I checked this one out from the library on a whim simply because the premise was intriguing: a group of kids at a summer weight-loss camp become amateur sleuths after witnessing the gruesome murder of a beloved camp counselor. And as they try to determine the killer’s identity, they uncover shocking secrets lurking just beneath Camp Bloom’s seemingly idyllic surface. It plays out a bit like a Scooby-Doo episode, albeit with some queer themes and discussions of body image. In the end, Dead Weight is just OK. Of the four main characters, I only found one really interesting (the tech-obsessed Black nerd who struggles with his family’s health history), and when the killer’s identity and motivations are finally revealed, they’re rather mundane and underwhelming. I bumped up my score a bit because Dead Weight’s heart is clearly in the right place, but I was also left wanting more.
My Cultural Diet
After finishing Sarah Arthur’s Once a Queen and then discovering that she co-founded a festival devoted to C. S. Lewis, my first thought was, “Yep, that tracks.” And no, that’s not a slight. But Arthur’s novel — in which a girl named Eva discovers evidence that her grandmother was a queen in another world, the very same world chronicled in Eva’s favorite book — is clearly inspired by Lewis’s beloved Narnian stories. But it’s inspired in the best ways, and no mere rip-off. Arthur’s prose is often quite beautiful and even moving at times, and she weaves a story filled with delight and imagination as well as sorrow, tragedy, and heartache. (Because, as we all know, the best fairy tales often have darker, sadder undercurrents.) Once a Queen is a bit cluttered — I confess, it was occasionally difficult to keep track of all of the characters’ familial connections — and Eva’s naïveté and stubbornness is as frustrating as it is endearing (as is often the case with fourteen-year-olds). But the novel is also deeply earnest in its insistence, à la Lewis, of the importance and power of myths and fairy tales, and their ability to convey deeper truths. Perhaps the highest compliment I can give Once a Queen is that upon finishing it, I immediately began thinking of all of the youngsters who should read it when it’s released later this month, starting with my own kids. (Thanks to NetGalley for the advance review copy.)
I feel like Monarch wants to have it both ways. On the one hand, it wants to be an intriguing Lost-esque mystery about the origins of a super-secret agency tasked with protecting humanity from giant monsters. And on the other hand, it wants to be a thrilling series where the threat/promise of those same giant monsters attacking humanity constantly looms in the background. As a result, it ends up being neither. But not for lack of trying. As with Foundation, Apple has clearly spared no expanse for Monarch; the effects are easily on par with any Hollywood blockbuster. And the series boasts some strong performances, particularly from Wyatt and Kurt Russell (who play the same character in different time periods) as well as Mari Yamamoto as a brilliant scientist dedicated to better understanding creatures like Godzilla. (It was also neat seeing The Expanse’s Dominique Tipper in a quasi-villainous role.) Given my fondness for Godzilla, though, I confess I don’t fully understand the point of Monarch. Sure, it looks great, but does it really add anything to Legendary Pictures’ MonsterVerse? I’m not sure.
I started watching Fractale way back in the day on Hulu but never finished it. Still, something about it stuck in my memory. So when Crunchyroll offered the entire series on Blu-ray for $5, I figured “Why not?” and bought a copy. Now I wish I would’ve saved my money. Fractale isn’t terrible, but its story — a young boy living amongst virtual avatars gets caught up in a quasi-religious war over a global VR network — never quite delivers on its (bizarre) premise. Which serves only to highlight its other flaws: fan service; uneven tone; inconsistent artwork and animation (different episodes look like they’re animated by different teams, and even in the same episode, characters will look wildly different between scenes); and a gratuitous subplot involving child sexual assault that feels like it’s only there to make the primary antagonist even more villainous. Combine all those things, and it’s hard to shake the impression that writer/director Yutaka Yamamoto’s sense of ambition simply exceeded his ability to craft a compelling story.
After 2007’s The Bourne Ultimatum, Matt Damon refused to make another Bourne movie without director Paul Greengrass, so Tony Gilroy — who wrote the first three Bourne movies — hopped into the director’s chair and enlisted Jeremy Renner and Rachel Weisz, with middling results. That’s no slight on Renner and Weisz, who do the best they can with an inert storyline that verges into the realm of sci-fi with its talk of genetically modified super-soldiers. There are flashes of a more interesting film here and there, and Renner and Weisz share some nice moments. In the end, however, The Bourne Legacy is just a pale imitation of the films that preceded it, from the hectic, rapid-fire editing and elaborate chase sequences to the ever-increasing array of shadowy government projects with boring-yet-ominous codenames.
Inspired by classic Breton folk tales, The Daughters of Ys spins a dark tale about two sisters driven apart by grief over their mother’s death — one heads off into the wilderness while the other becomes embroiled in court politics — and the roles they play in the fate of the doomed city of Ys. I’m a sucker for well-done riffs on classic stories; while The Daughters of Ys is nothing revelatory, it’s still a very enjoyable read for fans of somber fairy tales. M. T. Anderson’s prose has a Gaiman-esque quality (not a bad thing!) while Jo Rioux’s painterly images evoke elements of Celtic artwork.
I played this on a whim and was pleasantly surprised. Some obvious comparisons can be made to the Portal games, but Superliminal’s entire vibe is much more surreal, from the puzzles themselves to the graphics, controls, and especially Matt Christensen’s muzak soundtrack. Which makes sense given the game’s objective is to try and find your way through a dream therapy program that’s run amok. I’m not ashamed to admit that I had to ask my teenager for help a couple of times. (The moon puzzle really threw me.) That said, the game’s conclusion was a bit anticlimactic. There’s a moment where it seemed like Superliminal is going to veer off into darker, Twin Peaks-esque territory, only to pull back. In hindsight, I wish, perhaps, that the game had continued down that path. Regardless, Superliminal is still a nice way to spend a few hours, though don’t be surprised if the game’s illusions and use of forced perspective give you a little vertigo every now and then.
If you haven’t read any of Brandon Sanderson’s other novels set in his extensive (some might say, convoluted) Cosmere mythology, have no fear. Sure, it’s narrated by Hoid and references cognitive shadows, cryptics, lightweaving, and whatnot, but Yumi and the Nightmare Painter’s story about a man and woman from different worlds who suddenly find themselves inhabiting each other’s bodies is largely self-contained. It’s also a bit on the slight side, which makes sense given its origins as a secret project for Sanderson’s 2022 Kickstarter campaign. The novel worked best for me when I remembered that it’s basically Sanderson riffing on a Final Fantasy game; the storyline, characters, magic, technology, etc., all feel very much like something out of a JRPG. If JRPGs aren’t your thing, though, then you might have a harder time with it.
In my review of Foundation’s first season, I wrote that it tried to fit way too much into just ten episodes. That’s still my biggest complaint with the second season. To be sure, Foundation remains eminently watchable — Apple has clearly spared no expense — and I’m frequently in awe of its world building, from the various space ships and fantastical technology (e.g., Hari Seldon’s vault) to the religious movements and shifting political allegiances. But I still felt like I’d somehow missed one vital episode that tied all of various narrative strands together. Which is a shame, because there were some individual stories that I really enjoyed, like the various revelations about Demerzel as well as the push and pull between Bel Riose and his husband Glawen Curr. (Glawen, by the way, is one of my favorite characters from 2023.) But even with my aforementioned criticism, I’ll still tune in for season three; getting to watch space opera this ambitious on the small screen is a real treat.
At the risk of sounding like a lazy critic, is Asteroid City the most Wes Anderson-y thing that Wes Anderson has ever done? With its story within a story within a story structure, heavily affected performances, carefully controlled camerawork, and production design that pushes Anderson’s trademark style to the nth degree, I think all signs point to “Yes.” As with most Anderson movies, there’s a bit more going on beneath the surface; for starters, Asteroid City tries to raise questions about the extent to which fictional narratives can capture the elusive nature of truth. But it does so in such a stilted and affected manner that I question its efficacy. That said, I love the film’s production design and cinematography, which makes you feel like you’ve been dropped down inside a sun-bleached vintage postcard from the 1950s. And I’d probably watch an entire film about Montana and his cowboy band.
Given that Daniel James Brown’s The Boys in the Boat is one of my wife’s favorite books, it was inevitable that we’d see the movie adaptation in theaters. Directed by George Clooney, it’s a handsome and serviceable sports movie that hits many of the requisite tropes with its story about a team of underdogs who must rise above their differences and win the big championship — in this case, the 1936 Summer Olympics — for the sake of their country… and themselves. And insofar as that goes, The Boys in the Boat is decent enough. But it’s a surprisingly thin film, character-wise. A good sports movie gives all of the teammates moments to shine. The Boys in the Boat, however, focuses on just one of the titular boys (Joe Rantz, played by Callum Turner) to his teammates’ detriment. We learn little-to-nothing about any of them nor do we get any deep sense of their camaraderie, so there’s really no emotional investment in their struggles — or payoff for their triumphs.
Elf is one of those movies that feels impossible to review because of its position in our shared cultural consciousness concerning the Christmas season. We all know the story of Buddy the Elf, and his epic journey through the candy cane forest, the sea of swirly twirly gum drops, and the Lincoln Tunnel. Few actors have ever been so perfectly cast as Will Ferrell, though some of his antics are a bit less endearing now, twenty(!) years after the fact. But the movie’s true star is the North Pole’s immaculate production design, which perfectly captures the look and feel of those classic Rankin/Bass specials of my childhood. Here’s a fun bit of trivia: Terry Zwigoff (Ghost World) was originally offered the directing gig, but opted for Bad Santa instead. One can only imagine the alternate reality of a Zwigoff-directed Elf.
I didn’t realize until I had finished reading The Sky Vault that it’s actually part of a series. But Benjamin Percy’s novel is remarkably self-contained. Thus, I never felt like I was missing any important details or context while reading its story about a random assortment of people in Fairbanks, Alaska who get caught up in a secret government program stretching back to World War II, one involving bizarre weather phenomena and an otherworldly threat. Conversely, I don’t feel all that compelled to check out the preceding novels in Percy’s series or to eagerly await future installments. The Sky Vault contains interesting threads, including a conspiracy theorist whose theories finally become true, a former government agent-turned-mercenary in search of one final score, and an aging lawman caught up in events far beyond his ken. But the resulting novel is over-stuffed, and as a result, its core revelations about the aforementioned otherworldly threat are a bit undercooked. For what it’s worth, I was occasionally reminded of Peter Clines’ The Fold and Caitlín R. Kiernan’s Agents of Dreamland.
I feel a little weird trying to review Hayao Miyazaki’s latest because I think it’ll take another viewing or three to unpack it all. But I’ll say this: those expecting the whimsical fantasies of Ponyo or My Neighbor Totoro will be in for a shock. At first blush, The Boy and the Heron feels like Miyazaki’s most solemn film since 1997’s Princess Mononoke, one that’s almost nightmarish at times. Even though there are fantastical elements, like an army of giant parakeets and a hall of doorways that lead to other worlds, there’s something angry and unsettling beneath it all, starting with the protagonist: a sullen 12-year-old boy who grieves his mother’s death, resents his father’s new wife (who happens to his aunt), and is prone to self-inflicted injury. (And as for that army of parakeets, they eat people.) The story draws heavily from Miyazaki’s own childhood, so none of it feels random or haphazard, and the film’s climax is a very clear message from the director. Of course, being a Studio Ghibli film, The Boy and the Heron’s artwork and animation are absolutely gorgeous and immaculately detailed, outclassing everyone else with ease.
When I was in grade school, I was enamored with wilderness adventure stories, particularly ones set in the far north. While I read plenty of Jack London (e.g., The Call of the Wild), my favorites were Jack O’Brien’s Silver Chief stories, which chronicled the adventures of a Canadian Mountie and the titular wolf-dog (with some definite similarities to London’s stories). Reading Silver Chief to the Rescue now, I see why I loved it as a boy; O’Brien’s novel is filled with highly romanticized descriptions of life in the snowy Canadian wilderness that nevertheless ring with authenticity. (O’Brien was a surveyor on Admiral Byrd’s 1928 Antarctic expedition.) What I didn’t see as a kid, however, is the novel’s unvarnished racism. Native and Indigenous characters are often depicted in unflattering ways: as shifty, cruel, uncultured, and above all else, in desperate need of the White Man’s law. (And lest there be any doubt about that, the Mountie says as much in an extended speech.) At best, they’re useful and eager to serve the book’s protagonist. Even if you try and explain the book’s racism as a product of its time, it’s still pretty obvious and ridiculous.
I remember the kerfuffle that surrounded Fight Club when it was released back in 1999, with detractors calling it perverse and fascist. It was a box office powder keg, with many criticizing its darkness even as they missed the point of the darkness. An obvious issue with watching a film that was so controversial so long ago is the extent to which the ensuing years have dulled its edges or weakened its bite. Given that it’s almost 25 years old, some aspects of Fight Club do feel dated, like its MTV-esque flashiness. But its critiques of consumerism, capitalism, and advertising are perhaps even more relevant in today’s FOMO-driven and influencer-saturated world. The same could also be said concerning its depiction of Tyler Durden’s philosophy, which starts off with some valid points about modern masculinity but inevitably descends into dehumanization and nihilism. (Indeed, the film almost feels nigh-prophetic in light of the recent rise of incel culture and hucksters and cult leaders like Andrew Tate who can often seem very Tyler Durden-esque, albeit with none of Brad Pitt’s charisma or humor.) There’s the unavoidable irony of a big-budget Hollywood movie with major stars critiquing consumerism, but Fight Club has plenty on its mind that’s still worth considering, even now in 2023.
Back in the early ’90s, my friend Eric ran a bulletin board system (BBS) where I spent hours discussing music, anime, and video games with folks that I never met in real life. (It was an obvious precursor to the internet and I thought it’d be the coolest to run a BBS of my own. I never did, but I still wrote up documentation for one.) There was the thrill of connection, but also the thrill of danger and rebellion, particularly when you found documents with titles like “101 Ways to Wreak Havoc In Your School” that included instructions for all sorts of nefarious (and illegal) activities. Incredible Doom captures that sense of excitement as it follows several kids in a small podunk town who connect through a BBS, and become involved in the local DIY punk scene. But Incredible Doom isn’t just a nerdy celebration of technology; it’s also a bittersweet story of family trauma, first love, and the inevitable heartache that comes with realizing just how difficult it’ll be to hold on to your youthful idealism. I wish some of the series’ storylines had been explored a bit more fully, but if you ever spent any time on a BBS, making zines, and/or listening to punk/alternative music in the early ’90s, then I think you’ll feel like Incredible Doom was written just for you.
I must’ve seen Batman Begins at least three times when it was in the theater. As a comic book nerd, I was so thrilled to see a comic book movie that took Batman seriously, especially after the Joel Schumacher trainwrecks in the late ’90s. Drawing inspiration from Frank Miller’s Batman: Year One, Batman Begins chronicles Bruce Wayne’s initial efforts as the Caped Crusader after traveling the world to understand the criminal mind; as such, it’s suitably dark and stylish. Watching it now, nearly twenty years after its release, some parts definitely hold up better than others, though. Not surprisingly, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, and Morgan Freeman are excellent in their roles, and I loved the believable manner in which Bruce acquires his fantastical Batgear. Unfortunately, Nolan edits the life out of his action scenes and at times, the film’s darker tone takes on a self-important air. Also, for all of the film’s realistic approaches to Batman’s skills, training, equipment, etc., we never do see how Bruce and Alfred deal with the massive amounts of toxic guano that would certainly fill the Batcave.
Reservation Dogs is usually billed as a comedy, but that doesn’t feel quite right. True, it’s frequently hilarious, albeit in a slightly skewed and often surreal way. But it’s also deeply sad as the ten episodes explore the effects of death on a closeknit community. Death of friends and loved ones, most obviously, but also the death of one’s dreams, of friendships, of innocence. Season two starts off a bit awkwardly as it tries to pick up where season one left off, but it’s also filled with delightful (and delightfully poignant) moments: Bear slowly maturing and getting a job; the reservation coming together to mourn and honor Elora’s dying grandmother; a group of middle-aged Indigenous women trying to hook up at a conference; or a couple of influencers imparting some “wisdom” to Bear, Elora, and the rest of the reservation’s youth. (I probably could’ve done without the catfish sex, though.)
Here’s the best way I can describe Takashi Yamazaki’s Godzilla Minus One, the 37th installation in the long-running movie monster franchise: it takes almost everything that’s beloved and celebrated about the Big G’s various incarnations, distills them down to their purest essence, and delivers a movie that’s filled with as much heart and conviction as it is kaijū spectacle. There’s none of the campiness that’s often associated with Godzilla movies, nor is there any cynicism or satire like 2016’s Shin Godzilla. Instead, it’s a deeply human and heartfelt story about guilt, sacrifice, and redemption that just so happens to also feature a giant lizard with atomic breath rampaging through post-WW2 Tokyo. Almost 70 years have passed since Godzilla roared onto the silver screen, and Godzilla Minus One is proof that he’s lost none of his potency as a cultural icon.