Tag: TV

Behold, my top 10 pop culture moments of 2024!

So I’ll join the chorus – 2024 really did kind of suck, eh? For me, by far, the biggest blow was the death of my father in May, and I guess nothing has truly felt the same since. There’s been a lot of lousy things happening in the wider world as well, of course, and the general sense that everything is just careening out of control in the cosmos.

Pop culture – be it book, comics, movies or music – is one of the few saving graces we’re left with when nothing else makes sense. Thus, in a burst of optimism, here’s my 10 favourite culture moments of the year:

Now is now – Perfect Days by Wim Wenders: An awful lot of the ‘best movies of 2024’ haven’t screened in New Zealand yet, and a lot of the 2024 movies I have seen have been hit or miss. But of the new-ish films I saw this year, the beautiful tone poem Perfect Days by Wim Wenders about a humble Japanese toilet cleaner lingers the most. It’s a movie about taking the pauses, about accepting what happens and enjoying every sandwich. And it felt like the most human thing I saw on a screen this year. (Runner-up nods for movies seen in 2024: the supremely creepy Longlegs which was right in my wheelhouse, heartfelt and hilarious The Holdovers [technically a 2023 holdover itself], the utterly unclassifiable no-budget slapstick Hundreds of Beavers, and Furiosa, which confirms George Miller’s Mad Max is the only extended cinematic universe which really matters.) 

Absolute ultimate totally comics, dude: I’m on the record that I’m not generally a fan of the endless reinventions and multiversal takes on superheroes that are a sign of comics eating themselves. Ohhh, a dark alternate Superman? How daring! Yet… I’ve been generally rather enjoying DC’s latest “Absolute” line of comics starring the hyperbolic Absolute Batman, Absolute Superman and Absolute Wonder Woman. Yes, yes, it’s yet another reimagining but the actual comics have been pretty … good? Absolute Wonder Woman is the gem so far with stunning art and myth-inspired epic storytelling, and Absolute Batman not far behind with its mysterious ultra-jacked Bruce Wayne stripped of money and privilege. I don’t know how long I’ll stick with them – these “new universe” stories far too often end up tangled in the continuity of existing comics and giant crossovers and the like, but so far, it’s a pretty electric and novel take on some very well known heroes. 

You’re never too old to make rock music: I’m old and getting older, but a lot of the guys I grew up listening to are somehow even older. Massive applause, then, for near-geezers like Nick Cave and Robert Smith staying true to themselves – The Cure’s comeback Songs From The Lost World is just as moody and epic as any classic Cure album, touched even more by the unsparing grip of mortality. At 65 (!!) Smith still sounds exactly like he always has, and that’s a wonderful thing. Meanwhile, Nick Cave’s slow turn into a kind of confessional high priest continued with the excellent Bad Seeds album Wild God. At 67, Cave has suffered unbearable loss in his life and will always seem heroic for unsparingly turning it into such cathartic art. In contrast, The White Stripes’ Jack White is a mere child at age 49, but he blew me away just a few weeks ago in Auckland and his No Name feels like the rock album of the year to me. Not bad for a bunch of old guys who are all getting older. 

Just asking questions – the books of Percival Everett: Percival Everett is one of those cult authors one keeps hearing about and meaning to read, but his astonishing Huckleberry Finn reinvention James truly broke him through into the mainstream this year. Every Everett book I’ve read this year is quite different and excellent in its own way – the existential spy satire Doctor No, the haunting Mississippi lynching black comedy of The Trees, the wry literary racial spoof Erasure (which was also turned into an excellent movie, American Fiction). Everett doesn’t fit any easy box but I’ve been so impressed by his eclectic invention that I’ll be happily catching up on his prolific bibliography well into 2025. 

Sticking the landing on the small screen: I can’t keep up with all the streaming things these days, but bidding farewell to a few longtime favourites reminded me of how tricky it is to end things on the perfect note, and how good it feels when it does. These favourites of mine all said goodbye in a pretty perfect fashion – Superman and Lois with perhaps the most bittersweet and beautiful ending to a superhero screen adventure yet, the kooky What We Do In The Shadows managing to make its insane vampire spin-off parody far funnier and longer lasting than seemed possible saying goodbye after 6 seasons, Larry David at long last ending Curb Your Enthusiasm after 20+ years with a perfectly wonderful lack of remorse. (Bonus point to the much-missed Our Flag Means Death New Zealand-filmed gay pirate comedy, which ended its second season in ’23 but we didn’t know for sure it was gone for good until this year.) 

Charles Burns still haunts us all: Charles Burns is the patron saint comics artist of Gen-X, and his stark tales of teenage alienation have been blowing me away since his Curse of the Molemen days in the 1980s. As he ages, Burns has constantly kept to the same tight themes he always has – teenage alienation, romantic yearning and spooky surreal horror – but gosh, does he do them well. This year’s Final Cut is one of his finest works, ostensibly about a group of teenagers shooting a no-budget movie, but it’s also about love, choice and regret and told with his unforgettable intense style. 

The films of Samuel Fuller: Like I said, I’m behind on the newer films of 2024. But film history stretches back over a century now, and there’s always time to fill in the gaps. A big hole in my cinema knowledge was the pulpy movies of Samuel Fuller. I can’t believe I hadn’t seen fierce noir gems like Pickup On South Street, Naked Kiss, Shock Corridor and Park Row until the past year, and I keep discovering new Fuller to catch up on. His bold movies bucked convention and still feel starkly modern decades on. Bonus point: His memoir, A Third Face, is an absolutely great chronicle of Fuller’s days as a spunky young New York journalist, harrowing World War II heroics and his dive into Hollywood. 

Cindy Lee’s Diamond Jubilee: There’s precious little mystery in pop culture these days, so every little bit of it counts. Cindy Lee is a cross-dressing Canadian musician named Patrick Flegel whose drifting, sultry songs have really gotten into my brain. Not on Spotify, not on Tidal, the sprawling double album Diamond Jubilee is only available as a single file on YouTube and soon, a physical release. Anointed by the hipsters, it’s got the gorgeous low-fi wistfulness of early Guided By Voices meets Roy Orbison, like the soundtrack to the most lonesome-hearted David Lynch movie that never was. It’s two hours of mysterious bliss and while its stealth release style might be a bit of a marketing technique there’s enough talent in Diamond Jubilee to make it feel like far more than a stunt. Diamond Lee feels like 2024 in musical form to me.

The Mary Tyler Moore Show, because love is really all around: Yes, I’m the guy who’s picking a 50-year-old sitcom as one of his favourite pop culture moments of 2024. But I picked up a cheap DVD of the complete series on a trip to Reno earlier this year, and it reminded me exactly why I love this classic sitcom so much. It’s got Moore at her loveable screwball peak, Ed Asner is one of the best editors of all time, Ted Knight’s pompous doofus act which never gets old, in a seven-season run of absurdity, crack timing, sitcom pratfalls and journalistic dilemmas that still stands up with the best of ‘peak TV’. Sometimes all you want out of life is a 20-minute playlet of banter and Lou Grant and Ted Baxter, and in this weird, wicked year, bingeing The Mary Tyler Moore Show made me feel like we might just make it after all. 

Selfishly, the Year of the Amoeba: Yeah, I’m putting myself on the list – not because I think I’m the best small press comics geek out there by any means but because I ended up putting out a heck of a lot of Amoeba Adventures stuff this year and it gave me a peculiar kind of inner satisfaction that nothing else really matches. I published two ‘regular’ issues of Amoeba Adventures this year, getting up to #35 of the series I somehow started way the hell back in 1990 (!!!), and I finally decided to embrace Amazon’s print on demand as a cost-effective way to bring my comics back to a wider world (yeah, I know, evil empire, etc, but this KDP stuff has been very good for my needs). A big old 350-page collection of The Best Of Amoeba Adventures that I started over the last holidays came out in February and presents my favourites of my 1990s work, while the smaller Amoeba Adventures: The Warmth Of The Sun book presents the first six of the “new” Amoeba Adventures stories I started telling in 2020. I’m not going to get rich doing this stuff, I accepted long ago, but I’m really grateful to get this stuff out in the world and out of the dusty small press past, and hey, if you like it, I’m just grateful I got the chance to tell you a story. 

Next: My top pop culture disappointments of the year!

Why I’ll miss Superman and Lois, the best comics adaptation going 

The best superhero on screens lately hasn’t been anywhere near movie theatres – for me, it’s been Tyler Hoechlin’s firmly joyful, human portrayal of Clark Kent in Superman and Lois, which ended its four-season run this week. (Some mild spoilers ahead!)

I’ve been a big fan of this series since it kicked off and if anything, in its final days it got even better. Unlike the cluttered, overstuffed recent Marvel Cinematic Universe productions, where everything has to lead to the next thing, Superman and Lois has kept its focus relatively intimate, leveraging a smaller budget as best it could to deliver superhero action with a lot of heart. Unlike The Boys or other edgy shows, it’s not about taking apart the superhero idea – it’s about revelling in its simple possibilities. 

The show has been deliberately small in scale, with the Man of Steel and his family moving back to his childhood home of Smallville in order to give his sons a normal life. Previous Superman TV series like the very ’80s Lois and Clark and Smallville never quite worked for me – they were either cheesy or overly padded. Superman and Lois has combined life’s brutal truths with heartfelt optimism, and while your mileage may vary, for me it’s one of the most emotional Superman stories yet. 

This final, fourth season has delivered the one thing earlier seasons lacked – a stunning villain in Michael Cudlitz’s psychotic, jacked-up Lex Luthor, who’s been released from prison after years and consumed with vengeance. For the final 10 episodes, Superman and Lois stuck to the tightening Luthor-Superman feud as it built up, right on up to doing a pretty decent (if slightly too speedy) take on the famous “Death of Superman” comics run. 

Lex Luthor is the yin to Superman’s yang, the over-achieving human who is filled with greedy contempt and the powerful alien who lives his life with humility. 

A real strength of Superman and Lois is it feels like the story has moved forward, rather than circling around and around the same tired plot beats. It’s given us things we’ve never seen in a Superman live action project before – a married Superman with children with their own powers, a Superman whose identity is eventually revealed to the world, a Lex Luthor wearing that groovy ‘80s battle armor and actually throwing down in a fistfight with Superman … and most importantly, it’s given us an ending. 

Superhero stories rarely ever really end, but in its masterful final episode, Superman and Lois firmly draws an ending to this particular story of Superman. Maybe it’s just because 2024 has been kind of a shit year, but it got me all weepy-eyed like a superhero film/TV show hasn’t in a long while. 

I’m quite looking forward to James Gunn’s own Superman movie next year, which promises to also capture some of the hope and awe vibe sorely missing from Zach Snyder’s Superman, but it’s a bit of a shame that Hoechlin’s TV portrayal has never quite broken through to the mainstream. He’s the best Superman in my mind since Christopher Reeve – powerful yet fair, caring yet resolved. 

The moment in one of the final episodes where Superman is forced to reveal his identity in public after years of denial is pitch-perfect, and sums up the quiet power that the best episodes of the show have managed: 

Now, it hasn’t all been perfect – a little too much soap opera with the teenagers, a little too much emphasis on the dull as dishwater Lana Lang’s family – but whenever Hoechlin and Tulloch were on screen, the show felt refreshingly sincere. This Superman radiates hope, no matter the odds.  

It’s easy for something to get lost in the avalanche of superhero content these days but Superman and Lois was a quiet gem of inspiration reminding us why we like superheroes in the first place. 

At its heart, Clark and Lois are decent people trying to live decent lives. Some may call that corny. To me, that’s not the worst thing to look up to, these days. 

Rik Mayall, the patron saint of confident self-loathing

Nobody made being a total bastard quite as funny as Rik Mayall. 

When I first stumbled on The Young Ones in the late ‘80s during its inexplicable MTV late-night airing in America, I felt like I’d seen into a different universe. The anarchic gang of college misfits were all hilarious, but to me, Mayall’s Rick was on another level of twitchy, ego-free energy, willing to make himself look as sweaty and horrible as possible for the gag. He bounced perfectly off Ade Edmondson’s ultraviolent punk parody Vyvyan. 

Rik Mayall’s been gone 10 years now, a fact I still find kind of baffling. His comedy was so insanely energetic it seems impossible it should ever be stilled. 

Mayall was the patron saint of comedy that combined ego and humiliation in equal measures. 

Rick on The Young Ones was everyone’s worst nightmare of a pretentious, oblivious student, adopting pet causes left and right, constantly sure of his own righteousness and yet constantly trembling with his own self-hatred. You felt sorry for him but you also probably wanted to kick him right in his stupid face, too.

Nothing ever worked out for Rick, who hated everyone but hated himself the most. Mayall managed the extremely tricky wrangle of making this hilariously funny, a character who’s all twitchy id whether he’s trying to pick up “birds” at a party or insulting his roommates. Nobody ever spat out “Bastard!” quite as caustically as Mayall. 

Later on, in their follow-up show Bottom, Mayall and Edmondson refined the Young Ones formula by narrowing in on losers Rick and Eddie, two gormless young men hurtling towards pathetic middle age. Bottom, as good mate Bob recently recalled in his own blog, is a masterpiece of over-the-top comedy, where every gag is pushed as far as it will go and then some.

Mayall and Edmondson smack each other around like a Looney Tunes cartoon, are consumed with unrequited lust for the opposite sex and their own sleazy poverty. I like to pretend that Bottom’s “Richard Richard” and Eddie are of course The Young Ones’ Rick and Vyvyan about 10 years on, youthful idealism and identities ground away and living lives of quiet desperation. 

Later on, Mayall played the world’s most corrupt politician Alan B’stard in the witty satire New Statesman, and was great as blustery fool Lord Flashheart in Black Adder. He tried to break through in the US with the loud, antic cult comedy Drop Dead Fred, but it didn’t quite work – Mayall’s frantic man-child routine got grating quickly when stretched out to an entire movie. 

At his best, Mayall played insecure, hateful guys who can never quite figure out that they’re their own worst enemy. It’s a marker of his talent that the creeps and bastards he played still felt ever so slightly loveable. When Bottom’s Richard Richard gets a well-deserved ass-kicking and then sits there ugly-weeping, who doesn’t feel a twinge? Maybe it’s just me. Losers are inevitable more entertaining than winners. 

Rik was carried off by a heart attack in June 2014 at just 56. It’s probably the blackest of comedy to say so, but sometimes I wonder if that’s the way the Young Ones’ Rick, Bottom’s Richie and New Statesman’s B’stard all wouldn’t have gone as well, pushing their self-loathing energy until it burst. 

I can still watch those episodes of The Young Ones and Bottom over and over no matter how many times I’ve seen them, and Mayall’s comic skill, working himself up into a sweaty red-faced mess to get a laugh, gets me every time. I only wish we’d gotten a little bit more of him. 

The Penguin review – Batman’s goofiest villain is no longer a joke

For a bloke who turns 85 years old this year, Batman is holding up pretty well.

The caped crusader has been reinvented countless times since his 1939 debut, and that’s the secret of his longevity.

You want a friendly Batman? Adam West’s day-glo 1960s TV series fits the bill. Bold and epic? There’s plenty of animated series to choose from. Dark and gritty? Pick up Frank Miller’s classic Dark Knight Returns graphic novel. Somewhere in the middle, with lots of Gothic architecture? Tim Burton’s unique 1989 Batman still holds up very well.

Those Bat-villains just keep on going, too. Batman probably has the best rogues’ gallery in comic books – a twisted collection of eccentric obsessives strongly defined enough to take the spotlight in many of their own solo comics and movies. Stars who have played the Joker have now won two Academy Awards for Best Actor. For many, battling the Bat as the Riddler, Catwoman or Clayface is still a feather in the cap.

The world of Batman has proved itself ripe for interpretation, whether it’s Robert Pattinson’s brooding emo turn in 2022’s The Batman or villainous Harley Quinn starring in her own filthily funny and irreverent animated series.

But a new HBO spin-off of that 2022 Batman movie serves up one of the darkest takes yet on Batman’s Gotham City, starring Colin Farrell reprising his role as the scheming gangster Penguin.

The Penguin has always kind of been the also-ran of Bat-villains, despite hanging about for decades. A pudgy, monocle-wearing bird-obsessed weirdo with trick umbrellas, he was memorably brought to life by a cacklingly campy Burgess Meredith in the 1960s TV series, while Danny DeVito in Tim Burton’s Batman Returns was a waterlogged, creepy outcast.

Wipe all that out of the memory with Farrell’s sinister “Oz” – who loathes the nickname Penguin – a scarred and crippled mobster who nearly stole the show in The Batman. There are no trick umbrellas here.

An unrecognisable Farrell, looking like an overweight Robert DeNiro run through a smudgy photocopier, played Penguin in The Batman film as a seedy Goodfellas-style criminal.

It was a magnetic performance with its visceral sleaze, and over the new eight-part miniseries Farrell’s snarling take on this most ridiculous of Bat-villains makes a good case for why you should never overlook a penguin.

In The Penguin, which picks right up after the near-destruction of Gotham City in The Batman’s climax, Farrell gets a showcase a world away from big budget MCU-style comic adventures.

Farrell feels consistently underrated as an actor, despite some excellent performances in films like After Yang or In Bruges and an Oscar nomination for The Banshees of Inisherin. He gives the oily Penguin a sense of wounded soul despite working under piles of makeup and padding to create the character’s waddling presence.

This isn’t your childhood Batman and definitely isn’t for kids – while the Bat himself is only referred to in passing, The Penguin is a deliciously nasty slice of noir, filled with F-bombs and shockingly violent deaths, far more The Sopranos than Batman Forever.

The Penguin is scrambling to take advantage of the chaos in Gotham’s criminal underworld after the events of The Batman. He’s nowhere near a “supervillain” yet, but he’s got big dreams, and ropes into his labyrinthine plans a conflicted teenager (Rhenzy Feliz) and the disturbed daughter of deceased crimelord Carmine Falcone, Sofia (Cristin Milioti).

The Penguin works best when it focuses on Farrell, but Milioti (Palm Springs, Black Mirror) is also striking channeling that good old Gotham City criminal intensity into an unpredictable performance. A rogue’s gallery of prominent actors like Mark Strong, Shohreh Aghdashloo and House of Cards’ Michael Kelly fill out the cast.

Over The Penguin’s eight episodes (the first five were viewed for review), a tangled web of double-crosses and violent heists unfolds, with Oz the Penguin scrambling over dead bodies as he hopes to make his mark on the world. While it may help set the stage for the 2026 sequel to The Batman, it also very much stands on its own even if you’re not a Bat-fan.

There’s no Batman, no Robin in sight, but you honestly don’t miss the Dark Knight too much with bad guys this watchable.

This review also published over at RNZ!

From Vampira to Svengoolie – The undying world of the horror host

A vintage horror movie, a vaguely spooky host and lots of lame jokes – what’s not to love?

On my recent travels to the US, I got to experience a lot more of the cluttered joys of infinite American cable TV than I usually do, and one thing I particularly enjoyed was catching up with long-running horror movie host Svengoolie’s Saturday night movie of the week on MeTV.

Svengoolie’s schtick is a grand throwback to the pre-internet world, where you couldn’t just find movies like Scream, Blacula, Scream! or House of Frankenstein through a few clicks. On stations throughout America, horror hosts would showcase dusty old vintage movies with plenty of jokes, skits and commentary.

Svengoolie (aka Dave Koz) has been doing this since 1979, believe it or not, and syndicated throughout America for the last decade or so. His campy, corny host act leans into the cheese and groan-worthy puns. But it’s also great fun because it feels like a secret club of fandom run the way it should ideally be. There’s no toxicity here, just silly in-jokes, rubber chickens, and an unending adoration for things like wolf men, Roger Corman flicks and giant ant invasions. 

There’s something kind of charmingly low-fi and comforting to me about a grown adult dressed up in Halloween gear introducing schlocky old movies. The horror host first emerged at the dawn of television in the ‘50s, and has shambled along semi-underground in some form or another to this day, with a new generation even taking the format to streaming.

I generally missed out on the peak horror hosts era from the 1960s to the 1980s, although I have hazy memories of old Universal Monster movies being shown on Saturday morning TV in the early ’80s with some goofy small-time local hosts kicking off the show.

I also honed my bad-movie love back in high school watching the USA Network’s “Up All Night” panorama of abominable flicks like Night Of The Lepus and Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes, sneeringly hosted by the late Gilbert Gottfried, and the classic riffing hosts of Mystery Science Theater 3000. These snark-fests all share a little DNA with the horror hosts idea. 

The horror host was pioneered by the iconic wasp-waisted charms of the still-eerie Vampira, whose 1954 show didn’t even last a year but who paved the way for many others.

Vampira, alias Maila Nurmi, lived a complex life trying to recapture her brief stardom with things like an appearance in Ed Wood’s legendarily bad Plan Nine From Outer Space. Very little footage of her show survives now, but even brief clips show how this primordial queen of goths scared stiff the buttoned-up world of ’50s TV, and forged generations of successors: 

There were many more – Zacherle, who chilled spirits on the East Coast for decades, or the famed Elvira, who successfully homaged/ripped off Vampira’s sexy bad girl act in a later, far more relaxed cultural era to become one of the most recognisable horror hosts of all time. 

Svengoolie, who has been doing his own thing for 45 years and is easing in a cast of possible replacement ghouls, is pretty much the biggest name left on the scene, but the success of his show on MeTV gives hope that the horror host idea isn’t dead just yet. 

In a world of TikToks and YouTubers, everyone is a host now if they want to be. Still, I’m pretty turned off by the influencer aesthetic of random strangers shouting and hustling at me from their phones while sitting in cars.

But give me a guy dressed up like a corpse or a shapely vampire woman in a bargain basement crypt setting, a few Boris Karloff and Christopher Lee flicks and a bucket of popcorn, crank up the groan-worthy jokes, and I’m happy to be scared silly in their company. 

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the internet…

Monty Python voice: I’m not dead!

Regular posting will resume soon after the difficulties of the past six weeks or so. In the meantime, here’s a few things to catch up with by or about me that have been circulating out there elsewhere on the internet:

As part of RNZ‘s occasional “What To Watch” series highlighting the quirky and obscure corners of the streaming cinematic universe, I wrote up a little review of the extremely weird offbeat Korean comedy Chicken Nugget: What To Watch – Chicken Nugget

Over at the New Zealand Listener magazine, I did a review of Everest, Inc., a fascinating new book by Will Cockrell that looks at how the world of daring mountain summiteers has changed since Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay first conquered Everest. You can read it over here (paywall).

And elsewhere, friend Bob had a very kind post the other day about my long-running obscure small press comic Amoeba Adventures, in which he compared my timid scribbling to Scott McCloud’s awesome Zot! which is high praise indeed. (And by the way, if you’re one of those folks who haven’t gotten around to ordering my hefty compendium of classic Amoeba comics over on Amazon, go grab yourself The Best Of Amoeba Adventures right now!)

Back with more pop culture rambles soon!

Great Caesar’s ghost! Eight of my favourite journalism editors in fiction

Somehow, I’ve ended up working in journalism an awfully long time. And in that time, I have had many good editors, a great editor or two, and couple of terrible editors. I’ve also been an editor myself many times (I’ll leave it to others to judge where I fell on the scale myself). 

An editor isn’t as glamorous as the headline-chasing feisty street-level reporter, perhaps. But in this age where journalism seems to be constantly under siege from all sides, editors do matter. They guide, they teach, they question, they correct, they set the tone and they can make or break a media outlet. My industry has changed a hell of a lot in the years since I started, but no matter how many apps, algorithms and pivots you throw at it, you need an editor in the mix to make quality journalism. 

So here’s a tribute to the bleary-eyed, coffee-fuelled, rage-filled and yet quietly inspirational editors, with a look at eight editors portrayed in fiction who have always inspired me in my own wayward journalism journey, for good or bad. 

Lou Grant, The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970-1977) played by Ed Asner. When I think of a newsroom editor, the rumpled face of Ed Asner leaps to mind. No-nonsense, idealistic and gruff but with a heart of gold, Asner’s Lou Grant was the comic anchor of the still-classic Mary Tyler Moore Show. “Spunk? I hate spunk!” he growls at Mary in the very first episode. Asner played a sitcom character who was still a believable editor, and after the delightfully wacky Mary Tyler Moore Show ended its run he went on to play the exact same character in a very different drama that lasted for five seasons. Now that’s adapting your skill set to changing times. 

Perry White, Superman comics: The greatest editor in comic books, even when his newspaper staff appeared to only consist of Clark Kent, Jimmy Olsen and Lois Lane in the glorious Silver Age days.  White is old-school journalism to the max, firmly pushing for truth, justice and the American way, just like the Daily Planet’s office mascot Superman. White is constantly shoving his reporters out the door on wacky circulation-boosting assignments, hunting for that story that will make him shout “Great Caesar’s ghost!” In a world filled with kryptonite, Bizarros, giant alien gorillas, fifth-dimensional imps and more, Perry White is a glorious constant. I would work for Perry White any day of the week. 

Jane Craig, Broadcast News (1987) played by Holly Hunter: I can’t pretend I know what it’s like to be a woman in a newsroom, but in this classic ‘80s romantic comedy, we watch Hunter’s intense and driven Jane Craig rise through the ranks and juggle relationships with two good but flawed journalists (the amazing Albert Brooks and William Hurt) while never giving up on her own goals. Hurt’s vapid pretty face and Brooks’ charisma-challenged newsman represent the two sides of journalism that never quite come together, while Hunter – trying to keep her principles in a constantly changing industry – is the one who really succeeds in the business.

Charles Foster Kane, Citizen Kane (1941) played by Orson Welles: Is he a good editor-publisher? After all, Welles’ masterpiece is about the rise and fall of Charles Foster Kane. Yet while he’s an egotistical, perpetually unsatisfied tyrant, what we see of Kane’s managerial skills in Citizen Kane also shows us that he’s a darned good newspaperman, hustling for scoops, scandals and attention. Yeah, he bends ethical lines a fair bit, but I’m willing to cut him a little slack as he dates back to the peak era of yellow journalism led by Hearst, Pulitzer and the like. I don’t imagine I’d like to work for Kane, but I’d sure as hell read any newspaper he put out. 

Charles Lane, Shattered Glass (2003) played by Peter Sarsgaard: Shattered Glass remains one of my favourite, still rather underrated journalism movies, about the plagiarist liar journalist Stephen Glass and his unravelling. Sarsgaard is fantastic as the unassuming editor who begins to smell a rat in Glass’ fabulist copy, and doggedly purses the loose ends to discover what the real truth is. Calm but determined and intensely offended by Glass’s stream of lies, Sarsgaard’s Lane makes the dull business of factchecking seem like a spy thriller. 

Ben Bradlee, All The President’s Men (1976) played by Jason Robards. Robards is the only one on this list who won an Academy Award for playing an editor, and rightfully so – his inscrutable, steel-eyed Bradlee is the axis around which Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford’s Watergate investigation revolves in All The President’s Men. Without Bradlee’s guiding hand and consent, the story wouldn’t be told. Like the best editors, he’s kind of terrifying, too. 

Robbie Robertson, Spider-Man comics: Look, Spider-Man’s nemesis J. Jonah Jameson is undeniably entertaining, but firmly belongs on the worst editor list. How worst? He fires Peter Parker about twice a week, lied repeatedly about Spider-Man in print, hired supervillains to kill him, and on several occasions personally piloted giant robots to beat up Spider-Man. That’s a bad editor. But shift your gaze slightly to the side to consider Jameson’s managing editor at The Daily Bugle, Robbie Robertson, who for decades has been a calm, firm but steady presence in the newsroom, frequently dealing with his impulsive boss’s rants and focused far more on truth than agendas. Jameson makes all the noise; Robertson gets the damn paper out. 

Dave Nelson, NewsRadio (1995-1999) played by Dave Foley: As the news director of WNYX, perky Dave Nelson is a sweet-faced rube thrown into a lion’s den of ego, eccentrics and mania. Surrounded by blowhards like Phil Hartman’s anchor Bill McNeal and a variety of other kooks including Stephen Root, Andy Dick and Maura Tierney, Foley as an editor spends almost the entire run of this classic sitcom putting out fires. And you know, that’s often what an editor’s job is – dealing with your staff and juggling all the balls at once. While he occasionally snaps, Dave Nelson simply being able to survive in a radio newsroom bubbling over with complicated personalities is an accomplishment all by itself. 

There’s a Tom Ripley for every generation

Everyone loves a good psychopath, and although she’s been dead for nearly 30 years now, Patricia Highsmith’s elegantly amoral creation Tom Ripley is having a moment.

Thanks to a shiny new Netflix series and continuing interest in Highsmith’s prickly, propulsive novels, Ripley is still everywhere. After all, we’re in an age of con men, grifters and people who consistently refuse to apologise or show remorse… really, it’s like 2024 was a time made for Ripley.

There have been many different Ripleys on screen over the years, with Andrew Scott’s tense performance in the Netflix miniseries just the tip of the murderous iceberg.

Still, for my money, you can’t go past Highsmith’s taut original five novels, which still hold up terrifically well as the story of a man without a conscience.

The first, The Talented Mr Ripley, is the one that has been adapted multiple times. Tom Ripley is a small-time criminal who ends up recruited by a rich businessman to persuade his dilettante son Dickie Greenleaf to return to America from Italy. But once in Italy, Ripley finds himself consumed with envy over Dickie’s easy life and thus begins a series of events that leads to the birth of one of fiction’s most memorable murderers. 

Anthony Minghella’s 1999 movie of The Talented Mr. Ripley is the gold standard of Ripley on screen – with honestly one of the best casts of the past 30 years – Matt Damon as Ripley, bronzed Jude Law as Dickie Greenleaf, Gwyneth Paltrow, Cate Blanchett and Philip Seymour Hoffman all basking under the sun-drenched Italian skies. It’s a gorgeous movie which makes its violence all the more harrowing and Damon’s subtle, yearning performance remains one of his best. 

But while Minghella’s Oscar-nominated hit is Ripley’s biggest cinematic moment, the character actually made his film debut way back in 1960 in René Clément’s French adaptation Purple Noon. It shares much of the same colourful excess and elegance of Minghella’s take. Many people think Alain Delon was the most handsome actor of all time, and how could one argue? More controlled and less human than Damon’s Ripley, he’s a living work of art. While it deviates a fair bit from the book, Purple Noon in my mind stands close to Minghella in depicting Ripley’s first, most awful crime.

The new Netflix series Ripley eschews colour for a glittering black and white look. Like most Talented Mr Ripley adaptations it’s beautiful to look at, and full of sharp little details as it unfolds over a leisurely eight hours, which gives the story room to breathe (although it can be a bit too slow-moving at times). Andrew Scott of Sherlock and Fleabag fame has a nice haunted charisma about him as his Ripley slides into murder, although at 47 he’s a little on the old side to play young Ripley. 

Yet, I have to admit, while I quite like The Talented Mr Ripley in all his film incarnations, I really enjoy the other four novels in the series, where a slightly older Ripley has settled down with a gorgeous, enigmatic cipher of a rich wife at an estate in France, living the life of leisure he so adored in Dickie Greenleaf’s day. The “origin of Ripley” in the earlier books is a great yarn, but there’s something even more alluring to me about a Ripley who’s settled into luxury and yet still has dark urges he has to give in to. Much of the ‘charm’ of the Ripley novels is seeing how this sociopath lures you into rooting for him as he attempts to get away with his various crimes. 

Highsmith’s second book, Ripley Under Ground, a twisty narrative revolving around art forgery, suicide and deception, introduced the adult Ripley, juggling his comfortable life and his homicidal habits, and is a fine introduction to his changed circumstances. It received a pretty obscure adaptation in 2005 starring a rather awkward Saving Private Ryan’s Barry Pepper – and I have seen it, but so long ago that I barely recall it. 

Ripley’s Game, the third novel, has gotten two high-profile adaptations over the years, both departing a bit from Highsmith’s original but nicely capturing the sick morality game Ripley plays with a victim after an unintentional slight. It’s a great example of how Ripley plays the ordinary man, but conceals a beast within.  

As a very offbeat take on Ripley’s Game, Wim Wenders’ 1977 The American Friend is quite a good movie, but casting Dennis Hopper as Ripley – in a cowboy hat! – turns it into something rather different than the source material. Hopper’s Ripley is twitchy and eccentric, and it feels like there’s far more Hopper than Ripley in the mix. 

The 2002 version of Ripley’s Game was not a huge success, but has held up fairly well – its main charm and detriment is the casting of sinister John Malkovich as Ripley. His Ripley is blatantly malign, pushing the story a bit harder in the direction of making Ripley a supervillain rather than a man without a conscience. But Malkovich is, as always, great fun to watch as the sneering Ripley, and unlike Hopper, he doesn’t feel miscast – just a bit on the unsubtle side. 

Meanwhile, the final two books in Highsmith’s series are ripe for the plucking – The Boy Who Followed Ripley features a twisted young ‘fan’ of Ripley, while Ripley Under Water closes out the series by having all of Ripley’s past ghosts come back to haunt him in a solid thriller. They’re all great quick reads that linger in your mind. 

I’ll always lean towards Highsmith’s tightly controlled novels over all the Ripley adaptations, I reckon, but Ripley has still proven remarkably endurable over the decades for film. None of the adaptations have been terrible and some, like the glossy Minghella epic, Alain Delon’s peerless sculpted beauty and Malkovich’s sneering elder statesman, have been great. 

There’s a little Tom Ripley in most of us, I believe, and sometimes, there’s nothing quite like watching a murderer get away with it, and pondering the strange charms one can find in the evil that men do. 

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the internet…

Here’s a brief look at a few other things I’ve been working on recently!

One of my favourite, somewhat underrated TV/streaming shows of the last couple years is the hilarious, bawdy and rude semi-historical comedy The Great. (It’s by the writer behind Poor Things and The Favourite and if you haven’t seen it, it’s highly recommended!) I wrote about my love for this gorgeous and filthy series looking at the corruption of power over for Radio New Zealand‘s occasional series of shows to watch in this age of peak content – read it here:

What We’re Watching: The Great

Meanwhile, while I’m slowly working away on the next issue of Amoeba Adventures – more to announce soon! – you can find an all-new one-page Prometheus the Protoplasm strip in the latest issue of Phoenix Productions’ Strange Times anthology magazine!

This issue’s theme is “My Best Joke” and well, I’ve never been shy about telling a joke, so I’m pleased to take part in a crew of small-press all-stars that includes Teri S. Wood, Matt Feazell, Alan Groening and many more! You can order the print copy right now on Amazon or you can get a PDF version downloaded from Phoenix’s website!

A gay old time: Revisiting Three’s Company in a changing world

“Come and knock on our door. We’ve been waiting for you. Where the kisses are hers and hers and his, three’s company too.“

Could there be a more swingin’ 1970s TV theme song? Come on, you know the words. We all do.

So while on holiday recently I was feeling a bit under the weather and, as you do, one evening I ended up watching four or five episodes in a row of ‘70s-‘80s camp sitcom Three’s Company in a row.

It was the first time in years I’d actually watched the show, but I admit that like most kids growing up in the ‘80s, I watched Three’s Company all the time. We watched everything, from classics like M*A*S*H and The Brady Bunch to also-rans like What’s Happening! and Manimal. That’s what we did in the olden days, before the eruption of a sprawling multiverse of entertainment options 24-7, when you simply watched ‘whatever was on’.

Watching a slew of Three’s Company in my vaguely sick bed recently was bizarre – I have trouble remembering what I ate for lunch yesterday, but as these goofy sitcoms unfolded I nodded in recognition – ah yes, here’s the one where they went to the farm; here’s the one where Jack makes a mob boss linguini. How the hell do I remember a sitcom episode I last watched in 1983? The inanity of childhood sitcoms, the quintessential comfort food, imprinted itself on my brain. 

The 1977-1984 run of Three’s Company seems a strange relic now, nearly 50 years (!!) since it debuted, a broad bawdy farce perched between the groovy ‘70s and a more uptight ‘80s Reaganland. The premise is pretty much the definition of problematic by modern standards  – hep cat Jack Tripper (the late, great John Ritter) pretends to be gay so he can live in an affordable apartment with two attractive young single women (Suzanne Somers and Joyce DeWitt) without offending their prudish landlord Mr Roper (Norman Fell). Hijinks ensue, somehow for eight entire seasons! 

Loose-limbed and amiable Ritter was a national treasure, of course, and like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers he carries the show on his shoulders. The women of Three’s Company fared less well; I know we were all supposed to like the late Suzanne Somers but I found her blonde ditz irritating and Joyce DeWitt’s Janet was often just a straight woman. I rather liked Priscilla Barnes’ Terri, who replaced Somers in the later years, and seemed a bit more sly and unpredictable. 

The central homophobia that drives Three’s Company is incredibly dated, but the show, mostly, was lewd and campy rather than hateful, even though there’s plenty of cringe-worthy farce humour revolving around gay misunderstandings and affairs.

Unfortunately, a lot of the ‘humour’ relies on the premise that the worst possible thing would be for Jack to actually be gay.

I grew up in a world where “fag” was the number one insult of choice by and for teenage boys. I got called one an awful lot for a few years and I’m ashamed to admit I probably called other kids it too a few times. It was stupid. 

Jack’s homophobic landlords, despite usually being the butt of the joke for their overwrought gay panic, do leave a bit of a sour aftertaste. Even watching the show as a kid, Stanley Roper and Mr Furley’s limp-wristed gay-bashing jibes seemed forced and unfunny to me.  Norman Fell’s oily Mr Roper always struck me as a little too nasty and sinister. You felt he meant it. Knotts’ goofy Furley, on the other hand, definitely felt like a closet case, and the show eased off a lot on the gay panic as it ambled along. The series ended with Jack Tripper, of course, marrying off to a nice girl. 

Did gay characters actually ever appear on Three’s Company as more than a punchline? I don’t have enough of an encyclopaedic memory to recall if they did, but the show was far more about the idea of being gay as some strange unknown rather than any kind of cultural exploration of what that meant in 1978. 

While there’s a lot of things about the modern world that are pretty terrible and backwards still, the gentle wave of gay acceptance just during my adult life makes me feel a glimmer of optimism sometimes. A good half-dozen or so of the friends I grew up with in high school later came out as gay, and I was overjoyed to see how happy and complete they seemed. I can’t imagine what it must have been like trying to keep that quiet in the ‘80s, which feels now the last real gasp of generally accepted wider cultural homophobia. 

Still, there’s plenty of people out there who still see nothing wrong with calling someone a “fag.” It’s nowhere near good enough today, of course, and a lot of people want to roll the clock back or worse. 

Three’s Company was a flimsy, unsubtle and silly show that didn’t intend to change the world like so much of today’s “prestige, event TV” – honestly, spending 800 words or so going on about it seems wildly overegging it – but at the same time, gazing back from what seems the impossibly futuristic date of 2024, it kind of shows how the world has changed, slowly, ever since Jack Tripper first knocked on that door.