Deja Boo: Child's Play

Child's Play still holds up after 40 years, and is a film that is most likely still scaring children into avoiding their dolls

This movie was the one. The one that caused me to forever fear dolls. Now, is it happenstance that I was also a tomboy in the late 1980s and didn't really like them anyway? We'll never know. But I can say that this movie personally traumatized me, and it's perhaps the scariest Deja Boo I'll personally revisit this month.

Since its release in 1988, Child's Play—or less formally known as "Chucky"—has spawned a franchise of six sequels, a TV show, and a reboot. I think it's easy to forget how chilling the first movie was back when it was just a standalone film. The intervening years have sort of Flanderized the demonic doll into a evil, sardonic toy version of Deadpool. That's okay, there's clearly an audience for this sort of thing.

But when you rewatch this first film that launched everything, it's an incredibly frightening supernatural slasher that sticks with you. Like with Killer Klowns from Outer Space, I don't recall ever sitting down and watching Child's Play from beginning to end when I was a kid. It was whispered about in playgrounds, featured in the lineup in the papery-thin HBO viewing guide that came in the mail, and stacked three deep in the horror section of my local video stores. That was plenty exposure for a young Haley to say absolutely not and bid adieu to even the innocuous Teddy Ruxpin that had previously been living in my room.

There's an easy explanation to why the idea of a haunted doll terrorizes children. They're things of comfort, given to you by a loving adult. They possess an emotional safety that binds you to them. If they suddenly turn on you and at the very least cause trouble—and at the very worst threaten you—you're liable to not be believed. It's only a doll, they'd say. Stop playing, Mom would counter.

Therein lies their fear.

The plot

Chucky is a possessed doll that comes to life in Child's Play, and finds his way via happenstance to the home of young Andy and his single Mom in Chicago. Chucky is the cartoon star of a popular kid's cartoon, and Andy is obsessed—he even has Chucky's trademark blue overalls in the form of pajamas (another terrifying thing to watch given the ubiquity of Chucky in pop culture now). His mom is struggling to stay afloat, but manages to buy a stolen Chucky doll for a song from a back-alley peddler.

Chucky eventually comes to life, and begins tormenting Andy and his family. We find out that Chucky is actually possessed by the soul of a local serial killer who, upon being shot up by a cop played by Christopher Sarandon, utters a magical voodoo incantation and sends his essence into a 2-foot doll.

As a possessed doll, he's not just there for a good time. He has Andy take him via the L train to a sketchy part of town where he can take vengeance on his former accomplice. He then goes and visits his voodoo master, who tells him that he can only come back to corporeal form if he says the incantation again in front of the first human to whom he revealed he was alive. In other words, he now has to kill Andy.

Andy, his mom, and Chris Sarandon eventually figure this all out, and manage to take him out—but not until after he's been kicked, stabbed, shot, and burnt (very Rasputin of him).

What scared me then

Honestly, it was more the idea and image of Chucky that got me more than any specific scene. Seeing a red-headed doll—even if only in brief swatches—was terrifying. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. There's a reason Chucky is up there in the mononym club like Michael, Jason, and Freddie. He's mean-spirited, vulgar, and has zero problem killing men, women, and children.

I think more than the idea of him, though, was his visage. All dolls to me are unsettling, really, but Chucky is beyond the pale. He's creepy when he's the happy, harmless, smiling version of the real-life doll. But when the serial killer's soul wakes up, he contorts the doll's face into an angry, twisted sneer, and the eyes glisten with hate.

It was scary then, and it's scary now.

What scares me now

First, I want to explore what's more disturbing: If Chucky's deranged-supernatural-serial-killer-possession origin was never discussed, or the fact that it is. I think the not knowing would be more disturbing actually, because it would be more like a random act of terror. Him having the backstory somehow makes him more human, I think, so for me it's a little less scary. Now, I still wouldn't want to confront either one, of course, don't get me wrong. But random acts of violence are inherently less upsetting than a situation (no matter how far-fetched) that can be explained at least a little.

The scene where Andy's mom realizes that this stolen doll she bought for her son is truly, evilly alive, is so stark and horrifying. She's looking over the box he came in, and then—the included batteries fall out. This thing has been talking and moving by itself. All of a sudden, all the things Andy's said Chucky's been saying and doing make a lot more sense. It's alive.

Seeing Chucky amble out in the wild, even at a distance, is discomfiting. There's a scene where Andy is watching Chucky run up some outdoor stairs towards him, knowing that Chucky will try to kill him. It's a brief scene, and some may call it a throwaway, but I found it oddly scary. You see this little bright red and blue doll scurrying up steps, moving on its own volition. It's scarier, to me, than any close-up special effect, because it just seems… real. There's an urgency to it that can't be shaken.

Towards the end of the movie, after they've tried repeatedly to kill Chucky, he gets burnt to crisp, all blackened wax and sooty skin. He's alive still, and at this point, at his most physically disgusting. I think this part is especially scary because not only is he a haunted doll, which is frightening because he resembles a real child, but he's also burnt beyond recognition. No one wants to imagine a badly burnt child, but that's exactly what he resembles. It's horrific, and it compounds the fear you've been facing all movie-long to this point.

Child's Play is an upsetting movie, and I feel a little justified in being such a scaredy cat about it in my youth. I dare any parent to let their child even know this movie exists—you'd have the same situation.

POSTED BY: Haley Zapal, NoaF contributor and lawyer-turned-copywriter living in Atlanta, Georgia. A co-host of Hugo Award-winning podcast Hugo, Girl!, she posts on Instagram as @cestlahaley. She loves nautical fiction, growing corn and giving them pun names like Timothee Chalamaize, and thinking about fried chicken.

Film Review: Madoka Magica: Walpurgisnacht Rising

Superheroism is good and all, but who saves the saviors?

When we last visited the Madoka Magica universe in the Rebellion movie, our favorite relentless antivillain Homura rewrote the rules of the universe that her dear friend and savior Madoka had already rewritten. Instead of allowing a system where Madoka is a divine force awaiting all magical girls when they reach the end of their hope reserves, Homura brought Madoka down to Earth, erased her memory, and fulfilled her initial wish that Madoka should never become a magical girl. For the alien Incubators, this state of affairs is uncharted territory. Now it’s Homura who runs the show, and the Incubators don’t have a clue what to do. Where could the story go from there? We were all left wondering, an unbelievable thirteen years ago (gosh, I feel old). Well, Madoka Magica is finally back. The new movie, Walpurgisnacht Rising, once again rewrites all the rules, revealing surprising bits of the setting’s lore and highlighting the questions that have been at the core of this story since the beginning.

The axis around which this whole cosmic epic revolves is the not-entirely-healthy friendship between Homura and Madoka. As you’ll recall, all the way back in the original TV series, Homura made the wish to be the one who would protect Madoka, while Madoka made the wish to save all magical girls from succumbing to hopelessness. This created an unstable dynamic that exposes some of the problems with the very concept of heroism. In order to change a basic law of the universe, Madoka had to renounce her mortal life and become a goddess. But Homura, as Madoka’s magically designated protector, will always have some measure of power over Madoka. Some inevitable questions emerge: Is it fair that Madoka had to sacrifice her humanity? Is protection a form of domination? Is Madoka OK with saving all magical girls except herself? Did Homura have the right to drag Madoka back to life if it meant annulling Madoka’s choice?

Walpurgisnacht Rising presents us with an unexpected extra complication: It’s little use for Homura to crown herself ruler of the universe when there are forces outside of the universe that don’t answer to her. Those forces irrupt into the story since early in the movie, seeking to punish Homura for her Faustian excesses of ambition. Turns out the dead magical girls that Madoka selflessly offered to save had their own opinions on whether they wanted to be saved, which means that the bulk of the movie is spent discovering the multiple competing agendas that threaten to break apart Homura’s utopia. If you thought the ending of Rebellion was a bit too hard to follow, buckle up, because Walpurgisnacht Rising comes with no training wheels. You’re expected to remember how the story was left off thirteen years ago, and to pick up the continuation immediately. So I can’t recommend watching this movie as your first taste of Madoka Magica; you’d end up hopelessly confused. Go back for a couple days. It’s just three prior movies (or a TV season plus a movie, if you prefer). You’ve had all these years to catch up. This movie has massive loads of plot to tell and no time to ease the viewer in.

Among the reforms that Homura has made to the universe, we learn of a new way of fighting evil spirits. She no longer lets the Incubators recruit new magical girls; instead, she grants temporary powers to a random girl, valid for one fight, and afterward erases her memory of it. That way there’s always some heroine available to defend humanity, but without the cost of losing a girl’s soul. The Incubators are understandably not happy with this arrangement, because now they can’t collect the emotional energy they came to Earth for. This new way of doing things goes on nicely until three unknown magical girls show up out of nowhere and start blocking Homura’s attempts to keep distributing powers. Each of these new girls comes with her own plan for how to re-re-reform the magical girl system. From this point on, it gets somewhat dizzying to keep track of who is a villain according to whom, but let me try to summarize.

First, as you may have guessed from the movie’s title, we’re shown the backstory of the super-mega-witch on steroids that Madoka defeated in the TV series: the dreaded Walpurgisnacht. We learn what kind of magical girl she used to be, why she turned into a witch, how she got so inconceivably strong, and what she has to do with the present plot. Since Madoka was the only magical girl with enough power to defeat Walpurgisnacht on her own, there’s someone who reasons that forcing Madoka to become a witch would release immense amounts of energy, helping the Incubators’ mission to delay entropy and keep the universe running. This subplot is rather brief, but it poses interesting questions about what it means to be a self-sacrificing hero. Lastly, we get to the central conundrum of the entire series: Will Homura allow Madoka to fulfill her cosmic role? One of the many revelations of this movie is that, in the same way that neither Homura’s method with temporary powers nor Madoka’s Law of the Cycle is the original way things were, the same is true of witches. Long ago, it used to be the case that magical girls experienced an arguably worse fate than becoming witches. Someone made an altruistic wish to fix that, and the result was that witches came into existence. Such a drastic retcon demands an explanation for how Incubators collected energy under the former rules, but this isn’t too significant for the dramatic effect of the story.

What matters about this retcon is that it goes back to the same theme we’ve seen before with Madoka and Homura, i.e. the idea that coming up with a perfect solution to help others necessarily takes away something from you. The karmic balance in the Madoka Magica series operates by a ruthless transactional logic. To save others, you have to lose yourself. To save you, someone else has to get lost. This unbreakable tradeoff underlies the fundamental tragedy of being a magical girl. It’s a clever bit of dramatic irony that an Incubator isn’t a monkey’s paw; it doesn’t twist your wishes to screw you over a technicality. No, what happens is even more heartbreaking: the Incubator gives you your wish exactly the way you wanted it, and even then it doesn’t suffice to make you happy. In the earlier movies, Madoka’s big gamble to fix everything, followed by Homura’s big gamble to fix everything, only redistributed the weights of the problem instead of getting rid of it. In a universe where emotions follow the math of thermodynamics, some bit of happiness must by necessity be lost in every transaction.

I’m not sure I came out of the theater with a full idea of what exactly happens at the end of Walpurgisnacht Rising. The more we progress along the story, the more surreal the battle becomes, and at least to me it wasn’t clear who managed to save whom. But I don’t mind being confused when the artistry on screen is so absolutely breathtaking. The animation in Madoka Magica has always distinguished itself by a unique aesthetic that combines digital composition with physical collage to produce an incomparable atmosphere of weirdness. This new movie pushes its own style to even higher standards of visual experimentation. Don’t worry too much if you get lost in the plot. Relax in your seat and enjoy the marvelous look of this masterpiece of animation.

(And if you somehow figure out what on Earth that ending was about, please tell me. I still want to know.)

Nerd Coefficient: 10/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Book Review: This Is Where The Future Bleeds by Mike Brooks

 Quality fantasy romp with a side of anti-capitalist fury

Mike Brooks is a writer that rarely disappoints. He's one of the most consistently solid writers of Warhammer: 40,000 fiction for The Black Library. He's written hugely entertaining caper-tinged space opera in the form of the Keiko series. And his Godking Chronicles trilogy was one of the very best epic fantasies of recent years. That record of consistency is happily continued here with This Is Where The Future Bleeds; a funny, entertaining standalone romp that's also a pretty effective satire of late-stage capitalism and its response to climate change.

The novel is set in a world where time has literally been stabbed: a god tried to murder the future and only partially succeeded. On the moor where the assault happened, time is frozen and the wound where the future was stabbed drips crystallised destinies as it bleeds. Hold a destiny and concentrate on it and you absorb the future it contains. The rest of the world (a reasonably standard fantasy secondary world which is dominated by humans but also has other sentient races) continues on relatively normally for centuries after the attempted temporal murder, except a new and lucrative trade in destinies has sprung up. Diviners, protected from the frozen moment by chronomancy and dodging the risk of rather nasty temporal monsters, lead expeditions to find raw destinies on the high moor. Soothsayers read the destiny and understand what future it promises. And, of course, brokers sell the destinies to the highest bidders.

The story opens in media res with our protagonist (and diviner), Kitt Carver, mid-expedition, looking for a lucrative destiny to sell to her broker. The dangers of the moor and her profession are quickly established: Kitt finds a destiny but is then immediately attacked by the temporal monsters mentioned above. She miraculously escapes that attack but runs into another after she comes down off the moor, by a street gang with violent moral objections to the destinies trade. Negotiating her way out of that leaves her alive but destiny-less. Just as she is coming out of her funk at that loss of income, Kitt discovers her broker has been murdered and is herself assaulted in the street. It quickly becomes clear that someone powerful has an issue with one of the destinies Kitt has recently sold, and the people who bought it are likely in danger. Thus begins a headlong dash to warn the buyers, that kicks off the plot in earnest.

This book is, before anything else, a boatload of fun. There is good quality action sequences, appealingly shitty villains, and a likeable main cast that is nevertheless not remotely perfect. The tone is irreverent and amusing without descending into Whedonesque quippyness where the snark is a barrier between the reader and the characters. There are well placed, effective jokes that I'm sure will nevertheless irritate some readers. Brooks winks at the fourth wall without quite breaking it, drawing on pop culture references that are funny now but may well date quite badly. One of my favourites is an early reference to a character named “Definitely Human Dirk Hamley, whose nickname tended to prompt questions already answered by his nickname.” This clear reference to the "My ‘Not involved in human trafficking’ T-shirt has people asking a lot of questions already answered by my shirt” meme of the past decade may well break immersion for some readers, but for two reasons, I don't object to this and other jokes like it throughout the book. First, it actually made me laugh. Second—and perhaps more generalisable—the reference to the real world reinforces that the destinies trade in the book is a pretty clear satire of the fossil fuel industry, specifically the capitalist political economy more generally in ours.

Destinies are valued based on how appealing or useful the future they will push their holders towards are. So the poor can't afford any beneficial destinies at all, the middle class are limited to extremely moderate helpful ones, and the rich can buy huge, positive destinies that significantly tilt the future in their favour, allowing them to get richer, buy more destinies, and tip the scales even more towards them. They are literally buying the futures of others to benefit themselves and entrench their privilege. The reference to extractive capitalism is already clear, but becomes moreso when a number of doomsday warnings from seers appear—perhaps the future is not just bleeding but bleeding out. The future potentially dying is of course a problem for everyone, but those that benefit from the status quo both downplay the risk and suggest that, even if it is happening, there's nothing we can do about it, so might as well enjoy their privilege while they can. Those at the top of this pyramid are treated with pretty uncomplicated contempt by the narrative, but it also makes the point that there are a lot of people involved in the trade whose day-to-day lives depend on it and who are just making a living rather than getting rich. It doesn't excuse their complacency, but I think Brooks does understand it: inertia is a hell of a thing to shift if those with the most power are unwilling to contribute.

This level of reasonably on-the-nose satire only works because, as mentioned above, the whole thing is a lot of fun and the cast is appealing. Kitt, the main character, is a slightly reluctant hero. Decent and hardworking, but also out primarily for herself and her friends rather than actively trying to save the world. Her old friend, Derna, is menacing and potentially positioned as an antagonist, but as the narrative goes on, it's clear there's more going on than that. Yes, she is dangerous and remains so, but it's slowly revealed that she is clearly neurodiverse and holds a reliable moral compass and lack of nuance that make neurotypical folks uncomfortable, which is where at least part of the sense of menace comes from. The rest of the support cast is well drawn, with the partial exception of a drunk seer that falls a bit flat. I get what the point of the character is for, and it's not badly written—a seer driven mad by thousands of voices of the fractured future instead of just the one a healthy timeline would have—but it's the closest the book comes to fantasy cliché and I'm not sure it quite works as intended.

The setting is also, in a low key way, extremely queer. Kitt and Derna are both bisexual; Kitt's sibling is enby; there's a binary trans character later in the book. All this is entirely taken in stride by the setting and its characters (including the unsympathetic ones). A number of axes of oppression are explored in the book, but sexuality and gender identity aren't: it's just not a big deal. I do like that we can be presented with a queernorm world that's not remotely cozy and is in fact quite crappy in a lot of other ways; queernorm doesn't have to (and shouldn't) always mean utopia.

Put all this together and you have a very good quality fantasy romp that has rather more to say than might appear on the surface. This Is Where The Future Bleeds won't change the world, but it might make you want to.

Highlights:

• A fun and funny standalone fantasy
• Queernorm without being cozy
• Effective satire of capitalism and climate inertia

Nerd coefficient: 7/10.

Reference: Brooks, Mike. This Is Where The Future Bleeds [Titan, 2026].

POSTED BY: Eddie Clark. Professional nerd by day, amateur nerd by night. @dreddieclark.bsky.social 

Anime Review: Witch Hat Atelier

Children, magic, intrigue, and gorgeous animation in this coming of age adventure.

A girl on a quest to save her mother tries to unlock the secret power hidden deep inside her, but to do so she must be instructed by an unassuming magic teacher with an agenda of his own. The set up seems familiar, the story feels traditional. But, in Witch Hat Atelier the characters are intriguing and the animation is gorgeous. The tone of the show is a gentle complement to Frieren; Beyond Journey’s End. Even the English voice acting offers a nice change of pace with a range of accents and a subtly in the delivery that draws viewers in. This, along with the stylish character design and gorgeous background art make the soft vibes and periodic peril worth watching. The idea of cozy fantasy evokes storytelling that is focused more on quiet human interactions rather than the (also present) big magic battles. Witch Hat Atelier is that kind of friendship-focused story. 

Young Coco is a little girl who lives an ordinary life with her seamstress mother in a rural medieval-like village. In Coco’s world, witches are special magic experts who are able to help the rest of humanity with their supernatural skills. In most versions of witches, wizards, and mages magic is an innate skill that must be trained in the few who possess it. But in Witch Hat Atelier, there is a very big secret about magic, it’s based on drawing specific sigils and runes and, therefore theoretically anyone can do it. To keep magic from being abused, this truth is a closely guarded secret and any untrained people who stumble upon it get their memories erased. When the charming quirky witch Qifrey comes to visit Coco’s town an unknown spirit gives her a forbidden magic book that lets her in on the secret. Since she’s always desperately dreamed of being a witch she can’t help but test out the strange drawings in the book. But disaster strikes when her spell turns her mother into stone. Although protocol demands that Coco’s memories be erased, Qifrey has pity on her and decides to take in the now orphaned girl to teach her how to become a proper witch. Coco hopes that she can learn enough magic to break the spell on her mother and Qifrey hopes he can use Coco to find the evil “brimmed cap” witch who lured the child with forbidden magic. Qifrey takes Coco to his cozy but isolated atelier where Coco meets his other young students, the aloof Agott, friendly Tetia, and uptight Richeh. They are later joined by Qifrey’s magic instructor friend Olruggio. Coco struggles to keep up with the more experienced students and the group is periodically targeted by the evil witch league known as the Brimmed Caps who have an attachment to old, forbidden magic. The repeated presence of the Brimmed Caps or elements of forbidden magic lead the local magic law enforcement to suspect that Coco may be in league with the Brimmed Caps. But as the story progresses, viewers discover that Qifrey has a secret agenda of his own.

Witch Hat Atelier is distinctive for both its art style and its focus on children. Many anime adventures involve children who are somewhere in adolescence, at least in middle school or all the way to older teens. In Witch Hat Atelier the four girls are distinctly young, grade school age, although the medieval style setting makes the usual societal reference points less clear. The children are physically small, emotionally immature, and quite vulnerable despite their fledgling magical abilities. Having four little girls without a mother figure is an interesting choice that inherently creates its own baseline tension even as the larger adventures appear. There are male adults in the primary and supporting cast but there are almost no adult women characters other than the friendly mentor Alaira (who appears very briefly early and returns in the final episode) and there is a brief interaction with a nurse when Coco gets sick. The intrigue escalates as we learn more about the girls’ teacher, the charming and kind young man Qifrey. At first glance Qifrey seems older or age-ambiguous due to his white hair and spectacles, however it is quickly clear that he is a relatively young adult. The truth about Qifrey is also an intriguing mystery. He repeatedly demonstrates genuine concern for the well-being of his four little students, especially the new and naïve Coco. However, he intentionally keeps his children separate from the main, central atelier institution, and he engages in enough questionable behavior to make viewers wonder what exactly is going on with him. 

Despite the intrigue with him, the focus of the story is on the children, and on Coco in particular. If you don’t like little kids, especially sheltered naïve kids making poor choices, this may not be the right show for you. But the pacing is thoughtful and the vibe is reminiscent of a less murder-y Frieren or like a G-rated version of The Apothecary Diaries. Coco, as the main character, is sweet, gentle, good-hearted, and brave. But she is also naïve and careless in a way that may be age appropriate but is still frustrating to watch. Each of the children fit a particular personality extreme. Agott is the grouchy, aloof, loner. Richeh is kind, but uptight and oppositionally defiant. Tetia is the friendly, sensible, diplomatic, pleaser. Coco is the wide-eyed, brave, but naive optimist. Fortunately, her naïve sweetness is balanced by her significant cleverness and her insight into the feelings of others. A major part of her appeal is her effect on the other characters. Like Tohru in Fruits Basket, Coco is a child who, despite losing everything, is able to care deeply for others and help them make meaningful improvements in their world view. Coco and the grouchy Agott have a major character arc in the first season. However, my favorite interaction is Coco’s friendship with the young apothecary boy Tartah. The two of them are adorable in their childhood vulnerability and their mutual kindness to and inspiration of each other. Tartah is a particularly great side character who manages to be calm, practical, and insightful. He quietly observes much of what is going on when things are about to fall apart. And he is also the only character who catches on to Qifrey’s suspicious behavior but, nevertheless, is measured in his approach to investigating it. 

Despite the presence of adults in the story, the adventure is primarily from the point of view of the children and the tone is that of a coming of age adventure. Unfortunately, the first season of Witch Hat Atelier ends on quite a bit of a cliff-hanger that will have the anime-only viewers hurrying to grab a copy of the manga to see how things turn out. I did and it was quite worth it.

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Highlights:

• Cozy, kid focused content
• Gorgeous animation and character design
• Balance of cuteness and tension

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Film Review: Mother Mary

A song is a prayer is a spell is a confession is an exorcism is a spectacle is a revelation is a birth

From time to time, horror writer Gabino Iglesias reposts this litany on his Bluesky profile:

Many people have a book in them,
but it takes a special kind of freak to leave the Land of Laziness,
cross the Plains of Procrastination and Insecurity Mountain,
find the Blade of No One Made You Do This,
and use it to cut your chest open and yank that book out.

Such is the view of art that permeates David Lowery’s film Mother Mary. The story sounds deceptively simple: Mary, a dance/pop diva in the middle of a creative crisis, returns to the workshop of her former costume designer, Sam, to apologize for breaking their professional partnership and beg for a new dress. Most of the film consists of this single conversation, like a one-act play that reveals entire inner lives as the two lead characters tear down their barriers and take off their veils. Within the space of a small interpersonal drama of wounded trust and unspeakable regrets, Mother Mary weaves its statement about what it takes to produce any genuine art.

Anne Hathaway’s performance as Mary, which includes providing her own voice for all the songs, balances, on one hand, an irresistible scenic presence capable of commanding the adoration of masses of fans (her character is presented as a world-class star on the level of Lady Gaga or Beyoncé), and on the other hand, when she’s off stage, a consuming sorrow that overwhelms her words and movements. Both facets of this character convey the same vulnerability, but it’s fascinating to see how differently she expresses it before a full stadium versus in private conversation with her artistic collaborator. Sam, as played by Michaela Coel, is like a bird with a broken wing, but a bird of prey with eyes that miss nothing and a deadly beak. She takes delight in the return of her muse, but can’t just shake off the years of hurt. This creation is going to be personally costly for both of them.

I often say on this blog that the best stories are those about stories. Mother Mary is something very close: art about art—barely a story, more a portrait that’s being painted as you watch. The emotional bond between Mary and Sam is kept tight, on the verge of snapping, under looks of compassion that shoot daggers and poisoned recriminations coated with sweetness. Mother Mary isn’t trying to convince you that artistic creation has to hurt; it just assumes that it already does. So it’s fitting that Mary shows up on a Thursday to request a dress for the Sunday: the exact timeframe for a full Via Crucis and resurrection.

In a film like this, filled to the brim with Catholic imagery, the fashion designer’s name, Sam Anselm, has to be read as an allusion to the 11th-century Burgundian monk and philosopher St. Anselm, whose method of theology put faith before reason: in his system, you first assent to the revealed truth and then seek to understand it. That’s how you’re meant to experience a film like Mother Mary. It defies logical analysis unless you first accept it on its terms. Instead of arguing for a point, what it’s doing is push out a raw feeling through a scream drowned in sobs.

The connections between the religious experience and the mass ecstasy of pop music have been noticed since before “Madonna” became a stage name. In keeping with the theme of death coming before resurrection, Mother Mary links the act of creation to a demand for bloody sacrifice, an interchange of equally sincere love and hate (think Black Swan, Farinelli, Amadeus). This pain is physically inscribed on the two protagonists: when she’s not performing, Mary is shown with plain, shoulder-length hair, evoking the image of a suffering Jesus, while Sam wears her hair in rigid, pointed locks, arranged like a crown of thorns. The turning point of clarity, when the nature and shape of the new dress is revealed, arrives by a succession of stigmata, confession, forgiveness, and angelic visitation. The film opens with a song about a burial and closes with a song about a cradle, in a moment marked visually on the screen by a line that literally goes full circle.

But then, the end credits conclude with a puzzling statement: a shot of a human skull on a shelf, a common motif in Western painting that retroactively casts the whole film as a vanitas piece. The traditional function of this motif is to remind the viewer that eternity outweighs worldly pursuits, and ultimately anything we build here turns to dust. And yet, Mother Mary exists. It’s a complete experience of rhythmic beats and color and dance moves and ritual and brightness, as if defying the verdict of time. All is dust, but some of that dust is glitter.

To the extent that Mother Mary is articulating someting, as opposed to inviting you to feel it, its verbalizable content is dressed in swirling, uncut drapes of black and crimson. Image here is paramount, which makes it easy for viewers more inclined toward tangible substance to dismiss this film as too enamored with its own aesthetic. Meanwhile, in the real world, Madonna has just released a new album, Confessions II, whose third song, “One Step Away,” contains this spoken monologue:

People think that dance music is superficial. But they’ve got it all wrong.
The dance floor is not just a place. It’s a threshold,
a ritualistic space where movement replaces language.

So go into Mother Mary as you go into a holy ceremony. You have my blessing.

Nerd Coefficient: 9/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Film Review: Masters of the Universe (2026)

Lighthearted nostalgic adventure that doesn't take itself too seriously

Saturday mornings in the ‘80s were a sacred time for fantasy loving kids, a time when they could indulge in a range of fantastical animated adventures. Some cartoons were available in the after school hours as well. Long before cable gave us 24-hour kids and cartoon channels, and before streaming services gave us on-demand access to thousands of superhero shows, weekend and after school cartoons were the primary gateway to adventure. Among the curated selection of kids cartoons was He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. The series, based on an existing toy brand, gave kids the animated version of action figures from Mattel’s Masters of the Universe collection. In full disclosure, I will note that I am not a He-Man (or spinoff She-Ra) superfan, although I watched some of both original shows in their original runs and have sometimes watched other iterations of the series, including Netflix’s She-Ra reboot. I mention this because the 2026 Masters of the Universe feels very intentionally grounded in that original sense of childhood nostalgia. Depending on your perspective, you may find this a joyous relief or an irritation. For me, despite the film’s many shortcomings, I mostly found it to be the former: a fun, optimistic surprise in a sea of otherwise perfectly appropriate and timely cinema bleakness and intensity.

In the 2026 adventure, Adam is the young prince of Eternia, a magical kingdom with talking animals and sorcerers. He is small for his age and hesitant to fight. As a result, he is pushed around by the other kids in their weapons training sessions and looked down on by his father the king. Despite this, he is friends with his strong friend Teela and is encouraged by his teacher, Teela’s dad, the head soldier Duncan. Adam’s home is Castle Grayskull, home to a sacred sword of power and protected by a mage known as the Sorceress. When the evil sorcerer Skeletor and his partner Evil-Lyn attack the castle, the king’s forces are overwhelmed. The queen, who is from Earth, is forced to send Adam and the sword to safety through a portal to Earth. But in the fall to Earth, Adam loses the sword. Suddenly (one time skip later), fifteen years have passed and Adam is going on Tinder dates and working in HR in Oklahoma City. Despite his average life, he is obsessed with memories of his home planet (although no one believes him) and is determined to regain his lost sword. When he finally finds it, it triggers an attack by a fantastical creature, which leads to a rescue by his now grown-up friend Teela, who takes him back to Eternia. Adam must use the sword and his own inner strength to rescue his parents, free his people, and retake his kingdom from Skeletor.

The major strength of this film is the lead actors. Nicholas Galitzine is believable and enjoyable as a likeable but insecure everyman who knows he’s destined for more than the drudgery of his day job. Camila Mendes, who did several seasons as Veronica in Riverdale, is excellent as the no-nonsense, sharp, grown-up-in-the-room in all of the scenes. Idris Elba is, as always, perfect as Duncan, who ranges from tough teacher to substitute father figure to defeated and depressed drunk to fierce soldier. Kristen Wiig is also funny as Duncan’s sarcastic robot companion. There is even a Dolph Lundgren cameo, where the former He-Man actor gives Nicholas Galitzine some cryptic advice about the way to be a hero.

There are many funny moments in this film, including the opening scene where Adam is telling his complicated life story to his eyerolling blind date. Although not all of the jokes hit, the story is, for the most part, amusing and very kid-friendly. Unlike other superhero live-action films, Masters of the Universe opts for comedy and camp as its primary tone. The choice is a bit unexpected in this age of edgy superhero interpretations that are either grim or cynical. Masters of the Universe is closer to the tone of the Barbie movie or the live-action One Piece series. But it opts out of Barbie’s cerebral social commentary sarcasm or One Piece’s balance of outrageousness and grim intensity. It’s most similar in tone to the 2017 live-action Power Rangers, a film that tried to balance a modern, edgy aesthetic with classic, campy, kids show nostalgia. Power Rangers was a film that started off edgy/cool in the first half and then jarringly dove into campy kids nerdiness in the second half. However, Masters of the Universe has a clear target audience and vibe in mind, and stays consistent in its tone of lightness, kid-friendly playfulness and self-aware nostalgia.

In fact, the film is very self-aware of its campy nostalgia. Adam reps the old Prince Adam outfit by wearing a pink button-down shirt and jeans in his non-He-Man scenes. He repeatedly acknowledges the goofiness of some of the things he says or does, admitting that many of his choices are based on a child’s worldview and childhood memories he wants to reconnect with. Although he is an adult, it is clear he is emotionally stuck in his childhood trauma, loss, and insecurity. In the original He-Man animated series, Adam’s fearful or lackadaisical attitude was an artificial cover for his alternate identity. In Masters of the Universe, he has genuine hesitation and insecurities. And when he transforms, everyone around him knows he’s the same person with the same insecurities. This evolution of the premise is an asset to the story, to humanize both him and his connection to his friends. And it avoids the always annoying trope of close friends not noticing that the hero and their clearly identical alter ego are the same person.

However, despite the appeal of the story and the fun tone, there are some elements of the film that are confusing. Given the intentional and thoughtful characterization of Adam, it’s odd to leave out any reference to his childhood upbringing on Earth. He talks about life on Eternia as if it is the only thing he knows. In other lost prince/princess stories, we get at least a quick explanation of their survival. Superman was adopted by the Kents; Emma from Once Upon a Time was raised in foster homes in the U.S. The absence of even a passing explanation for his survival was a distracting plot omission that felt like a missed opportunity to give this Oklahoman Adam some personal context. His bestie and roommate Hussein is a likeable but underused character who mostly disappears from the plot without an opportunity to get to know about his connection to Adam. Another strange choice is an extended detour into Adam’s day job at a human relations company where his obsession with swords gets him in trouble. There is a particularly protracted scene of his boss (an excellent Sasheer Zamata) lecturing him on sensitivity in a way that paints her as a semi-villain (she seems almost like a corporate counterpart to Evil-Lyn), and the scene is clearly meant to mock corporate sensitivity lingo. The fact that a consent joke is twice used as a derisive punchline is another strange choice. Later in a crucial moment on Eternia, Adam initially opts for negotiation and empathy when everyone wants him to fight, but he is soon forced to abandon that approach in favor of fighting. This throughline is a confusing theme in a film that is otherwise fun, optimistic, and likeable.

Like many films lately, Masters of the Universe is at least thirty minutes too long, especially for something that is primarily a comedy adventure. It is a film that has plenty of kid-friendly content and doesn’t take itself too seriously. The very last scenes and the first post-credits scene emphasize this lightheartedness with a big homage to the original 1980s cartoon in its final send-off. Although it deals with themes of empathy versus aggression and self-confidence versus insecurity, the overall story is mainly a fun reminder of childhood imagination and adventure. Depending on your mood, that may be just what you need.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10.

Highlights:

• Self-aware nostalgia
• Solid acting
• Kid-friendly content and humor

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Anime Review: Frieren: Beyond Journey's End, Season Two

Cozy magic vibes and big battles in an entertaining but short season of comfort storytelling

Frieren: Beyond Journey’s End, Season Two continues the story of Frieren, a centuries old, apathetic, eternally youthful, and fiercely powerful elf mage, who begins her next adventure decades after completing a ten-year heroic quest with three teammates whose friendship she didn’t fully appreciate until they were gone. Season One offered a unique style of storytelling featuring a seemingly indifferent protagonist who gradually realizes the value of her past life lessons and her relationships. The combination of poignant growth balanced with fierce battles for survival set the stage for the next level of emotional wisdom and physical strength. This defines Season Two as Frieren’s party journeys to the dangerous Northern Lands. However, with only ten episodes, Season Two is so short that it almost feels like a side quest compared to the twenty-three segments in Season One. The decision seemed to be to adapt the next shorter portion of the manga without venturing into longer story arcs that would end the anime season on a cliff-hanger. Despite the short offering, Season Two has a meaningful tale about the value of protecting one’s community and showcases both Fern and Stark’s substantial growth in strength and emotional maturity compared to the first season. We also see Frieren’s quiet evolution from being socially indifferent to profoundly compassionate after learning the meaning of her past experiences and allowing Fern and Stark form a found family with her.

At the start of Season One, Frieren was wandering aimlessly through life after being a member of the world-famous party of heroes who defeated the oppressive demon king. The group consisted of the heroic and optimistic young leader Himmel; the quirky and kind priest Heiter; and the strong, reliable dwarf warrior Eisen. Years later she is deeply moved by Himmel and Heiter’s deaths, suddenly realizing the connections she had taken for granted. Before dying, the old priest Heiter asked Frieren to mentor Fern a magically gifted orphan girl he had sheltered. Later, the long-lived Eisen, the dwarf warrior, gave Frieren his apprentice, a strong but insecure teenaged boy named Stark. The new trio dealt with a range obstacles throughout their journey, including magical fights, political intrigue, and Fern’s intense journey to be certified as a first class mage. Season One had plenty of spectacular fight scenes but was memorable for its big and small emotional moments between the living and the dead characters. Many key moments were shared in flashback.

Season Two begins with Fern and Stark following Frieren on her journey through the Northern Lands to fulfill a spiritual connection. The emotional dynamic is more settled in Season Two. Instead of being surprised by her memories of Himmel, Frieren openly embraces her connection with him and accepts the changes in herself inspired by her interactions with him and with others whom she belatedly appreciates. Season One ended with Fern earning the rank of a rare first class mage after a fierce competition. In Season Two, on their journey north, Fern, Frieren, and Stark, reconnect with acquaintances from the mage exam and soon find themselves in a fight for their lives and for the protection of the decimated village of their stoic ally, the powerful mage Genau. Instead of creating a major shift in the tone of the story, Season Two confirms Frieren as comfort anime that offers moments of intense action but solidly focuses on character, relationship, and small acts of morality in a cruel world.

In an early episode, Fern’s party takes a job cleaning a statue of the “Hero of the South,” who Stark is surprised to learn is not Himmel. Statues of Himmel appear in random towns along their journey but the story gives a reminder that the famous heroes in history are supported by many others who are forgotten. In the middle of the season, Fern and Stark finally go on a date with mixed results. The big climax of the season is the team aiding top mages Grenau and Methode in a terrifying battle against the mega-demon Revolte. In addition to some emotional flashbacks for the very unemotional Grenau, we get to see the boys, Grenau and Stark team up against the terrifying Revolte, while Frieren, Fern, and the always calm Methode tackle a mega demon of their own.

Despite Frieren’s growing emotional awareness, she retains her pragmatism and her life-saving cynicism. This keeps the story from drifting into over-sentimentality. Similarly, Fern imitates Frieren’s calm and practical tone even when it comes to Stark to whom she is attracted. Stark remains a foil to them both since he is comfortable with being dramatic, and since he has no magic powers and must rely on his extraordinary strength and speed in their battles with demons. Stark becomes the speaker for the audience by calling out outrageous occurrences that Frieren and Fern take in stride. In Season Two, Stark also steps into instinctive and consistent bravery while maintaining his sense of humor. On the other hand, instead of being a blank canvas for others to write on, Frieren becomes the dispenser of wisdom, not just for battle, but for small human interactions with strangers in need. The episodes explore the importance of honoring unsung heroes who fight for justice, protecting the dignity of those in need, and standing with allies in tough times. In a key moment, when asked why she made a certain choice, Fern notes that it was what Frieren would have done.

Despite the very short run, Frieren Season Two delivers a strong collection of comforting, thoughtful stories, carefully balanced with big fight scenes, humor, and quiet emotions while we wait for the next big story arc to take us on a new adventure.

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The Math

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

Highlights:

• Solid comfort storytelling
• Intense Northern Lands battles
• Strong character growth

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Book Microreview: Open Sorcery by Rob Sheely

The concept is fantastical, but the execution does not compute

In Open Sorcery we’re introduced to a world where history proceeded exactly as in ours until the early 20th century, when it was discovered that engraving microscopic symbols on gemstones could work magic. The catch is that arranging those symbols in a useful sequence follows extremely complex rules of grammar, so by the 1920s an entire industry of prestidigital composition has emerged, which ends up looking pretty much like the real world’s software industry. In this setting, magic needs programming languages, and painstaking debugging, and antivirus wards, and user-friendly interfaces, and periodic system updates, and intellectual property laws, and the heroic abnegation of help desks. Spellbooks serve the same function as personal computers, and sticking gemstones on a book’s spine works like inserting a flash drive to load its contents. Of course, the formatting in the gemstone needs to be compatible with the spellbook’s operating system. If you want a net connection, you need to attach a gold thread from your spellbook to a ley line, unless your spellbook happens to be wireless-capable. And if your spells somehow fail to load, the universally recommended first step is to turn your spellbook off and back on.

Open Sorcery is a frustrating read. Half of the time, it feels like it’s building up to a clever satire of the small everyday annoyances of modern life, but the other half of the time, it feels like the story is a pretext for the author to settle very specific grievances with the software industry with the names changed: marketing executives who overpromise, clients who don’t understand what they’re asking of programmers, middle managers who make their insecurities everybody else’s problem, a workplace culture that has normalized casual abuse and ritual hazing, abusive monopolies, mealy-mouthed PR fixers, invasive advertising, and all the other usual charms that come from the intersection of a creative profession with corporate bean-counting. Paradoxically, the novel’s description of how magic has integrated itself into people’s daily routine resembles real life’s digital oversaturation in such detail that its world ends up feeling just like ours, and the sense of fantasy gets lost in the process. Mentally replace every “spell weaver” with “graphic interface designer,” “wrist amulet” with “smartphone,” “bubble of isolation” with “firewall,” “rhyming verse” with “line of code,” or “binding” with “compiling,” and you’ll get an idea of how the world’s logic works.

The novel shows it was written with genuine enthusiasm, because its gimmick is undeniably original and funny, but the author is more acquainted with the minutiae of software programming than with the current trends in the fantasy genre. In the software studio magic house where most of the action happens, the appallingly toxic mistreatment of an unpaid intern is treated like a venerable tradition of every programmer’s career, and his senior colleagues seem to have never heard of worker solidarity. At one point we learn that enchanted gemstones can be directly plugged to the human body as a nasty form of substance abuse, and the plot has zero compassion for the addicted. The female characters have no personality (the only exceptions are Seductress, Caretaker and Nag), and one main character’s tragic backstory amounts to Fridged Wife. And the villain’s plan, which is basically your classic cyberpunk rebellion against the big tech monopolies, is flatly dismissed as extremist without further discussion. Overall this is a heavily conservative story, where the heroes are eager to preserve a status quo that couldn’t be more obviously broken. This is a version of the 1920s with the life-changing technological wonders of the 2020s but somehow the same social attitudes of the 1920s. It’s a pity, because I’m a big fan of magic systems with rules, but this is a case where the author gave too much thought to the concept and not enough to creating a world that feels alive, or characters worth rooting for, or a story with awareness of its own themes and a stance to take on them.

Nerd Coefficient: 4/10.

Reference: Sheely, Rob. Open Sorcery [Ferret Godmother Press, 2022].

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Book Review: I, Medusa

Young adult themes and adult tragedy mix in this innovative reimagining of an ancient tale

In Greek mythology, Medusa is a monstrous, powerful, and tragic figure. A beautiful priestess who was cursed by the goddess Athena after being assaulted by the sea god Poseidon, Medusa was transformed to have hair made of live snakes and was terrifying enough that people turned to stone if they looked at her. She was born from ancient Greek tales, but she also appears in modern films like Clash of the Titans or Percy Jackson. Even the dark comedy series Wednesday features Gorgons as a category of magical students (“stoners”) who keep their hair covered with cool hats to avoid turning classmates (temporarily) to stone. But we seldom get the backstory of this complicated character.

I, Medusa is a new origin story with Medusa reimagined as a Black adolescent in ancient times. The result is an intriguing exploration of exploitation and revenge, as well as symbolic reflections on modern day racism. The novel is a tragic coming-of-age story of a relatable, flawed girl who gradually learns how terrible the world can be. The story explores all of this without feeling morose or uniformly bleak. Instead, it offers a unique and unapologetic exploration of human frailty and societal complexity. 

Medusa, also know as Meddy, is the seventeen-year-old youngest daughter of two deposed but wealthy lower gods of the sea. She is raised in a posh but oppressive noble household on a secluded island with her loving older sisters Stheno and Euryale and her strict and sometimes cruel and abusive mother and father. Meddy is the only mortal member of the family and is tired of her isolated life on the island, especially since she knows the clock is ticking on her existence. She dreams of mapping her way to faraway adventures with her childhood friend, a household slave named Theo. Things change when her parents host a party for the sea creatures, nobles, and deities, in the hopes that their daughters will find wealthy suitors. Meddy gains the attention of Poseidon and, later, her rash and bold actions intervening against an abusive nobleman gain the attention of the goddess Athena. Athena invites Meddy to train as an acolyte at her temple far away in Athens. Meddy is delighted to finally see the world and she makes both friends and enemies among the other priestesses in training. However, Poseidon’s ongoing pursuit and seduction of Meddy lead to a series of unfortunate events that eventually cause her to get caught in the cruelty of the gods.

I, Medusa offers an exploration of human nature in all of its contradictory ways. The novel not only gives a sympathetic backstory for the famous character, but also offers an exploration of complexities of social relations and personal choices through its flawed, immature protagonist and the equally flawed peers and gods who surround her. The story is told in retrospect, beginning when Meddy is already a snake-haired killer who is using her powers to punish those who hurt young girls. As her past is revealed, Meddy emerges as a curious, headstrong young woman willing to take risks for what she believes in. She is raised as a proud noble, mindful of her rightful place in the world, even when others treat her with racist disrespect at Athena’s temple. However, Meddy is shown to be flawed as well. At times she is naïve, insensitive, and self-absorbed in a way that leads to repeated poor choices for the teenaged heroine. Although the novel is an adult story, it has young adult themes as we watch Meddy navigate parental pressures, peer quarrels, and her first crush on the sea god himself. This complexity adds intrigue to the narrative and makes it very much a page-turner that will leave readers both cheering in delight and shouting in frustration at the various twists and turns of the tragic adventure.

Meddy’s boldness is juxtaposed with her intense naïvete. A major plot element is that she seems to know nothing about sex. This seems unbelievable given the dynamics of her parents and presence of her immortal older sisters, and because she indirectly observes it in her own home with Poseidon and another person. However, her naïvete provides the basis for an important issue of consent that pulls together various ancient interpretations of the Medusa story. Meddy is not the only complicated character in the novel. With the exception of Poseidon, all of the characters are complex and well written. The goddess Athena is feminist, inspiring, and wise, and is supportive of Meddy’s bravery and boldness. However, Athena is also vindictive and hypocritical in her treatment of sexual assault against the women of her temple. Meddy’s sisters are loyal to her, even at the cost of their own wellbeing, but they are comfortable having slaves and are gradually indifferent to the slaves’ wellbeing. Their casual treatment of slavery is an ironic inclusion in the story. This is especially true since racism is explored in Meddy’s interactions with the acolytes at the temple who want to touch her hair and insult her qualifications to be there because her skin color is different. Meddy’s sisters love her deeply but they eventually employ cruelty as a form of physical and emotional defense. On the other hand, Meddy satisfyingly evolves through hardships from a naïve teen to feminist avenger as the story progresses.

Overall, I Medusa provides a lot to ponder in its various themes of misogyny, racism, family, and hypocrisy. This retelling of her backstory through the eyes of a young Black woman adds an intriguing interpretation of the ancient myth while adding real world symbolism to the story. With complex characters and painful tragedies, this origin story of Medusa is surprisingly and addictively entertaining.

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10.

Highlights:

• A tragic take on a coming of age
• Flawed characters
• Real world reflections

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Book Review: Lessons in Magic and Disaster

A Russian nested doll of stories, characters and relationships, and yes, magic

Jamie is a grad student in Massachusetts, working as best she can to teach classes and make her way in the world. She’s also a witch, has been for years, and has gotten more and more interested in the uses of magic. But it is her relationship with her mother, and the story of two women in the 18th century, and a book, and the story within that book, that truly drive and reinforce the narrative.

This is the story of Lessons in Magic and Disaster by Charlie Jane Anders.

On the level of basic plot description, the novel is a relatively straightforward affair about Jamie’s relationship with her mother, and about uncovering what happened to her other mother, Mae. This proceeds as Jamie struggles with her relationship with her mother, with her spouse, Ro, and with the nature and uses of magic. Oh, and there is also drama and issues with her graduate studies and classes in the modern day.

Anyone with a parental relationship as an adult will find a lot here to think on and absorb. There is a real dividing line from when you stop being a child and start being an adult with an adult parent; and what life is like on that other side can be uncomfortable, especially if relations have had a break for a time. This novel explores the implications of that sort of relationship intimately and with feeling.

The narrative is far more than the sum of its parts. It is a rich dive deep down in levels and layers that wind up influencing and talking to each other, and to the reader. The novel works on those interlocking layers. At the very top, this is a story about a mother and a daughter and how they try to reconnect, with the daughter teaching magic to her mother, and the use of that magic having all sorts of spinning consequences. This impacts severely the relationship. And since this is a Charlie Jane Anders book, nearly all of the sympathetic characters are queer.

Jamie’s graduate studies center on the author Sarah Fielding, a real-life author, and sister of the more famous author Henry Fielding. The story of 18th-century women like Sarah is part of this novel. Anders devises a fictional novel of hers called Emily, making the text (and Jamie) focus on that book and speculate on the relationship between Emily and one Charlotte Clarke. Charlotte is a fascinating real-life character who transgressed gender roles in complicated ways, was often known as Charles Brown, and dressed in men’s clothes. In real life we don’t know how much Charlotte and Sarah knew each other. In this novel, bits of a speculated relationship between the two is a “level” of the story underneath the main ones.

The novel is like that: levels upon levels, echoing and reflecting on each other, like a layer cake. From the top:

• Main day story of Jamie, Ro (her partner) and Serena (her mother). Plus magic.
• The story of Serena and her partner Mae (Jamie’s parents). It’s a tragedy in many ways. I was moved to tears at points.
• The story of Sarah Fielding and Charlotte Clarke. Anders takes what we know and, thanks to it being part of Jamie’s thesis, has her speculate on the relationship.
• The fictional novel Emily by Fielding (which we get excerpts and commentary on, since this is Jamie’s thesis).
• Finally, inside Emily there is a layer further down: a fantasy story, the Tale of the Princess and the Strolling Player, that definitely has connections at least up to Fielding and Clarke’s story, and, I think, all the way to Jamie and Ro’s as well.

Although there is no actual time travel involved in this book, what comes to mind when reading it is Tim Powers’s The Anubis Gates, which focuses on the early 19th century, and the work of an imaginary Romantic poet’s work and its importance to the narrative. With all these layers influencing each other, I am also reminded of the Dialogues of Achilles and the Tortoise in Hofstadter’s Godel Escher Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid.

So the novel is extremely geeky in a literary sense. It’s a fascinating high wire act from Anders. It’s also a very science-fictional geeky book. For all of the focus on an 18th-century author, the novel lives in a modern context and has plenty of references and genre awareness—not to the degree of, say, a Jo Walton novel, but enough for someone new to genre works or movies to find it just very slightly off-putting. That said, this IS the novel to give your queer or queer-friendly friend who has never read science fiction or fantasy before but wants to try it out.

That subject has been in the water in recent months. Here, in Lessons in Magic and Disaster, there are no spell-slinging wizards; the magic is subtle. While people might reach for Kelly Link here, what this novel made me think of (besides earlier works by Anders and the aforementioned Tim Powers), is Megan Lindholm (a.k.a. Robin Hobb)’s Wizard of the Pigeons, where magic is also very subtle and hard to notice.¹ The threat in that novel is mystical, whereas the challenges Jamie and her family and friends face are all too real and present.

The theory of magic, such as it is for Jamie and her family and friends, is one of discovery and of liminal places. There is a numinous, mysterious and only-vaguely-understood nature of magic that is very much against codified rules. Jamie, who has been practicing this magic for some time before the book, has theories about it that don’t always seem to align with the actual results. Serena, to whom she teaches magic, has her own ideas on what it’s good for. When Serena and Jamie find other practitioners, the bounds and sphere of actual theory, craft and knowledge expand further. At no point is there a Sandersonian ruleset defined. Magic is, in the end, mysterious. And it’s not the entire focus of the book, as witness the book’s Kelly-Link-like title.

The voice in the writing of Lessons in Magic and Disaster is contemporary and open. In this year of 2026, Jamie’s voice resonates as someone you might know, or at least be neighbors with. Her concerns and problems, aside from the issues of magic, and of the 18th-century material mentioned before, are of this moment too: the rising intolerance against queer people, and the difficulties of relationships with a spouse and a mother. It’s not a comfortable read, given what Jamie and those around her go through, but Anders makes the experience easy for us to immerse in, and find sympathy in both Jamie and her mother despite their differences. There are no easy answers at the end. That in itself is a form of magic.

There is a point in the novel where Jamie finds a thesis statement (or thinks she has) for her study of Fielding. It’s really an echo for the thesis statement for Anders’ s novel as well, and so, atypically, I am going to quote it verbatim:

So now Jamie is thinking of Emily as a story about nature, change, and chasing your own heart’s desire in spite of everyone else’s expectations. Emily is a book about the games we play along the cliff edge. About nature encroaching in the places that people have left behind to move to towns at the very start of industrial capitalism, and the changes that people can make in those places. It’s about the trade-offs between security and self-determination, and Emily’s struggle to have both.

Lessons in Magic and Disaster is a queer, immersive character study that sometimes uncomfortably (in a good way) speaks to fractured relationships, both familial and otherwise, and the costs of both action and inaction in dealing with challenges. Plus magic.

Highlights:

• Character-focused, immersive story
• Russian-doll narrative, layered story reinforcing and exploring theme
• Possibly a very good fit for a first SFF novel for queer-friendly readers

Reference: Anders, Charlie Jane. Lessons in Magic and Disaster [Tor Books, 2025].

¹ I’ve thrown a number of books and references at you, the reader, in this review, but the book is like that, too. There are both a Historical Note and a strongly felt Afterword where Anders reveals her thought process, ideas, and a reading list. And a music list, because she’s like that.

POSTED BY: Paul Weimer. Ubiquitous in Shadow, but I'm just this guy, you know? @princejvstin.

Film Review: Wicked: For Good

Pragmatism versus idealism in the emotional conclusion of the hit musical

Those who have seen the long-running stage musical Wicked already know that the second half of the performance takes a dark turn as the story moves from bold empowerment to anger and tragedy. While Wicked, Part 1 explores the relationships of the witches of Oz during their time in school, the second part of the story undermines the original plot elements of the classic film, The Wizard of Oz. The result is an emotionally stressful story that will have you reaching for your tissues. Wicked: For Good picks up with an angry and disillusioned Elphaba (Cynthia Erivo) trying to expose the corrupt Oz government while trying to free the newly oppressed talking animals. Meanwhile Glinda (Ariana Grande) accepts her figurehead role at the hands of the evil Madame Morrible (Michelle Yeoh) while still worrying over Elphaba’s safety and pining for Prince Fiyero (Jonathan Bailey) who remains devoted to Elphaba. After the death of their father, Elphaba’s sister Nessarose (Marissa Bode) becomes the governor of Munchkinland. But her obsession over her former classmate Boq (Ethan Slater) (who only loves Glinda) turns her into an oppressive and toxic tyrant to the Munchkins and to Boq in particular. Meanwhile, the arrival a little girl from Kansas creates a catalyst for the final confrontations in the story.

It’s hard to top a musical production as entertaining as Wicked, Part 1. The film did a great job of addressing themes of bigotry, social gaslighting, hypocrisy, and oppression. But, the messaging was subtle and cleverly woven into addictive show tunes and big dance numbers. The enemies to friends dynamic between Elphaba and Glinda was funny and endearing, and ultimately led to an entertaining ensemble dynamic with their friends Fiyero, Boq, and Elphaba’s sister Nessarose. However, in For Good, the amusing love polygon from the first film takes a grim turn as Nessarose obsesses over Boq to the point of imprisoning him, Boq pines for Glinda to point of bitterness, Glinda fixates on Fiyero to the point of a forced engagement, and Fiyero longs for Elphaba to the point of endangering his life and his humanity. 

In Wicked: For Good, the societal and philosophical commentary is more direct, the set design is darker, and the songs are definitely sadder. The combined weight of this removes any subtle irony and makes the film more directly angry, rather than quietly critical. The more serious tone is underscored by solid performances by Jeff Goldblum as the comfortably deceiving Wizard who flippantly justifies everything from fraud to oppression to murder. Additionally, Marissa Bode’s Nessarose is excellent as she shifts from adorable pining to a physically toxic control of Boq.

The grim visuals of the film stand out as an extension of the anger of the characters and the toxic nature of the new Oz society. However, the film intentionally balances the dark themes of the source material against an apparent need for a PG rating. As a result, several intense moments where key characters meet their demise, are diluted or given minimal screen time. Additionally, the Tin Man aesthetic was a little disappointing as it remained mostly aligned with the traditional film version rather than opting for something a little edgier or interesting for the big screen. Given the grim tone, it would have been nice to see something a bit more creatively gothic as the character descends into anger and bitterness.

The two main villains, Madame Morrible and the Wizard, dominate the fates of the characters, but they do so without much introspection or depth. Instead, the real villains are the residents of Oz who openly accept the injustices around them and readily swallow the lies from their leaders without debate or question. That seems to be the real message of the film: the manipulation or gullibility of the masses. As the film tells us, truth is what everyone agrees on, not what really exists. The Wizard is highly symbolic as a great, unrepentant con-artist who notes that once people buy into a lie, they will irrationally choose to cling to it, even when it’s been clearly disproved and shown to be toxic.

The other key theme is the idea of pragmatism versus idealism. Glinda and Elphaba both agree that the oppression of the talking animals is wrong and that the Wizard’s deception is wrong, but they still take very different paths. Glinda accepts a position in the oppressive Oz administration and uses it to her advantage, admitting she has an addiction to adoration. Elphaba is headstrong and repeatedly directly attacks the Wizard and Madame Morrible, but with failed results that paint her more and more as a villain. She, initially, lacks the subtlety to be strategic and Glinda, initially, lacks the resolve to be ethical. Fortunately, as the film’s title implies, the two opposites influence each other and result in a change in both of them, for good. As expected, the performance of the song “For Good” by Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande is the showstopper moment of the film that will have viewers reaching for tissues in the best possible way. 

Wicked: For Good is a grim change from the tone of the first film but ultimately leaves audiences with a sense of hopefulness. Elphaba shows that her core value is her love for Oz and her desire to see it be the best version of itself. As the film tells us, in this second part of the story, we may not be changed for the better, but hopefully you will feel changed for good. The hard themes of For Good may be a bit heavy handed, rather than introspective, but the pay off is worth it for a solid ending that will leave you cheering, even if things aren’t as perfect as we wish they would be.

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Highlights:

• Grim tone and visuals
• Heavy handed but relatable themes
• Showstopping moment defines the film
  
  

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

TV Review: The Witcher Season 4

A big casting change and a return to linear storytelling redefines the tone in season 4

Netflix’s popular fantasy adventure series, The Witcher, has returned for its fourth season with a significant change. The title character is no longer being played by the formidable Henry Cavill but has instead been replaced by Liam Hemsworth. After three seasons, the change is undeniably disorienting and results in a significant change in the overall aura of the show. 

The Witcher is the story of Geralt of Rivia, a magically enhanced, but emotionally repressed, professional monster killer whose destiny changes when he becomes a spiritual father to Ciri (Freya Allan), a hunted, deposed princess with supernatural powers. As evil forces attack both of them, they are aided by Yennifer (Anya Chalota), a powerful, morally gray (but ultimately good hearted) mage, and Jaskier (Joey Batey), a cheerful bard who provides cynical comic relief and helps nudge the stoic Geralt towards appreciating human emotions and connections. 

Season 1 gave us the satisfying adventures of the journeys of Yennifer, Geralt, and Ciri converging on each other as the intimidating Geralt and the fugitive child Ciri, fight to find each other. Season 2 focuses on Ciri, with Geralt as her new father, training to fight while sinister forces (and some allies) plot to take Ciri’s power for themselves. Season 3 offered a highly complicated plot where multiple villains, antagonists, and traitors from multiple kingdoms and cultures all fight and betray each other in an attempt to capture or duplicate Ciri. Season 4 opens with a more cynical Ciri abandoning her family of Geralt and Yennifer, changing her name to Falka, and joining up with a ragtag band of thieves called the Rats. In the meantime, Yennifer reassembles a team of mages to fight the current central villain Vilgefortz (Mahesh Jadu), the evil mage who is helping the other central villain, Emhyr (Bart Edwards) in a plot to capture and marry Ciri (who is his daughter) to create an ultimate power that will give him world domination. 

While many of the characters remain the same, the biggest issue of season 4 is obviously the replacement of Henry Cavill with Liam Hemsworth, which is a major and distracting cast change. For better or for worse, re-cast characters happen in series periodically and it’s always odd. The issue is not the quality of the acting, which is fine in season 4, nor is it the physical difference which is, admittedly, very significant. The strangeness also comes from the distinct onscreen change of personality, aura, and chemistry. The new version of Geralt is delivered in a way that is much more passive and quiet. He periodically smiles in a way that is out of character with the brooding, grumpy, always vaguely irritated hero of the earlier seasons. The intrigue of The Witcher often lay in the contrast between Geralt’s monstrous strength, lethal focus, and stoicism being unexpectedly juxtaposed against surprising moments of compassion and empathy. But, in season 4, we no longer have that contrast. The new Geralt is more quietly sad rather than being a smoldering, fierce killer. From a plot perspective, this could arguably be due to the many losses he has suffered over the seasons. But, probably the best way to enjoy season 4 is to calibrate your expectations and perhaps treat the new Geralt as if he were a new version of the Doctor on Doctor Who. Same memory and relationships, different body and personality. 

On the bright side, season 4 gives us much more linear storytelling which is a relief from the overly complicated and confusing machinations of season 3. While season 3 gave us a dizzying amount of villains and antagonists, season 4 distills them down to just the evil mage Vilgefortz and the evil ruler Emhyr, and a brief appearance by a local villain Leo Bonhart (Sharlto Copley). The remaining antagonists are either killed off or redeemed into helpful anti-heroes and allies. In a return to the format of season 1, we have three separate stories of Yennifer, Geralt, and Ciri. 

Plot one involves Yennifer gathering her mages, including her former enemies, to kill Vilgefortz. This is the most cliched but also the most enjoyable part of the three part storytelling. The story of the team up of the mages is filled with lots of girl power, diversity, plenty of enemies to allies energy, and a good amount of entertaining action. It’s also filled with lots of melodrama and some great stand out moments from former antagonists Fringilla (Mimi Khayisa) and Phillipa (Cassie Clare). 

Plot two involves Geralt and his new loyal traveling crew, including Milva (Meng’er Zhang), Zoltan (Danny Woodburn), and Regis (Laurence Fishburne), along with Geralt’s longtime ally Jaskier. They are all on a misdirected journey to find Ciri because, unfortunately, the Ciri he’s chasing is a decoy. In this adventure, Geralt repeatedly finds himself vulnerable due to a leg injury and is repeatedly being saved by others. Obviously there’s lots of good messaging about reliance on others and the need for community but this is not the intense Geralt of season one. The addition of the legendary Laurence Fishburne as Regis, an observant and seemingly helpful vampire, creates some much needed gravitas to the tone of the story. However, the introductory plot connecting him to Geralt and crew is one of the most unbelievable moments in the story and is another indicator of how different and passive the new Geralt is from the old one.

Plot three involves Ciri inexplicably hanging out with a morally gray band of tropey ragtag thieves. The group includes one member whose attempt to assault her is just brushed off and then she moves on to intimacy with another member. The acting is solid and the anti-establishment heist plot is predictable. But the characters are all so shallowly presented and unlikeable that when they finally get their comeuppance it’s hard to feel sorry for them. This storyline also includes violent bad guy Leo Bonhart as the local over the top villain. Considering Ciri’s immense power, her interaction with him is ultimately a little disappointing.

In season 4 major many issues are raised and then completely discarded so it’s hard to know who or what to become emotionally invested in. This is fine as long as you calibrate your expectations. The only true surprise is that the story continues to end on a cliffhanger. The tale is no longer must see television, but it is still entertaining as a standard fantasy. Especially, if you want a bit of escapism without having to think too hard about it.

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The Math

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10

Highlights:

• Major casting change shifts the energy of the series
• Cliched but more streamlined storytelling
• Lots of appealing girl power and diverse characters

POSTED BY: Ann Michelle Harris – Multitasking, fiction writing Trekkie currently dreaming of her next beach vacation.

Book Review: No Sympathy by Eóin Dooley

On using magic to slip away

Theo is a man who is almost invisible. He is couch-surfing with people he vaguely considers his friends in Berlin after leaving secondary school in disgrace in England. He does everything in his power to avoid calling himself ‘homeless,’ although after a certain point there is no other way to put it. He is rambling through the streets of Berlin in the middle of the night, looking for a place to sleep, when he stumbles through a hole in reality and winds up in Shenzhen, in China’s Guangdong province not far from Hong Kong. Deeply confused, he meets a man named Gabriel who tells him that he is attuned to magic, and he is attuned because he is invisible to the world, someone who is so easily forgettable. Such is the opening volley of Eóin Dooley’s novella No Sympathy, published in 2024 by Android Press.

So much of the reason why this book works is because of Theo, its main character. This is a man who is aimless, with no ties to anything, no roots anywhere. He is a man who was not able to ‘make it’ in that striving middle class sense due to an inability to truly fit in a late-stage-capitalist education system, and as such becomes invisible to ‘polite’ society. Dooley never states this, but I suspect that Theo might be best read as being neurodivergent, autistic perhaps, as he always holds the rest of the world at arm’s length. I wonder if something more traumatic is lurking in his background. It is his rootlessness that makes him really able to find a use for magic; those of us in steady jobs and with families, given the opportunity to use magic, may hesitate as it may disrupt the delicate balance that stability requires under late stage capitalism. Theo, a man with nothing that is truly his and as such has nothing left to lose, can go all the way with it.

Magic here is heavily associative; the main thing you can do in this particular universe is to teleport between two locations that are similar on some level. It is remarked by Gabriel that, unlike most depictions of magic in contemporary settings, modernity has actually been a boon for magic. The easiest way to use this power of teleportation is to jump between restrooms, or between different outlets of the same fast food joints, which happen to be in different countries. I’ve never seen magic used in a modern setting like this before and I approve.

But this comes at a cost to the user, specifically in the requirement that the wielder be unmemorable. It means you cannot really have friends. It means that you can’t have community. It condemns you to nomadism. It prevents you from ever being able to make a truly systemic change in the world. It means you cannot indulge in local cuisine, as that makes a place less interchangeable with other places, so you cannot teleport nearly as well between that place and elsewhere. Theo ends up, for a time, in a group of magicians who teleport around the world doing small acts of charity and mercy, and eventually snaps at how much this particular way of living alienates him from anything that makes life really worth living at all.

No Sympathy is a book that poses a powerful question but never really answers it - but I’m not convinced that an answer was necessary for the book to work. Indeed, the book works best as a character study of Theo, the consummate drifter. He knows he has no roots, but being in that position makes him all too cognizant of what it means to have none at all. Beyond that, there isn’t an obvious thematic throughline, an obvious stance on alienation that the book is taking, where this nomadic existence is shown with both great benefits and great costs to the nomad. Indeed, this group Theo falls in with makes it almost a monastic enterprise.

Theo asks them if they could use their powers to throw wrenches into the gears of capitalism, to do what they can to bring evil men to justice and thereby prying loose the injustice of the world. The response they give him is something Theo finds to be sanctimonious and without any commitment to the broader well-being of humanity, the magical equivalent of white American church groups that go to Africa and build poorly-constructed houses or water pumps or what have you and do it primarily for the vacation and for the Instagram photos with smiling African children in their arms. His charge is that they have used their powers to become dilettantes, which really is not all that different from those who use magic for selfish reasons.

When not reading I am a swing dancer in my spare time, and as such I have familiarity with a good deal of midcentury American popular music. This book reminds me a good deal of one particular song from the fifties that is occasionally played at swing dances: The Wanderer, written by Ernie Maresca and sung by Dion DiMucci in 1961. It’s a song that, at first, appears to be an ode to an adolescent heterosexual male fantasy of arriving in a town, bedding the local women, and going off to the next town to repeat. But, as Dion has said and Bruce Springsteen has pointed out, the key to the song is in these lines:

Well, I roam from town to town,

I got a life without a care.

And I`m as happy as a clown,

I`m with my two fists of iron but I`m going nowhere.

This is a song about loneliness, about listlessness, about rootlessness. Theo is Dion’s wanderer, but so poor that he doesn’t even have the benefit of mindless hedonism. Both Theo and the Wanderer have discovered the truth of Ubuntu, the philosophy from Southern Africa, of how a person is a person through other people. We are social animals, and as much as we may fantasize of throwing it all away, it can never truly be done without wrecking us. We may try to fill that gap with pleasure or mindless distraction or, in our world, reactionary politics, but it never works. We are all bound together.

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Reference: Dooley, Eóin. No Sympathy [Android Press, 2024]

POSTED BY: Alex Wallace, alternate history buff who reads more than is healthy.