vietnam War, Cash walked straight into it—boots first, guitar slung low, and conscience fully intact. At a time when protest could cost you radio play, sponsors, and even your career, Cash decided that silence felt worse.

Country music has never been short on heartbreak, sin, or scandal—but for decades, it preferred those topics safely filtered through male voices. Then Loretta Lynn showed up and started singing about women’s lives the way women actually lived them. When she released “The Pill,” the genre wasn’t just uncomfortable—it panicked. The backlash was fierce, the bans were real, and the conversation she sparked never stopped echoing.

Movies are supposed to spark conversation, but sometimes they spark outright panic. Around the world, governments have repeatedly decided that banning an entire film is easier than trusting audiences to handle a few seconds of controversy. Sometimes the reasons are understandable. Other times, they feel so fragile they almost prove the movie’s point.