In order to better track my various cultural experiences (e.g., movies, TV shows, books, restaurants), I’ve created the Cultural Diet. Think of it as my own personal Goodreads, Letterboxd, and Yelp, all rolled into one (more info here). Every month, I recap everything that I watched, read, etc., in the previous month.

2016’s Zootopia was one of those rare movies that was far better than it had any right to be, delivering a message about diversity and tolerance that was entertaining and thoughtful rather than heavy-handed and preachy. It took almost a decade for Disney to return to the animal city, where all kinds of mammals live in harmony thanks to a complex system of environments. Zootopia 2 also tries to deliver a thoughtful message, but gets a bit muddled along the way because it can’t quite decide which thoughtful message to deliver. One moment, it seems to be indicting those members of the 1% who feel entitled and emboldened to take from those they fear and hate. (One sequence in particular seemed clearly inspired by the 1921 Tulsa race massacre, an episode in American history that still too few people know about.) The next, it’s about Judy Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin) and Nick Wilde (Jason Bateman) dealing (or not dealing) with their obvious differences and personality clashes. Either one of those stories would’ve made for a good movie, but by trying to do both, Zootopia 2 sells both of them short. The constant stream of animal puns and movie references (e.g., Babe, The Shining) don’t help either. If it sounds like I’m being too harsh on Zootopia 2, don’t worry: I still had plenty of fun watching it, but the first movie was so delightful that it set a pretty high bar for its sequel.

For his final Hong Kong action film, John Woo decided to pull out all of the stops and go for broke. But whereas previous Woo films like A Better Tomorrow and The Killer had glamorized criminals and assassins, Hard Boiled instead glamorized the city’s cops (a decision Woo made in the wake of a real-life psychopath poisoning baby food). Of course, in Woo’s action cinema universe, the cops — led by Chow Yun-fat’s Tequila — don’t care one whit about due process. But more importantly, they never, ever have to reload their guns, which comes in handy when Tequila has to take on wave after wave after wave of nameless goons, each one of which is loaded with squibs for extra bloody effect. Meanwhile, Tony Leung’s undercover cop finds his morals increasingly challenged as he infiltrates the gang of a violent gun smuggler (played with vile glee by Anthony Wong). Will Chow and Leung be forced to work from opposite sides of the law to bring down Wong’s triad boss? C’mon now, what do you think? There’s nothing but excess in Hard Boiled, be it the many gun fights — which, despite influencing countless Hollywood films like the John Wick franchise, have never been equalled — or the intense bro drama between Chow and Leung’s characters. Hard Boiled is definitely silly at times (and this time around, I was struck by just how funny it can be). But when it’s on (e.g., the warehouse shootout), few movies are this deliriously stylish and enjoyable.

I think it’s safe to say that most of us have never given a single thought to the carpet that we walk on in hotels, restaurants, airports, and other public spaces. But it’s a massive industry that affects the entire world, and a good deal of it is based in the town of Dalton, Georgia, aka the “Carpet Capital of the World.” Carpet Cowboys travels to this small city to meet with the colorful characters that drive the carpet industry. Chief among them is Roderick James, a Scottish expat, perpetual entrepreneur, and fan of all things country and western who’s always angling and hustling for his next big break, even if that means leaving his life in Dalton altogether. Unfortunately, Carpet Cowboys is hindered by a fragmented and inconsistent narrative that occasionally verges on the absurd; at times, my wife and I thought we might actually be watching a Christopher Guest-style mockumentary, which isn’t the best sign for a documentary. Carpet Cowboys is less an insightful look at the inner workings of an overlooked industry, and more akin to a tone poem that certainly awakens your curiosity but leaves it unsatisfied.

Thanks to the “Magical Minority Initiative,” Tom Token is the very first Black student to attend the hallowed halls of St. Ivory Academy of Spellcraft and Sorcery. But upon arriving, Token is immediately confronted by his fellow student’s ignorance and racism as well as the shocking possibility that he is not, in fact, the school’s first minority student. But what happened to his predecessors, and why does this mystery involve the ghosts of Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass? Harry Potter is a clear inspiration, if Voldemort and his Death Eaters were replaced by the KKK, that is. Though a fun read thanks to D.J. Kirkland’s bright, anime-inspired artwork, there are no real surprises or twists in Tom Token’s struggle against the magical academy’s systemic racism. Daniel Barnes’s story unfolds precisely as you’d expect it to, though if it encourages younger readers to learn more about Tubman, Douglass, and the Underground Railroad, then so much the better.

At first glance, George and Kathryn look like a stylish and devoted couple living a perfect life in their upscale flat. But given that both of them work in British intelligence — he’s an interrogation expert, she’s an operative — their marriage is fraught with things they simply can’t talk about or share with each other. Which would seem like a threat to a healthy marriage, but George and Kathryn make it work. That is, until some top-secret software gets leaked to the Russians and Kathryn becomes one of the prime suspects. Black Bag looks like the sort of slick, stylish thriller for mature audiences that Steven Soderbergh can direct in his sleep. But the film’s chilly tone, implausible scenarios (including a dinnertime party turned interrogation that gets increasingly preposterous as it unfolds), and icily aloof performances constantly kept me at arm’s length. Scenes obviously intended to be taut and suspenseful never once caused the needle to move on my blood pressure, and had I watched the film any later in the evening, they might have even put me to sleep. That said, I did enjoy Michael Fassbender’s performance as George, a tightly wound and always-suspicious man who’s deeply in love with a woman who could very well be a traitor.

When I was in high school and filled with Cold War anxiety, I became a fan of technothrillers like Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October and Payne Harrison’s Storming Intrepid. So when I saw a copy of Dale Brown’s Day of the Cheetah sitting in a bookstore’s “Free” box, I figured it might be a nice little nostalgia trip. As a former Air Force officer, Brown’s verisimilitude is unassailable; the very first thing you see upon opening Day of the Cheetah is an extensive glossary of military terms and vehicles, and Brown lays on the jargon nice and thick right up until the last page. The plot — a deep cover KGB agent steals a top secret Air Force fighter jet that’s enhanced with artificial intelligence and the Air Force must scramble to prevent him from delivering it to the Soviet Union — borders on sci-fi at times, and even promises to get really weird in places when Brown explores the effects of AI on his character’s psyche. However, Day of the Cheetah remains pretty fly-by-numbers, and definitely brought back some Cold War-era nostalgia, which is all I was really looking for. Unfortunately, the novel also feels like it’s about a hundred pages too long and its ending — climactic dogfight included — is surprisingly anticlimactic. Furthermore, the novel’s epilogue seems intended to lay the foundation for future novels, but at the same time, feels like Brown ran out of ideas and wanted to wrap everything up as quickly and cleanly as possible.

I’m sure that a few otaku were upset that KPop Demon Hunters beat Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba Infinity Castle for “Best Animated Motion Picture” at this year’s Golden Globes. But having seen both films, I have to say that KPop Demon Hunters is the more satisfying of the two, and not just because of its bangin’ soundtrack. Make no mistake, the new Demon Slayer feature — which is actually the first in a trilogy of films that will conclude the series — is visually stunning, thanks to a nigh-seamless blend of cel and computer animation that makes the film’s many action sequences pop and brings the titular lair to life. Based on its visuals alone, it’s no surprise that Infinity Castle smashed box office records both in Japan and abroad. But its pacing is all over the place, and the film feels less like a single, cohesive work and more like a collection of loose threads. (Note: The film takes place immediately after the events of Demon Slayer’s fourth season.) Of course, like any good shōnen title, it’s packed with battles that, if this were a normal TV season, would span several episodes as opponents call out their special attacks — Blue Silver Chaotic Afterglow! Setting Sun Transformation! — with gusto and conviction. But the film’s final act, which is supposed to be its emotional climax, slows to a crawl as the characters’ epic duel is broken up by existential crises and melodramatic breakdowns that get increasingly tedious and drawn out.

Plot-wise, Sword of Silence is close to inscrutable at times, as a black-clad figure wanders silently across a bizarre, sun-less landscape, encountering various odd and unsavory characters whilst experiencing strange, ominous visions that are somehow related to the sword he carries. Nevertheless, I remained hooked from the opening scene. Some of that was from a curious nostalgia, as Reese Cleveland’s film ably summons the ghosts of low-budget fantasy fare from the ’80s. Much of that, however, was due to the film’s unique look: Cleveland and his small group of collaborators shot Sword of Silence at night and only by the light of the full moon. (As such, it took five years and 27 full moon cycles to complete the film.) The lunar lighting, combined with the Australian landscape and some clever visual effects, imbues Sword of Silence with an otherworldly tone that’s further enhanced by the obtuse storytelling and an atmospheric dungeon synth soundtrack. I can certainly see how some might find Sword of Silence interminable, especially whenever the digital cinematography and YouTube compression conspire to render the film nigh-unwatchable. But I found it compelling and consistently fascinating, a prime example of the sort of inventive indie filmmaking that we need more of these days.

Given everything that’s going on with the U.S. right now — masked thugs disappearing and killing people in broad daylight, brazen foreign attacks, increased economic hardship for all but the most elite among us — I expected to be a bit more shaken up by North Bend’s story of a secret government project to cow the populace into submission. When DEA agent Brendan Kruge is recruited by the CIA to test a new mind control drug, he’s torn between the ethics of his mission and his patriotic duty. But Kruge’s story gets sidetracked by other stories and details that don’t dovetail very well. Furthermore, the comic’s attempts to stay grounded as opposed to embracing Department of Truth-style surrealism results in a surprisingly milquetoast story that never achieves the darkness or urgency that it’s so obviously striving towards.

Hudson Tremaine may possess seemingly supernatural luck at the casino tables in Vegas, but she’s never played a game like the Arcanos Mysterinos. There, sorcerers and demons gamble to literally reshape the world and challenge the whims of Fate itself — until Fate pushes back, that is. Hudson will need every single ounce of guile and pluck she can muster to win, or even just survive at this table. Arcana Royale has a really intriguing premise, but its hundred pages or so just barely scratch the surface of the story’s potential for magickal weirdness, especially as Hudson enters the game’s final round. Thus, the book as a whole feels rather anticlimactic. Bunn and Zamudio’s work isn’t bad, but one can’t help wondering what might’ve been had Arcana Royale been written by the likes of, say, Grant Morrison.

2022’s Prey expanded the Predator franchise into an 18th-century Native American setting, which gave the venerable sci-fi franchise some historical heft. I was a big fan of that film and thus, pretty excited for Predator: Badlands. Alas, the latest Predator film doesn’t really measure up to its predecessor; the return to a more traditional sci-fi setting has decidedly mixed results. The setup’s promising, with a young Predator (or Yautja, as they’re called in-universe) traveling to the galaxy’s most hostile planet in search of quarry that will prove his mettle to his tribe. Unfortunately, he soon crosses paths with a Weyland-Yutani android (played to bubbly extremes by Elle Fanning) who really, really loves meeting non-human lifeforms. From that point on, things just get goofy, especially when compared to Prey’s grounded intensity. If you ever wanted to see a movie in which a Predator and an android have a meet-cute, well, here you go. There’s even a cute alien critter thrown in for good measure. Things improve slightly in the film’s second half, but by then, it’s too little, too late.

I’ll be honest, I had always disregarded The Scarlet Pimpernel based on its title alone. But then I heard my wife — who, for the record, has excellent taste in books — recommend it to a friend who was looking for something enjoyable to read, and decided to finally give it a shot. Baroness Orczy’s prose is just about as florid as it gets, especially when describing Lady Blakeney’s intense emotional states, and her equally florid descriptions of the French Revolution’s cruelties make plainly evident her own pro-aristocracy sentiments. Modern readers steeped in superhero stories, which are all but unavoidable these days, will probably see every twist and reveal coming from a mile away. Indeed, Stan Lee himself claimed that The Scarlet Pimpernel, with its costumes and secret identities, was the very first superhero story. All that said, I was never not entertained by the novel’s proceedings, and it does possess a certain dashing quality that I’m sure blew readers’ minds back in 1905.

For the record, I haven’t kept up with Jackie Chan’s recent films. I think I tried watching 2023’s Hidden Strike, which also starred John Cena — emphasis on the word “tried.” Thus, I went into The Shadow’s Edge with, shall we say, lowered expectations, and was quite pleasantly surprised. Chan plays a former police officer who’s called out of retirement to train a younger generation of cops in old school surveillance after their AI-powered systems fail to capture a gang of audacious thieves. Soon enough, they’re on the track of an infamous ex-spy turned assassin (played by Tony Leung Ka-fai) who’s dealing with his own complications. Although it suffers from an occasionally convoluted plot, The Shadow’s Edge is a decent popcorn film packed with glossy, Mission: Impossible-style action and loads of melodrama. Chan is still pretty nimble for a guy in his seventies, and he still knows how to use a prop or two, though the film’s use of CGI, editing, and stunt doubles gets pretty obvious, especially whenever Chan gets into a knock down, drag out brawl. In addition to the action, The Shadow’s Edge has some genuinely affecting moments as Wong imparts some hard-earned wisdom to his young protégés, and I was honestly impressed at just how suspenseful the cat-and-mouse game between the cops and the spy would get. The film ends on a cliffhanger that totally sets up a sequel, though no official announcements have been made yet. If and when one is released, I’ll definitely be checking it out.

After an unusual alien invasion converts the vast majority of humanity into a hive mind, Earth is now at peace with everyone living in a perpetual state of bliss. Everyone, that is, except for a handful of survivors that includes romantasy author Carol Sturka, who might just be the most miserable person alive. Will she successfully resist the hive mind and return humanity back to the way it was, or will all of the shiny happy people wear her down? Make no mistake, Pluribus’s premise is fascinating and creator Vince Gilligan (Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul) poses some interesting questions. What value does individuality have in a world where the alternative means peace, contentedness, and perfect understanding? Is it worth saving your identity if that means forever being alone? Also, there’s no denying that Pluribus looks fantastic, with gorgeously framed and lensed scenes galore. (Don’t be surprised if you feel an urge to move to Albuquerque while you’re watching it.) So why the “meh” rating? Put simply, I never found Carol Sturka to be a particularly compelling protagonist. I agree with Jason Kottke when he writes, “I like plenty of shows with unlikable protagonists… but I often can’t get past stubborn & incurious ones — it just seems fake to me and breaks my willing suspension of disbelief.” She got a little better near the season’s end, but even then, she remained just this side of insufferable.

There was absolutely no way that Stranger Things’ final season was going to answer every question and solve every mystery to everyone’s satisfaction. In many ways, the series was a victim of its own success following a near-perfect first season, with the Duffer brothers expanding their mythology, introducing more and more characters, and so on. It’s easy to nitpick the fifth and final season, be it Netflix’s strange (npi) decision to chop it up into three volumes, the military side plot that wasted Linda Hamilton and ultimately felt like a non sequitur, or the ambiguous ending that’s currently igniting debates across social media. (For the record, I’d like to believe Mike’s version but it does require some pretty hefty suspension of disbelief. If you know, you know.) That said, the final season still delivered those emotional touch points that have always been my favorite part of the series, secret government conspiracies and psychic warfare notwithstanding. Stranger Things’ emphasis on friendship above all else might’ve been too earnest for its own good at times, but it was also a welcome respite from the cynicism that floods our world these days. Plus, the finale’s focus on the end of childhood and the inevitable loss that growing up and moving out into the world entails lent it a bittersweetness that, all other criticisms aside, rang true and proved quite affecting.