The Popularity and Evolution of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: A Legacy in a Half-Shell

One can never know just what will become an enduringly popular franchise and what will merely exist with a more quiet and cult-like following. For instance, Ghostbusters has managed to spawn a whole franchise, but most generally agree that the original movie was best and later additions have felt more much divisive in terms of their quality. Meanwhile, Ben Edlund has gotten a following for his comic book creation The Tick thanks to its superhero satire and delightfully absurd hero, but this property has survived more on the cult classic level with several fun takes (most recently, a live-action series on Amazon Prime Video) that never really broke into the public stratosphere. Then, there are those works that break into the public consciousness and capture the imagination at a more consistent level. Such is the case with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. What began as an independently published comic book back in 1984 would explode into popularity, spawning a franchise that would include (as of the time of this post) four animated series, one live-action series, five live-action films, three animated films, along with numerous comic books, toys and video games. But just what helped a comic book with such an odd title to blossom into the pop cultural juggernaut it is now? Well, let us examine a little history first.

Back in 1983, Kevin Eastman and Peter Laird were sharing a house when Eastman drew an image of a masked turtle with nunchucks. Eastman labeled the drawing “Ninja Turtle”, while Laird added “Teenage Mutant”. From this initial spark, they began developing an idea for a comic that served as a kind of parody of mainstream comics popular at the time, such as Daredevil and X-Men. It would be centered around a quartet of four turtles named Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael (named after famous Renaissance-Era artists). Transformed by a radioactive mutagen, they were trained in the art of ninjutsu by a rat named Splinter (a parody of Daredevil’s mentor, Stick) in opposition of the Shredder and the Foot Clan (itself a parody of the Marvel Comics ninja clan, the Hand). Originally crafted as a stand-alone story, Eastman and Laird self-published the first issue through their own Mirage Studios and found themselves selling out of their 3,000 copies within the first week. They would continue the series, ending up with an indie comics hit. This hit would catch the attention of Playmates Toys, who would acquire a license in 1987 to make toys inspired by the comic. Playmates in turn went to Murakami-Wolf-Swenson to create an animated series to help sell the toys, a common tactics during the ’80s exemplified by franchises like G. I. Joe and Transformers. This series helped to develop the property further, introducing many signature elements like the Turtles having uniquely colored masks for each of them (in the Mirage comics, they only wore red masks) and their love for pizza. In fact, this cartoon gave each of the Turtles their signature personalities, with Leonardo as the stalwart leader, Donatello as the resident genius, Michelangelo as the fun-loving “party dude”, and Raphael as the tempestuous hothead. It also brought a lighter tone, compared to the dark and gritty comics. Thus, a major franchise was born.

It certainly grabbed attention worldwide with that first cartoon, but what has helped it to endure? In my opinion, one key element is the quirky “kitchen sink” sensibility that never loses sight of its core. Even the name itself sums up that unsung quality. “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” on its own just sounds like an odd but evocative chain of words strung together. However, break it down and it offers a quick summation of the general personality (they’re teenagers), appearance (they’re mutant turtles), and abilities (they’re ninjas) of the main characters. It is a hook whose colorful description sells the basic premise and gets an audience in on the conceit fast. In addition, the franchise itself offers a wide net of oddball characters and premises. Its most iconic villains offer a diverse line-up including the Shredder (a ruthless ninja clan leader), Krang (a brain-like interdimensional alien), Baxter Stockman (a genius scientist and inventor of the Mouser robots), and Bebop and Rocksteady (a pair of mutated brutes and loyal henchmen), but it does not end there. From street thugs like the Purple Dragons to the intergalactic dinosaur-like conquerors known as the Triceratons, there have been a wide spread of adventures and threats across the franchise. Meanwhile, these disparate elements still manage to channel the largely sci-fi thread that binds it all together. To manage keeping that core despite the sheer variety within it is certainly an impressive feat, but it also speaks to another essential part of this franchise’s survival: its versatility and knack for reinvention.

A major risk to a franchise is the potential of it to go stale. It may have a strong first story, but if a creator is not able to successfully expand beyond that first story, there is the chance that audiences may soon cool on the work and let it fade. That said, the wrong execution of a new piece of the franchise can just as easily leave a sour taste for audience and make them turn away. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, meanwhile, has managed to offer new twists and turns with each new iteration of the series. Characters often change and tweak with each new version, such as frequent villain Baxter Stockman having alternatively been (among other takes) a ruthless human scientist, a somewhat goofy inventor mutated into a human fly, and even a social media-obsessed teen with a knack for robotics. Even the origin of the Turtles themselves has often changed with these different takes, keeping the core of “transformed by mutagen” yet altering details like the nature of Splinter’s past or even dabbling in out-there ideas like reincarnation (such as in the IDW comics run). A good example of this reinventive nature is in the most recent animated series, Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Though most of the franchise has its focus on a sci-fi angle, there has still been some rarely-seen mystic elements such as the temporal magic-wielding “timestress” Renet Tilley. For this show, they chose to lean heavily into a mystical element, with the mutagen originating from a hidden world of yokai (a collection of otherworldly monsters) and the Turtles taking up mystical weapons against these out-there foes. With such a bold change, it offers up fresh new takes on classic characters (like the show’s iteration of the Shredder being a cursed set of armor that transforms into a demon once united) and some fun new additions of its own, such as Hypno-Potamus (a mutated hippo with a stage magician gimmick). It is a bold new addition to the franchise that really differs from most other iterations, and yet it still captures that same core appeal: four “Heroes in a Half-Shell” saving New York City from the forces of evil.

With so many different versions of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, there are plenty of places for a new audience member to give a try with the franchise. For those looking for some of the earlier entries, the first season of the 1987 animated series (which comprises five episodes, with one major plot across all five episodes) and the 1990 live-action movie (which manages to mix together the lighter Turtles from the ’87 cartoon with an overall tone more fitting of the darker Mirage comics) serve as solid starting points to see the franchise from its initial heyday. That said, the 2012 animated series (the first one made by Nickelodeon, after the franchise was acquired by Viacom) is a fantastic iteration to check out. It offers a strong sense of character and weaves good ongoing stories over the course of its seasons, while still keeping up the fun that most would want from a franchise as off the wall as this. So, if you are curious, I’d suggest giving any of those a try, ordering a good pizza, and kicking back as you check out a franchise that has made millions yell out, “Cowabunga!”.

The Incredible Shrinking Man: Existential Dread in the Atomic Age

The world was rocked when the Atomic Bomb was used during World War II, but not only in terms of its real-world destruction. It sparked the imagination in terms of the possibilities of what science could achieve, along with stoking the fears of what could happen if this new force ran unchecked. Paired with the birth of the Cold War and America’s scientific competition with the Soviet Union, the 1950s became a “Golden Age” of science fiction. All sorts of media hopped onto this bandwagon, and no medium was more present with this than in movies. The silver screen played host to all sorts of science fiction films, inspired by these new passions and fears. A fascination with space and what lies beyond would bring films like The Day the Earth Stood Still, while paranoia about communism would fuel feature films such as Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Most prominent in the era were fears about the effects of radiation, often presented through mutated creatures in films such as Them! and It Came from Beneath the Sea. However, one film turned this topic onto the subject of man himself, standing out as a more stripped down but still evocative science film story. Co-written by Richard Matheson and based on his own book, The Incredible Shrinking Man takes those fears of radiation and uses them as an outlet to explore man’s own sense of self in a broadening existence.

What should be a quiet vacation with his wife takes a turn for the nightmarish when Scott Carey is exposed to a mysterious radioactive mist. Though there is no visible effect at first, after a few months he notices that his clothes are a bit too big, that he seems to be a little shorter. It is only after a doctor’s visit that the truth comes out: due to whatever was in that mist, Scott Carey is now shrinking. As doctors work to find some way to stop his condition, Scott becomes a media sensation that the press calls “the incredible shrinking man”. Growing smaller with each passing day, he grows more frustrated as his own self-worth diminishes along with his size. He even grows small enough that a common housecat and a spider become oversized threats to him. As he fights to survive and find his way in the face of this illogical situation, one burning question remains: just how small will Scott Carey become?

Running at a brisk 81 minutes, The Incredible Shrinking Man is a lean and philosophical science fiction story. Eschewing the original novel’s flashback structure for a more linear telling, it hops through moments in Scott Carey’s life as he grows ever smaller. This size-changing is well-realized through some clever special effects. From oversized set pieces and props to compositing by shooting against a black velvet backdrop, the film manages to pull off Scott’s shrinking and sell this strange new reality for the main character. Of course, the effects are only part of the equation. Whereas some of the science fiction films leaned into spectacle, this movie has its focus firmly on the characters and takes its time to tap into their fears. Grant Williams sells this component in his performance as Scott Carey, painting Scott’s descent from initial puzzlement to bitter resentment as he grows ever smaller. Even when the sight of him in a dollhouse or looking like a child straining to look over a windowsill might be ridiculous, he never loses sight of the turmoil in this situation. In fact, that turmoil is the core crux to this story.

Throughout history, humanity has had a specific view of its place in the world, of their importance and power on the Earth. As the technological march in the 1950s gave humanity a greater view of the cosmos and the reach of the stars, it also gave a stark reminder of just how small we all are in the grand scheme of things. This thought, that we might not be as big and important as we see ourselves, can inspire dread in some and is given a vivid portrait through Scott Carey’s predicament. At the start, he is confident and charming, ever playful with his wife. As he grows smaller, steadily shrinking from six feet to three feet, he grows bitter and more tyrannical over her. He grasps at any straw he can to still feel normal, desperate to feel like the man that he once was. It’s only from further shrinking, to a point where his own basement seems like a vast desert, that the wheels turn towards some kind of acceptance. Everything, from the widest reaches of space to the smallest molecules, are still part of this universe. They are still a piece of the tapestry of existence, with nothing wasted. It is a reassuring thought, one that can still help people as our eyes stay fixed to the skies and we peer ever deeper into the cosmos.

The Golden Age of science fiction brought a multitude of science fiction visions to the big screen, from atomic creature features to awe-inspiring alien encounters. The Incredible Shrinking Man stands out from the crowd with a more minimalist set-up, using the era’s fears of radiation to explore the existential dread in humanity’s small place among the vast universe.

The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad: A Double Treat from a Forgotten Disney Era

When examining the history of Disney animation, it is easy to chart all of their animated feature films into certain eras. For instance, they obviously began with the “Golden Age”, sparked by Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Then, there is the “Disney Renaissance”, when films such as The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast helped pull the company out of an unstable period and into a new era of box office dominance. One era that tends to fade more into obscurity however is the “Package Era”, also sometimes known as the “Wartime Era”. During World War II, Walt Disney had found the company stretched thin. The studio (along with plenty of artists) was enlisted by the military to work on numerous wartime propaganda shorts, not to mention being embroiled in labor disputes at the time. As a result, a method to keep making features on a cheaper cost came through making anthology animated films, which were also called “package films”. Movies such as The Three Caballeros and Make Mine Music stem from this era, but tend to be lost in the shuffle. For some, their varied anthology nature means they lack the focus on story and character, which have been such a part of Disney’s success. However, there is one movie in this time period that serves as a fun two-part anthology which preserves the Disney spark: The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad.

Bookended by live-action segments set in a library, the movie offers up a double feature of animated segments based on classic pieces of literature. First, viewers find themselves in Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows as the impulsive Mr. Toad is driven by a new mania: motor cars. Though his friends Ratty, Mole, and MacBadger try their best to help him, Toad’s manic nature lands him in prison as a crooked bartender and his gang of weasels swindle his manor home out from under Toad. Thus, it’s up to the four animal friends to prove Toad’s innocence and reclaim Toad Hall…at least, before the next mania sends Toad speeding off. Then, viewers move on from England to America, as the pages open for Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. In this classic tale, Ichabod Crane has arrived in Sleepy Hollow as the new schoolmaster, but quickly falls in love with Katrina van Tassel. That brings him the ire of Brom Bones, a local man who had his eyes on Katrina first. Discovering that Ichabod is overly superstitious, Brom tells the legend of the Headless Horseman at a Halloween party to fill the schoolteacher with fear. All alone on a dark road afterwards, Ichabod finds the tale may be real as he comes face to face with the terrifying rider. It all culminates in a mad dash to a covered bridge that may just save him or serve up one final fright.

Both segments are good, though they come with their own strengths and weaknesses. Between the two, The Wind in the Willows feels more tonally complete. It delivers the story with a playfulness that befits Mr. Toad, especially when contrasted by Basil Rathbone’s “stiff upper lip” narration. Some of the sequences deliver a great kinetic energy to them, such as Toad’s escape from prison or the manic battle at Toad Hall. It really is no wonder that this segment would go on to inspire one of the first rides at Disneyland, with “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”. On the whole, it is a charming and fun segment, even if it may not reach quite the heights of some Disney animation. Meanwhile, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is more of a mixed bag. Bing Crosby delivers an affable narration style for the classic American tale, but the segment does suffer from some padding. There’s a solid stretch to the film where it just pads the story with gags about Ichabod and Brom fighting for Katrina’s affections. It’s not until the story reaches the iconic ride with the Headless Horseman that the segment reaches its true heights. A creepy atmosphere builds amid shadows and sounds, until it becomes a juggernaut of creeps as the Headless Horseman goes barreling after Ichabod. It is one of Disney’s most iconic “scary” sequences, and has earned its reputation as a Halloween favorite. It easily makes up for the overlong padding in the rest of the segment.

Both segments work well on their own, but when paired together, they do serve as the strongest example of what the “Package Era” could offer. That is an era of Disney that was built on anthology films, and most anthologies by their nature vary in quality. However, there is one benefit to an anthology structure: there’s less of a risk in a story overstaying its welcome. Sometimes a story can have a great idea, but in trying to flesh it out to a feature, it may spin its wheels or become overstuffed with plot threads that distract from the core story. In this case, both tales are given room to breathe, and yet not too much time to potentially lose track of themselves. Interestingly, both segments have their own challenges with adaptation. The Wind in the Willows is a book that can easily fill a feature length film and has been the subject of numerous stage plays, so Disney’s take on the story whittles it down to the iconic core of Mr. Toad and the trouble caused by his “motor mania”. Meanwhile, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is a short story, so they took the case in expanding it. This mostly done through padding the story with gags like some of the older Disney movies (the original Cinderella film, for example), but that padding is inspired by mentions in the original short story of Brom pulling practical jokes on Ichabod as a way to stop him from getting with Katrina. Both segments have their issues (whether trimming down The Wind in the Willows and losing some of the easygoing charms from the book, or expanding The Legend of Sleepy Hollow in a way that neglects building the characters more), but they ultimately do make for a fun pairing of animated adaptations.

The “Package Era” of Disney tended to be glossed over, given its focus on anthology films that lacked the strong singular stories that helped the studio to blossom in the first place. The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad is a film from that era which still holds up, offering adaptations of two literary classics spiced up with that patented Disney magic.

Powers of Darkness: A New Face for the Old Count

Ever since Dracula had been first published back in 1897, its title character has become an iconic villain from literature. Despite other notable vampires predating him like Carmilla and Sir Francis Varney, Count Dracula has practically set the template of the vampire. Thus, he has been subject to plenty of variations over the years. From Bela Lugosi’s hypnotic charm to Gary Oldman’s tragic lover to even the Castlevania animated show’s sympathetic yet monstrous portrayal, plenty have brought a different view upon the classic vampire. As it turns out, there had even been different takes just a few years after the original novel came out. In 1899, there was a Swedish translation done of Bram Stoker’s novel that served as the basis for a 1901 Icelandic translation. This translation had languished in obscurity, until 2014 when Dutch scholar Hans Corneel de Roos examined the work and realized something: it’s an adaptation, not a translation. Though similar to Stoker’s novel, this version changes several elements to the story along with adding new characters and removing others. Newly republished by de Roos under the title Powers of Darkness, this long-forgotten take on the classic story also serves up a version of Count Dracula that feels more fitting for the grand pedestal he has occupied in pop culture.

Sent out to Transylvania for his job as a solicitor, Thomas Harker finds himself in the company of the mysterious Count Dracula. Though he seems charming, there is an unnerving air about Dracula as he limits Harker’s travels around the castle. Faced with locked doors and hidden hallways, Harker makes a horrifying discovery: Dracula is a vampire, leading a Satanic cult. However, Dracula’s reach is not limited to the forests of Transylvania. With agents spread across the world in high society, he has now set his sights on London as his new base of operations. Not wanting anyone to discover his plans, he leaves Thomas to be dealt with as he heads out to London. However, Harker won’t give up so easily and plans to escape. Meanwhile, his beloved Wilma Murray finds her social world shaken up as Count Dracula arrives in London. With her friend Lucy transforming into a vampire, she seeks to discover Dracula’s secret with the assistance of Inspector Barrington. The results are a two-pronged assault, as Harker and Murray work to expose the dark evil that is infiltrating their world.

Powers of Darkness makes for an interesting experience as a literary discovery. The original Dracula is a longer read, unspooling its Gothic horror through its epistolary format at a slow but steady pace. Powers of Darkness, meanwhile, serves as a pulpier read. The action is more direct, the lustful sexuality more explicit. The prose also comes across in a more brisk and punchier style, compared to the original work’s more voluminous vocabulary. That said, some of the structure to the novel feels a bit off. It initially starts off with the same epistolary format, telling of Thomas Harker’s time at Dracula’s castle through the entries of his journal. However, when the story shifts to London, it drops that format for a more conventional prose style that also leans into a pace that feels more like a plot summary. Some literary scholars have theorized this translation being based on an early draft of Bram Stoker’s novel, and there could be a case considering how this portion of the novel feels like more simplistic in its style. Still, it does make for a fun alternative read to a classic novel. Of course, the biggest point of difference comes through in its presentation of the title monster: Count Dracula.

In the original novel, Dracula is largely a more solitary monster. Though there are wives at his castle and Renfield’s mind is twisted by his influence, that is the extent of Dracula’s reach. He serves more from the shadows, bringing terror on his own as feeds upon the blood of the living. In Powers of Darkness, meanwhile, Dracula has a veritable legion who serve him. Monstrous ape-like creatures in the depths of his castle, aristocrats and diplomats in the upper classes, and even travelers sworn to Dracula in loyalty, all bound through his Satanic cult and will. Honestly, his being a vampire is not really shown to be what makes him a monster. Rather, he is a monster because he believes that the strong should dominate the weak, using his cult to spread his influence and reshape the world to his views. He does not lurk in the shadows like the “creature of the night” in most versions of the story. He is out and active in London society, hosting massive parties where he sways others and takes out his enemies through the skillful use of hypnosis. In fact, it really says something about this version of Dracula that hypnosis is the major power of his that’s most often displayed rather than his blood-drinking. Instead of a ravenous monster who acts like a man to captivate and trap others, he is a man who brings out the monster in others through his corrupting presence. In a way, it’s a spin on Count Dracula that feels like a natural fit for the large shadow he has cast over pop culture, and it’s almost surprising to see it in a translation that comes so soon after the original text’s publication.

There have been plenty of versions of Count Dracula over years, leaning all over the scale from a monster of the night to a tragically cursed figure. Leave it to an obscure early 20th-century translation of the novel to serve up an engaging take of its own, leaning into the legendary monster’s charisma by presenting him as a corrupting cult leader.

Shady Hollow: A Cozy Mystery with Creature Comforts

The murder mystery genre is one that is rife with intrigue and excitement, bringing readers face to face with wicked deeds and haunting killers. However, not all mysteries are so shocking and blunt in their examination of a murder. For those who seek a gentler read, there is an entire subgenre known as the “cozy mystery”. Often set in a small town or tight-knit community, the cozy mystery follows an amateur sleuth who ends up investigating a murder that has been committed in the community. What makes a cozy mystery different within this familiar set-up, though, is in the presentation. Murders happen off-screen, with the deaths generally being quick and not graphic. Sexual content is never presented, and merely alluded to with vague suggestion. Even language tends to not be more aggressive than the mildest profanity, if it goes there. In short, it is a subgenre that feels like a response to the more explicit tendencies of the “hardboiled mystery”. Juneau Black (the pen name for the duo of Jocelyn Cole and Sharon Nagel) have arrived to make their own contribution to this subgenre, with an inspired idea: what if the setting for a story like Fantastic Mr. Fox or The Wind in the Willows were used for a murder mystery? The result is Shady Hollow, a murder mystery that earns its distinction as “cozy” through its use of anthropomorphic animal characters.

In the small town of Shady Hollow, a whole host of animals live together in relative peace. From the animals eager for a “pick me up” at Joe’s Mug (the local coffee shop) to the constant workers at the local sawmill owned by wealthy industrialist Reginald von Beaverpelt, the gears of this town turn at a steady pace. It makes it all the more shocking when an event rocks the community: murder! Otto Sumpf, a local toad who tended to live alone and bickered with everyone, is found dead with a knife in his back. Fox reporter Vera Vixen takes up a story about the case for the local paper, but as she writes, she finds that something doesn’t add up. Digging deeper to uncover the truth, she stirs up the calm waters of Shady Hollow and discovers there may be more happening in this community than expected. Soon enough, it becomes clear that someone wants Vera to stop investigating, and it will take all of her cunning to find the truth before she is silenced…permanently.

Shady Hollow is a delightful read, and certainly captures the spirit of the cozy mystery subgenre well. It unspools its mystery at a content but steady pace, offering good intrigue within its small-town setting with clues that can challenge the reader but still make for fair play in figuring out the mystery. Its small-town setting also offers a fun cast of characters who populate this mystery. From the work-focused brown bear deputy Orville Braun to gossipy hummingbird reporter Gladys Honeysuckle, they all offer fun textures to the landscape of this community. They also contribute well to the shadowy corners of this tale, with hints of dark pasts and judgmental mindsets building up among the townspeople as the mystery goes on. All of these, plus the gentler storytelling to this mystery, help to make this a great example of the subgenre. Now, if it had just had those pieces, it would still be fine. However, there is a hook to this novel that offers a little bit of spice to help it stand out on the bookshelf: namely, its choice to be about anthropomorphic animals.

Part of the appeal in a cozy mystery is in an orderly life momentarily torn asunder by the presence of a murder. It is trying to understand how an ordinary person could be compelled to commit such a horrible act, how they could let their civilized self go in a moment of primal hate. People forget about the animalistic side that can emerge, which is what makes it such an inspired choice to have the characters in Shady Hollow be animals. It does not just offer up some playful characterization using animal archetypes, such as Vera’s cunning as a fox or local criminal Lefty being a raccoon. It also offers a reminder of the fury that can lie within, as these “civilized beasts” are faced with such a cruel death in their community. Using anthropomorphic animals, it can be easier for that paranoia to creep in, wondering who among a close-knit community would be willing to kill. Of course, humans are just as capable of that ourselves. In fact, the book even opens with an author’s note that if you have trouble accepting the whole idea of this animal cast, you can instead think of them as “humans with particularly animalistic traits…just like you or me”. It is a playful but chilling reminder of a truth that lurks within the heart of the mystery genre: any personal can be an animal, and an animal trapped will do anything for its survival.

The cozy mystery subgenre is one that is filled with charm as it tackles the subject of murder, and Shady Hollow is a good reminder of that charm. It offers a whimsical touch with its cast of anthropomorphic animals, which all the while highlights the savagery that plays out in the shadows of its quaint small town.

Henry – Portrait of a Serial Killer: A View to a Killer

As the genre of true crime has exploded over the years, there is a particular breed of criminal that has come to fascinate audiences: the serial killer. Defined as “someone who kills three or more people, often in service to abnormal psychology”, the serial killer has gripped our collective curiosity for one reason: what would compel someone to kill repeatedly? From such figures like the early terror of Jack the Ripper to the manipulative charm of Ted Bundy, we cannot help but want to know why. However, in trying to understand such a figure and structuring a story around them, pop culture has shaped a particular vision of what a serial killer is like. If they can evade the law, then they must be smart, perhaps even cultured. If they can kill, then they must have a clear system for how they kill and understand why. If they are our protagonist, then they must go against a far greater evil. The truth is not always so benevolent or orderly, however, and one movie serves as a reminder of that. Filmed in 1985 and loosely inspired by the confessions of Henry Lee Lucas, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer is a horror film that would not find a release until 1990. Even then, it would only get a limited unrated release, playing a hand in the eventual development of the NC-17 rating. These results do not stem from merely the graphic violence. It comes moreso from the film’s brutal, objective realism.

Traveling across the country and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, Henry is a drifter whose one clear passion in life appears to be murder. Between his killings, he has found himself a place to stay in the apartment of Otis, a friend from prison. Their home for two becomes three when Becky, Otis’s sister, arrives to live on the run from an abusive husband. What follows is a story of the day to day life of these three broken souls, as Henry’s presence shapes and molds the other two. With Becky, a kind of connection forms with Henry from his own revulsion against sexual violence after hearing of her tragic past. Meanwhile, Henry opens Otis up to the world of murder, imparting his views and opinions as the two take part in a murder spree. It all leads to a horrific end, as Otis’s depravity blossoms into a new level of grotesquerie and Becky is reminded of the cruel world in which she resides.

This is a film that is uniquely chilling among the pantheon of horror movies. Most stories that involve a serial killer present an implicit moral view, oftentimes painting the killer as some grand monster to defeat (if he is the antagonist) or a tragically flawed figure challenging worse evils (if he is the protagonist). Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer does not take such easy outs. Filmed with a gritty realism to its locations and characters, viewers are treated to a dispassionate walk in the life of a serial killer. The violence is brutal, but not in a way that is theatrical or grandiose like many a slasher movie. It is grounded, its violence given a sense of real consequence. It displays wicked actions, yet makes no moral claims one way or the other. It commits to its title, which is no wonder why the film had made such a stir when it hit the film festival circuit. Even the true crime genre tends to portray its sensational crimes through the lens of justice eventually prevailing no matter how small or a warning so as to ensure justice in the future, whereas this movie simply tells a story of banal everyday evil lurking beneath society’s surface. Nowhere is this more evident than in its titular serial killer, Henry.

As portrayed by Michael Rooker in his film debut, Henry is an emotionless, dispassionate figure. He has a flat tone to his speech, a simple rhythm to his words. For him, the murder of a prostitute elicits the same frustration as kicking a busted television. There is no sense of brilliance or intelligence in his attitudes, when compared to someone like Hannibal Lector. What cunning is there is mostly shone through his killing methods: always vary the method and target, and always live on the move. There is not even a clear reason as to why he is the way he is. There are a few hints of something under the surface, like his specific revulsion to sexual violence and sexuality in general or his worldview of “them or us”. However, viewers are denied any answers deeper than that. As for the common framing of a serial killer against a greater evil (such as Dexter Morgan from the Dexter franchise), the film makes no attempt to portray Henry as good. If he is read as such, it is only in contrast to the impulsive ugliness of Otis, whose litany of depravity includes incest and necrophilia. Even when played in contrast to Otis’s actions, the film never deigns to present Henry as something better. He is simply a different breed of monster, that is all. Perhaps that is why this film has endured as a unique beast of a picture. It is willing to present this ordinary evil and not shirk from its truth, like so many stories of serial killers will in trying to gleam an understanding to their horrific actions. It is simply a portrait of a serial killer, revealing the awful actions that exist in our world and the chilling chaos spun from a plain figure with no attempt to answer that question of why.

In the collective fascination of serial killers, a trend has blossomed to make them into unique and captivating figures for us to understand. Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer feels almost like a rebuke to all of those later attempts, presenting an ordinary and ugly reality with a brutal figure whose inner workings we are denied and whose actions are portrayed with no judgment.

The Greatest Showman and Barnum: How to Tell a Humbug

The world and all its history is filled with fascinating characters and events. It is only natural to want to tell the stories of these lives, to examine the moments of the past and see how they resonate with our world. However, there is a challenge at play: real life is messy. It doesn’t always present an easy structure to its events, or a person who can always be easily presented as good or bad. Thus, a writer must face the challenge in how to present these moments of history. On the one hand, they should tailor and alter where they must, finding the story within history and weaving it in a way that is easier to digest in an engaging fashion. On the other, they should still have some truth to the history that did happen, otherwise the results can be a full-on fabrication. To examine this challenge in storytelling, let us consider a figure from American history: P. T. Barnum. The famous showman regarded as the “Prince of Humbug” thanks to his healthy dose of promoted hoaxes alongside true performers and bold embellishments in advertising has been the subject of not one, but two musicals: 2017’s The Greatest Showman and 1980’s Barnum. How do they fare in attempting to tell the story of P. T. Barnum? First, a little history lesson for those unfamiliar.

Born in 1810, Phineas Taylor Barnum had spent his early years running through a variety of businesses before he found his place in the spotlight as a showman. His career began with the notorious exhibition of Joice Heth, and then grew into the acquisition of the American Museum in New York. There, Barnum presented astounding sights to the public, from traditional exhibits like dioramas and a wax museum to wonders like the Fiji Mermaid (a taxidermy hoax that was half-fish and half-monkey) and Charles Stratton (a little person advertised as “General Tom Thumb”). He even invested in the arts, sponsoring a grand opera tour for famed Swedish singer Jenny Lind. However, his career and wealth took a hit when he invested in the Jerome Clock Company, only for the company to go bankrupt shortly after and Barnum to be left dealing with the debt. Lecture tours allowed him to claw out from the pit of debt, and a turn towards politics allowed him a chance to do more direct good in the world, such as bringing improvements to the city of Bridgeport, Connecticut and campaigning against a railroad monopoly. It was not until his 60s that he entered the business that most know him for today: the circus business, when an eventual merger with James Bailey led to the Barnum & Bailey Circus, a three-ring circus once known as “The Greatest Show on Earth”. He would die of a stroke in 1891, with his final words being to ask about the receipts for his show.

When it comes to telling the story of Barnum, a musical makes sense as a medium to choose. Barnum’s own sense of showmanship is a natural fit for that approach, given that he even described himself as “a showman by profession…and all the gilding shall make nothing else of me”. However, the truly fascinating part of Barnum is in just how honest he was in his use of “humbugs” (an old term for something designed to mislead or deceive) to wow the public and fill his coffers, so content was he to engage in some lies if it meant exciting a crowd and giving them their money’s worth in the process. This sincerity in exaggeration is a fascinating contradiction, and one that is mostly avoided in the film The Greatest Showman to its own detriment. Hugh Jackman is clearly giving his all as the legendary showman and bringing his full charisma for the part, but the film tries painting Barnum as a paragon defender of the downtrodden. It treats him displaying “human curiosities” (as they were called) as if it were some bold action to highlight people with differences, rather than the all-too-common exploitative business of a “freak show” in that era. The film is not helped by Pasek and Paul’s score, whose songs languish in a modern pop sound that lacks the grand bombast of Barnum’s sentiments. Despite some strong visual flourish in how the musical numbers are filmed, the movie ultimately suffers in trying to paint over this conflicting figure with a more bland “Be Yourself” moral. Of course, there was an earlier musical that serves a more engaging portrait of the famed showman.

First staged on Broadway back in 1980 with music by Cy Coleman, Barnum presents his life as a three-ring circus starring the man himself. Running through notable events and figures from his life as a series of circus acts, Barnum leads his audience through his life with a grand smile on his face, and a certain truth: this show may be pure humbug, but he will give you a good time all the same. He even boldly announces such during the carnival bombast of the opening song, “There’s a Sucker Born Ev’ry Minute”. Meanwhile, his wife Charity acts as a grounding force amid all the astounding feats, poking at his “humbugs” with a need for some truth in the world. Though there is a tug-of-war between Barnum’s sky-high ambitions and Charity’s grounded realism, their love is certain and their relationship serves as the heart of the show. In a way, it also offers a solid point in exploring the nature of Barnum, offering a critical eye on his use of falsehoods even as it relishes that need for wonder and excitement. Although this stage musical does brush over some spots in his life that could have been expanded on, such as perhaps exploring Barnum using his showmanship for good in politics contrasting with his earlier money-minded pursuits, Coleman’s bombastic score and the circus performance structure offers a strong palette of colors in which to paint Barnum’s life. Ironically, it comes down to one key central tenet: a sheer honesty in what a humbug P. T. Barnum had been, and a desire to entertain audiences like he had done.

A person from history like P. T. Barnum can be hard to capture in a story, given the nuances and elements that can conflict even as a shining core of a story glimmers within it all. The Greatest Showman misses that mark by trying to paper over flaws in the man to make a bland attempt at a heartwarming tale, while Barnum embraces the deceits of the famed showman along with his sense of spectacle.

The Music Man: An Old Hat That Still Fits

Sometimes, when a piece of work reaches that level of status to be regarded as “iconic”, it will be retold time and again for audiences to enjoy. However, that can be a mixed blessing. What can be a crowd-pleaser and attention grabber one day can become an old-fashioned relic as its medium marches on, exploring new storytelling dynamics, techniques, and themes. Such is the case with the iconic stage musical The Music Man. Written by Meredith Willson (along with Franklin Lacey, who co-wrote the show’s book), The Music Man debuted on Broadway back in 1957. With its charming demeanor, memorable music, and a masterful performance from Robert Preston as Professor Harold Hill, the show earned rave reviews and swept up five Tony Awards including Best Musical. Nowadays, most folks probably think of it as the musical that every community theater and high school has performed at least once, a cheesy slice of old-school musical theater brushed off as just a fluffy piece of musical Americana. However, the fact is that this piece still soars, thanks to its use of its delightful musical numbers and the satirical glint in its view of small-town America.

Set in the summer of 1912, the show follows con man Professor Harold Hill, a salesman with a rather unique scam: selling people on making a boys’ band and getting them to purchase the necessary instruments and uniforms, and then skipping town with their cash and not a single lesson taught to the kids. Rolling into the reserved town of River City, he finds his way into their hearts by whipping the townspeople into a moral panic about the presence of a pool table and convincing them that only a boys’ band can help keep their children on the straight and narrow. Meanwhile, he also sets his sights on Marian Paroo, a local librarian who is the subject of gossip and is herself frustrated by the lack of culture in River City. However, she can see right through Harold’s sales pitch seduction and sets out to expose this fraud. Her own views change, though, as Harold’s wily manipulation transforms the town and brings out a new life in the people. While a frustrated mayor and a rival salesman close in to expose him, Harold finds himself moved as well, and must face the choice of cheating these people of their dream, or opening himself up to a real love and making this lie become a reality.

As I had mentioned before, this show’s memorable songs have helped it to endure over the years. However, it is not only the fact that the music is great. It is in how well-used and ingrained that music is to the story. A con man preys on our emotions and feelings to get to our wallets, and music has a way to cutting right through the core to our hearts. Here, the two mesh naturally as Harold Hill brings his con with musical panache. “Ya Got Trouble”, for instance, displays his fast-paced style with a delightful patter as Harold paints a picture of pool as the epitome of moral corruption, while the iconic number “Seventy-Six Trombones” brings his sales pitch of a boys’ band as the savior for River City children with a loud parade bombast that can’t help but sweep you up and get you humming with the beat. He even displays that musical manipulation in other ways, like dodging questions about his credentials by getting his accusers to sing in a barbershop quartet formation while buttering them up with compliments. In short, it is a successful fusion of music and character, a natural fit for the story it tells. However, it is not only the music where the story is served well. There is also its setting of River City, a key ingredient that has helped to make it an American classic.

When Meredith Willson wrote The Music Man, he was inspired by his own memories of growing up in Mason City, Iowa. Thus, he brings a specific and at times surprisingly sharp view of this small Midwestern town. Out of the gate, the people of River City are presented as standoffish, very much skeptical of anything outside of their own world view. What they don’t have, they do without. There is even an entire musical number to introduce the town as such, aptly titled “Iowa Stubborn”. It is this stubbornness that ironically makes them such good marks for Harold’s con, with their personal biases and eagerness to protect their own swaying them into his boys’ band pitch. However, a change comes over these people by way of this snake oil salesman. A group of bickering school board members become a barbershop quartet, singing in harmony. A young boy shy about his lisp becomes more outgoing as he finds the joy in playing a cornet. Even a squad of gossipy ladies who see the works of Chaucer and Balzac as “dirty books” come around to the heights of culture. In short, they become fueled by the power of a dream. True, it is a dream straight from a con man’s snake oil pitch, but it is a dream that nonetheless lifts them up together and can even change a con artist to an honest soul. It is a quintessential American hope that people can reach up for something grander than the ordinary, that even a glittering marching band can blossom from the most “stick-in-the-mud” town. By recognizing that conflicting mix of the grandest dreams in the most reserved of people, Meredith Willson captured a spark of just what an American people are and the potential they can be.

The Music Man may be seen as just a piece of musical fluff, served up in amateur theaters across the country and flying in on the graces of its music. However, if a production can remember not only to capture that great music but also spotlight Meredith Willson’s incisive view of small-town America, then they can remind audiences why this “old hat” show has still earned its spot on the hat rack.

Storytelling in Theme Park Attractions: Narrative in Motion

Throughout the ages, there have been plenty of ways in which stories have been told. From the earliest paintings and oral recitations of legends, to the modern media of graphic novels and video games, these storytelling formats have evolved and blossomed over time. True, some forms of media have been belittled because of their form. Comic books were once regarded as just “kids stuff”, while video games were seen as mindless trash. However, these storytelling forms eventually garnered the appreciation they deserve for what their formats can do. Still, though, there is one form that is tossed aside and seen as mere fluff in critical circles: the theme park attraction. If one ever hears a critic refer to something as being like a theme park ride, it is most often to describe it as being shallow and offering nothing substantial. Frankly, this feels like an unfair assessment. Just as in any other form of storytelling, a theme park attraction can offer an engaging approach to telling a story, using the tools and presentation that theme parks possess.

For instance, when checking out a theme park attraction, it is not just the ride that can present its story. They have the benefit of architecture to bring people into the world of their story, from the moment that they enter the queue (the waiting line area) to all the way through the ride itself. Details in this architecture can help to push the story forward, to present a narrative that offers more to enjoy during the ride experience. Take, for example, the roller coaster known as Expedition Everest, located at Disney’s Animal Kingdom. Entering into the queue, you find yourself in the town of Serka Zong. The posters and signs around the buildings make it clear that you are near the Himalayas, with statues and artwork depicting a legendary beast of those mountains: the Yeti. Further through, you pass through a Yeti museum, discussing how legends say that the creature defends a realm among the mountains from outsiders…and presents evidence from what might have been actual attacks. Later, as you approach the ride vehicles, signs advertise a train service that travels to the base of Mount Everest, passing through this supposedly guarded realm. Once riding, you find yourself in a thrilling roller coaster adventure, witnessing for yourself that the Yeti is real and very angry at you trespassing. High speeds and sharp turns come with sights of torn-up tracks and a close encounter with the legendary beast. It all adds up to a thrilling adventure whose story also fits into the grand theme of Disney’s Animal Kingdom, which is concerned with nature and the importance of understanding our impact upon it.

Of course, theme parks do not just have original stories to tell. Much like any other medium, theme park attractions can be based on other works, whether in direct adaptations or more generally based upon existing material. Now, that would seem like quite the challenge, considering the more limited time frame that a theme park attraction has in telling its story. In truth, the key to pulling off such an adaptation comes from one central focal point: capturing the dominant emotional imagery of the work. For instance, take Peter Pan’s Flight, located at parks such as Disneyland and Disney’s Magic Kingdom. The 1953 Peter Pan animated film is the basis for the ride, and one of the most enduring images from that film is Peter Pan and the others flying over London. That became the major design point for the ride, not only in how much of the ride shows the flight over London and around Neverland, but also in how the ride vehicles move along a suspended rail above you instead of a conventional track on the ground. As a result, a rider is given the feeling of flight, pulling them further into the ride by capturing that feeling they so associate with the original work. Another example is with Muppet*Vision 3D, located at Disney’s Hollywood Studios. The Muppets are a property known for their fourth-wall breaking, vaudeville-style hijinx. Thus, Disney Imagineers (the term for Disney’s attraction developers) created a 3D show that captures the same sensibility, with the same delightfully goofy sense of humor and plenty of in-theater effects to immerse guests, from bubbles that descend during a musical number to animatronic versions of Statler and Waldorf heckling the show from their signature box seats. It all comes down to that emotional hook, the emotional core which sticks with a guest.

For as much as critics may deride theme park attractions and use them as a go-to example of something shallow, there is no denying the importance of that emotional hook. Now, I am not denying the importance of an intellectual idea, or having something that captivates the mind. Plenty of great works have occupied discussions over the years, such as 2001: A Space Odyssey or Citizen Kane. However, for as rich as works like those can be on an intellectual front, they may fall risk to being treated as something to dissect and break down, rather than something to consume and enjoy in its whole. It is the emotional side that helps to bring in the average person, something that can cut through the clutter and reach them in their heart. The heart remembers the wonder when they see an elephant fly in Dumbo, or the excitement in watching Peter Pan cross blades with Captain Hook. It is that emotional hook that sticks with people, and gets them to come out to theme parks and experience these stories. In fact, theme park attractions can be such a major mix of mind and heart. It takes plenty of hard work and brainpower to devise the wondrous architecture and ride mechanisms that immerse people into these stories, and keep them coming back. There is something to be said for a medium that is generally stuck to its one location, yet constantly bringing in guests old and new, excited to experience its wonders.

Too often, critics have used the idea of the theme park ride to describe something as shallow and unsubstantial. Theme park attractions are just as worthy a medium for storytelling as any other, thanks to their capacity for immersing guests into their stories and capturing the emotional hook of their work.

Batman Ninja: A Solid, if Wavering, Attempt at Batmanime

Oftentimes, when stories are told in different forms or transferred between different cultures, there can be an exchange in ideas that can add and enhance each other. For instance, as anime and manga have grown more popular in the Western world, concepts and tropes from those stories have been borrowed and used in Western media, along with vice versa. The trope of the magical girl warrior has become an inspiration behind Western cartoons like Star vs. the Forces of Evil and comics like Zodiac Starforce, while traditional superheroes are a major topic in anime series like My Hero Academia and One Punch Man. Of course, this is not necessarily a new thing. Back in the late 1960s, manga writer Jiro Kuwata went to work on creating a manga series centered around Batman (known to fans these days as the Bat-Manga). Now, Batman has received a second treatment from Japan, this time with the anime film Batman Ninja. Hosting a diverse amount of impressive talent from the anime genre, the film is visually striking with some crazy and absurd ideas. Unfortunately, the actual plotting leaves a bit desired among the movie’s kooky spectacle.

One dark night, Batman and his allies face down Gorilla Grodd and a host of classic Batman foes as he debuts his newest invention: the Quake Engine, a machine capable of bending space and time. In the ensuing battle, the machine is activated and transports the myriad characters back in time to Feudal Japan. Batman is the last to be transported across time by only a few moments, but it is enough for him to arrive two years after everyone else. The result is that Batman’s foes (including the Penguin, Two-Face, Poison Ivy, and Deathstroke) now rule over the warring states of Japan, with the Joker and Harley Quinn possessing the most power under his title as the Demon King. Batman is not alone against this major threat, however. Along with his time-displaced allies (including Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Robin, Catwoman, and Alfred), he finds that there is a ninja clan known as the Order of the Bat, who believe a warrior from the future wearing the face of a bat will bring peace to Japan. With their forces united and training in the ways of ninjutsu, Batman might just have the edge he needs before any of these wicked foes can conquer Japan and change the course of history.

Batman Ninja is an alright film. When it comes to the more positive elements of the film, one of the biggest things that it has going for it is the sense of visual flair. For instance, a lot of the character design offers some memorable reinterpretations of classic Batman characters with a Feudal Japanese style.  A good example of this is with the Joker, whose purple royal robes, green hair done up with a topknot, and a boutonniere inspired by the real-life Oda clan symbol all add up to a vision of the Clown Prince of Crime that comes by way of a classical shogun. This also goes hand in hand with the core spirit of the film, which throws out plenty of memorable and crazy sights. From a samurai sword duel between Batman and the Joker to a castle that transforms into a giant mecha, the movie gleefully throws out its eyecatching sights that mash up these two different styles. It is as if someone were to take a Silver Age Batman comic and mix it in with a heavy dose of Japanese history and anime tropes. As exciting and fun as that combination can be, however, it is tempered by a weak story that is patchwork in its pacing.

The plot of the film, of Batman thrown back in time and having to learn how to adapt his techniques to Feudal Japan, is a solid story idea. However, the film does not do a lot in actually showing Batman facing his own weakness and learning the classical ways of ninjutsu. Likewise, while this idea would seem to be a solid hook, the plot ends up shifting gears into a giant mecha anime with a whole host of giant robots about halfway through the movie. In essence, the plot feels uneven in the execution. It could have been more engaging, for instance, if they had spent more time taking advantage of the Feudal Japan setting. Imagine following Batman and his allies as they learn and adapt to the ninjutsu techniques of the Feudal era, take on these various villains and their armies using a mix of classic and modern methods over the course of the film, and then have the surprise of Joker having a giant mecha castle in the film’s third act. That would create a better narrative flow for the film, along with taking more advantage of the setting and cultural potential. As it is, the film ends up being more a scattershot that sometimes lands its hits instead of a clear bullseye.

As anime and manga grow more popular in the Western world, more and more media between the two have been sharing ideas and tropes. Batman Ninja is an example of this mixture of ideas, though the result tends to focus more on the spectacle instead of a solid narrative.