Seven to Eternity is worth reading if only to feast your eyes on Jerome Opeña’s lush and intricately detailed art. Rick Remender has created a fantastical world that blurs the lines between sci-fi and fantasy with its super-powered warriors, floating cities, otherworldly realms, and bizarre creatures — and Opeña’s artistry, combined with Matt Hollingsworth’s colors, are more than a match for anything Remender conjures up. (The sketchbook in this deluxe edition only further exhibits Opeña’s impressive skill and attention to detail.) Story-wise, Seven to Eternity works on several levels. In its simplest form, it’s the quest of a dying man to avenge his father and defend his family from a god-like tyrant. But over the course of seventeen issues, Remender also lays bare mankind’s proclivity for self-delusion and justification, hatred, and blind adherence to ideology. And on another level still, it explores the legacies that fathers leave for their families, both good and bad. (If you’ve read Remender’s excellent Black Science, then you know he has a thing for difficult, dysfunctional father characters.) Seven to Eternity is grim and tragic throughout, with its protagonist pushed to various moral and spiritual extremes and compromises; there were a few times when I was tempted to put it down because of the direction I thought it was heading. But Remender manages to wrap things up in a suitable and satisfying manner — though it might ruin the rest of your day.
My Cultural Diet
Ten friends, all dealing with the various trials and tribulations of adulthood, are invited to a getaway at a remote lake house by their mutual friend Walter. Everything seems perfect: the house is beyond luxurious, the lake is gorgeous, and Walter has planned a fun-filled week for everyone. But then they discover the awful truth. The rest of the world has come to a violent end, they’re the only surviving members of humanity, and their friend Walter is, in fact, a horrific alien “flesh tornado” who’s been secretly manipulating their lives and memories for years. I love the series’ premise — Tynion describes it as “The Big Chill as a sci-fi horror story” — and Álvaro Martínez Bueno’s moody artwork is consistently gorgeous. I was thoroughly engrossed, but unfortunately, the ending’s a bit underwhelming. That’s mainly because The Nice House on the Lake’s premise is so interesting and Tynion builds it up so well (with several twists and revelations thrown in for good measure) that any resolution would probably be on the unsatisfying side.
A favorite of our family’s, and one of those movies that we can watch practically anytime, it’s that smooth and stylish. Watching it this time, however, I was a bit more bothered by how Julia Roberts’ character is essentially window dressing, a pawn in the game between two men. But the film’s focus is obviously on the heist, and there it shines, as a star-studded cast — including George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, Carl Reiner, and Elliott Gould — develop an increasingly complex plan to knock over three casinos in one night. As with all heist films, it doesn’t all become clear until the very last minute. In the hands of a lesser director, the film’s “how they did it” sequence might be cheesy, even insulting to our intelligence. In the hands of Steven Soderbergh, however, they feel like a delightful surprise regardless of how many times you’ve see them.
The term “deconstruction” has become something of a four-letter word in some Christian circles, tantamount to heresy and apostasy as people reject or reinterpret the beliefs of their youth. But after watching Amazon’s Shiny Happy People, a four-part documentary on the Duggar family (of 19 Kids and Counting fame), I don’t really blame anyone who wants to deconstruct that sort of background. The series begins with the Duggars’ rise as unlikely reality TV stars as well as the bombshell that the oldest Duggar child, Josh, had sexually molested his sisters years before his family became a TV sensation. (Also discussed is father Jim Bob’s efforts to cover up Josh’s abuse.) From there, the series delves into the Institute in Basic Life Principles (IBLP), a Christian organization for which the Duggars, because of their fame, soon became chief ambassadors. Founded by Bill Gothard in the ’60s and accused of being a cult, the IBLP teaches extremely patriarchal views concerning the family and parenting — and has become embroiled in its own sex scandals. Shiny Happy People covers a lot (e.g., the Duggars’ family life, Josh Duggar’s case, the pitfalls of reality TV, IBLP’s teachings, Gothard’s own abusive behavior) and doesn’t always juggle its various themes successfully. But the extensive interviews with Duggar family members and friends, as well as former IBLP members, combined with archival IBLP footage, makes for a very compelling, and at times, horrifying watch — especially if, like my wife and I, you grew up in a conservative Christian environment. (Neither of us grew up with IBLP teachings. Nevertheless, we heard a lot of familiar language and ideas in the series’ four episodes.)
Given its premise — an interracial couple tries to repair the malfunctioning robotic child that they bought to help their adopted daughter connect with her Chinese heritage — After Yang could have easily been a maudlin, overly-dramatic “issues” film. It does touch on big issues: the challenges of transracial adoption, the fleeting nature of memory, the responsibility humans have to their technology. (Believe it or not, that last one brought to mind Ghost in the Shell.) But “subdued” and “muted” are the operative words for After Yang; there are no big cathartic “Hollywood” moments when a character (and by extension, the audience) has a big moral epiphany. At times, the film is almost too subdued, from the performances and sparse dialog to the languid pacing. (It is, however, uniformly gorgeous to watch, thanks to Benjamin Loeb’s cinematography and some luminous visual effects.) But that allows After Yang to develop a deeper emotional resonance that took me by surprise at times, and forces the viewer to really consider what happened. Back in the day, I used to run a film discussion group at my church; After Yang would be a perfect film for such a group to watch, discuss, and reflect upon.
Describing Something Is Killing the Children as a series about a highly trained young woman with special abilities who hunts down monsters will undoubtedly bring to mind Buffy the Vampire Slayer comparisons. But whereas much of Buffy’s charm lay in its willingness to embrace camp and humor, there is no such willingness here. Something Is Killing the Children is unremittingly bleak and extremely gory as the aptly (and awesomely) named Erica Slaughter travels to the small town of Archer’s Peak to confront the monster feeding on the town’s children — only to encounter paranoia, bigotry, and her own personal demons. The first three volumes contain the Archer’s Peak arc, volume four delves into Erica’s childhood and training, and volume five begins a new arc where Erica faces a powerful new monster as well as the wrath of her former allies. Between this, The Department of Truth, Justice League Dark, and his work on Batman, Tynion has become one of my favorite writers. Netflix purchased the adaptation rights to Something In Killing the Children in 2021, with Mike Flanagan first attached and then Dark’s Baran bo Odar and Jantje Friese; it’ll be interesting to see how they handle the series’ extremely graphic nature, especially where the monsters’ young victims are concerned.
Ever since finishing the Expanse series last year, I’ve been looking for something to fill up that space opera-sized hole in my life — and Shards of Earth did just that. I’ve seen Tchaikovsky’s novels at the library for awhile now, but finally decided to check this one out after seeing that his Final Architecture series had concluded earlier this year. (I didn’t want to start an unfinished series.) Shards of Earth has everything I wanted: a richly detailed universe filled with multiple alien races and offshoots of humanity; a motley crew of ne’er-do-wells eking out an existence on the edge of civilization; and a mysterious planet-destroying threat that, of course, only our motley crew seems capable of defeating. That is, if they can survive cults, corrupt politicians, alien gangsters, and their own prejudices. I particularly enjoyed Tchaikovsky’s vivid prose describing the bizarre realities of space travel, the otherworldly entities potentially lurking in the depths of space, and the effects they have on mortal minds — all of which make his universe more compelling and intriguing, and reminded me of my favorite aspects of David Zindell’s storytelling.
More than 20 years have passed since my last viewing of Dark City, but I was obsessed with it when it came out in theaters back in 1998 and it was one of the first DVDs that I ever bought — after The Matrix, of course. (Fun bit of trivia: The Matrix, which came out in 1999, actually reused some of Dark City’s sets.) Dark City is all about atmosphere in a way that I wish more genre movies were. (See also: Blade Runner.) Director Alex Proyas dials up the atmosphere to ridiculous levels, from the persistently nocturnal setting to the vintage 1950s aesthetic to the ominous, expressionistic production design — and I love it. (I’m currently reading a collection of Mister X comics, and I have to think that it was an influence alongside Terry Gilliam, Fritz Lang, and Katsuhiro Otomo.) This was my first time watching Proyas’ director’s cut, which thankfully removed the spoiler-ridden opening narration and includes some new scenes that further elaborate on our protagonist’s strange new abilities. Proyas is apparently in the process of developing a Dark City series, which I’m unsure about. This movie existing as a strange, singular gem from the late ’90s is part of what makes it so special. To delve more deeply into its fantastical world might break the spell.
This was actually my second viewing; my first was plagued by poor sound issues that made it difficult to engage with the film. Everyone lauds the Spider-Verse movies for their visuals, and rightfully so, but these movies are also a feast for the ears, and not being able to fully enjoy that aspect was a real killjoy. I think the sound issues were fixed this time around; I could finally hear Gwen Stacy’s opening monologue, anyway. Across the Spider-Verse is her film as much as it is Miles Morales’ film, exploring her own tragic arc as a Spider-Person. Visually, this film pushes way beyond its predecessor (e.g., the gorgeous abstraction of Gwen’s scenes with her father, Hobie Brown’s anarchic style, the beautiful fluttering of the plastic sheets over the Alchemax ruins, Miles and Gwen’s upside-down heart-to-heart high above New York), and it’s a testament to the animators that everything remains so fluid and coherent. Across the Spider-Verse doesn’t pack quite the same emotional heft as Into the Spider-Verse (how could it?), though I definitely teared up during Rio Morales’ speech to Miles. Nevertheless, it’s a wonderful middle film and I’m beyond anxious to see Beyond the Spider-Verse next March. (Sidenote: The most enjoyable thing about this particular viewing was hearing all of the protests at the cliffhanger ending from audience members who obviously didn’t know that a third film’s coming. My own kids were pretty gobsmacked, as was the lady sitting behind us. It was glorious.)
The widowed Mrs. Whitaker lives a perfectly ordinary life: tending her garden, having lunch with friends, going to church, collecting her pension. That all changes when she buys the Holy Grail at a local second-hand shop and a gallant knight named Galaad arrives at her door to collect it. Neil Gaiman’s Chivalry — originally published as a short story back in 1992 — is a seemingly slight tale, but like much of his storytelling, there’s more going on below the surface. It’s an obvious and good-natured riff on Arthurian legend, but it’s also a rumination on aging, death, love, grief… you know, the casual topics. It’s also filled with delightfully understated details that spark the imagination. How to explain Mrs. Whitaker’s announcement of the Grail to her friend? What is the significance of Galaad’s geas? Why is Mrs. Whitaker so talented at recognizing magical and arcane objects? Colleen Doran’s watercolors are light and dreamy, which is quite apropos for this playful-yet-bittersweet tale. (Her afterword sheds some light on both her inspiration and process for Chivalry, as well as her own love for Arthurian legend, including Howard Pyle’s classic work.)
My family watched this Disney+ original film on a whim and suffice to say, I was very pleasantly surprised. On its surface, Crater is a sci-fi coming-of-age story about a group of precocious teens who go on one last hurrah — a lunar roadtrip to visit a distant crater — before one of their number is sent off to another planet. And if that’s all that Crater was, it’d be fine enough… probably. But mix in some resonant themes about grief and family trauma; some subtext about greed and worker exploitation; an appropriately bittersweet ending; and finally, uniformly strong performances from its young cast. Suddenly, Crater becomes something quite a bit more than it might seem at first glance. You’ll have to overlook some flawed science (e.g., the variable gravity levels) and some clunky editing, but if you can do that, you might just be as pleasantly surprised as I was.
I liked the first volume of Star Wars: Visions — an anthology of shorts by the world’s best animation studios that plays fast and loose with Star Wars canon — well enough. But I enjoyed Volume Two quite a bit more. Not surprisingly, “I Am Your Mother” by the legendary Aardman studio (Wallace and Gromit, Shaun the Sheep) was enjoyable. But my favorites shorts were Studio Mir’s “Journey to the Dark Head” and Triggerfish’s “Aau’s Song.” The former is packed with stunning action and visuals, as you’d expect from the studio behind Voltron: Legendary Defender and The Legend of Korra. As for the latter, I was utterly entranced by its artistic style, which looks like stuffed animals come to life in a vividly realized CGI world. Interestingly, several of the shorts feature young children leaving their loved ones to begin their Jedi training. This is often handled in a melancholy manner that (1) reminded me of Obi-Wan’s reminiscing about his family in his live-action action series and (2) raises some questions about the morality of the Jedi Order.
I never finished Star Trek: Picard’s first season and had no interest in its second (even with Q’s return), but the prospect of the entire Enterprise-D crew returning for season three was just too much to pass up. A few quibbles aside — would people really still say “hipster” in the 25th century? — Picard’s final season was a great example of how to do nostalgia well. There were plenty of throwbacks, references, and familiar faces (e.g., Ro Laren, Moriarty, Elizabeth Shelby, Tuvok), but it all felt organic and earnest. And yes, I absolutely choked up when the Enterprise-D made her triumphant return. For my money, Riker was the season’s MVP. He brought a nice dose of humor and was critical to some of season three’s most intense emotional moments. The ebb and flow of his and Picard’s relationship was delightful to watch, and felt like a true decades-long friendship that, while full of love and respect, was not without tension. As for the season’s actual storyline, it was OK, if a little rushed. But the actual details mattered less to me than just getting to see some of my favorite TV characters back in action again.
Raiders of the Lost Ark is an action classic, and for good reason. But The Last Crusade is the Indiana Jones movie that I’ve seen the most, and if I’m honest, I might even enjoy it more than Raiders. Much of that’s due to the casting of Sean Connery as Indy’s father, and the interplay between him, Harrison Ford, Denholm Elliott, and John Rhys-Davies is consistently delightful. (Who knew Sean Connery was this funny?) The movie’s opening scene, with River Phoenix as a determined young Indy on his very first adventure, is fun (and thanks to the Utah backdrop, beautiful to watch). And of course, it’s always great to watch Indy slug it out with the Nazis. The lengthy tank battle never gets old or boring, and features the sort of thrilling stunts that you rarely see in our modern age of CGI.
I criticized the third John Wick movie for being too much of a good thing. John Wick: Chapter 4 pushes so far past the notion of “too much” as to render it pointless. Everything’s bigger here, as evidenced by the nearly 3-hour runtime (trimmed down from nearly four hours). The movie fully diverges from reality until you feel like you’re glimpsing an alternate universe. Which raises numerous questions. In a world apparently governed by an all-powerful crime syndicate that enjoys rarefied privilege and is obsessed with ritual and tradition, how do politics function? Religion? Law enforcement? (Come to think of it, Wick’s interaction with Jimmy the Cop in the first movie suddenly makes more sense now.) It’s an exhausting movie, but also a frequently beautiful one, such as when Wick is bathed in vibrant color in Osaka, Japan or strides into the gorgeously candlelit Saint-Eustache cathedral. (Cinematographer Dan Laustsen is the film’s MVP.) And of course, it’s a blast to see Keanu Reeves in motion, whether he’s wielding nunchaku, blasting away goons in an intricate overhead tracking shot, or sharing the screen with legends like Donnie Yen and Hiroyuki Sanada.
The first John Wick movie is a fairly straightforward affair: Russian gangsters kill a man’s puppy, man goes on a violent rampage of revenge against said gangsters, the end. The second John Wick movie complicates things by delving more into the lore of the Wickaverse when our favorite puppy avenger is compelled to undertake a deadly assignment now that he’s (un)officially out of retirement. This eventually brings him into conflict with the High Table, the secretive organization that oversees John Wick’s shadowy world. For the most part, this sudden expansion of Wick’s world works. I’m always a sucker for lore, especially when that lore is accompanied by lots of stylishly brutal fights set in exotic locations (like the catacombs under Rome). It’s like James Bond and SPECTRE, and takes the film into a quasi-fantastical realm.
After we finished John Wick, my son asked if it had won any Oscars. He was pretty incredulous when I said “No,” and I can’t really blame him. The first John Wick movie takes a really silly-on-paper premise — a former assassin comes out of retirement to avenge the dog that his dead wife gave him — and invests it with all possible seriousness. And style. And guns. Lots of guns. The Viggo Tarasov character is particularly interesting. He knows his son messed up and that nothing can be done to save him, but he sets out to stop Wick, anyway, because he’s a father as well as a mob boss. There’s a sense of melancholy and tragic inevitability about John Wick that elevates it more than you’d think. And of course, Keanu Reeves looks cooler than cool when he’s dispatching nameless goons in a well-tailored suit.
The most ambitious Sandman volume to date, with Neil Gaiman wrapping up several storylines from previous volumes as Morpheus is forced to finally confront his past sins and mistakes, and the impact that they’re having on his realm. It is a bit odd to read a comic series that is clearly self-contained, especially given that we live in an age of nigh-endless sequels, reboots, retcons. As a result, there’s a truly tragic and melancholy bent to Gaiman’s storyline, as Morpheus moves towards the inevitable end. But there are plenty of little details and side stories woven in, as well.
I was a bit cool on this volume at first, with its disjointed stories told by a group of travelers — some of whom are human, some of whom are not — trapped in a mysterious inn during a “reality storm.” But it really grew on me as it continued. In some ways, this volume really feels like Neil Gaiman flexing his storytelling muscles, be it a bizarre seafaring tale or a story from a death-obsessed city of morticians. Given that Morpheus, Lord of Dreams, only shows up in glorified cameos, Worlds’ End can feel particularly distant from the central Sandman mythos, but that doesn’t make it any less enjoyable.
I was inspired to re-watch RRR after “Naatu Naatu” won the Oscar for “Best Original Song” (and deservedly so). This time, however, I watched it with my wife and some of our kids — and we all loved it. Indeed, I think I liked RRR a little bit more the second time around because I watched it with others. Some movies are simply meant to be enjoyed with a crowd, and RRR is a perfect example of that. Much of my enjoyment came from seeing my family’s joyous (or incredulous) reactions to Raju and Bheem’s latest exploit — e.g., saving a kid from a fiery train wreck, wooing a pretty girl, taking on a British army whilst the disabled Raju is sitting on Bheem’s shoulders — and thinking to myself, “Just wait, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” RRR is pure, unadulterated entertainment spectacle: the action scenes are totally ridiculous in the best way possible, the melodrama is piled on miles thick, the bromance is the greatest in cinematic history, and of course, “Naatu Naatu” is an absolute banger.