It threw me for a loop back in 2015 when Hou Hsiao-hsien, who is now retired, announced that he was making a wuxia film, and I doubt I was alone in that. But this is Hou Hsiao-hsien we’re talking about, so The Assassin isn’t exactly Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Hero, or House of Flying Daggers — for better or worse. Like those films, The Assassin is absolutely gorgeous, from the rich costumes and production design to the unbelievable Chinese landscapes and scenery. But the storyline — a skilled assassin must prove her loyalty by killing the man to whom she’d one been betrothed — is more of a mixed bag. Hou is extremely fond of “pillow moments” (to use Roger Ebert’s term) and pregnant silences. Which means that The Assassin’s story is often as obtuse as it is engaging, if not more so. Sometimes this stylistic choice works and draws you into the film and the characters’ inner lives and sometimes, it’s just frustrating, particularly when political conspiracies emerge and immediately feel anticlimactic.
My Cultural Diet
The only reason this film works as well as it does is because of Denzel Washington. He brings the requisite amounts of gravitas and screen presence to make you believe in his haunted ex-super-deadly-guy who now seeks redemption by taking out a bunch of Russian gangsters in violent, blood-soaked fashion. Of course, being an Antoine Fuqua film, The Equalizer occasionally dips into hyper-stylized, CGI-enhanced silliness — which is a shame, because I much preferred the slow, seemingly mundane burn of the film’s first act — but even then, it remains eminently watchable because of Denzel. No one else could’ve pulled it off, of that I’m convinced.
Author Sourya may be French-Laotian, but Talli, Daughter of the Moon is heavily influenced by Japanese manga, from the character designs to the tonal shifts. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, not in this case. The fantasy tale of a young noblewoman on the run and trying to better understand her mysterious powers — powers that could spell ruin for the entire kingdom — hits plenty of tropes, but Sourya’s storytelling and artwork keeps things fresh and inviting.
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.
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.
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.
I hope I can critique Loki’s second season without sounding like one of those YouTube bros who post video screeds whining about how Captain Marvel is too woke, so here goes… There’s a lot to like about Loki: Tom Hiddleston’s performance, the TVA’s immaculate production design, the visual effects, Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead’s direction. (The less said about Jonathan Majors’ performance, however, the better. He was underwhelming as He Who Remains and even more so as Victor Timely.) But given the MCU’s currently aimless state, it feels rather pointless and disconnected. Admittedly, earlier Marvel series like Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D and Daredevil were only tangentially connected to the MCU, but they didn’t focus on a character as prominent, or beloved, as Loki. Nor did they end with an event that’s arguably more significant than Thanos’ snap. But much like that Celestial corpse Eternals left floating in the ocean, it doesn’t seem like it’ll matter all that much, which robs Loki’s final triumph/sacrifice of some emotional and thematic heft.
Is Star Trek: Lower Decks finally growing up? While this latest season still contained (juvenile) jokes and references aplenty, there was some distinct maturation as our lowly ensigns finally got promoted, sometimes against their will. Lower Decks has always had an outsider’s connection to the larger Star Trek universe. Sure, Riker and Q might pop up here and there, but the series’ events often felt disconnected from the rest of the canon. But this season contained some developments — e.g., the Ferengi applying for Federation membership, Nova Fleet — that ought to have some broader ramifications for the franchise. Also, Tendi and Rutherford are my favorite on-screen couple of any series right now, so I loved seeing Lower Decks finally address their relationship in a way that seemed set-up for one direction, only to go in a different direction that was subversive in its delightful wholesomeness.
After a man discovers that his iMac and the TV in his café are caught in a time loop, and thus display events from two minutes in the future and the past (respectively), his friends quickly figure out how to use that to their advantage. But as their temporal shenanigans grow increasingly convoluted, they risk running afoul of some local yakuza and possibly destabilizing the entire space-time continuum. I’m not sure how coherent its temporal logic is when compared to, say, Primer, but it’s hard not to admire Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes for its scrappy, low-budget spirit (the film was shot using smartphones and Tamagotchi-sized cameras) and intricate construction, as seen during the end credits. Clocking in at 70 minutes and presented as a single take, Junta Yamaguchi’s film doesn’t wear out its welcome. Indeed, you’ll probably spend much longer afterwards trying to figure out how Yamaguchi and his collaborators put it all together, and in just a week, no less.
Ahoska’s first season was far better than The Book of Boba Fett and The Mandalorian’s superfluous third season, and maybe even Obi-Wan Kenobi. Some note that it’s “basically” season five of Star Wars Rebels, with Ahsoka, Sabine Wren, et al. trying to find Ezra Bridger and prevent Thrawn’s return. (I’ve only seen bits and pieces of Rebels, but I never felt lost watching Ahsoka.) I really dug the extra-galactic travel and the more fantasy-like elements (e.g., the Dathomirian witches and their magick), as well as the samurai angle. The Star Wars franchise owes a huge debt to samurai movies but Ahsoka really plays up that influence, from her garb and the costumes of the Peridea bandits to the music and the lightsaber stances. Finally, I’d be sorely remiss if I didn’t mention Ray Stevenson’s Baylan Skoll. What could’ve been a token villain turned out to be something far more nuanced and interesting thanks to Stevenson’s understated performance. When Skoll talks about missing the idea of the Jedi Order, I felt it in my bones. Sadly, Stevenson died earlier this year, so we’ll never get to see where he would’ve taken his character in subsequent seasons.
Lloyd Alexander is best known for his Welsh-inspired high fantasy series, The Chronicles of Prydain (which I finally read last year and enjoyed). However, he wrote others novels set in historically influenced settings, including ancient India (The Iron Ring), ancient China (The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen), and in the case of Westmark, the French Revolution. Its setting aside, Westmark includes themes that are common to Alexander’s stories, i.e., the protagonist is an idealistic young man who discovers that the world is a lot more complicated than he thought, and with the help of a cast of colorful characters, must fight evil while grappling with moral and ethical quandaries. This is far from weighty, preachy stuff, though. I read Westmark in just a few hours thanks to Alexander’s economical (though no less imaginative) writing and worldbuilding.
Based on the Patlabor TV series, which itself was based on the long-running Mobile Police Patlabor manga, Patlabor: The Movie suffers from a rather slight storyline involving a hacker’s plan to infect all of Tokyo’s Labors (i.e., giant mecha used by construction, police, and the military) with a virus. But honestly, I wasn’t watching Patlabor: The Movie for the storyline. I was watching it for the directing (because I tend to like Mamoru Oshii’s aesthetic), the hand-drawn cel animation (which was refreshing after watching so much modern CG-enhanced animation), and the mechanical designs (because giant mechs are always cool). Consider a short scene from the film’s opening, in which a military Labor is aerially deployed and a tiny drag chute is used to pull it out of the aircraft. The attention to detail in just that short sequence alone (e.g., the uncoiling of the chute’s rope, the sense of mass in the mech’s movement) was rewarding enough to justify watching the entire movie.
When I first saw it in theaters back in 2007, I thought The Bourne Ultimatum was easily the best of the original Bourne trilogy. Sixteen(!) years later, it’s still a solid action thriller, with Jason Bourne dead set on destroying the government conspiracy that turned him into a cold-blooded killer even as he wrestles with his own complicity in the matter. But having just watched The Bourne Supremacy, Ultimatum doesn’t have quite the same energy and urgency as its predecessor. That, and Paul Greengrass’ trademark shaky cam footage doesn’t work quite so well here. Having said that, the film’s stuntwork — be it the climactic car chase through New York streets or Bourne racing across the Tangier rooftops and crashing through a window to battle a rival assassin — is never not thrilling.
In Earth’s final days, a group of billionaires and celebrities hatch a plan: they’ll leave Earth on a giant spaceship to make a new home for themselves on a nearby planet. In the meantime, they’ll continue to live in luxury, their every need met by children who live like slaves until their faithful service is rewarded with proper citizenship. Arca’s “eat the rich” storyline is bit on the nose; given its premise, there are really only a handful of ways it can go. Still, it’s engaging enough, and I appreciate the fact that the protagonist’s ability to read, which is outlawed, proves so important to her survival. That said, only a monster would refuse to cheer on a plucky teenager as she seeks to lead her fellow youth in rebelling against their entitled billionaire overlords.