Comment je suis devenu super-héros

101 min.

Aardige superheldenfilm die eens niet aan Marvel of DC Comics is gebonden. Echter niet helemaal origineel – gebaseerd op een roman.

Er is mooi (gemaakt) spektakel met een leuk plotje over superkrachten als drugs en een Eenzame Detective die hier natuurlijk Iets mee te maken heeft.

Daarbovenop is er net genoeg verdieping om niet verveeld te raken maar ook niet in de lach te schieten door alle kronkels, maar vooral fijn: niet eindelijk veel vechtscènes die alleen maar tijd vreten en de kijker duizelig maken.

Dus voor hen die wel graag een beetje super wilt zien, maar op de droge, Franse manier waarop zij science fiction behandelen: dit is een heel aardig filmpje.

Bombay Rose

137 min.

I watched this because the animation looked lovely, and it turned out to be (it even uses different styles, and none of them the ugly Disney Pixar plastic). Good thing I didn’t watch it for the plot, because it was hard to be found. Maybe it’s a mosaic of different kinds of love? But there’s also the view from a bee?

It just shows that animation isn’t just for children. Here there’s mentions of poverty, abuse, the violence in Kashmir and the escape to a better financial life in Dubai, but also the risks that come with.

I clearly don’t know enough about Bollywood to not have expected this – I thought it was only romances and obvious heroes doing heroic things. I’m done with Indian animation for now (at least I finished this one, opposed to Punyakoti).

I did really like the soundtrack, though.

How the One-Armed Sister Sweeps Her House

Lala comes home and Wilma is waiting, having returned early from visiting Carson at the hospital.

How the One-Armed Sister Sweeps Her House, Cherie Jones, Harper Collins 2021

I liked this one, but I didn’t like this one. It’s a story far away from me; both geographically and in experience, so that’s good – that’s a reason I read. But for once I wish that those kind of stories were happier, lighter, more fun.

In How the One-Armed Sister (etc.) there’s not a lot of fun. A line of women view themselves and/or their daughters as cursed and life seems to agree with that view. There’s relational abuse, stealing, death – and very little light at the end of the tunnel. Jones shares beautiful imagery of the island, the houses, the sheds, making the (emotional) violence only starker.

Of course, these stories need to be told, deserve to be told, and so on. To me it sometimes just feels that writing from a woman of colour has to be synonymous to suffering. I know there are romances and fantasy by people of colour, but why are the family sagas so often so tough? Is this the only way of life or the only thing that publishers will support?

Both ideas left me uncomfortable, but that doesn’t mean that this novel isn’t worth your discomfort.