You don’t often read a novel that completely checks some of your boxes. But Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Silver Nitrate is one such novel for me. Obscure film history? Check. Eldritch horror? Check. Bizarre occult conspiracies? Check. Montserrat is a sound editor who, by virtue of a being a woman in ’90s Mexico, is constantly disregarded by her peers. But a chance meeting with a once-famous horror director might turn things around for her, especially after he invites her to participate in an arcane ceremony involving a lost film supposedly imbued with magic by a Nazi occultist. Naturally, things go wrong and Montserrat and her best friend — a former actor haunted by his reckless past — are soon visited by unsettling visions and forced on the run by an evil cult. Silver Nitrate drags in places and the protagonists’ nigh-constant bickering gets tedious, but Moreno-Garcia still casts a spell, especially when she delves into Mexican film history. Admittedly, I know very little about Mexican cinema, so I don’t know how much of Moreno-Garcia’s history is real or imagined — I was occasionally reminded of the mélange of conspiracy theories in Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum — but that just made Silver Nitrate all the more intriguing.
My Cultural Diet
Inspired by a Tibetan folktale, Shuna’s Journey has many of the usual Hayao Miyazaki tropes (e.g., fantastical settings, a strong female protagonist) and touches on some of his pet themes, including both humanity’s relationship with nature and its proclivity for violence and exploitation. At the same time, it has a fairy tale-esque tone, particularly as the titular hero enters the strange lands of the god-folk — but as is Miyazaki’s wont, it’s tinged with darkness and mystery. Originally published in 1983, it might be tempting to dismiss Shuna’s Journey as a precursor to Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind and Princess Mononoke — as if you’d ever really want to dismiss anything by Miyazaki, that is. But even with all of its familiarity, I was caught up within just a few pages thanks to Miyazaki’s gorgeous watercolors, poetic storytelling, and ability to pack so much life and energy into his illustrations. First Second Books’ edition contains a brief afterword by Miyazaki as well as some notes by translater Alex Dudok de Wit that offer some helpful insights into the story’s creation and themes.
Whenever we venture up to Omaha, it’s basically assumed that, time permitting, we’re going to eat at Tasty Pizza. Though it’s no longer located in that charming little house on Leavenworth, the pizza’s still just as good, er, tasty. There’s nothing all that flashy or eclectic about Tasty Pizza’s menu. Rather, they just focus on the essentials. As a result, though, I’ve never had a bad slice in all of the times I’ve gone there.
In keeping with the spirit of the spooky season, we watched this for a family movie night. It’s probably been 20+ years since I last watched The Sixth Sense, but it still held up quite well despite knowing the twist and all of the ways in which said twist is foreshadowed. (Indeed, a lot of the fun of watching the movie this time around was seeing my kids as the truth dawned on them. It was also fun exploring the film’s various clues in hindsight.) Much of that’s due to Haley Joel Osment’s central performance, which is just remarkable at times in both its honesty and emotion; the film simply would not work without it. Meanwhile, Bruce Willis turns in a wonderfully subdued performance. The Sixth Sense certainly lays on the melodrama and earnestness more thickly than the scares — which are still plenty effective — but thanks to the aforementioned performances, M. Night Shyamalan’s assured direction, and some excellent production design, it more than earns its emotional payoff.
Charlie Fitzer is a down-on-his-luck substitute teacher barely living from paycheck to paycheck. When his ultra-rich uncle dies, it seems like things might finally be turning around for Charlie — except that in addition to being ridiculously wealthy, Charlie’s uncle was also one of the world’s greatest super-villains. And now Charlie has been tapped to be his heir, which means dealing with the world’s other super-villains. But at least Charlie now has his very own island volcano lair. Starter Villain is precisely what I’ve come to expect from John Scalzi: an engaging and entertaining read that’s the literary equivalent of a bacon double cheeseburger with a side of fries and a chocolate milkshake. (Which is a good thing.) It’s frequently funny — the potty-mouthed talking dolphins trying to unionize had me chuckling, as did a scene of super-villains trying to meet over Zoom — and as an added bonus, Scalzi makes some pointed digs at tech bros and ultra-rich elites alike. (Which feel particularly relevant in light of, say, Elon Musk’s “inspired” leadership that’s current driving Twitter down into a death spiral.)
A year after their close friend’s death, four Indigenous teens plot to escape their small Oklahoma town and start over in California. That, however, proves to be easier said than done, as their various schemes never quite go the way they’d like and they find themselves in conflict with a rival gang. That, and they discover their bonds to their families and community are perhaps stronger than they’d like. Reservation Dogs is notable for being the first TV series to be written and directed entirely by Indigenous individuals, which gives it a truly unique perspective. It’s filled with memorable characters (e.g., the spirit of a warrior who died at The Battle of Little Big Horn and now doles out cryptic advice to the series’ characters, some rapping twins who roll around town on their bikes) as well as an understated sense of humor that occasionally verges on the absurd.
It’s probably been fifteen years since I last watched Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg’s hilarious ode to zombie films — and romantic comedies. (Read my original review from 2004.) Wright’s “RomZomCom” stars Pegg as the titular Shaun, a hapless slacker who isn’t going anywhere in life or love. Until, that is, the zombie apocalypse forces him to step up and become a hero. Time has been quite kind to Shaun of the Dead. Although it’s filled with the sort of frenetic editing that typified ’00s cinema, Shaun of the Dead has enough wit and cleverness for a dozen films, horror or otherwise. What’s more, Pegg and co-star Nick Frost — who plays Shaun’s even slackier best friend Ed — have the sort of easy onscreen chemistry that’s only found in the very best comedic duos. (I was fortunate enough to see this on the big screen via The Ross Theater’s first annual Fright Fest.)
I checked out Malcolm Kid and the Perfect Song from the library on a whim, and I’m glad I did. Austin Paramore’s debut graphic novel is the charming story of Malcolm Kid, an aspiring young musician who suddenly finds himself in possession of a keyboard that’s haunted by the spirit of an old jazz pianist. The only way to set the spirit free is to find and play… wait for it… the perfect song. However, that will require Malcolm to reconnect with an old friend, explore his town’s history, stand up to his demanding father, and confront some family tragedies. Oh, and deal with a Mephistopheles-like character who takes a great interest in Malcolm’s burgeoning talent. Paramore packs a lot into his story and does a fine job of balancing it all. Meanwhile, Sarah Bollinger’s delightful artwork keeps things light with some manga-like flourishes, but never at the expense of the story’s drama and emotion.
I’m not a big fan of DC’s live-action movies. (Sorry, Snyder Cut fans.) I do, however, enjoy their animated titles, be it series like Justice League Unlimited and Batman: The Brave and the Bold or movies like Justice League: War, Justice League: The New Frontier, and Justice League Dark: Apokolips War. Which is to say, I’d really like to see an animated adaptation of House of El, a YA-focused retelling of the planet Krypton’s final days. As its title implies, Superman’s family is present but the series focuses on two young lovers from different social castes who are troubled by Krypton’s increasingly corrupt and hedonistic society — as well as the earthquakes that threaten to tear the planet apart. It might be tempting to dismiss House of El given its YA roots. However, I was never not engaged by the storyline and the series ends on a beautifully bittersweet note — as befitting any story about Superman’s doomed homeworld.
Do you enjoy watching epic, multi-episode-spanning space battles featuring tens of thousands of ships and maybe even some Death Star-like moon bases for good measure? That’s obviously a trick question, because who doesn’t like watching that sort of thing? But do you also enjoy watching episodes in which characters do nothing but discuss military strategies, debate political theories, and philosophize about democracy, freedom, and human history? If so, then Legend of the Galactic Heroes: Die Neue These may be your next favorite anime. A modern remake of Legend of the Galactic Heroes, which ran for 110 episodes in the ’80s and ’90s, and was itself based on Yoshiki Tanaka’s sci-fi novels, Die Neue These really scratched my personal itch for sprawling, galaxy-spanning space opera, though it gets pretty convoluted with dozens of major characters and storylines within storylines. It’s also an interesting world-building exercise, juxtaposing 19th century Prussia, Norse mythology, and more “modern” cultures in its various futuristic nations. With just four seasons to date, I surmise that Die Neue These isn’t even halfway through its storyline, and I’m looking forward to season five and beyond.
The horror genre is often used to tackle heavy issues, including religious fanaticism, mental illness, and the dangers of technology. In Infidel’s case, the issue is racism as a young Muslim woman struggles to maintain her sanity in the midst of various threats, be it the unwitting racism of her white neighbors or the supernatural threats residing in the dark corners of her apartment building. But as Infidel progresses, the line between the former and the latter grow increasingly thin. To Infidel’s credit, nothing and no one’s simple; well-meaning friends can make terrible mistakes while potential antagonists might become a surprising source of help. Pornsak Pichetshote’s storyline ventures into some pretty esoteric territory at times, but Aaron Campbell’s artwork and José Villarubia’s colors keep the terror nice and grounded.
My daughter recently told me that she finally wanted to watch her first scary movie, and specifically, a scary movie with ghosts in it. After offering her several possible titles, she decided on Coraline because, and I quote, “I want to work my way up to a really scary movie.” Of course, Coraline — based on Neil Gaiman’s beloved 2002 novella — is still plenty spooky in parts as it follows a young girl who ends up in a parallel world inhabited by her “other mother,” a button-eyed woman who seems like the perfect mom until her true nature is revealed. Coraline is a feast for the eyes thanks to Henry Selick’s direction and the brilliant and extremely detailed stop-motion animation, which brings the movie’s strange world — and even stranger characters — to life. As for my daughter, she loved it, which is probably the highest recommendation I can give it.
Having recently finished and enjoyed his Final Architecture trilogy, I wanted to read some more of Adrian Tchaikovsky’s work. On a whim, I picked up this novella, and saw that it was dedicated to the memory of Gene Wolfe — which struck me as a good sign. Ostensibly a fantasy story about a young, headstrong princess determined to banish the demon that’s plaguing her kingdom, Elder Race takes a sci-fi turn when the mighty wizard she turns to for help turns out to be something else entirely: an anthropologist sent to study her planet. Of course, the blending of sci-fi and fantasy isn’t new, but Tchaikovsky throws in some interesting twists, be it the trauma and loneliness of a “wizard” who fears he is the last of his kind or some particularly beautiful ruminations on the power of myths and stories to inspire, comfort, and heal us. This took me a little longer to read than I expected because I kept getting distracted with other things, but Elder Race could be a nice weekend read — if you’re looking for such a thing.
Paul Greengrass took over from Doug Liman for the second Bourne movie and famously implemented his patented blend of hand-held shaky cam footage and hyper-kinetic editing. It’s become a point of criticism these days, even self-parody. That’s especially true during the fight scenes, which cut on every single hit or kick to become a barely intelligible blur of fists, feet, and faces. At the time, however, Greengrass’ style felt raw and dynamic, with a sense of immediacy lacking in a lot of action films. Watching it now, there were moments where it was a bit headache-inducing. But I was also struck by how legible it could be (Greengrass is no hack), and how the aesthetic — which basically bombards the audience with flashes of information (e.g., a random photo, a street sign, a glimpse of someone’s face) — would almost certainly be how someone as highly trained and skilled as Jason Bourne would see the world. What’s more, it’s nice to see a movie about a government assassin who not only expresses regret for his past actions, but actually apologizes to his victims. (Though it would’ve been nice if he’d also given them the number of a good therapist.)
My oldest is going through a Christopher Nolan phase, so naturally we watched Tenet, which might be my favorite Nolan film. There’s no doubt that Nolan’s films aim for the cerebral (which garners them all sorts of snark and criticism), and with its convoluted plot filled with “temporal pincer movements” and discussions of free will and temporal paradoxes, Tenet might be his most cerebrally oriented film to date. But it contains some surprisingly human moments as well, be it the burgeoning friendship between John David Washington’s Protagonist and Robert Pattinson’s charming Neil (which is explored in a thoughtful article by my friend Alisa), or the Protagonist’s concern for a beleaguered woman. Plus, its convoluted plot means that I notice new details with each new viewing, which helps to flesh out the movie even more. I’m still not sure how well Tenet holds together logically (even after reading super-nerdy timeline breakdowns), but the characters’ actions and reactions sell it for me, and its relentless pace means I’m never not engaged. (And call me a fanboy, but I trust in Nolan’s meticulous attention to detail.) In the end, I guess I’m just a sucker for espionage-y stories about people who suddenly find themselves in a “twilight world” fighting a secret war unseen by the rest of the world.
It’s hard to believe that The Bourne Identity came out more than twenty years ago; that was before my wife and I even knew each other. Matt Damon looks like a baby here, but more importantly, I was often fixated by the film’s wintry cinematography — particularly when Damon’s Bourne tracks down a rival assassin in an open, snow-covered field. I wouldn’t describe the film’s cinematography as anything special but it does possess a distinctive look that stands out against the look of today’s shot-on-digital material. It looks dated in a surprisingly pleasant way, is what I’m trying to say. The Bourne Identity has plenty of action, as befitting a film about an amnesiac government assassin, but I appreciate how it occasionally slows down and shows off Bourne’s patience and methodical nature or throws out little clues to his training and abilities (like being able to determine the best escape route just by glancing at a map). Of course, the subsequent Bourne movies directed by Paul Greengrass built on what’s shown here in remarkable fashion, and I’m excited to watch them again after so long.
I know this is the Barbie movie, but at the risk of sounding patriarchal, can I talk about Ken for a moment? Played by Ryan Gosling with a blend of petulance, naïveté, himbo energy, and even heartache, he’s the perfect foil for Margot Robbie’s Barbie. He’s an incel with rock-hard abs, a bro so desperate for love, attention, and identity that he ends up threatening everything he claims to love. And by making him more than just a paper-thin strawman — by making his desire for patriarchy (and horses) somewhat understandable — Barbie becomes more than just a movie about a beloved childhood toy. (After all, a good heroine needs a good villain.) I was constantly fascinated by the Barbie/Ken dynamic, and I loved how the movie resolved it all. Watching Barbie, I had an experience similar to that of watching Everything Everywhere All at Once, that is, the distinct feeling that I was not the movie’s primary audience, not even close. To be sure, I found Barbie funny and even moving at times, but I know that scenes like America Ferrera’s powerful monologue hit my wife and all of the other women in the audience on a much deeper level — which is as it should be. I was glad to be there along for the ride. And to be clear, I’m thankful that the prospects of a sequel aren’t that great right now even as I hate the idea of a Mattel Cinematic Universe. Barbie should be allowed to be its own, singular thing.
My wife recently listened to a podcast episode of Dolly Parton talking about 9 to 5 and its memorable theme song — you’re probably singing the chorus to yourself right now, aren’t you? — and so we decided to give this 1980 screwball comedy a chance. Starring Parton, Jane Fonda, and Lily Tomlin as a trio of women who’ve finally had enough of their sexist boss (Dabney Coleman, who you love to hate in this movie) and decide to put him in his place, 9 to 5 may be dated in a few places. (It is over 40 years old, after all.) But it also feels surprisingly current and relevant in this, the Year of our Lord 2023 — which is kind of sad when you think about it. Of course, being a comedy that gets a bit absurd at times, 9 to 5 doesn’t delve too deeply into matters of sexism, feminism, workers’ rights, capitalism, etc. But the issues that it raises still face us today, and some of the changes the women make to their office while their boss is indisposed (e.g., equal pay, flexible hours, childcare) still feel revolutionary and progressive today — which is also kind of sad when you think about it. Also, I can’t help wondering what a modern version of 9 to 5 would look like, were it made now in a post-COVID, post-MeToo world. Chances are, it wouldn’t be nearly as charming, not without Parton’s whimsy, Fonda’s demureness (her line about M&M’s is comedy gold), and Tomlin’s snark.
James S. A. Corey’s Expanse series remains my gold standard for galaxy-spanning space opera, but Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Final Architecture trilogy comes pretty close, with Lords of Uncreation concluding the series in suitably epic fashion. Turns out, I like my sci-fi with a touch of eldritch horror, and in Tchaikovsky’s novel, a ragtag group of humans and aliens seek access to the bizarre, otherworldly realm of unspace in a bid to prevent the galaxy’s sentient life from getting wiped out. Even better, they’re led by one of the most delightfully pathetic and sadsack protagonists I’ve encountered since The Curse of Chalion’s Lupe dy Cazaril. Lords of Uncreation does get a bit long-winded with Tchaikovsky’s repeated descriptions of the aforementioned otherworldly realm — there are a lot of explanations of just how much unspace defies explanation — but there’s also a lot of delightful and clever prose, and several moments practically had me cheering. More importantly, his cast of characters — hard-bitten salvagers, cyborgs, government agents, indestructible human-lobster hybrids, warrior clones, clam-like alien gods, and even a space lawyer — are colorful and endearing in their own ways.
I don’t mean it lightly when I say that if it weren’t for Philip Yancey, I might have abandoned Christianity years ago. Shortly after college, I went through a long period of intense doubt and bleak cynicism during which the Church seemed pointless and my own faith useless. A friend lent me a copy of Yancey’s Reaching For the Invisible God and it proved to be a lifeline. I’d never read a Christian book like it before, one that explored faith and doubt honestly and thoughtfully without devolving into condemnation or simple platitudes. In the years that followed, I read everything I could find of Yancey’s, and books like What’s So Amazing About Grace? and Soul Survivor greatly shaped my present faith. Throughout Where the Light Fell, Yancey reflects on what inspired him to write books like Reaching For the Invisible God: a Southern childhood characterized by racism and rigid fundamentalism; attending an ultra-legalistic Bible college; and most of all, a deeply dysfunctional family upbringing. Some portions of the book are chilling, particularly when Yancey recounts his mother’s harsh discipline and even harsher words for him and his older brother, and the wounds they left. Having read so many of his other books, Where the Light Fell does suffer a bit from familiarity; many of its stories appear as anecdotes in his earlier titles, albeit in more anonymous forms (something he even admits). But it’s also by turns fascinating, thoughtful, and affecting. Yancey’s memoir is consistently winsome, even when he’s plumbing the darkest parts of his past.