My Cultural Diet

Originally released at part of DC’s “New 52″ relaunch of all of their comic titles, this saga finds the Caped Crusader matching fists and wits with the Court of Owls, a secretive organization made up of Gotham’s wealthiest families that has supposedly ruled the city from within the shadows for over a century. But Batman’s battle against a foe that seems more like a superstition than reality could reveal tragic secrets about his own family and past. Although it gets a bit convoluted as it tries to pack in one surprising revelation after another about Bruce Wayne and the rest of the Bat-Family, Scott Snyder’s tale is consistently engrossing. Meanwhile, Greg Capullo’s art is gorgeous and one of my favorite renditions of the Dark Knight.

There was a period of time in the early ’00s when Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s Amélie was in my top 10 favorite films of all time. Watching it again for the first time in 15 – 20 years, I can still understand why that was the case. Amélie is almost impossibly whimsical, thanks to a star-making performance by Audrey Tautou as the titular character, a consummate dreamer who starts meddling in other people’s lives, with mixed results. But her various machinations may end up ruining her own chance at love. (As for whether or not I had a crush on Ms. Tautou back then, what do you think?) And then there’s the film’s dreamy look, which presents Paris as a sort of postcard come to life where delightful wonders and mysteries lurk around every corner. Here in 2025, Amélie does get a bit cloying at times, but its charms remain largely intact, and I appreciate the film’s insistence on enjoying life’s seemingly trivial and mundane pleasures. What’s more, I actually got a wee bit emotional remembering just how deeply it affected me when I first saw it, and was going through a bit of a romantic crisis of my own.

Our popular conception of a spy is that of a dashing and debonair individual who gallivants around the globe, stopping nefarious villains with clever gadgets and equally clever wit. But that image is hopelessly romanticized, explains Elyse Graham in Book and Dagger, which chronicles the WW2-era rise of modern espionage. Rather than recruit what we’d consider “spy” material, the Allies turned instead to scholars, librarians, historians, and economists — none of whom were soldiers but all of whom had the necessary skills and academic training to outthink Hitler and the Third Reich. Along with other unlikely folks (e.g., Hollywood studio execs and production crews) as well as refugees fleeing the Nazi regime, the Allies’ academics created a highly effective intelligence operation that proved essential to winning the war. Graham’s enthusiasm for her subject matter is readily apparent, and her heavily researched book is filled with fascinating details, and even proves legitimately gripping at times. (Her chapter on the D-Day invasion, and all of the behind-the-scenes planning and subterfuge that made it successful, is an absolute page-turner.) The book’s focus does wander at times; Graham casts a wide net and occasionally heads down what feels like elaborate rabbit trails. Even so, Book and Dagger is a fascinating look at a side of history most of us probably know nothing about, and given the current administration’s ongoing assault on academics and the humanities, it serves as a warning, as well.

Amazon’s Shiny Happy People docuseries turns its focus to Teen Mania, a ministry launched by Ron Luce in 1986 that became one of the nation’s largest Christian youth organizations in the ’90s and ’00s. Famous for their overseas missions trips and elaborate “Acquire the Fire” rallies, Teen Mania also launched an elite internship program where teens underwent intense training (some might say indoctrination). But through interviews with several Teen Mania alumni, the series explores how the organization grew increasingly militant and politically minded, with Luce ramping up his culture war rhetoric even as he came under fire for exploiting and abusing teens. Shiny Happy People’s second season isn’t quite as solid as its first season, which focused on the Duggar family. (For example, the final episode’s efforts to connect Teen Mania to modern right-wing politics feels a bit tacked on and tenuous.) Even so, it’s a fascinating (if disquieting) look at the evangelical Christian subculture and how a sincere desire to serve the Lord can be coopted. Needless to say, my wife and I talked at length after each episode, comparing and contrasting Teen Mania with our own evangelical youth group experiences. Although neither of us experienced Teen Mania or the sort of trauma described by the interviewed alumni, the footage of Teen Mania’s missions trips was eerily familiar, as I went on several summer missions trips to Mexico as a high schooler.

During the war, Simon was forced to use his artistic skills to paint swastikas on train cars. But now, in post-WW2 Berlin, he’s using his skills to track down the Nazis who murdered his wife and countless other Jews. But as the war recedes into history, many just want to move on and put the past behind them. Which is something that Simon just can’t do, especially when he hears disturbing rumors of a movement to revive the Third Reich. Simon Says has everything necessary for a great story: a driven, even obsessed protagonist, some truly evil villains, a nefarious conspiracy, and a unique spin on a familiar historical setting. Unfortunately, it never quite comes together with the intensity or impact that Frattino and Lee are clearly aiming for. Also, the big reveal at the end is more frustrating than anything, and given that its creators have moved on to other work, leaves Simon Says ending on a very unresolved note.

A hundred years after nuclear war ravaged the planet, Alaska has become a desert wasteland ruled by a fascist military group called the Ownership. When they betray one of their own, he swears vengeance — but his only hope lies in acquiring the titular gun, an overpowered weapon that looks an awful lot like the ridiculous guns I drew in my notebooks back in 6th grade. Put simply, Equalizer 2000 is a blatant Mad Max rip-off by Filipino director Cirio H. Santiago, who often worked with B-movie king Roger Corman and produced several post-apocalyptic flicks. I mainly watched this because I was curious to see Richard Norton in a lead role; up until now, I mainly knew Norton from his work as villains (e.g., Mr. Nice Guy opposite Jackie Chan). Norton, who sadly died this past March, certainly gives being a glowering, stoic anti-hero the ol’ college try, and he’s got the look down pat, complete with feathered hair and perpetually open leather vest. And to his credit, director Santiago apparently never met a pyrotechnic or squib he didn’t like. But Equalizer 2000 never escapes the limitations of its budget, nor is it bizarre or crazy enough to be all that memorable. Nerdy side note: The film also stars a pre-Terminator 2 Robert Patrick in one of his earliest roles.

After two solid seasons of engrossing twists, turns, and drama, Squid Game ends on a somewhat underwhelming note that leaves you wondering what might’ve been had series creator Hwang Dong-hyuk not written himself into a corner. Season three tries to balance several compelling storylines: the game itself, a rogue detective trying to shut down the game, and a North Korean defector who works for the game but has her own agenda. However, the end result is something of a mess, with the various storylines stretched to their breaking point (especially the detective’s island-hopping search) and ultimately undercutting each other. That said, Squid Game’s final season does contain its fair share of compelling and gasp-inducing moments, and I appreciate that Hwang still refused to play it safe with his characters right up to the bitter (if somewhat predictable) end.

Akira Kurosawa spent ten years storyboarding every shot in this, his final historical epic, as a series of paintings — and it shows. Ran is packed, start to finish, with indelible and perfectly framed images. The scene where Tatsuya Nakadai’s old warlord, his face contorted by grief and madness, descends the stairs of a burning castle is one of cinema’s most iconic images, and the very epitome of “nobody makes ‘em like this anymore.” (Even more impressive, that scene was done with an actual castle built specifically for the movie, and shot in a single take because they didn’t have a backup castle.) The same is true of the preceding battle sequence, during which the only sound is Toru Takemitsu’s mournful score, or the shot of cloud shadows drifting over an open field lined with colorfully armored soldiers, presaging the carnage that is to come. As for Ran’s story of family betrayal, squabbling sons, and conniving wives, which was partly inspired by Japanese history and partly inspired by Shakespeare’s King Lear, Kurosawa lays on thick his observations of human greed, selfishness, and cruelty. I’d never call Ran a cynical film — it’s too grandiose for that — but it certainly lacks Seven Samurai’s warm-yet-bittersweet humanism, and ends with a desolate shot that fully drives home its despairing themes.

I hate to say it, but I may be over Wes Anderson. Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums, Fantastic Mr. Fox, and even Moonrise Kingdom will always occupy a dear place in my heart. But his more recent movies have become so contrived as to become tedious and disaffecting. Of course, part of Anderson’s appeal has always been his highly stylized and intricately detailed aesthetic, in which all of the artifice underscores and sells the pathos of his stories. But on The Phoenician Scheme, all that exists is the artifice. Yes, Anderson returns to one of his favorite storylines, that of a highly selfish individual (played this time around by Benicio Del Toro) who gradually realizes the error of his ways and awakens to human connections and relationships, and sure, I chuckled on three or four occasions. Ultimately, though, The Phoenician Scheme left me feeling hollow, empty, and bored.

It was well after midnight when Ninja Vengeance popped up in my Tubi recommendations and convinced me to stay up way past my bedtime with its premise of a ninja battling the KKK. And technically speaking, that is what happens in the film when an itinerant ninjutsu student — who rides into the small town of Empire, Texas on (what else?) a Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle — witnesses the Klan kill a young Black man and is subsequently framed for the crime. But as he flees into the Texas backwoods, pretty girl in tow and the Klan in hot pursuit, it quickly becomes obvious that Ninja Vengeance might be the most boring permutation of “ninja vs. the KKK” one could possibly commit to celluloid. Although its premise suggests a gritty exploitation flick, Ninja Vengeance has the look, feel, and acting quality of a made-for-public-access-TV-movie, to say nothing of its fight scenes. To be fair, I’m sure writer/director Karl Armstrong sought to expose the evils of racism, and I’m all for watching Klan members get the smackdown. Furthermore, the film features Stephen K. Hayes, a renowned martial arts instructor who brought ninjutsu to America in the ’80s and drops little nuggets of ninja wisdom throughout the film (e.g., “Your reward is spiritual growth, the opportunity to be a conscious part of the scheme of totality”). Ninja Vengeance thus possesses a certain earnestness that makes it impossible to hate and piques the curiosity as to how it was even made in the first place. That said, it’s arguably the worst ninja movie I’ve ever seen, and that includes Godfrey Ho’s filmography.

For a movie called Ninja Thunderbolt, there’s a shocking dearth of ninja action here. Sure, there’s the opening sequence involving members of the evil Ninja Empire — Godfrey Ho was really taken with the idea of ninja empires (not that I blame him) — swearing their villainous vows, and there’s some ninja thievery, but most of the film follows the exploits of a headstrong detective and a kung fu insurance agent trying to stop an evil tycoon from committing insurance fraud, or something like that. Given that a third of the movie takes place in dark rooms or at night with the actors barely recognizable smudges, though, there’s probably a lot that I missed. I had high hopes for Ninja Thunderbolt given that it stars martial arts cinema icon Yasuaki Kurata, but that’s only because Ho apparently purchased the rights to Gam Ming’s To Catch a Thief, and as was his wont, sprinkled in a few shots of Richard Harrison to create an “original” ninja film. Ninja Thunderbolt’s not without charm; I couldn’t stop smiling as a gang of roller-skating ninjas chased the detective in his itsy-bitsy Mitsuoka BUBU 501 micro car, and the soundtrack features music from Barry White, Chris & Cosey, Logic System, Bill Wyman, and Lalo Schifrin’s Dirty Harry score (all legally licensed, I’m sure). As far as Godfrey Ho films go, though, this one ranks pretty low on the scale, which is saying something.

Lloyd Alexander sure did love writing coming-of-age stories inspired by the world’s myths and folklore. He is, of course, best known for the Welsh-inspired Chronicles of Prydain. But decades after completing the Prydain books, Alexander also wrote The Iron Ring, which drew from Indian culture and mythology, and the Chinese-influenced Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen. When the young prince of Ch’ang-an volunteers to travel to the legendary kingdom of T’ien-kuo, he envisions a trip that will help him become a strong ruler. Naturally, his trip goes horribly awry, with all manner of unexpected delays and harrowing conflicts that force him to re-evaluate who he is as both a noble and a man. Much of my enjoyment with Prince Jen stems from the fact that I probably would’ve loved this book had I read it back in 4th or 5th grade. Alexander’s writing is often clever, striking a balance between youthful adventure and mature pathos, and weaving in moral instruction without seeming preachy. That said, the novel’s abrupt ending is disappointing. It feels like Alexander didn’t quite know what to do with all of his story’s elements, so he wrapped everything up as quickly as possible with the aid of some convenient coincidences.

When it opened back in 1981, Jasper Mall was so busy, you could scarcely set foot inside to visit its many stores, which included both a Kmart and a JCPenney. Four decades later, Kmart and JCPenney are long gone and Jasper Mall barely seems to be holding on. Even so, it still has its regulars and holdouts, all of whom serve as subjects for filmmakers Bradford Thomason and Brett Whitcomb. Jasper Mall doesn’t have a storyline per se, but rather, just meanders the emptying halls and food court to capture little vignettes of the mall’s life. Most of those center on Jasper Mall’s faithful manager, a former zookeeper named Mike McClelland who works hard to keep the mall clean and drum up new business. There’s an undeniable sense of nostalgia at work here — I was often reminded of Omaha’s own Westroads and Crossroads malls, the latter of which resembled Jasper Mall’s fading glory before it was demolished in 2020 — as well as a certain vaporwave-y vibe. To Thomason and Whitcomb’s credit, though, Jasper Mall isn’t some hipster-ish dig into retro aesthetics, nor does it feature any talking head critiques of capitalism and consumerism. And though there are moments the filmmakers could’ve milked for melodrama, they thankfully resist that urge. Instead, Jasper Mall is just suffused with a gentle humanism that makes it all the more inviting and affecting.

We’re not designed to be online all the time and experience a never-ending stream of news, information, updates, and memes. Patricia Lockwood’s wry and pithy No One Is Talking About This is a deep dive into all the ways being constantly online flattens and trivializes everything, until it’s nigh-impossible to differentiate between the important and the inane. Which is certainly a worthy and relevant topic. However, Lockwood’s stream-of-consciousness style and endless non sequiturs — which are clearly intended to mimic the random, bite-sized nature of social media posts — get her point across pretty quickly and soon start to belabor it. Lockwood’s writing can be funny, affecting, and heartbreaking — I even found it convicting at times — but you have to wade through a lot for those moments, and oftentimes, her novel will just leave you thinking “OK, OK, I get it.” On a side note, after about fifty pages, No One Is Talking About This started to feel really familiar. Sure enough, my library account confirmed that I’d previously checked it out back in June 2021. I’d completely forgotten that and whether or not I’d already read it — and I rarely forget such details. So take that for whatever it’s worth.

In preparation for James Gunn’s Superman, I checked out some random Superman comics from the public library, including this one. I’ve always thought Brainiac — a super-intelligent cyborg intent on collecting all of the universe’s knowledge for himself — was one of Superman’s cooler villains. Superman: Brainiac has its moments, and I enjoyed Gary Frank’s art (though he’s a bit preoccupied with cleavage and bare midriffs), but the plot — which actually rewrites a foundational moment in Superman’s life — is nothing all that exciting as a standalone story.

There’s a certain excess to all of James Gunn’s films that wears thin after awhile (which, for the record, is why I never finished 2021’s The Suicide Squad). Also, I really disliked a pretty key change to Superman’s origins. Not to spoil anything, but I’ve always liked that an act of true selflessness sent young Kal-El on his way from doomed Krypton, and that’s no longer the case here. That said, I appreciate that Gunn’s Superman is much closer in tone and style to DC’s animated fare, which I enjoy far more than their live-action movies — and makes this movie’s sillier aspects, like Lex Luthor’s pocket universe army of social media outrage monkeys, a bit more palatable. David Corenswet is great as Superman, perfectly capturing the hero’s earnestness and bigheartedness. (There’s a reason why he’s called the Big Blue Boy Scout, folks.) Nathan Fillion and Edi Gathegi are also great as Guy Gardner and Mister Terrific, respectively. In the end, however, I agree with Steven D. Greydanus’ take: Gunn’s Superman absolutely has its heart in the right place, which is not nothing, but I’m still left wanting something smarter and more substantial for the Man of Tomorrow.

Alan Moore (Watchmen, V for Vendetta) turned his considerable talents to the Man of Steel, envisioning a possible ending for the Kryptonian’s career and life. As is Moore’s wont, there’s some deconstruction going on here, but it’s clear that he has a real fondness for Superman and all that he stands for. This “deluxe” edition also contains a short crossover with Swamp Thing that envisions another mortal threat to Superman, this time in the form of an unlikely survivor from his home planet. However, the real draw is “For the Man Who Has Everything,” one of the all-time great Superman stories that was originally published in 1985 around the same time that Moore and artist Dave Gibbons were beginning work on Watchmen. I originally encountered the story via the excellent Justice League Unlimited animated series, which itself is a pretty faithful adaptation. The story begins with Batman, Robin, and Wonder Woman traveling to the Fortress of Solitude for Superman’s birthday, only to find him under the spell of an alien organism that allows Superman to live out his greatest fantasies — which soon prove to be quite heartbreaking.

In a slightly retrofuturistic version of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne has decided to tear down one of the city’s most recognizable landmarks: a massive tower originally commissioned by his father. Although he hopes to reinvigorate the city, he also risks exposing corruption and secrets — and endangering a possible new love interest. Although the Joker makes an appearance, Batman: Death by Design is a nice change of pace from your typical Batman comic, with a greater emphasis on more mundane things like architecture, city planning, and union disputes. Dave Taylor’s artwork is the real draw here (npi). Done almost entirely in pencil, his work’s incredibly rich and detailed and adds to the book’s retro feel, and his cityscapes are simply breathtaking. (Indeed, it could be argued that Gotham City itself is the book’s true main character.) That said, his artwork can feel very static, which makes sense for a book that’s largely about architecture, but also means the action scenes lack a certain dynamism. Also, some of the frames are so small as to be almost unintelligible. Overall, Batman: Death by Design is proof that there’s room in Gotham City for all kinds of interesting stories, even niche ones like this.

Alex spends his nights flipping burgers at The All-Nighter diner, but he yearns to do something more with his life. So when he has the opportunity to become a superhero, he jumps at it — and not surprisingly, his life suddenly gets a whole lot more difficult. Which, considering the fact that he’s a vampire, is really saying something. Chip Zdarsky juggles a lot of story ideas in what initially seems like a straightforward superhero title, from the hero’s true nature to some meta ideas about the role of stories and the power of fiction. But if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel as smart or clever as it thinks it is. The first All-Nighter volume isn’t bad, but I don’t really have a desire to read the rest of the series.

In this nigh-wordless graphic novel, a young mage travels through a bizarre land filled with ancient monuments and strange creatures, a journey that proves surprisingly perilous. The occasional ally offers them comfort and companionship, but even so, their journey will exact a terrible toll. SJ Miller’s story begins on an almost whimsical note, but grows ever more dark and mysterious with each new page. Likewise, Miller’s artwork seems almost simplistic at first, only to throw out a shockingly gruesome or ominous detail that highlights the bizarre-ness of the mage’s world and the deadly stakes of their quest. I liked Mage and the Endless Unknown well enough when I finished reading it, but it’s stuck with me and only grown more intriguing.