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.
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.
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.
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.
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’m not exactly sure how I learned about This Was Our Pact, but I’m glad I did. Written and illustrated by Ryan Andrews, it’s a delightful tale of friendship and fantasy as a group of kids go on a night-time bike ride through an increasingly strange countryside — a ride that will change some of them forever. There are some moments in This Was Our Pact — specifically, the friends’ encounters with a talking bear in search of his family’s fishing hole and a kooky witch named Madam Majestic — that feel like something out of a Miyazaki film. Which is just about the highest praise I can give. Andrews’ artwork, which is predominantly cast in shades of blue, as befitting his nocturnally set tale, are beautiful and evocative, and lead up to a final scene that perfectly encapsulates the sense of fun, wonder, and adventure that ought to define childhood friendships.
If I were to describe Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace as a Hammer horror parody set in a cursed hospital where Dr. Rick Dagless, M.D. must battle occult forces, I’d only be telling you half the story. Because it’s also a show-within-a-show about noted horror author (or “dreamweaver,” as he prefers) Garth Marenghi (played by Matthew Holness), who finally has a chance to unleash his show — aka, the most significant televisual event since Quantum Leap — on the unsuspecting public. Filled with hammy acting, stilted dialog, gloriously ’80s hairstyles, and special effects that make classic Doctor Who episodes look positively cutting edge, Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace is the Platonic ideal of a cult classic, the kind of show you either get completely or hate absolutely. I fall into the first category. Be it Marenghi’s arrogant assessment of his writing skills, Richard Ayoade and Matt Berry’s performances, or the outlandish storylines involving psychic doctors, eyeball children, and alien broccoli, all six episodes had me consistently cracking up.
I can’t remember where I first hear about Beef Wellington, but the idea’s fascinated me ever since. A delicious fillet wrapped in prosciutto and a paste of mushrooms, shallots, and various seasonings, and baked inside a delicate pastry crust? What’s not to like about that. I finally got to enjoy one courtesy of my lovely wife, and it did not disappoint. It’s a wonderful dish that just feels fancy, the perfect sort of thing for special occasions, like family holiday meals.
A detective’s latest case becomes something much more than a simple murder mystery when the victim turns out to be a god. Good thing he’s a… wait for it… cosmic detective. Even so, he may still be ill-prepared for the revelations that his investigation uncovers, revelations that could challenge everything he knows about existence. Given that Cosmic Detective was co-written by Jeff Lemire (Black Hammer, Gideon Falls), you can expect a fairly downbeat story. Although it doesn’t feature any eldritch entities, the cosmicism on display in Cosmic Detective’s pages — as rendered by David Rubin’s mind-bending artwork (which pays tribute to Jack Kirby) — is definitely Lovecraftian in spirit, and reminiscent of Caitlín R. Kiernan’s Agents of Dreamland. Interestingly enough, my church is currently studying the Book of Ecclesiastes, and Qoheleth’s existentialism actually jibes quite nicely with Lemire and Matt Kindt’s (Dept. H, MIND MGMT) story and helped me consider its themes in a new light. Even so, best to avoid Cosmic Detective unless you’re up for pondering the potential meaninglessness of existence.
After finishing Sarah Arthur’s Once a Queen and then discovering that she co-founded a festival devoted to C. S. Lewis, my first thought was, “Yep, that tracks.” And no, that’s not a slight. But Arthur’s novel — in which a girl named Eva discovers evidence that her grandmother was a queen in another world, the very same world chronicled in Eva’s favorite book — is clearly inspired by Lewis’s beloved Narnian stories. But it’s inspired in the best ways, and no mere rip-off. Arthur’s prose is often quite beautiful and even moving at times, and she weaves a story filled with delight and imagination as well as sorrow, tragedy, and heartache. (Because, as we all know, the best fairy tales often have darker, sadder undercurrents.) Once a Queen is a bit cluttered — I confess, it was occasionally difficult to keep track of all of the characters’ familial connections — and Eva’s naïveté and stubbornness is as frustrating as it is endearing (as is often the case with fourteen-year-olds). But the novel is also deeply earnest in its insistence, à la Lewis, of the importance and power of myths and fairy tales, and their ability to convey deeper truths. Perhaps the highest compliment I can give Once a Queen is that upon finishing it, I immediately began thinking of all of the youngsters who should read it when it’s released later this month, starting with my own kids. (Thanks to NetGalley for the advance review copy.)
I remember the kerfuffle that surrounded Fight Club when it was released back in 1999, with detractors calling it perverse and fascist. It was a box office powder keg, with many criticizing its darkness even as they missed the point of the darkness. An obvious issue with watching a film that was so controversial so long ago is the extent to which the ensuing years have dulled its edges or weakened its bite. Given that it’s almost 25 years old, some aspects of Fight Club do feel dated, like its MTV-esque flashiness. But its critiques of consumerism, capitalism, and advertising are perhaps even more relevant in today’s FOMO-driven and influencer-saturated world. The same could also be said concerning its depiction of Tyler Durden’s philosophy, which starts off with some valid points about modern masculinity but inevitably descends into dehumanization and nihilism. (Indeed, the film almost feels nigh-prophetic in light of the recent rise of incel culture and hucksters and cult leaders like Andrew Tate who can often seem very Tyler Durden-esque, albeit with none of Brad Pitt’s charisma or humor.) There’s the unavoidable irony of a big-budget Hollywood movie with major stars critiquing consumerism, but Fight Club has plenty on its mind that’s still worth considering, even now in 2023.
Back in the early ’90s, my friend Eric ran a bulletin board system (BBS) where I spent hours discussing music, anime, and video games with folks that I never met in real life. (It was an obvious precursor to the internet and I thought it’d be the coolest to run a BBS of my own. I never did, but I still wrote up documentation for one.) There was the thrill of connection, but also the thrill of danger and rebellion, particularly when you found documents with titles like “101 Ways to Wreak Havoc In Your School” that included instructions for all sorts of nefarious (and illegal) activities. Incredible Doom captures that sense of excitement as it follows several kids in a small podunk town who connect through a BBS, and become involved in the local DIY punk scene. But Incredible Doom isn’t just a nerdy celebration of technology; it’s also a bittersweet story of family trauma, first love, and the inevitable heartache that comes with realizing just how difficult it’ll be to hold on to your youthful idealism. I wish some of the series’ storylines had been explored a bit more fully, but if you ever spent any time on a BBS, making zines, and/or listening to punk/alternative music in the early ’90s, then I think you’ll feel like Incredible Doom was written just for you.
Reservation Dogs is usually billed as a comedy, but that doesn’t feel quite right. True, it’s frequently hilarious, albeit in a slightly skewed and often surreal way. But it’s also deeply sad as the ten episodes explore the effects of death on a closeknit community. Death of friends and loved ones, most obviously, but also the death of one’s dreams, of friendships, of innocence. Season two starts off a bit awkwardly as it tries to pick up where season one left off, but it’s also filled with delightful (and delightfully poignant) moments: Bear slowly maturing and getting a job; the reservation coming together to mourn and honor Elora’s dying grandmother; a group of middle-aged Indigenous women trying to hook up at a conference; or a couple of influencers imparting some “wisdom” to Bear, Elora, and the rest of the reservation’s youth. (I probably could’ve done without the catfish sex, though.)
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.
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.