My Cultural Diet

Over the years, the Ghost in the Shell anime franchise has become well-known for its serious, moody, and philosophical approach to cyberpunk, complete with political conspiracies and existential dilemmas. Thus, Science Saru’s new series will almost certainly throw many viewers for a loop. Hewing more closely to Masamune Shirow’s original manga, The Ghost in the Shell is raucous, riotous, and even a little unhinged. If you didn’t know better, you might even think it’s a parody. The basic storyline remains similar to the franchise’s other titles, though: the heavily cyberized Motoko Kusanagi leads Public Security Section 9, an elite and covert law enforcement agency tasked with protecting Japan from terrorists and cybercrime. But Section 9’s unorthodox tactics often get them in trouble with their superiors, as does Kusanagi’s rebellious streak, which could prove their undoing when a powerful new hacker makes their presence known. There’s no denying The Ghost in the Shell possesses a vibe unlike any other Ghost in the Shell title thanks to Science Saru’s vivid and often exaggerated animation. But it’s hamstrung by an overly stuffed storyline and uneven tone. Granted, Ghost in the Shell titles have always been a bit convoluted, but The Ghost in the Shell feels doubly so due to the producers’ decision to cram as many storylines as possible into just ten episodes, all while hopping back and forth between serious drama, philosophical mumbo-jumbo, and zany antics with wild abandon.

Plenty of classic lines emerged from ’80s action movies. “Go ahead, make my day.” “I’ll be back.” “You’re a disease, and I’m the cure.” I’m not sure that “And you go in pieces, asshole” belongs on that list, but it’s not for lack of trying. Jack Caine (Dolph Lundgren) is a Houston detective trying to shut down a gang of yuppie drug dealers called the White Boys. After his partner is killed in a drug bust gone bad, Caine is subsequently paired with a stick-in-the-mud FBI agent who mocks Caine’s unorthodox — and unconstitutional — approach to law enforcement. But when an alien arrives in the city and begins a killing spree, Caine’s unorthodox approach may be all that can save them. Dark Angel, also known as I Come In Peace, came out two months before Predator 2, but there are some definite similarities, along with some buddy cop dynamics that really want to be like Lethal Weapon. Dark Angel is fun in places like any slice of ’90s action cheese; at times, it feels more like an excuse for the pyrotechnics team to go wild than anything else. (Which isn’t too surprising given that director Baxley got his start as a stuntman.) However, the alien stuff feels like it belongs in a totally different movie. I found myself wishing that Dark Angel had just amped up the ridiculous White Boys storyline, if only so I could watch Lundgren roundhouse kick an army of smug yuppie bastards in the face.

After serving ten years in prison, Soo-hyeok is determined to turn over a new leaf and lead a normal life, and even more so after he discovers that he has a daughter. But — and I know this will come as a shock — his former gang isn’t quite so ready to let him go. And if he’s not going to work for them, well, I think you can finish that sentence. Like many genre films, you can basically see where A Man of Reason is going within the first five minutes. Director Jung Woo-sung, who also co-wrote the film and stars as Soo-hyeok, does try to inject a little something extra with the inclusion of a pair of unhinged assassins hired to take out Soo-hyeok, but their antics are more annoying than dangerous. Even so, there’s still a thrill in watching Soo-hyeok take down one goon after another, whether he’s using his fists, a nailgun, or even his car. The film’s slick, glossy look, which I’ve come to expect from Korean thrillers (see also 2020’s Night in Paradise), also makes Soo-hyeok’s quest eminently watchable, even if the story doesn’t feel all that original.

The shadow of 9/11 looms large over Terry Hayes’ debut novel, in which a covert agent — the greatest agent of all time, even, we’re told — is pulled back into service to hunt down a terrorist no one has ever seen. At the same time, he gets pulled into the investigation of a brutally perfect murder in post-9/11 New York, a murder that was committed using the very same techniques he once wrote about. Hayes’ background as a journalist is readily apparent; I Am Pilgrim is filled with detail as our agent, the titular “Pilgrim,” jaunts from New York to Turkey to Saudi Arabia in his pursuit. But Hayes can’t resist piling on the twists and turns, including another murder mystery as well as the various ghosts and demons from Pilgrim’s past and upbringing. As such, the novel becomes unwieldy and even ridiculous at times, and there were moments — such as when Pilgrim describes the sexual prowess of one of his alter egos, or when Hayes belabors the moral ambiguity inherent to espionage — when I was sorely tempted to stop reading altogether. In those moments, the novel felt more akin to juvenile wish fulfillment than a mature and bracing spy thriller. Still, in the end, I was pretty consistently entertained even as it felt like I Am Pilgrim had a fair amount of fat that could’ve been trimmed.

A Samurai in Time begins as any good samurai movie should, with a duel, as Kosaka Shinzaemon (Makiya Yamaguchi) prepares to cross katanas with a warrior from a rival clan. Fate, however, has something else in mind: a stray lightning bolt somehow sends Shinzaemon hundreds of years into the future, where he awakens on the set of a samurai TV series. Of course, he doesn’t realize it’s a set, and everyone else just assumes he’s an extra who wandered into the wrong production. Much of the ensuing humor stems from Shinzaemon trying to make sense of his strange new surroundings. But he eventually finds a new calling as an extra in jidaigeki titles, and specifically as a kirareyaku (i.e., an actor who specialize in dying on-screen). He even starts developing feelings for assistant director Yuko Yamamoto (Yuno Sakura), and becomes determined to help her film career succeed. But Shinzaemon can’t escape his past, and as the movie enters its final act, it becomes increasingly clear that the past isn’t through with him, either. A Samurai in Time is an obvious love-letter to the jidaigeki genre and as such, a clearly personal project for writer/director Jun’ichi Yasuda, who funded the film’s production with his own money. Thus, I do feel kind of bad for not liking it more than I did. A Samurai in Time is certainly charming and pleasant, and it’s easy to see why it became so successful thanks to word-of-mouth. (It would ultimately take the top prize at the 2025 Japan Academy Film Prize awards.) But it’s so pleasant that it occasionally becomes innocuous, even anodyne. While it’s occasionally a nice change of pace, the film’s exploration of the absurdity — and tragedy — of Shinzaemon’s plight lacks something vital to really bring it all home.

Chow Yun-fat stars in this Hong Kong action flick as Jeff, a low-level tough who agrees to participate in a heist to earn some extra money. Of course, wouldn’t you know it, he’s ultimately double-crossed and left for dead. But while Jeff recuperates and plots his revenge, his betrayer returns to Bangkok with the goods and even makes some moves on his wife (played by Ann Bridgewater), who has no clue that her husband is still alive. There’s no doubt that Ringo Lam’s film drips with style, especially when he drenches the screen in lurid neon lighting that gives everything a sharp, visceral edge. Unfortunately, Full Contact’s story isn’t quite as visceral or gripping as Lam’s visuals would seem to indicate. Melodrama is a key component of Hong Kong cinema, and even more so in the country’s action films, and Full Contact is awash with it. While Chow Yun-fat brooding and plotting revenge will never not be entertaining, the film often verges on self-parody thanks to its ridiculous antagonists, be it Simon Yam’s flamboyantly homosexual gangster or Bonnie Fu’s ultra-libidinous vixen. Whenever they’re vamping it up on the screen, it’s really hard to take the rest of Full Contact seriously.

Jack Deth (yes, that’s our hero’s name) is a grizzled and cynical 23rd-century cop who’s tired of hunting down the titular monsters, humans who’ve been turned into zombie-like creatures by the evil Martin Whistler and his psychic powers. But when Whistler travels back in time to 1985, Deth is pressed back into service to make the jaunt himself and prevent Whistler from rewriting the future. Upon arriving in the past, Deth gains the help of a punk rock girl named Leena (Helen Hunt, in her first major film role), but there’s just one problem: Whistler currently occupies the body of a police detective and before too long, the entire LAPD is gunning for Deth and Leena. A prime example of an ’80s “B” movie that’s not great, but is nevertheless better and more enjoyable than it has any right to be, Trancers is a clear riff on Blade Runner, albeit with some time travel and zombie motifs tacked on for good measure, as well as some classic film noir references. What ultimately saves Trancers is its scrappy sense of style. Director Charles Band absolutely made the most of his $400,000 budget, piling on the lurid neon lighting and shooting much of the film in rundown areas and dilapidated buildings, all of which helps to sell the film’s modest attempts at cyberpunk and post-apocalyptic aesthetics.

Given my love for Halo’s world and mythology, buying Halo: Campaign Evolved was a total no-brainer. It’s pretty much what it says on the tin, though, an “evolved” version of the original Halo: Combat Evolved campaign from 2001 built with Unreal Engine 5. Which means there’s nothing fundamentally new here, shiny graphics and reworked levels aside. (“The Library,” for instance, is no longer quite so tedious or annoying.) And in some ways, that’s enough. There’s a reason why the first Halo game is so fun and iconic, and to their credit, Halo Studios don’t really try to fix anything that wasn’t broken. (Although I do wish that some of the character designs, like Cortana’s, had received a few more rounds of polish.) But even with all of the reworked graphics and visual updates, it’s hard not to feel like the entire thing is a bit superfluous and unnecessary, like it was an extended tech demo made simply to prove that Halo can, indeed, run on Unreal. I don’t want to come off like I’m damning Halo: Campaign Evolved with faint praise, because let’s be honest: if Halo Studios releases similarly “evolved” versions of Halo 2 and Halo 3, I will almost certainly buy those, too. But if you already own the Master Chief Collection, which gave Halo: Combat Evolved a glow-up all the way back in 2014, and you don’t care about the novelty of playing Halo on a PlayStation, then this is far from a must-have.

I was about two-thirds of the way through Masters of the Universe when my wife got home and asked how it was. “It is what it is,” I replied, and I stand by that. It’s precisely what you’d expect from a big-budget adaptation of the classic He-Man cartoon and toy line, for better or worse. To their credit, director Travis Knight and his cast and crew never shy away from the inherent silliness of their film’s subject matter. They fully embrace the memes (hence Four Non Blondes on the soundtrack), the colorful synthwave-y visuals, the feathered hair, and even the goofy homoeroticism (like Skeletor’s obsession with He-Man’s big, long sword). I’d much rather see that approach instead of any reductionistic effort to make He-Man “gritty” or “realistic,” and it had me chuckling throughout the film. At the same time, there’s just not a lot of there there. When the story requires Masters of the Universe to set aside the jokes and attempt something a bit more serious, like an actual sincere moment between characters, that’s when the film starts to flounder, as if it doesn’t quite know what to do with itself. And that’s to say nothing of the stuff the film just sort of hand-waves away so it can get back to the flashy, CGI-powered action (which, to be fair, looks pretty great).

Although it’s technically a recap of the original Neon Genesis Evangelion TV series — the first 24 episodes, anyway — Death & Rebirth really only makes sense if you’ve already seen the original series. And even then, just barely. If you haven’t seen the original series, then I suspect Death & Rebirth will just leave you all the more clueless and confused as Hideaki Anno and his team deliver a blitzkrieg of new and old footage that seems intentionally jumbled, opaque, and labyrinthine. Of course, words like “opaque” and “labyrinthine” are easily employed to describe Evangelion as a whole, with its mishmash of psychoanalysis, coming-of-age melodrama, family trauma, and Judeo-Christian mysticism. Oh, and giant mechs battling bizarre alien creatures. Overall, Death & Rebirth feels less like an effort to sum up the Evangelion story and more like an attempt to simply convey the Evangelion mood. That said, the “Rebirth” portion of the movie does offer some striking new footage as a teaser for The End of Evangelion, which was released four months after Death & Rebirth. However, The End of Evangelion ultimately redid this new footage, making Death & Rebirth the least essential title in the Evangelion franchise. Even so, like all things Evangelion, it’s still fascinating and compelling in places — if you already know the story, that is.

If you’re unfamiliar with the wackiness that is Hong Kong comedy, then Pom Pom and Hot Hot might easily be the most annoying movie you’ll ever see. Jacky Cheung and Stephen Tung star as Chien and Curry Chicken (yes, the character’s name is, in fact, Curry Chicken), a pair of Hong Kong police offers whose lackadaisical approach to law enforcement might take down the bad guys, but it also infuriates their superiors. Things get even crazier, though, when Chien’s distant cousins come to stay for awhile just as the duo begin investigating a particularly nasty gangster. Unfortunately, most of the film is focused on either Chien and Curry Chicken’s buddy cop hijinks or Chien’s cousins and their various antics. Fortunately, there are times when director Joe Cheung remembered that he was also making an action movie, and that’s when Pom Pom and Hot Hot shines. Just don’t expect John Woo-style grittiness. The action scenes here have more in common with Bollywood than your typical heroic bloodshed fare, and as such, they get increasingly ridiculous, from hitmen swinging around on ropes to lots of twirling shotguns and creative reloading techniques.

In 2019, the Indian government revoked Article 370 of their constitution, which granted autonomy to the heavily contested regions of Jammu and Kashmir. In the real world, this led to controversy and criticism. But in the world of the “YRF Spy Universe,” a Pakistani general goes rogue and hires a terrorist organization to exact revenge on India. The only one who can stop the terrorists and their leader, the diabolical Jim — yes, dear reader, Pathaan’s BBEG is named Jim — is the titular hero, an elite agent who’s been presumed dead after a mission went horribly wrong. In its best moments, Pathaan is utterly ridiculous in all the right ways, from the over-the-top melodrama and patriotic spirit (which are further enhanced by Shah Rukh Khan’s smoldering looks and deep voice) to some truly bonkers action sequences. I laughed every time the wind caught Pathaan’s hair (indoors, even!) or when a character relies on her speed skating skills during a chase scene. And don’t get me started on the movie’s aerial sequences, which break more than a few laws of physics. Unfortunately, many of Pathaan’s action sequences are edited to within an inch of their lives. The constant cuts on every single punch, kick, and hit make the Bourne films look like Tarkovsky by comparison and get rather headache-inducing over the course of two and a half hours.

Ishirô Honda may be best known for introducing the world to Godzilla and other kaiju including Rodan and King Ghidorah. But he directed a string of sci-fi films throughout the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, including 1957’s The Mysterians, which Honda ranked among his favorites. Here, Japan faces a one-two punch in the form of a giant robot that lays waste to the countryside and, more importantly, the arrival of the Mysterians, a mysterious (npi) alien race whose arrival was foretold by a now-disappeared astrophysicist. At first, the Mysterians claim to only want peaceful coexistence, but Earth’s suspicions are raised by the Mysterians’ erratic behavior, including their demands to mate with Earth women. But will humanity be able to unite in time to overcome the Mysterians’ vastly advanced technology? Released a little more than a decade after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, The Mysterians is essentially Honda’s warning against placing too much faith in science, albeit one rendered with charming miniatures and scale model work and captured in that classic TohoScope cinematography. Unfortunately, the actual storyline is clunky and disjointed, and it feels like several key scenes were left on the cutting room floor, which undermines the scenes of widespread disaster as well as Honda’s earnest warning.

Yuen Biao stars in this kung fu caper as Mousy, a cowardly laundryman who’s constantly beaten up and ridiculed by his clients. He seems like the last person on Earth who should take on a deranged serial killer, but Mousy’s years of washing and hanging laundry have given him his own unique martial arts style. But will he actually ever muster up the courage to do what needs to be done? This early directorial effort by Yuen Woo-ping, best known to Western audiences for his martial arts choreography in the Matrix films, is a little all over the place, which isn’t too surprising given that it was written by Wong Jing. Yuen Biao is as acrobatic as ever, employing an agility similar to Jackie Chan. But the real treat was seeing Kwan Tak-hing as Wong Fei-hung. Even with all of the obvious stunt doubles, Kwan — who played Wong in nearly 80 different films — still looks plenty spry despite being in his mid 70s when Dreadnaught was made. Overall, this one’s very much for Yuen Woo-ping completists. In fact, the observant viewer will see some things that Yuen would later revisit in what is arguably his best film, 1993’s Iron Monkey.

On the distant planet of Ygam, human beings called Oms live at the mercy of Draags, giant blue aliens who, at best, view humans as little more than pets. One of those pets is Terr, a boy who’s adopted by a young Draag named Tiwa after his mother is killed by some other Draag children. As Terr grows up in Tiwa’s household, he slowly begins to learn about the Draags and their culture and technology, which enables him to escape. But will his newly acquired knowledge allow him and his fellow Oms to truly survive the Draags’ oppression? Fantastic Planet is quite trippy thanks to its surreal animation and art style and Alain Goraguer’s psychedelic soundtrack; I have no doubt that it’s inspired and enhanced more than a few acid trips since its release in 1973. Also not surprising is that it can look quite dated at times, and its animation a bit rough. However, it still manages to create a very unique and singular atmosphere that’s unlike any other animated feature you’re likely to see.

In 2017, Netflix released a long-awaited animated adaptation of Blame!, Tsutomu Nihei’s cyberpunk manga masterpiece. Although it’s certainly well-done, Netflix’s Blame! never quite conveys the sheer scale and weirdness of Nihei’s manga (read my review). But nearly 15 years before Netflix’s movie, the Group TAC studio and director Shintaro Inokawa released a 6-episode ONA (original net animation) that, while disjointed and of relatively low quality, actually did a halfway decent job of capturing just how strange and alienating Nihei’s transhumanist world would be. Apparently, the ONA was originally intended as a teaser or promo for a feature film — hence the rough animation quality — but Nihei was unable to get the funding, leaving the ONA as a standalone artifact. Each episode clocks in at just five minutes, and are largely dialog-free, instead relying on surreal post-apocalyptic imagery and an eerie soundtrack filled with mournful horns and ominous atmospherics. Furthermore, the episodes unfold randomly, depicting scenes and stories from the manga in nonlinear fashion. This approach would be close to unwatchable for a feature, but for a 30-minute series, it works — though I suspect that only Blame! diehards will actually enjoy it. On a related note, I continue to hold out hope that we’ll get a sequel to 2017’s Blame! that’s even bigger and stranger than its predecessor.

John Sugar (Colin Farrell) is a private investigator who specializes in finding lost and missing people, and he’s very good at what he does. But when he’s hired by a legendary film producer to track down the man’s missing granddaughter, Sugar — who is unfailingly polite, immaculately dressed, and something of a cinephile — may just be in over his head, especially when he heads down some particularly unsavory trails. There’s no denying that Sugar oozes neo-noir atmosphere, and Farrell delivers a solid performance. But there’s also no denying that series creator Mark Protosevich had a lot of ideas for Sugar when he started making it, beginning with some genre-bending twists concerning secrets about Sugar’s past. The series frequently embraces non-linear editing and storytelling, various cinematographic and filmmaking styles, and the inclusion of classic Hollywood clips as meta-commentary on Sugar’s noir exploits. Sometimes it really works, adding to the mood, and sometimes it feels really arch and affected. When I described it to my wife, she said it sounded exhausting to watch — and she’s not entirely wrong. But it’s also never not intriguing. A second season drops later this month (watch the trailer), and it’ll be interesting to see how Sugar builds on the big revelations of its first season.

It’s easy to deride Chuck Norris’s movies, and in truth, some of them are pretty lackluster. But I’ve watched a lot of the man’s movies over the years, and I firmly believe that he believed in every single one of them. There’s an earnestness to them, and to Norris’s statements about them, that lends even the worst of them a certain charm. Hero and the Terror starts off like a typical Norris movie, with him capturing a sadistic serial killer and earning the city’s adulation. But when the madman escapes and starts another killing spree, Norris must track him down all over again — with the help of some roundhouse kicks, of course. But Hero and the Terror also explores the psychology of Norris’s character, who’s traumatized by his first encounter with the killer and consistently feels undeserving of his heroic reputation. Oh, and he’s also getting ready to become a father and struggles with being a good partner for his girlfriend, played by One Life to Live’s Brynn Thayer. Hero and the Terror doesn’t always do a good job of juggling these various aspects. There are moments when it feels more like a soap opera than a hard-boiled thriller, and there’s a bizarre sequence that splices the birth of Norris’s daughter with the killer claiming yet another victim. There’s even an ill-advised attempt at comedy when he faints as his girlfriend goes into labor. All of that works against the movie even as it leaves one wishing that it had been better, if only because it’s clear that Norris was trying to expand his range and repertoire here, and do something more diverse than just another action movie.

Director John Ford is best known for westerns like Stagecoach and The Searchers, while Edward G. Robinson established the classic Hollywood image of the scowling, scheming gangster. But on The Whole Town’s Talking, the duo did something else entirely: a screwball comedy. Robinson plays Arthur Ferguson Jones, a mild-mannered office clerk who has a somewhat obsessive crush on his spunky co-worker Wilhelmina Clark (Jean Arthur). Unfortunately, Jones bears more than a passing resemblance to “Killer” Mannion, the country’s most notorious gangster, who’s currently on the lam. What ensues is a classic case of mistaken identity that turns deadly when the real Mannion (also played by Robinson) shows up to take advantage of the situation. The Whole Town’s Talking was included as part of The Criterion Channel’s “Office Romances” collection alongside His Girl Friday, and unfortunately, it suffers by comparison. The Whole Town’s Talking is certainly a sweet enough film, thanks to Robinson’s meek performance and Arthur’s delightful sass, and it has its humorous moments — especially when the bungling police are involved — but if you want a true screwball comedy, stick with His Girl Friday. Also, my wife and I were on tenterhooks the entire film concerning Jones’s bathtub, but the film seemed to forget all about that. (If you know, you know.)

Gregg Hurwitz churns out Orphan X novels at a yearly pace, and I keep reading them, even though they all follow the same basic pattern. Evan Smoak, a former government operative trained since childhood to be a peerless assassin, now uses his deadly skills to help the powerless. That usually results in a not-insignificant body count. Antihero throws in a slight twist, however. The latest recipient of his aid — a devout young woman who was kidnapped, raped, and brutalized by a gang of young men who post their exploits online — makes Evan promise to not kill her attackers, but instead, leave them to God’s judgment. So what’s a former black ops assassin supposed to do? Antihero plunges into the world of online porn while commenting on what social media and terminal online-ness is doing to people, and especially disaffected young men. (In a stroke of serendipity, Antihero paired nicely with Adam Kinzinger’s recent diatribe against streamers like Clavicular.) Because of the sexual violence involved, Antihero was more difficult to read than other Orphan X novels, but it possesses a certain righteous anger that makes it more urgent than its predecessors. But Antihero was difficult to read at times for other reasons. When he’s describing Evan in full operational mode, Hurwitz’s prose is the very definition of a page turner. But when he tries to write Gen Z characters, with their slang and leetspeak, Antihero gets pretty cringe.