The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

 

Synopsis From Rotten Tomatoes:

When King Richard the Lionheart is captured, his scheming brother Prince John (Claude Rains) plots to reach the throne, to the outrage of Sir Robin of Locksley (Errol Flynn), the bandit king of Sherwood Forest. Rounding up his band of men and eventually winning the support of the lovely Maid Marian (Olivia de Havilland), Robin accuses Prince John of treachery and, when the escaped Richard returns covertly to England, joins forces with the king to prevent Prince John from taking the crown.

I’m almost positive that everyone knows the story of Robin Hood. He’s one of those characters who has permeated pop culture and can safely be called a cultural icon. Because of that, I’m not going to do a deep dive into the story. What I want to do instead is explain how this movie makes me feel. I want to, in my own feeble way, capture how this film spoke to my soul from the moment Errol Flynn’s Robin Hood appeared on screen.

I honestly couldn’t tell you how old I was (fairly young still), where in the house or apartment I was (probably the living room, but who knows), or even which state we were living in the first time I saw this movie. That last one I can probably narrow down to Minnesota, Oregon, Washington, or California. We moved and traveled a lot while I was growing up. We lived with a biker gang in Spokane, with a Tongan family in California before becoming homeless, and eventually with a carnival that moved every two weeks, only settling down during the winter months. We did that for three years, right up until I started high school.

We moved too much for me to make friends. Actually, I need to amend that: we moved too much for me to learn how to make friends. For most of my childhood, I struggled to form true connections with kids my own age because I was never around long enough. That constant moving pushed me toward books and movies for companionship. In their own way, they socialized me more than any other childhood influence I had.

I’m telling you all of this to explain why I had such an “oversized” reaction to this movie. I do remember lying on the floor—my favorite viewing spot for years—and becoming completely enraptured. There was something magnetic about Errol Flynn. Maybe it was his smirk that made his eyes light up with mischief, or his larger-than-life personality that made his 6’2” frame feel ten feet tall. Whatever it was, he had me hooked.

If you’d asked me my favorite part back then, I would have said the sword fights. Don’t get me wrong: the epic duel with Sir Guy of Gisborne (played by the equally mesmerizing Basil Rathbone) still amazes me. As the battle moves down the stairs, I still get goosebumps. That scene is perfectly executed—from the camera angles to the lighting. It’s a brilliant piece of filmmaking.

As a teenager, and into my college years, I would have told you it was Robin’s relationship with Maid Marian that captured me most. Around that time, I started to develop an unrealistic expectation of love. I believed the movies when they told us there was one person out there who was your true match. That you’d meet, fall in love, and stay together forever. That no obstacle could beat the power of love. I wanted what Robin and Marian had, and their chemistry was palpable. I figured if they could survive Prince John, I’d have no problem finding my own great love and everything would fall into place.

At 49 years old, I can’t even begin to guess how many times I’ve seen this movie. Definitely double digits. The awe I felt the first time hasn’t faded; if anything, it’s grown. Now I can appreciate the artistry as much as the action. Back then, my focus was mostly on Flynn’s legs and the swashbuckling, but I see now how every aspect of the film is perfectly crafted. It’s easy to understand why it was added to the National Film Registry by the Library of Congress in 1955.

If you’ve never seen this movie, please do. If it’s been a while, consider a rewatch—and then come back and tell me what you think.

As a side note: I’ve reread everything I just wrote, and I’m not sure I’ve fully expressed how much I love this movie or what it means to me. But at some point, I just need to stop typing and let it stand. I hope I’ve managed even a little of what I set out to do. Either way, I hope you give it a chance.

The Bell in the Fog by Lev AC Rosen

 

Synopsis From Dust Jacket:

San Francisco, 1952. Detective Evander “Andy” Mills has started a new life for himself as a private detective―but his business hasn’t exactly taken off. It turns out that word spreads fast when you have a bad reputation, and no one in the queer community trusts him enough to ask an ex-cop for help.

When James, an old flame from the war who had mysteriously disappeared, arrives in his offices above the Ruby, Andy wants to kick him out. But the job seems to be a simple case of blackmail, and Andy’s debts are piling up. He agrees to investigate, despite everything it stirs up.

The case will take him back to the shadowy, closeted world of the Navy, and then out into the gay bars of the city, where the past rises up to meet him, like the swell of the ocean under a warship. Missing people, violent strangers, and scandalous photos that could destroy lives are a whirlpool around him, and Andy better make sense of it all before someone pulls him under for good.

I knew I was gay from a pretty young age, and from the start I knew it was something I needed to keep to myself. Carrying that secret weighed heavily on me, and by the time I was twelve, I was already wrestling with thoughts of suicide. For almost two years, I prayed every night that if my being gay was wrong—if God truly hated me—I would not wake up the next morning. I wasn’t exaggerating; I meant every word of it.

By the time I started high school, I began to accept myself more. I still wasn’t fully out until college. But I had finally found a balance within myself. I’m not saying the way society views me, or other external factors, doesn’t make my life as a gay man harder—because they do. But what we face today is nothing compared to what our community’s forefathers endured in the 1950s.

It’s in that kind of hostile environment that Andy is trying to navigate a path toward self-acceptance—to finally live life on his own terms, not those imposed by a society determined to crush him for who he loves. In the first book, Lavender House, Andy discovers a safe haven created by a found family. Through Elise, a member of that household who owns Ruby—the most popular queer bar in San Francisco—he begins to find people he can call his own. She encourages him to set up a PI business upstairs. But as a formerly closeted ex-cop from a police force infamous for bar raids, he walks into a room full of wary glances and whispered judgments.

Andy begins developing a romantic relationship with Gene, the head bartender, who was expelled from medical school because of his sexuality. Elise has become something like an older sister, and he may have found his first true friend in Lee, a drag performer who becomes his girl friday. For the first time, Andy is building a family of his own.

That fragile sense of belonging is put in danger when Andy is drawn into a case that threatens everyone he’s beginning to love. He’s forced to make choices to protect them and defend his growing sense of self-worth. Some decisions come easily, others less so, but he makes the right choice every time—even when he admits that a few years earlier, he wouldn’t have.

What I love about this series is that the author not only crafts mysteries so grounded in their time and place that Agatha Christie herself might be proud, but he also never sacrifices character development for plot. Both are perfectly balanced, tightly controlled, and rooted in postwar 1950s San Francisco—a city that, to borrow a cliché, becomes another character in the story.

Andy, Elise, Gene, and Lee have completely won me over—and I can’t get enough of this author’s storytelling. I need this series to never end.

Favorite Fictional Character --- Agatha Harkness

I’ll admit upfront: I know very little about the comic book version of Agatha Harkness. What I do know is that she’s a witch from Salem, she had a close connection to the Scarlet Witch, and at one point served as Franklin Richards’ nanny. Over the years she has played both hero and villain, but that’s the extent of my comic knowledge.

This post, then, is about the MCU’s Agatha, brought to life by the magnificent Kathryn Hahn. If you haven’t watched WandaVision or Agatha All Along, consider this my plea: go watch them. Both series are outstanding, in large part because of Hahn’s performance and the unique energy she brings to the character.

Agatha is one of those rare characters who delights in being wicked. She relishes every diabolical moment. Yet, beneath the snark and scheming, there’s the suggestion of a heart that longs for something better. That complexity shines especially in Agatha All Along, a show I enjoyed so much I watched it twice back-to-back. Hahn layers the performance with subtle glimpses of regret, enough to suggest there’s far more to Agatha than she allows the world sees. She is capable of love and devotion, particularly in her relationships with her son and with Billy, though she keeps that tenderness hidden behind walls of barbed-wire steel.

I won’t spoil the details of either series or the ways Agatha’s past shapes her wickedness. Instead, I’ll simply say this: she is the most entertaining “villain” the MCU has given us. I can’t wait to see where Hahn takes her next — and until then, I may just give Agatha All Along a third watch.

Binge Watch --- Bones

 

I originally abandoned Bones during an odd TV boycott a few years back. This year, though, I’ve been watching more television than I have in ages—mainly to finally see how all those shows I once started actually ended.

If you’re unfamiliar, Bones is based on Kathy Reichs’s long-running Temperance Brennan novels (there are twenty-five and counting). Reichs herself is a forensic anthropologist, and the early books were reportedly inspired by her own experiences. I haven’t yet picked up the series—partly because I’ve heard the show handles character development better, and partly because I love these characters so much that I worry the books might not measure up. My TBR pile is already overflowing, so we’ll see if I ever get to them.

The show follows Temperance “Bones” Brennan, a brilliant but socially awkward forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian (think Smithsonian), who’s paired with FBI agent Seeley Booth. I’ll admit, I only tuned in at first because David Boreanaz was cast as Booth. As a full throated Buffy and Angel fan, there was no way I was going to miss him in a new role. But by the first half of the pilot, I was hooked—not just on Boreanaz, but on the dynamic chemistry between Brennan and Booth. Think William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles—level chemistry. Pure perfection. 

On paper, they couldn’t be more different. Brennan is analytical, clinical, and baffled by most pop culture. Booth relies on gut instinct, quick judgments, and has deep loyalty to his family. Over time, Brennan slowly grows into one of the most nuanced characters I’ve ever seen on television, while Booth remains her perfect counterbalance. Their dynamic is the heartbeat of the series, and it never stopped being a joy to watch.

Of course, I wouldn’t have made it through 246 episodes if the supporting cast hadn’t been equally compelling. Lance Sweets (a personal favorite), Hodgins, Angela, Camille, Zach, and even the rotating “squinterns” all brought depth and heart to the show. Across twelve seasons, they faced serial killers, bombers, snipers, hurricanes, complicated families—and countless murder cases. Through it all, they had each other. They solved crimes, but more importantly, they saved each other.

Murder Under Ground by Alex Henry

 

Synopsis From Goodreads:

DI Leon Peterson’s Christmas at home is interrupted by the discovery of a body practically on the police station doorstep—but who would brutally stab Paul Easton, a popular youth worker, in the station’s underground car park, and why would suspicion fall on DS Jasmine Todd?

As they work over Christmas and New Year, Leon is forced to bring in other detectives, not all of them welcome additions. They soon realise there’s more to Paul Easton and his life than meets the eye. Conflicts within the team extend both on a personal level and how they view the suspects. No one appears to be who they seem.

For Leon, this case hits home in more ways than one. Yet again he revisits his past as they hunt for Paul Easton’s killer. Meanwhile, he has his own decisions to make regarding his future in the force.

There’s a scene in this book that could have been pulled straight from The Wire—chaotic and violent, with bullets flying and buildings burning. I wasn’t expecting that level of intensity in the second book of an LGBTQ+ police procedural with a hint of a budding romance, but it works. The moment comes about halfway through, and yet it sets the tone for the entire book. The overarching mystery is darker than the one in Murder Under Construction, giving the story higher stakes.

Even with that darker backdrop, it’s Leon and the people around him who make the book shine. Leon is quickly becoming one of my favorite modern detectives. I love spending time with him, watching how he works with his team, and seeing how his determination pushes him forward. He’s not a genius on the level of Poirot or Holmes, but he doesn’t need to be—his persistence, loyalty, and instinct for justice make him just as compelling.

Two books in, I find myself admiring Leon more with each case. If book three continues in this direction, I’ll be falling even deeper in love. 

Favorite Fictional Character ‐-- Stephen Neale

 

The first Ray Milland movie I ever saw was The Uninvited (1944), and it remains my favorite ghost story of all time—thanks in no small part to Milland’s mix of suave charm and awkward vulnerability. I love that film and his performance so much that I even featured his character, Roderick “Rick” Fitzgerald, in a previous Favorite Fictional Character post.

It was a good friend of mine, Yvette of In So Many Words, who first suggested I try Ministry of Fear (also 1944). As usual, she was right—I absolutely loved it. (And Yvette, if you’re reading this, I miss your classic mystery reviews. I hope you’ll come back to blogging, too.)

In Ministry of Fear, Milland plays Stephen Neale, a man just released from an asylum after serving two years for the mercy killing of his wife. Over the next hour and twenty-some minutes, poor Neale—through no fault of his own—finds himself tangled in a Nazi spy ring and attending one of the most hauntingly beautiful séance scenes ever filmed.

What amazes me is how Milland pulls it off. Like Rick, Neale carries himself with a sophisticated, debonair air, but underneath I see a fumbling, slightly insecure man doing his best to keep his head above water. He’s burdened with guilt over his wife’s death, and instead of easing back into life after confinement, he’s thrust into danger that would have had me giving up on the train. Honestly, I’d have tossed that cake right back at them the moment the fortune-teller demanded it. (If I intrigued you with that reference, I hope you watch the movie.)

Neale is a man whose instinct is always to do the right thing, even when it puts his life or freedom at risk. He’s quick on his feet, both physically and mentally. He’s protective of those he cares about and willing to sacrifice himself for a woman in distress, a cause he believes in, or a country he feels loyalty to. From the first time I met him on screen, I admired him—and maybe even started to fall for him a little. That feeling has only deepened with each rewatch.

Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone by Benjamin Stevenson

 

Synopsis From The Dust Jacket:

Ernie Cunningham, crime fiction aficionado, is a reluctant guest at his family reunion. Family reunions aren't for everyone, of course. But Ern's part of a notorious crime family—and three years ago, he witnessed his brother kill a man and immediately turned him in to the police. Now Ern's brother is being released from prison and the family is gathering to welcome him home.

As if that weren't bad enough, the reunion is taking place at a remote mountain resort. The day before Ern's brother is set to arrive, a man's body is found frozen on the slopes. While most Cunninghams assume the man simply collapsed and died of hypothermia during the night, Ern's stepsister spots a strange detail—the man's airways are clogged with ash. He appears to have died by fire... in a pristine snowfield... without a single burn mark on him. 

The longer the body goes unidentified, the more overwhelmed the local policeman becomes, and the more Ern realizes it's up to him to find the murderer. Holmes, Christie, Chesterton: he's read then all. He knows what patterns to look for, what rules killers follow. And of course, he knows his own family. Every member of which, as he's told us from the start, has killed someone. 

I’ve sat here staring at my screen, willing the words for a perfect review of Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone to appear—flowing effortlessly from my fingers. But the truth is, that perfect review isn’t in the cards for me. Instead, I’m left to write an imperfect one, feeling as though I’ll always owe both Ern and the author a heartfelt apology.

I don’t know why I can’t string together the just-right words to capture how much fun this book was. What I can say is that I adored spending time with Ern—getting to know his family, watching the way his mind works, and laughing at his sharp, dry humor. The entire story unfolds through his eyes, and as the bodies begin to pile up—six in total—his voice remains steady, witty, and endlessly engaging.

One thought has stuck with me as I’ve wrestled with what to say: Jessica Fletcher would have felt right at home in this story. It’s exactly the kind of mystery she could have sunk her teeth into—whether as the sleuth or as J.B. Fletcher, the author of such a twisted tale. And if you know me at all, you’ll know that’s the highest compliment I can give.

Favorite Fictional Character --- Florence Jean “Flo” Castleberry

 

I had a different character in mind for this week’s Favorite Fictional Character post, but he’ll have to wait. Today, I want to honor one of the most unforgettable TV characters of the mid-1970s and early 1980s. I'm honestly surprised I haven’t featured her before—she’s a true cultural icon. I'm also saddened to be writing about her now because her portrayer, Polly Holliday, has passed away at the age of 88.

Florence Jean “Flo” Castleberry was my favorite character on Alice. Flo was loud, sassy, and knew exactly who she was. She didn’t tolerate Mel’s sexist behavior and wasn’t afraid to call him out. She challenged his greed, stood up for what was right, and had a heart big enough to take Alice under her wing. She was the kind of mother figure many of us would have welcomed with open arms.

I can easily imagine myself walking into Mel’s Diner, sitting at a booth with a slightly dingy menu, and falling absolutely in love with this outspoken waitress who gave both sass and heart. I’d sit there for hours, listening to Flo, Alice, and even Vera talk about their lives, laughing at their banter and feeling like part of something special. I know I’d enjoy every moment Flo told Mel off with her signature “Kiss my grits!” or even a “When donkeys fly!” If I had the chance, I’d become a regular—despite Mel.

Flo wasn’t just a character—she was a force. And Polly Holliday brought her to life with such charisma, warmth, and grit that she remains unforgettable to this day.

R.I.P. Polly Holliday.

You’ll be missed.

Dragonwyck (1946)

 

Synopsis From Rotten Tomatoes:

For Miranda Wells (Gene Tierney), moving to New York to live in Dragonwyck Manor with her rich cousin Nicholas (Vincent Price), seems like a dream. However, the situation gradually becomes nightmarish. She observes Nicholas' troubled relationship with his tenant farmers, as well as with his daughter (Connie Marshall), to whom Miranda serves as governess. Her relationship with Nicholas intensifies after his wife dies, but his mental imbalance threatens any hope of happiness. 

Here’s a weird little contradiction that lives within the recesses of my brain—a contradiction I’m okay with: I’m not a huge fan of historical fiction when it comes to reading, but I absolutely love it when it comes to my viewing habits. I’m not sure if it’s because my brain processes the information differently, or if it’s some other "defect" that alters how I interact with the two mediums. Either way, while I may reluctantly delve into a historical fiction book, I’ll jump right into the story when it’s on my screen—especially if that story is gothic and dark.

If you know me even a little, you know that I’m a sucker for classic movies and almost any film that explores the darker side of life. When those two loves come together, it’s almost guaranteed that I’m going to fall in love from the moment the title sequence starts. Dragonwyck is perfect for me in that regard.

Dragonwyck begins in 1884, two years before the patroonship system was formally abolished in the United States. Nicholas Van Ryn is one of the last patroons left and is in need of a companion for his eight-year-old daughter, Katrine. He engages a distant cousin—granted reluctant permission from her parents—to travel to the Hudson Valley and take up the governess position. It’s a world that’s privileged and opulent, yet also on life support. A world quickly dying as the Anti-Rent movement rapidly dismantles a system that had been in place since the Dutch established New Amsterdam.

I won’t go into all the twists and turns that quickly envelop Miranda, but I’ll say this: it’s a delicious gothic tale of class, tradition, obsession, and murder. Gene Tierney, who can be a little hit-or-miss for me, is cast perfectly as Miranda. She gives a terrific performance, balancing naïve innocence with a desire for more out of life. As the movie progresses, we see her mature, and by the end, she carries a strength that’s delightful to see.

It’s Vincent Price as Nicholas Van Ryn who truly steals the show. I’m sure it goes without saying—but I’ll say it anyway—Vincent Price was a master of his craft. He can be aloof and tender at the same time, and he descends into madness like no other actor could. He is both subtle and over the top, depending on what the moment calls for. He is utterly perfect in this movie, and I cannot imagine another actor in the role.

As the weather starts to cool and the nights grow longer, I’m sure I’ll once again find myself visiting Dragonwyck Manor.

Strange Pictures by Uketsu

 

Synopsis From Flap:

A pregnant woman's sketches on a seemingly innocuous blog conceal a chilling warning. 

A child's picture of his home contains a dark secret message.

A sketch by a murder victim in his final moments leads an amateur sleuth down a rabbit hole that will reveal a horrifying reality. 

Strange Pictures is Uketsu's first book, which I didn’t know when I read Strange Houses. On the face of it, they aren’t connected in any way, so the reading order doesn’t matter. That said, had I read Strange Pictures first, I'm not totally sure I would have picked up the second book—which would have been a shame, since I really enjoyed Strange Houses.

I'm not saying I didn’t like Strange Pictures; I'm just not sure I liked it enough to continue with the author's writing style—a judgment I'm not completely sure would have been fair. That’s the dilemma with translated work. Some of what I may not be fully connecting with could be due to tonal and cultural markers that are hard to translate from one language to another, especially when the two languages don’t share a common linguistic origin, like Japanese and English. Because of that, I try my damndest to go into a translated work with an open mind and an understanding that I may be missing something.

That said, I loved how twisted and interconnected the overarching story becomes as its many tributaries come together. What seems at first to be three separate stories, taking place on overlapping timelines that aren’t clear from the beginning, becomes a singular tale of murders most foul. In that, I think the author ingeniously wove this tapestry of a story—pictures and all.

What didn’t work for me was how exposition-heavy the storytelling became. At times, it felt like the author was walking me through every connection, explaining how the pieces fit rather than letting me discover it for myself. I don’t mind a bit of guidance, but I don’t want to feel guided. I wish there had been a lighter touch. And that’s where my dilemma lies: how much of that heavy-handedness comes from the author, and how much might be a byproduct of translation?

If you like twisted little mysteries, Strange Pictures is absolutely worth picking up. However, if you're only willing to try one of his two current books, I'd recommend you pick up Strange Houses instead.

Favorite Fictional Character --- William "Buck" Rogers

 

I turned forty-nine this year, and if you're around my age, you'll understand what I'm about to say about our childhood.

Growing up, there weren't a lot of options for television viewing—especially if you didn't have cable, which I don't remember having until the fifth grade. So, you kinda watched whatever was on the few TV stations you got. And what was on wasn't necessarily new, especially during the daytime or late at night. A lot of what aired during those times were reruns—a concept that now feels almost antiquated in this age of streaming. That means I grew up watching a lot of shows that first aired before I was born—or, in the case of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, a show that premiered when I was an adorable three years old.

I feel like I didn’t really watch the show until we were traveling with the carnival, sometime between fifth and eighth grade—but don’t quote me on that. I'd be willing to bet I’d seen it earlier, even if my first clear memory of watching it was in a short-term rental—just two weeks while we were in town for the fair in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I was eating a fried bologna sandwich, sitting on the floor, watching Buck and Hawk take shelter from a storm on a barren planet. It had to be a season two episode. I was enraptured.

There are characters you like for no other reason than you thought they were “cool” the moment you saw them. Captain Buck Rogers is one of those characters for me. From his swagger to the way he spoke, I wanted to be him. I wanted to fly around in space, saving the day from whatever bad situation Buck, Wilma, Hawk, and Twiki found themselves in. He was just—for lack of a better word—cool. I’ve watched the show as an adult, and while some aspects haven’t aged well, the young kid that still lives inside me thinks he's one of the coolest characters ever to grace a TV screen.