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.
My Cultural Diet
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.
Max Winters is a down-on-his-luck author in 1930s New York who specializes in writing pulp stories about cowboys and outlaws in the Wild West. Unbeknownst to anyone else, though, his fanciful adventures aren’t fiction, but rather, draw from his own sordid history. Max’s downtrodden life soon takes an interesting turn, however, when an unexpected figure from his past comes asking for a favor. Despite its short length, Pulp’s storyline caught me by surprise on at least three occasions — a very good thing. I really couldn’t predict how things would turn out for Max and I stayed hooked until the final — and in hindsight, inevitable — panel. I became a fan of Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips thanks to their work on Reckless, and Pulp is more of the same: storytelling that’s hard-boiled, nostalgic, and sympathetic all at once.
My kids and I watched the first Dune movie to prep ourselves for Part Two, making this my fifth or sixth viewing of Denis Villeneuve’s adaptation. And yeah, it’s still a sci-fi masterpiece. What struck me this time around was just how beautiful the movie is, be it the production design (someday, I think I’d like to retire to the Atreides estate on Caladan) or the magnificent desert vistas of Arrakis itself. Even when the story gets a bit turgid, like Paul having his visions of a holy war sweeping across the universe, Dune: Part One still holds your interest. Indeed, it’s nigh-impossible to turn away, it’s so arresting. Also, I think that Oscar Isaac might be the film’s unsung hero. As Duke Leto Atreides, he’s honorable to a fault. His scene with Paul amongst the graves of their ancestors is one of my favorites scenes in the movie, and makes Paul’s sorrow later in the movie deeply felt and believable.
I’ve been trying to determine why I enjoy Lois McMaster Bujold’s fantasy novels so much, and I think it’s their romantic nature. Not that they’re romance novels per se — though they do certainly contain plenty of romance — but rather, Bujold’s prose is so lush and evocative. It unfurls in a poetic manner that I don’t often experience with genre novels. That said, it can also get awfully dense, so much so that the story gets lost in the mix. That’s my experience with The Hallowed Hunt, anyway. Set 250 years before The Curse of Chalion (one of my favorite novels of all time), The Hallowed Hunt begins with a murder investigation that soon evolves into something far stranger involving shamans, animal spirits, theological visions, and the lingering effects of a centuries-old religious war. I very much enjoyed the experience of reading the novel and indulging in Bujold’s writing — she pens some truly striking imagery and imaginative concepts, especially when it comes to spirituality and magical systems — but as for the story itself, I never quite felt the actual drama of the protagonists’ plight.
Quite a few years have passed since my last viewing of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, so when my daughter suggested it for our movie date night, I naturally agreed. It’s still a classic in every way, thanks to the delightful songs, Charlie Bucket’s wide-eyed sense of wonder, and of course, Gene Wilder’s perfect performance as the titular Wonka. This time around, though, I was struck by the movie’s inherently tragic nature as it depicts a child’s final moments of innocence before he becomes the ward of the world’s greatest candy maker, yes, but also a madman. (In my headcanon, the tunnel boat ride is actually a journey through the dark side of Wonka’s mind, a manifestation of all of the repressed darkness that makes his confectionary genius possible.) The film’s most chilling line comes at the very end when Wonka reveals that he picked a child to take over his candy empire because “a grown up would want to do everything his own way, not mine.” So now, poor sweet, innocent Charlie is doomed to hear all of Wonka’s “most precious candy making secrets,” thus ensuring that the cycle of madness will continue. So yeah, a classic film in every way.
As with Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, I can absolutely understand why people might love this novel. It’s got an intriguing premise (two people try to figure out how to escape a bizarre time loop), a pair of very likable protagonists, a hint of romance (as per the title), and some fun pseudo-science involving quantum physics and temporal paradoxes. I also enjoyed the novel’s overall bright tone, which feels very solarpunk-adjacent à la Becky Chambers’ Monk & Robot novellas. Alas, though I enjoyed A Quantum Love Story, I wish I had loved it more than I did. It felt like two different novels smashed together, especially once the time travel hijinks began in earnest. The actual romance felt very one-sided, which made it hard to fully buy into it. Finally, I understand why Chen glossed over some of time travel’s ethical conundrums, which would’ve bogged down his novel’s breezy story. Even so, the handwaving was occasionally irksome.
Although Jackie Chan pops up throughout the film as a bumbling cop whose zeal for justice (and roller skating) always results in hilarious havoc, Winners & Sinners is primarily a showcase for Sammo Hung (who also directed), Richard Ng, John Shum, and the rest of the Lucky Stars crew. The fellas play a group of former criminals trying to stay on the straight and narrow by starting a cleaning company, only to get mixed up in a gangster’s counterfeiting operation. The film’s broad, juvenile comedy and episodic nature wears a bit thin at times (e.g., the scene where Richard Ng’s character believes he’s invisible, with predictable results), but it’s so good-natured that you can’t really hold a grudge against it. Several scenes elicited hearty chuckles and though it’s primarily a comedy, Winners & Sinners also boasts some pretty impressive — and amusing — action and stunts. Watching a big dude like Sammo Hung throw hands (or his belly, as the case may be) is never not entertaining.
Earlier this month, I read — and thoroughly enjoyed — Atelier Sentô’s Festival of Shadows, which inspired me to track down this earlier work of theirs. Onibi follows a couple of Europeans as they travel to remote corners of Japan in search of yōkai spirits, which they hope to capture with the help of a supposedly magical camera. I didn’t enjoy Onibi as much as Festival of Shadows, but it’s still a delightful work that very much reads like a love letter to Japan and some of its more colorful inhabitants. As such, it made me want to return to Japan and explore some of those same remote corners, as well.
For better or worse, most fantasy is fairly British in nature. (Blame it on Tolkien.) What initially interested me in The Justice of Kings was that its fantasy seemed more Germanic in nature, if only in the names of people and places. But what’s most noteworthy about the novel is that, although it has some of the usual fantasy trappings (e.g., magic), it’s actually a detective story crossed with a healthy dose of legal drama. (Author Richard Swan is a lawyer in real life, which adds to the verisimilitude.) It’s well-written and engaging, particularly since it’s narrated by a young woman who serves as a scribe for an imperial agent tasked with investigating rumored cult activities, which eventually reveal a far bigger conspiracy that threatens the whole empire. The Justice of Kings is the first in a trilogy — does anyone publish one-off genre novels any more? — and though I enjoyed it, I’m not sure I enjoyed it enough to make me rush out and read the remaining books.
Given that it stars a veritable “Who’s Who” of modern action stars — e.g., Tony Jaa, Tiger Chen, Iko Uwais, Scott Adkins, Michael Jai White — it should go without saying that Jesse V. Johnson’s Triple Threat boasts some pretty impressive fights. I pressed “Rewind” on several occasions so that I could watch certain bad-ass moves again, particularly from Chen and Adkins, and I winced more than once at scenes of particularly brutal carnage. As an added bonus, Triple Threat possesses a certain gritty, DIY feel that adds to its intensity. I just wish the storyline had been a wee bit stronger. It’s promising at points, with a pair of mercenaries on the run from some other mercenaries while protecting a Chinese heiress, but got muddled whenever it tried to inject some humor or backstory into the proceedings.
Every year, residents in a remote Japanese village are tasked with helping the recently deceased come to terms with their death and move on to the afterlife. It’s a fraught and difficult job, and it becomes all the more so for Naoko — who’s already questioning her rural existence — when she develops feelings for her latest charge. At first blush, Festival of Shadows feels like a typical “girl meets ghost” paranormal romance, but it develops some intriguing twists as Naoko makes some startling discoveries about her charge — and herself. Atelier Sentô — the creative duo of Cecile Brun and Olivier Pichard — have conjured up a delightful ghost story characterized by painterly artwork and wonderfully detailed illustrations. I look forward to their next title.
I daresay that the vast majority of those who read The Mysteries, myself included, will do so because it was written by Bill Watterson, of Calvin and Hobbes fame. Indeed, if it were written by anyone else, this slight fantasy fable would probably fly under the radar. That’s not to say that it’s bad, just that it’s a very far cry from Calvin and Hobbes… sort of. If one were inclined, one could draw some parallels with those strips where Calvin and/or Hobbes critiqued modern society’s dismissal of wonder and imagination — themes that are very present in The Mysteries’ seventy pages or so. As for the artwork, which Watterson created in collaboration with caricaturist John Kascht, it’s an interesting and darkly beautiful blend of paintings, models, collage work, and whatnot that has a very tangible and physical quality to it.
To its credit, The Marvels felt like director Nia DaCosta was trying to do something different with the MCU formula. Much of that’s due to the inclusion of young Kamala Khan, aka, Ms. Marvel, who was a delight in her own series back in 2022. Khan brought some much-needed levity to the movie, which had me laughing out loud on several occasions. But at the end of the day, The Marvels is still an MCU title, which means that it’s still plagued by the franchise’s apparent lack of direction. As with most recent MCU titles, I can’t shake the feeling that the movie’s events don’t actually mean anything or are leading up to anything meaningful. And the obligatory mid-credits scene only adds to the sense that at this point, Kevin Feige et al. are just throwing random ideas at the wall to see what, if anything, sticks.