I had only a passing familiarity with Mike Mignola’s iconic series, so when Humble Bundle offered the entire Hellboy collection for less than $20 — Seed of Destruction, Wake the Devil, The Right Hand of Doom, etc. — I jumped at the deal, and have spent the last few weeks delving into the series. Mignola has a lot of fun with the premise, weaving in all manner of mythologies and fairy tales (e.g., Irish, Arthurian, Russian, African) with wild abandon, but also in a way that feels surprisingly coherent. And the inclusion of Lovecraftian beasties and alternate WW2 history certainly doesn’t hurt, either. But what really struck me was Hellboy himself, and in particular, his dogged efforts to hold onto his humanity and avoid the fate spelled out for him. I like a good tragic hero, and Hellboy is a very good tragic hero. That said, the scene of Hell’s mightiest demons lamenting young Hellboy’s discovery of pancakes is one of the most delightful things I’ve read so far this year.
My Cultural Diet
I went into this film knowing very little about it other than it’s one of Quentin Tarantino’s favorites. And it’s easy to see why. On the surface, its story about a Vietnam vet who returns home to San Antonio and subsequently goes on a rampage after his wife and son are killed by burglars, seems like pretty straightforward exploitation fare. And make no mistake, Rolling Thunder does get a bit sleazy in places. But I was intrigued by the little details that it captured about America circa 1973, and even more so as it delves into the protagonist’s psychology as a man unable to reconnect to “normal” life after being a POW. This angle could’ve gone poorly, trivializing the POW experience, but Paul Schrader’s script and William Devane and Tommy Lee Jones’ performances pull it off. The film’s a definite slow burn leading to a bloody and inevitable, if abrupt, climax, which I found interesting, but your mileage may vary.
It’s a rare privilege to watch a TV series that’s made with so much confidence, style, and gravitas that you trust it implicitly. You just know it’ll do right by the source material, deliver a stirring and entertaining story, and look great doing so (since TV is, after all, a visual medium). Shōgun is one such series. Based on James Clavelle’s acclaimed 1975 novel, in which an ambitious English sailor shipwrecked in Japan seeks to establish an alliance with a powerful warlord, Shōgun is not light viewing by any means. Its storytelling is dense, delving into the shifting politics of 17th century Japan, the ideological and cultural conflicts between Catholics and Protestants, and the sometimes shocking requirements of placing loyalty to one’s lord and clan above all else. I’ll admit to getting a little lost amidst all of the political maneuvering and conspiracies, but I was never not intrigued, and the series was never less than gripping. Much of that was due to powerful performances from a stellar cast (e.g., Hiroyuki Sanada, Tadanobu Asano, Anna Sawai, Moeka Hoshi), not to mention impeccable production design, costuming, and cinematography that authentically imagines feudal Japan as a land of both great beauty and brutality. Come year’s end, I’m going to be hard-pressed to think of another series that achieves so much.
Why do I enjoy Tremors? The answer’s simple, really: Tremors knows precisely what it is — an action/horror comedy about a small desert town terrorized by giant underground worms — and never tries to be anything else. Yes, it’s pretty cheesy, the sort of genre film that dominated late night cable TV in the early-to-mid ’90s, but there’s not a single thing wrong with it. The practical effects still hold up after 34 years, the desert backdrop is equally gorgeous and ominous, the camerawork draws from the Sam Raimi school, and Ernest Troost’s score is delightfully bombastic. And then there are the colorful characters, starting with Kevin Bacon and Fred Ward’s down-on-their-luck handymen who are forced to become giant worm exterminators, followed by Finn Carter as the geologist who helps the town fight back and Victor Wong as an opportunistic shopowner. But Michael Gross, who had wrapped up Family Ties the year before Tremors, steals the show as conspiracy theorist and doomsday prepper Burt Gummer, who ultimately becomes the face of the entire Tremors franchise.
Once I saw the blurb by David Tibet (Current 93) on the jacket, I knew I had to check Fifty Forgotten Books out. As the title implies, R. B. Russell — who runs Tartarus Press with his partner, Rosalie Parker — reviews 50 favorite, influential, and in some cases, pretty unknown books. (Suffice to say, I’ve added several titles to my “to read” list based on Russell’s reviews.) Many of them land squarely in the genres of strange and supernatural fiction, including works by Thomas Tryon, Oliver Onions, Robert Aickman, and most notably, Arthur Machen. (Russell is never shy in expressing his love for Machen.) But more than just book reviews, Fifty Forgotten Books is also an autobiography of sorts. Russell uses his reviews to reflect on growing up a bibliophile, detail his obsessive quests in search of rare and obscure volumes, wrestle with beloved works by now-problematic authors, and perhaps best of all, reminisce about the many bookshops that he’s frequented over the years. On more than one occasion, Russell’s writings had me waxing nostalgic for Omaha’s Antiquarium, which I frequented in the mid-to-late ’90s, and remains my Platonic ideal of a bookshop.
Given that it was directed by Yuen Woo-Ping (Iron Monkey, Wing Chun, The Tai Chi Master) and stars Donnie Yen, I had high hopes for In the Line of Duty IV. Of the first four In the Line of Duty films, this installment definitely has the highest amount of martial arts, as Yen, Cynthia Khan, and Yuen Yat-Chor (the brother’s director) face off against drug dealers, corrupt cops, and even the CIA. (On a side note, the film’s storyline was obviously inspired, in part, by the Iran-Contra affair.) The martial arts action is thoroughly enjoyable, as you’d expect given the names involved. Unfortunately, as with the other In the Line of Duty titles, this one suffers from a lack of focus. Sometimes it’s a gritty crime thriller, with Yen chewing up the scenery as a hot-headed cop not above beating up his suspects, and sometimes, it revels in antics that would probably be more at home in a Jackie Chan film.
The third In the Line of Duty film is a bit of a downgrade from the first two installments, 1986’s Royal Warriors and 1985’s Yes, Madam!. This time around, a Hong Kong inspector (Cynthia Khan) must track down a pair of Japanese thieves and terrorists while also battling the sexism and bureaucracy of the Hong Kong police department. The storyline is slight — I much prefer Hiroyuki Sanada’s Japanese detective in Royal Warriors to Hiroshi Fujioka’s here — and stylistically, the film is a bit all over the place. But the action scenes are still pretty fun, highlighting Khan’s atheleticism and aerial kicking skills. It was interesting watching this so soon after the new Road House. Both films employ lots of hyperkinetic editing during their action sequences. But whereas Road House’s editing obscures the action, the Hong Kong film’s editing, though considerably rougher (and obviously free of CGI enhancements), is more entertaining and leaves you more impressed with the actors’ (and stunt performers’) abilities.
The original Road House is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a great film. But it does have plenty of personality and charisma, both of which are in very short supply in this modern remake from Amazon and director Doug Liman. Jake Gyllenhaal is largely wasted here as a former UFC fighter (with some demons in his past, natch) who’s hired as a bouncer by a bar in the Florida Keys that’s terrorized by some thugs. It’s fun to see Gyllenhaal’s character put the arrogant rich boy villain in his place, but the film’s a tonal mess. When Gyllenhaal finally switches into Hulk mode and unleashes his angry side, it’s pretty underwhelming. Ironically, given the film’s premise, the numerous fight scenes are pretty underwhelming, too; they’re edited to within an inch of their lives in an effort to make them look seamless and then “enhanced” with CGI, silly POV shots, and other pointless tricks. Give me Patrick Swayze’s haymakers and roundhouse kicks any day of the week. As for Conor McGregor, his swaggering enforcer does inject some fun into the film, but his novelty also wears off pretty quickly.
If you’ve read Liu Cixin’s Three-Body Problem, then you know that producers David Benioff, D. B. Weiss and Alexander Woo had their work cut out for them. Cixin’s ambitious novel, which stretches from China’s Cultural Revolution to the modern era, puts an intriguing spin on the “alien invasion” storyline with some pretty heady ideas (e.g., virtual reality, multi-dimensional supercomputers, quantum entanglement, orbital mechanics). As such, the novel seemed unfilmable. To their credit, Benioff, Weiss, and Woo do a decent job of capturing the novel’s ideas and weirdness. (As for the novel’s infamous “boat scene,” it was just as horrific as I expected.) I just wish 3 Body Problem had more interesting characters to go along with those ideas. With the exception of Benedict Wong’s rumpled investigator and Liam Cunningham’s manipulative secret agent, the principle cast is boring, if not annoying. The occasionally ham-fisted dialog about the power of science and the need to understand reality doesn’t do the actors any favors, but humanity seems pretty screwed if the “Oxford Five” are our only hope.
For centuries, the Tawara family has defended Japan from within the shadows. After their beloved son is killed in a mission, though, they abandon the shinobi way and fall into dysfunction. But when a new threat emerges in the form of an increasingly popular cult, can the Tawaras overcome their differences and their grief, reclaim their shinobi skills, and defend the country once again? At its best, House of Ninjas is an enjoyable series about a modern family who just happen to be deadly shadow warriors. To its detriment, though, it never quite makes up its mind whether it’s a quirky comedy or a serious drama. That, and it juggles just a few too many storyline ideas within its eight episodes. But the most frustrating thing about House of Ninjas’ first season is that it ends on a cliffhanger with lots of unresolved questions. Since Netflix has a history of canceling promising series after just one season — I see you, Lockwood & Co. — I’m not holding my breath for season two. But if it happens, I’ll definitely be watching.
When two Hong Kong cops (Michelle Yeoh, Michael Wong) and a Japanese detective (Hiroyuki Sanada) kill a couple of terrorists trying to a hijack an airliner, they land in the crosshairs of the terrorists’ comrades — with predictably dire and action-filled results. Given that premise, 1986’s Royal Warriors — the first of the In the Line of Duty films that popularized the “girls with guns” genre in the ’80s and ’90s — is a surprisingly grim movie. I say “surprisingly” because you’d never guess that from the film’s flashy style, ’80s fashion, and jazz-funk soundtrack, as well as Wong’s constant attempts to woo Yeoh even after a terrorist tries to gun them down in the most ’80s nightclub of all time. Royal Warriors is a bit of mess, tone-wise, but the action’s phenomenal. This being a “girls with guns” movie, Yeoh gets top billing, but Sanada — who, for the record, is currently killing it on Shōgun — steals every scene he’s in, playing a haunted family man pushed to the brink of revenge. I’d watch a whole ‘nother movie that was just about his character.
Seiji Yoshida’s Houses with a Story isn’t a graphic novel per se, but more like an architectural survey. Its pages are filled with floor plans and cutaway drawings of imaginary homes and buildings that are delightful, fantastical, and occasionally whimsical. The “World-Weary Astronomer’s Residence” (seen on the cover) is a monastic dwelling perched high atop a rock formation while the “Reserved Mechanic’s Cottage” makes for a pleasantly solitary life on a Montana lake. Located in the Tibetan mountains, the “Library of Lost Books” is a sprawling complex stuffed with tomes and possibly connected to another world while the humble “Clinic in the Woods” blends classic Japanese structures with Western influences. (And those are but four examples.) Yoshida draws inspiration from a variety of cultures and time periods for his designs, each of which is accompanied by lovely paintings, fun notes highlighting all manner of delightful and clever details, and a short intro to the dwellings’ inhabitants that sparks the imagination. Indeed, reading Houses with a Story left me in a constant state of “I want to go to there.”
Dragons Forever is not my favorite film starring the legendary “Three Dragons,” aka, Jackie Chan, Sammo Hung, and Yuen Biao. (That would be 1984’s Wheels on Meals.) The plot of Dragons Forever is pretty silly, as a lawyer (Chan) representing a big factory tries to prevent a local fishery from suing his client for polluting the environment. He teams up with an arms dealer (Hung) and a criminal (Biao) to discredit the fishery’s owner, only for some romance to complicate things. The comedy is pretty nonsensical, as is the romance. Of course, with Chan, Hung, and Biao on the marquee, you know the film’s action and stunts are going to be the real draw — and on that front, Dragons Forever does deliver, and then some. You just have to wade through a lot to get to the good stuff. The final fight, featuring Benny “The Jet” Urquidez as the big bad, is an all-time classic. As great as Chan and Hung are, though, Biao steals the show with his acrobatics.
Apple’s Masters of the Air is an ambitious and stirring series about the 100th Bomb Group and the dangerous missions they flew over Germany. Depicting the brutality of World War II in graphic detail, Masters of the Air doesn’t shy away from the costs paid by those men, which only highlights their bravery. In hindsight, though, it might’ve been too ambitious, trying to cram too much story into just nine episodes. Certain elements — e.g., war’s psychological toll, the Tuskegee Airmen, the dangers faced by pilots shot down behind enemy lines and those helping them, the horrors of the Holocaust — get unfortunately shortchanged and end up feeling tangential. Also, the series’ relatively large cast and steady turnover of “main” characters occasionally makes it difficult to know who to follow, or whose story is actually being told. On the one hand, that makes historical sense; the daytime bombing raids were a meat grinder and the series never diminishes the constant loss of life. On the other hand, that storytelling decision sometimes causes the series to meander — which again, makes me wish there’d been a few more episodes to give it more room to breathe. Even so, Masters of the Air remains worth watching, thanks to solid performances from Austin Butler, Callum Turner, Barry Keoghan, and Nate Mann; impressive visuals and production values; and Blake Neely’s score.
Since Amazon Prime is releasing a Road House remake later this month, it seemed like a good idea to rewatch the original 1989 film starring Patrick Swayze in all of his ’80s glory. It’s an enjoyable enough film, an example of prime ’80s cinema that’s all vibe — and feathered hair. It’s also patently ridiculous, be it Swayze’s philosophical, Tai Chi-practicing bouncer (who has a tortured past, of course), the love interest who loves him simply because he’s Patrick Swayze, or the main antagonist, a slimy tycoon played to the hilt by Ben Gazzara whose villainy is so over-the-top that it’s almost laughable. (Y’know, the sort of villain that only exists in ’80s films.) But kudos to Swayze et al. for thoroughly committing themselves to the bit. Road House is at its best when it embraces its “B” movie nature (e.g., when Swayze waxes philosophical while cleaning people’s clocks). As such, it feels wrong when the film’s blues-y soundtrack (via The Jeff Healey Band) is suddenly replaced by a surprisingly conventional-sounding score by Michael Kamen, and during the iconic “I’m gonna kill you the old-fashioned way” scene to boot.
Another day, another graphic novel from the incomparable duo that is Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips. Where the Body Was feels a bit like a minor work compared to something like The Fade Out. However, its ’80s-set tale of suburban ennui, bored housewives and illicit affairs, young romance and heartache, and — because this is Ed Brubaker we’re talking about — a shocking murder mystery that undoes everyone’s lives (for better or worse) is not without its affecting moments. Particularly when Brubaker has the characters’ older selves break the fourth wall to reflect on that tumultuous period in their lives.
My Ed Brubaker/Sean Phillips fandom continues with this journey through the seamy underbelly of post-WW2 Hollywood. The Fade Out’s story of murder, corrupt studio execs, fixers, blacklisted writers, FBI investigations, and desperate starlets is just about as noir as it gets, and thoroughly deconstructs the glitz and glamour that often surrounds our notions of “classic” Tinseltown. There are no heroes in Brubaker and Phillips’ story, just desperate and deeply flawed individuals railing against an implacable system that protects and benefits the rich and powerful. Suffice to say, The Fade Out is a bleak story, maybe even Brubaker and Phillips’ bleakest to date. But it’s executed so well that you feel compelled to keep turning the pages until you arrive at the final, despair-filled panel.
First, some quibbles. Even with its nearly 3-hour runtime, Paul Atreides’ evolution into both Muad’Dib as well as the prophesied Lisan al Gaib felt surprisingly rushed, even disjointed, as did Lady Jessica’s transformation into the conniving Reverend Mother. Heritage and Bene Gesserit training notwithstanding, I had a hard time buying Timothée Chalamet’s Paul as a messianic leader, though to his credit, Chalamet throws himself, heart and soul, into the role. Also, I’m still waiting to see a Guild Navigator. That said, we haven’t experienced epic filmmaking of this caliber since the Lord of the Rings trilogy, though this tale of galactic politics, prophecy, fanaticism, and holy war is far darker and more tragic, lingering with me long after leaving the theater. As for the film’s visuals, effects, production design, costumes, etc., I knew they’d be of the highest quality. Even so, I was still blown away by what I saw on the screen (e.g., the Harkonnen homeworld in stark black and white, Paul learning to ride a massive sandworm, the Fremen’s final assault) and of course, Hans Zimmer’s evocative score is one for the ages.
I’m not gonna lie; I checked out Dracula, Motherf**ker based on the title alone, because how could I not? This spin on the classic Dracula story moves from 19th century Vienna to Los Angeles circa 1974, where a desperate crime scene photographer finds himself trapped between the vampire lord, his ex-wives, and his new wives. Erica Henderson’s artwork is wonderfully lurid and psychedelic as befitting a ’70s vampire story, and Alex de Campi’s storyline piques the imagination and leave you wanting more — in a good way. (I also appreciated de Campi’s afterward, where she delves a bit more into the book’s feminist themes in light of Trump and Weinstein, her perspective on monsters, and the book’s anime influence.)
Unlike many of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips’ other titles, Bad Weekend isn’t a noir-ish, hard-boiled tale of the criminal underworld. Rather, it’s a prickly but heartfelt ode to another kind of underworld: the comic book industry. Hal Crane is a comic book legend. He’s also a drunk, a cynic, and something of an asshole, but he kind of has good reason to be given how publishers have treated him over the years. Which means that babysitting him during a comic book convention is going to be a lot harder than it sounds. On the one hand, Bad Weekend confirms all of your fears of how bad the comic industry can be, filled with backstabbing publishers and artists who work their fingers to the bone for pennies. On the other hand, it’s also a tribute to the art itself, and how even a bitter, manipulative jerk like Hal Crane can create something transcendent.