My Cultural Diet

Several animals, including a cat, a dog, and a capybara, find themselves adrift on a boat, and they must learn to work together if they want to survive in a flooded, post-human world. Gints Zilbalodis’ animated adventure eschews Disney-fied anthropomorphism for stylized naturalism; in other words, these animals aren’t cute, they don’t talk, and there are certainly no musical numbers. The animals have distinct personalities — the cat’s wary and cautious, the dog’s a clumsy goofball, and so on — and they occasionally do non-animal things like learn to steer a boat. To the film’s credit, however, those things never feel amiss but rather, consonant with their animal natures. That naturalism enhances Flow’s sense of magical realism, as do the various bits of human civilization that the animals encounter, like art, giant statues, and empty cities. Flow is far from flashy — it’s the exact opposite of what we’ve come to expect from Disney, DreamWorks, and Pixar — but that only makes it all the more engrossing and fantastical.

I’m a few years late to this one, but I was fortunately able to avoid most spoilers. It’s easy to see why Squid Game has been such a big hit for Netflix. Hwang Dong-hyuk’s original series is twisted in all the right ways, but its story of down-on-their-luck individuals playing deadly children’s games for money while overseen by mysterious masked individuals never feels tawdry or exploitative. Rather, it makes some incisive points about human nature and the desperation of those who’ve fallen through society’s cracks while at the same time, tapping into our present anxiety concerning the haves and the have-nots. On paper, the series’ premise might seem outlandish, and even preposterous, but it’s so well-done — be it Hwang Dong-hyuk’s script and stylish direction, the incredible set design and cinematography, or the strong performances by Lee Jung-jae, Wi Ha-joon, Jung Ho-yeon, et al. — that I was completely absorbed by the twists and turns and the characters’ plight.

I haven’t watched Your Name in its entirety since seeing it in the theater back in 2016, which inspired this lengthy post about the movie’s mythology. This time around, I watched it with my daughter, who was thoroughly caught up in the story of a teenage boy and girl who mysteriously begin swapping bodies. As with any Shinkai film, Your Name is gorgeous. Indeed, I think it represents the zenith of his work, with lush backgrounds, highly detailed animation of trivial details (like handwriting) that feels like a total flex, and a particularly inspired surreal moment in the middle of the film. The film’s visuals are so good, in fact, that his character designs seem a bit basic by comparison. Story-wise, it’s all melodrama all the time. I’m still not sure how well it all comes together, especially in the final act with its big revelations about our heroes and their body-swapping, but Shinkai’s wears his heart so plainly on his sleeve that I can’t be mad. It’s easy to see why Your Name became such a cultural groundswell in Japan upon its release.

I read and enjoyed Andy Weir’s The Martian several years ago. I described it as a novel that makes you feel smarter as you read it thanks to all of the technical and scientific detail that Weir packs into his pages. Thus, it only makes sense for a director of Ridley Scott’s caliber to tackle the movie adaptation, which stars Matt Damon as an astronaut who must somehow survive alone on Mars after he’s inadvertently left for dead. No spoilers here, but you know he’s going to survive, the only question is how; watching The Martian is more about the journey than the destination. This is really Damon’s movie, as his smart-ass character reacts to seemingly insurmountable situations with pluck and dark humor. Meanwhile, all of NASA, as well as his crew, scramble to figure out how to bring him home. Scott’s film, like Weir’s novel, is deeply optimistic about the human spirit, and the grandeur of space exploration. (The film does a fine job of communicating Mars’ grandeur, with gorgeous shots of the planet’s barren landscape.) For what it’s worth, The Martian evoked similar feelings to what I experienced watching space documentaries like Good Night Oppy and the “Cassini” episode of Netflix’s 7 Days Out.

By all appearances, Truman Burbank’s life in idyllic Seahaven Island is as perfect as it gets. But he can’t shake an ever-present feeling of discontent, and when bizarre events start occurring — a light falling from the sky, strange radio broadcasts — his world, and psyche, begin to crack. Unbeknownst to Truman, though, he’s actually the star of his own reality TV show, his entire world since birth contained inside a massive Hollywood soundstage. It’s a pretty meta concept that could easily fall into pretension, but The Truman Show succeeds thanks to Jim Carrey’s winsome performance, which veers from comedic to manic to tragic and back again, as well as strong supporting performances from Ed Harris (as the creator of Truman’s televised world) and Noah Emmerich (as Truman’s in-show best friend). Peter Weir’s movie approaches its heady themes with a deft and humorous touch and some wonderfully retro production design, and despite being released over 25 years ago, feels all the more relevant and even prophetic in our current reality TV-obsessed era.

Have you ever started watching a movie and within the first five minutes or so, felt yourself physically relaxing because you knew — beyond any shadow of doubt — that you were in for a good time? That’s precisely what happened to me during this most recent viewing of Sneakers. Some of that was due to a sense of comforting nostalgia (despite 20+ years having passed since my last viewing, I still remembered an awful lot) as well as a delightfully geeky storyline involving security consultants, government agencies, cryptography, and privacy that still feels relevant today even with all of the ’90s computer technology onscreen. (Like the Cray supercomputer just sitting there in the bad guy’s office.) And a lot of that was due to a powerhouse cast that includes Robert Redford, Sir Ben Kingsley, Sidney Poitier, David Strathairn, Dan Aykroyd, River Phoenix, and Mary McDonnell, all of whom had a blast making the movie. Although it does delve into conspiracy theory territory, Sneakers never gets too dark or paranoid. Rather, it remains a deft and charming crowdpleaser thanks to Redford et al.‘s performances, an engaging plot, some wonderfully stylistic flourishes, and James Horner’s score.

I’ve been fascinated by Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker ever since I saw a still from it in my film history textbook back in college. Ostensibly a sci-fi film about three men — a writer, a professor, and their titular guide — who journey into the heart of a perilous and forbidden zone in search of a mysterious room that will grant a person’s deepest wish, Stalker can be long and ponderous. Its characters often segue into philosophical monologues about art, science, faith, and human nature, and the film contains surreal sequences that could be dreams or displays of the zone’s bizarre effects. If you’re willing to surrender to Stalker’s glacial pace and elliptical narrative, however, then you’ll be treated to a truly unique cinematic atmosphere thanks to the film’s otherworldly locations, Tarkovsky’s unhurried direction, Alexander Knyazhinsky’s lush cinematography, and Eduard Artemyev’s haunting, exotic soundtrack.

It might seem a little on-the-nose for a member of The Cure to write a history of the goth movement. And yet, who better to write such a tome? That said, the title of Goth: A History is a bit misleading. It’s not so much the definitive history of an artistic movement that came into being on the heels of punk and post-punk, as it is the personal history of one goth in particular: Lol Tolhurst, who co-founded The Cure in 1976 with Robert Smith and Michael Dempsey. Tolhurst covers a lot of ground in his book. He reminisces about recording The Cure’s Faith and Pornography albums; reflects on his Catholic upbringing and the influence of Joe Strummer, Sylvia Plath, and Alice Cooper; breaks down Joy Division’s discography; and shares stories about Siouxsie and the Banshees, Bauhaus, and California’s deathrock scene. The resulting book is a bit disorganized at times, but Tolhurst writes with the passion and authority of someone who was actually there, seeing The Clash as a teen, hanging out at London’s Batcave club, and of course, recording some of the definitive goth albums. Tolhurst’s ode to goth may lack the sort of criticism historians might prefer, but his descriptions of a restless adolescence spent in search of new ideas and art that would speak meaning into his life certainly resonated with me, and rang true to my own experiences.

This game has been on my radar since 2019, but I only picked it up a few months ago during an Xbox sale — and was instantly sucked into its world. Drawing inspiration from brutalist architecture, liminal space imagery, Cold War relics, and creepypasta like the Backrooms and (most importantly) the SCP Foundation, Control puts you in control (npi) of Jesse Faden, whose search for her missing brother has brought her to the Federal Bureau of Control (the secretive government agency tasked with monitoring paranormal phenomena). Once there, however, she discovers something more ominous: an extra-dimensional force that appears bent on taking over and corrupting our reality. Fortunately, Jesse is not without her own unique and unusual powers. Control is filled with indelible images (e.g., massive office complexes filled with chanting bodies floating in mid-air, haunted laboratories that feel displaced in time, other planes of existence) that encourage you to explore the FCB’s seemingly endless and otherworldly headquarters. Unfortunately, the game is hampered by finicky controls and occasionally inconsistent gameplay, and its difficulty levels can fluctuate wildly. (I confess to occasionally turning to the internet to get past a particularly challenging boss or level. I’m pretty sure the “Training Mission” stage took a few months off my life.) Nevertheless, Control’s storyline and aesthetic hit a real sweet spot for me, and I can’t wait for the sequel.

No offense to John Boyega, but I’m glad he dropped out of Rebel Ridge, thus paving the way for Aaron Pierre’s breakout performance. With his piercing gaze and statuesque features, Pierre dominates the screen as a former Marine who’s robbed by some corrupt cops (who are led by a delightfully slimy Don Johnson) as he passes through their small southern town. Unfortunately for them, he possesses a very particular set of skills, which he quickly puts to good use exposing and dismantling their operation. Rebel Ridge’s roots lie in ’70s exploitation films, only updated for modern sensibilities in a way that sacrifices little grit or intensity. Clocking in at just over two hours, the slow-burning film can feel a bit too long. At the same time, I love how writer/director Jeremy Saulnier allows his film to breathe, offering up beautifully designed shots that turn something as simple as two vehicles driving away from each other on a rural highway into riveting cinema, and letting his scenes slowly unfold to ratchet up the tension. Which, of course, makes our hero’s eventual smackdown all the more satisfying.

Ronald Wimberly and Brahm Revel’s Now Let Me Fly chronicles the true story of Eugene Bullard, who sought to escape the violence and racism of Jim Crow-era Georgia when he was just eleven years old. Bullard’s journey saw him becoming a gypsy, a jockey, a stowaway across the Atlantic, a boxer, a jazz musician, and ultimately, one of the first Black military pilots in history, flying for France during World War I. It’s a fascinating story that more people ought to know about, especially given the bittersweet direction that his post-war life took.

24 years after its original release, the Coen Brothers’ take on Homer’s Odyssey — which they transplanted from ancient Greece to 1930s-era Mississippi — is as delightful as ever, thanks to the Coens’ offbeat script and a host of strong performances led by George Clooney, John Turturro, and Tim Blake Nelson. This around, though, I particularly enjoyed Charles Durning’s performance as Pappy O’Daniel, the governor of Mississippi who might be corrupt, but is still preferable to the alternative. His group of cronies and yes men are also delightful in their clueluessness and uselessness. We watched O Brother, Where Art Thou? with our kids, which immediately made me want to turn them onto some other Coen films, like Raising Arizona and The Hudsucker Proxy.

The original Inside Out is one of my favorite Pixar movies, a pitch-perfect blend of entertaining visuals, topflight animation, and heartfelt storytelling that adroitly balances tears and laughter. (RIP Bing Bong.) Thus, I was naturally skeptical about Kelsey Mann’s sequel, given the time that had passed since the original film as well as Pixar’s recent issues with middling quality. It was, therefore, a delightful surprise when Inside Out 2 proved to be, well, a delight. The first two-thirds or so are amusing, if a little on-the-nose. Still, as someone with kids who are either on the cusp of or fully entered into puberty, the film’s images and portrayals all tracked for me. But Inside Out 2’s final act is heart-wrenching in the best and truest Pixar fashion, evoking tears and laughter by tackling heavy subjects (e.g., anxiety, the pains of growing up) with grace even as it insisted on the bedrock necessity of finding and experiencing joy in the midst of the chaos and confusion.

You can watch Chris Smith’s Wham! documentary as a film about the band’s meteoric rise up the charts or as nothing more than a fun, frivolous snapshot of ’80s gloss and excess. (With regards to the latter, it serves as an interesting companion piece to Steven Blush’s American Hair Metal, which I reviewed earlier this month.) But with its mix of archival footage, interviews, and even the scrapbooks kept by Andrew Ridgeley’s mom, Wham! is ultimately a film about two best friends who achieved something spectacular while always being there for each other. Wham! does get introspective in places, particularly when George Michael — who died on Christmas Day 2016 — reflects on his closeted homosexuality or his growing need for artistic validation and pop stardom, but the documentary is a celebration more than anything else. Given that so many pop groups have turned on each other due to fame and ego, it’s actually something of a joy to see one of the world’s biggest pop groups of all time go out on a high note, and more importantly, as good friends.

I didn’t listen to hair metal back in the day, but it was practically inescapable. My schools’ hallways were awash with Cinderella, Poison, and Skid Row t-shirts as well as the requisite acid wash jeans and Aqua Net-suffused hair. And I can still remember my incredulity upon seeing the music video for Mötley Crüe’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” for the first time (and at my grandparents’ house, no less). Steven Blush’s American Hair Metal is no “academic” treatise on the genre. Even so, it delves into hair metal’s roots (npi) and captures the genre’s debauchery via numerous photos of classic acts alongside lesser known ones (e.g., Nitro, Roxx Gang, Tuff, Vain) in all of their gender-bending glory (teased hair, mascara, leather, lace). The book is also full of quotes. Some are misogynistic, some are arrogant, most are bone-headed, and few have aged well. (A classic example from White Lion’s Mike Tramp: “We’re a rock and roll band of the ’80s — here today, here to stay, here tomorrow.”) Blush’s book lays bare just how shallow the genre ultimately was. Classic songs emerged from the era, but hair metal wasn’t built to last. The bands were entirely too obsessed with image, style, and excess (often at their labels’ prompting) — an id-driven reflection of the ’80s that, for all of the sex and drugs, was surprisingly conservative and thus, quick to fall at the rise of grunge and alternative music in the early ’90s.

This action classic turned 30 earlier this month, and at least 15 years have passed since I last watched it in its entirety, so now seemed like a good time for a revisit. And, following K. B. Hoyle’s lead, introduce my kids to it. So let me tell you, dear reader, that Speed totally holds up. It’s obviously a product of the ’90s (the extremely wide latitude given to the LAPD feels particularly incongruous these days) and the final act is a bit tacked on, but it’s never not a blast to watch (pun intended). Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock are delightful with all of their meaningful looks, Dennis Hopper is appropriately kooky, and the stunts and practical effects are refreshing in this day and age of CGI. Indeed, I was struck by just how good the film still looks after three decades. Director Jan de Bont obviously learned a thing or two working as John McTiernan’s cinematographer on Die Hard and The Hunt for Red October. Speed’s action is never edited to the point of incoherence and scenes are given room to breathe, while the film’s visual storytelling is crisp and efficient. As a result, nothing feels rushed or wasted. Put simply, this is ’90s action filmmaking of the highest quality.

Friday Fitzhugh’s teenage years were spent solving crimes and uncovering the secrets of Kings Hill with her best friend, Lancelot Jones, aka, the world’s smartest boy. But when she returns home from college for Christmas break, their once-unbreakable friendship is now strained and difficult. That soon becomes the least of her worries, though, when supernatural forces begin moving against their strange little town. Will Friday be able to solve the mystery of the White Lady, save Kings Hill, and repair her friendship with Lancelot? Writer Ed Brubaker is arguably best known for his various hard-boiled titles with Sean Phillips (e.g., Reckless, Pulp, The Fade Out). But Friday finds him riffing on middle-grade titles like Encyclopedia Brown and Harriet the Spy with the help of Marcos Martin and Muntsa Vicente, and it’s delightful. The trio have created a fascinating and detailed world filled with mystery and nostalgia, not to mention coming-of-age melodrama, Lovecraftian monsters, arcane artifacts, secret societies, and a pair of immensely likable protagonists. Indeed, there might almost be too much going on in Friday, such that I’m not quite sure it all holds together in its final issues. Even so, Friday is filled with so much heart that it’s a joy to read (and re-read).

As its title suggests, Silver Surfer: Requiem is a somber story for one of Marvel’s noblest characters. After the Surfer discovers that he’s dying, he subsequently embarks on one last trip through the cosmos, first to his adopted home of Earth, and then to Zenn-la. But it’s also a beautiful, even moving story. J. Michael Straczynski knows that Silver Surfer comics work best when they’re pontificating, and his lofty prose leans into that in all the right ways as the Surfer ponders the joys and sorrows of existence. Requiem could’ve easily been angsty or heavy-handed were it not written so well, and with so much obvious affection for the character. Meanwhile, Esad Ribić’s lush artwork is gorgeous, imbuing Requiem’s four issues with an ethereal-ness that’s suitably elegiac and melancholy. Given that Requiem was published on the “Marvel Knights” imprint, I’m unsure of its canonicity, but it’d be a very fitting end for the Sentinel of the Spaceways.

Given that 2024 marks its 30th anniversary and a (dubious-looking) remake is on the horizon, now seemed like a perfect time to rewatch The Crow for the first time in years. I was captivated by the film as a high school senior, and though some parts haven’t aged as well as others, it remains a powerful and unique experience, especially for a superhero film. Of course, it’s impossible to separate The Crow from the tragic death of Brandon Lee, who was fatally shot by a prop gun during filming. His death haunts the film, imbuing its story (a rock star is resurrected from the dead to get vengeance on those who killed him and his fiancée) with an almost mythic power that’s further elevated by the gothic style, gloomy setting, hallucinatory visuals, and stellar soundtrack. (“Burn” is one of my favorite Cure songs.) You can tell how much the role meant to Lee; he delivers a stirring performance as Eric Draven, the avenging angel beset by doubt and sorrow. Watching it this time, though, I was struck by Ernie Hudson as the streetwise cop who becomes Draven’s confidant. I love the scene in his apartment with Draven, a moment of calm in a storm of vengeance.

I’ve never played any of the Fallout games, so I have no real attachment to their story and lore. But even with my relative ignorance, I was struck by one thought while watching Amazon’s live-action series: This is how you do a video game adaptation. (I’m looking in your general direction, Halo.) Fallout gets off to a rough start as it follows a young, idealistic woman who leaves the safety of her underground vault’s utopian society to search for her dad in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, but its dark humor, satirical edge, and incredible production design kept me going. By the second half, I was fully invested as the various threads began resolving themselves. It’s deliciously ironic that Fallout, which offers a scathing critique of capitalism and corporate greed, was produced by Amazon of all places. And as should be obvious by now, Walton Goggins makes everything better; his amoral, deeply cynical bounty hunter steals every single scene.