Remy is a rat who dreams of becoming a great chef despite his family’s wishes and the obvious problem of being a rat in a decidedly rodent-phobic profession. When fate places Remy in Paris, he finds himself ideally situated beneath a restaurant made famous by his culinary hero, Auguste Gusteau. Despite the apparent danger, Remy forms an unlikely partnership with Linguini, a young kitchen worker at the restaurant. Together, they create culinary masterpieces, impressing critics and customers alike.

Lilith, a loner bounty hunter, is tasked with saving a kidnapped girl only to discover that she’s a pawn in the evil machinations of corporate greed. Borderlands Review Thanks to fun and bouncy movies like The Super Mario Bros. Movie and quirky series like Fallout fresh in their collective memory, audiences have quickly forgotten just how bad video game film adaptations can be. After all, travesties like 2005’s BloodRayne or the Jean-Claude Van damn-what-did-I-just-watch Street Fighter are ancient history, right?  Fortunately, the folks responsible for Borderlands were kind enough to remind us of our recent privilege. Benefitting from detailed and quality set and costume designs, as well as execution, Borderlands fails at everything else. Not even its Academy Award-winning actresses can vomit up its trite and uninspired dialogue without looking like little more than talented college performers. However, the film’s ineptitude is most exquisitely exemplified in its meaningless adventure. Borderlands is a test case in MacGuffins and convenience. Need to find something important? No problem; the unassailable lead will “get a feeling” just in time to find it before lucking her way out of certain death. Even for a film inspired by a game series best known for its silly sense of humor and first-person shooting, one might expect that a video game movie would be able to handle something as simple and as standard as a fetch quest or that it might understand basic adventure principles. Instead, the film is moved along by literal buses that show up just in time to move key characters to key locations filled with helpful characters who know key bits of information, not to mention characters physically stumbling over plot devices. “But James,” you say, “we’re not expecting much from this film. Surely, it provides some dumb fun and enjoyable characters meshing together in a charismatic ensemble.” It does not. Borderlands is the flat and expired can of Shasta Cola of ragtag ensemble space adventures. What comic relief there is has been recycled more than airplane cabin air, and none of the 1-dimensional characters give us sufficient reason to care about what happens to them from one moment to the next. Halfway through the film, I forgot that Kevin Hart was even in it, only to be reminded by his sudden reappearance at the end. Perhaps, were its plot “twist” not as obvious as your great aunt’s hairy goiter, the movie would have something worthwhile to offer. However, without a single interesting character or original thought and a charmless ensemble with the chemistry of rust, Borderlands is Atari’s ET of video game movies.   WOKE ELEMENTS FULL DISCLOSURE: I fell asleep for about ten minutes in the middle of this cinematic Ambian and could have missed something. Mary Sue Cate Blanchette is the quintessential Mary Sue. She’s got a tragic background and hard-as-nails flawlessness, and the whole movie exists only as an excuse to tap her full potential upon accepting how great she truly is. This is a very female-heavy cast, which isn’t inherently woke. However, since it completely rejects the game player and filmgoer demographics, it’s hard not to see the casting as agenda-driven. Where Have All The Cowboys Gone Kevin Hart’s character is the only male character who isn’t severely mentally handicapped, evil, weak-willed, borderline feral, or exists exclusively for comic relief. As I said in the review, I forgot he was in the film halfway through. White Boys Don’t Like Space With the exception of a single NPC and some very few background extras, white boys were either non-existent or evil henchmen.

Bluey follows the adventures of a 6-year-old Blue Heeler puppy named Bluey and her family. Each episode focuses on Bluey, her dad, Bandit, her mom, Chilli, and her younger sister, Bingo, as they engage in imaginative play and explore everyday experiences. The show emphasizes themes of family bonding, creativity, and problem-solving, often highlighting the importance of play in a child’s development. Woke Warning: In the season 3 finale, Pretzel casually mentions that he has two moms, saying, “My mums told me he might come back, but he didn’t.”

The Loud House centers around Lincoln Loud, an 11-year-old boy who navigates life as the only brother in a family of 11 siblings. The show follows Lincoln’s daily adventures and challenges in a chaotic household with ten sisters, each with their own distinct personalities and quirks. Lincoln learns to balance his relationships with his sisters, deal with sibling rivalry, and find creative solutions to the problems that arise from living in such a large and lively family. The Loud House Woke Warning The Loud House” features LGBTQ+ representation through several characters and relationships. The most prominent example is Luna Loud, one of Lincoln’s sisters, who is depicted as bisexual. Throughout the series, Luna is shown to have a crush on a female character named Sam Sharp, and their relationship is portrayed positively. Additionally, the show includes a same-sex couple, Howard and Harold McBride, who are the adoptive parents of Lincoln’s best friend, Clyde McBride.

“You can say the same song in two totally different ways.” The post “It’s how you say it”: Jack White’s analogue versus digital experiment first appeared on Far Out Magazine.

"I'm so grateful that she writes the music she does." The post ‘Amateurs’: the album Julia Jacklin calls “one of the best of our time” first appeared on Far Out Magazine.

“I think I can understand that feeling about a [homemaker’s] work being like that of Sisyphus (who was the stone-rolling gentleman). But it is surely the most important work in the world. What do ships, railways, mines, cars, government, etc. exist for except that people may be fed, warmed, and safe in their own homes?” — C.S. Lewis Okay, I will admit that I am old — a Baby Boomer. I was in high school when Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs at tennis and Helen Reddy’s tune, I Am Woman, celebrated it. I was the suburb-dwelling daughter of working parents — my mother worked because she wanted to, not because we needed the money. While I wanted and expected to have a career, I hoped eventually to be a wife and mother with my own home, decorated with the antiques I loved, with handmade quilts and rustic barnwood walls (hey, it was the 70s). My husband and I were married at ages 24 and 23, respectively. He had served four years in the Marines, and I had graduated from college. He went to college to study engineering, and I worked. Then we had kids, and I stayed home. It wasn’t easy for my husband to endure listening to co-workers rave about their new cars and exotic vacations, but we believed that the time and money we were putting into our family was worth far more than fun trips, fancy cars, or a big house. (READ MORE: The Star Trek Election III: Men vs. Women) During the 80s and 90s, I worked (from home) for a publication called Welcome Home, which was a nice little grassroots monthly journal founded by three women who were fed up with the slick magazines that celebrated working mothers, as if that were the only intelligent choice for modern women. Articles were written by the readers, who were mothers who had chosen to stay at home to rear their children. I was privileged to help those readers polish their prose, and to associate with brilliant, creative women who elected to “put their families first, without putting themselves last.” It was a wonderful resource for moms before the internet made online forums possible. Isn’t Feminism About Letting Women Make Choices? YouTube, X, Instagram, and other social media platforms are loaded with women who make videos about their interests: showing how they do their makeup, cook exotic meals, model what they wear to work, or create intricate craft items. But the so-called traditional wives doing the same thing — showcasing their domestic lives online — are being excoriated and condemned by feminist busybodies who think they know better. Hannah Neeleman, proprietress of Ballerina Farm and the mother of eight, welcomed a reporter from the Times of London into her home, only to end up with a hit piece questioning her choices and implying that she is overly subservient to her husband, Daniel. Written by Megan Agnew, the story essentially accused Neeleman, whose husband comes from a wealthy family, of creating an online “fantasy,” while she is simply marketing her farm’s goods through beautifully presented social media — like every other influencer out there. Another thing Agnew disparaged in her article was how Neeleman never put down her six-month-old baby during the four hours Agnew was at the farm, and how the kids were always about. Call me crazy, but this does not strike me as particularly unusual. (READ MORE: Vance Is Right. Our Society Is Plagued by Childless Cat Ladies.) Wasn’t the feminist movement about allowing women choices about how to live their lives, free of the judgment of others? Neeleman, and other influencers who model domestic tranquility, are happy. She was happy as a ballerina, and she is happy now running her home and farm and caring for her kids. But the women who criticize her don’t believe this. Even the couple’s weekly dates have been criticized as somehow oppressive. The Food Channel’s Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond (who also happens to be married to a wealthy man), has been celebrating home life for nearly two decades. Somehow, being happily involved in domestic life has become a sinister, dangerous thing. Along with this message has come the damaging implication that men are not to be trusted and that they are toxic and selfish. While this is certainly true about some men, after decades of being told “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,” is it any wonder that men are essentially saying, “Okay, since you don’t need me, I’m not sticking around?” A Generation of Women Don’t Know How to be Wives In selling the idea that every woman should attend college and pursue a “meaningful” career outside the home, our society has created a generation of women who don’t know how to cook, clean, or care for children. Oh, they may be able to decorate cookies or decoupage a tray, but when it comes to planning 21 balanced meals a week, week after week, or cooking an entire Thanksgiving dinner, I’d guess that very few of them could step up. There is nothing wrong with women becoming well-educated and seeking satisfying work, but this is mostly the purview of middle-class white women, who are remaining childless and unmarried in unprecedented numbers. Often, they reach their 30s and experience sudden concern that their biological clocks are running out, and look around to see that all of the “good” men are taken. (READ MORE: Title IX Expansion Is Rejected by the States) So, they turn to medical science — an expensive way to turn back the clock and get what they want. But is it? A recent documentary tells the story of a Dutch man who has fathered, through the donation of his sperm, possibly more than 1,000 children. The women and families involved had no idea. Or, women can take Rapamycin, a drug used to prevent organ rejection, currently being tested at Columbia University’s fertility center to delay menopause. It’s being touted as having positive health outcomes for women, but the jury is still out as to whether it will be associated with higher numbers of breast and uterine cancer. Explaining her participation in the study, one woman said in a segment on NBC’s Today in April that it gives women “more agency … we have this narrow window of time to make a career, get established, find a house, find a mate, raise a family … in this small amount of time we are asking modern women to do everything.” Really, “we” are asking women to do this? So, someone else has created this situation for her? As they say, this sounds like a personal problem to me. One my grandmother never had. Hannah Neeleman started having kids young and has eight of them. Again, this, rather than artificially delaying motherhood, is criticized as eccentric and unbelievable, even though both Neeleman and her husband come from very large families. She has said that she feels the most empowered just after giving birth. The love a mother feels for her child is incomparable. Sure, parenthood is exhausting, expensive, taxes your problem-solving abilities to the max, and you sometimes wonder about the road not taken, but it is also ennobling, heart-expanding, exhilarating, and just plain fun. Yes, some doors close when you choose to have children, but a lot of others open up. So, how have we gotten to the point where marrying in your 20s, cooperating in raising a family, and giving unselfish, loving service to spouse and home life are demeaning, and not considered the highest and best use of a woman’s time? Oh, yeah. Through good intentions. We know where the path paved with those leads. The post Teeing Off on ‘Trad’ Wives appeared first on The American Spectator | USA News and Politics.

Why do sick individuals so often populate local boards of health? Dan Doherty of Norwood, Mass., explained to his mother that he wanted to work this summer. His idea involved opening up an ice cream stand. She told her 12-year-old son that to do so he must donate half of the profits to a charity of his liking. (READ MORE from Dan Flynn: Tim Walz Is a Lumberjack and He’s Okay) He served ice cream to about 20 friends and neighbors. Proceeds went to the Boston Bear Cubs, a hockey team comprised of kids with various disabilities. Doherty’s brother competes in the club. It all struck as a wholesome endeavor. Some unwholesome types disagreed. Someone, perhaps upset with COVID-19’s decline limiting outlets for busybodyism, allegedly complained. The Norwood, Mass. Department of Health sent the 12-year-old a letter. The group said his unlicensed stand violated its rules. Doherty shut down his operation. “The first time we raised $62 for them,” the youngster explained of his brother’s hockey team. “It was nice to help out them and stuff…. I don’t understand it because there are so many lemonade stands out there and they don’t get shut down.” Young Mr. Doherty, don’t give them any ideas. Departments of Health Seem Bored. That’s Scary. Cops in Alliance, Ohio, closed an eight-year-old’s lemonade stand two years ago. The youngster operated his enterprise without a license. That she did so close to a festival perhaps upset, somewhat understandably, the vendors who rented space. Earlier this year in Pinedale, Wyo., a code-enforcement officer imposed a $400 fine on a Girl Scout for selling cookies. The Girl Scout claimed she sold from her grandmother’s driveway; the code officer, who snapped Officer Obie-like pictures, says she veered onto the city’s sidewalk. “Sometimes I just think that government can be unreasonable,” 13-year-old Emma McCarroll told Cowboy State Daily. “It wasn’t reasonable to be fined $400 for selling cookies in front on my grandparent’s property.” In 2021, a Richmond police officer and a representative of the Virginia Department of Health informed Maleah King, 11, and Milan Keith, 10, of a five-day deadline to file excise taxes and obtain a business license for their lemonade stand, designed to raise capital for a lip-gloss business. The girls shuttered their enterprise. (READ MORE from Dan Flynn: The Second (Rate?) Gentleman) Fortunately, Girl Scouts normally sell cookies unmolested by authorities covetous of tax money and children work lemonade stands without harassment from regulators. Alas, the heavy-handed abnormal closes the gap on the live-and-let-live normal. That’s scary. Who wants to live in a country where government agents harass third-graders for selling lemonade in front of their houses? If they shut down money-making ventures of children so zealously, then logic suggests that they act more ruthlessly against adult capitalists. Evidence does more so. Regulations, bureaucracy, and tax-funded meddlers hamstring the economy by putting businesses out of business. When they fine Girl Scouts and quash a 12-year-old’s fundraiser for his disabled brother’s hockey team, they signal a lack of better things to do. Taxpayers bankroll bureaucrats to hassle minors who generate income or accrue good work habits, which seems bad for society. Those kids grow up to experience worse from the government as adults. (READ MORE: Transgender Politics Shouldn’t Trump Science) Ronald Reagan identified the nine most terrifying words in the English language: “I’m from the government and I’m here to help.” In a summer school lesson of sorts, a youngster in Massachusetts learned the truth of this. The post USA 2024: Dept. of Health Shuts Down 12-Year-Old’s Ice Cream Stand appeared first on The American Spectator | USA News and Politics.

Unlike most of the dramas you see on TV these days, this was not written in a “writers’ room” at a studio in Hollywood or Burbank. This was written down somewhere in the United States of America. About two months ago, I got a call from my very small bank in West Hollywood. It’s a tiny bank and I was literally their first customer when they opened in late 1978 or early 1979. The young woman on the other end of the line told me that they had some problems with quite a large number of checks that had come in for payment. (READ MORE from Ben Stein: Indispensable Lessons From My Life) The problem, in a few words, was that someone or someones had apparently stolen a large number of blank checks from the home of my wife and me in Beverly Hills. That person, or someone connected with that person, had forged my signature and then successfully attempted to cash the checks or use them to buy items or services. I drove over to the bank and studied a good-sized pile of checks with what were clearly forgeries. Some of the forgeries were sadly obvious and of poor quality. I had an idea of who the forger was almost instantly. He or she was a close friend of some 10 years standing. She had, at one point, lived quite near our house in Trancas, a neighborhood in far north-western Malibu. I knew the neighborhood from the “get-go” of my many years in Hollywood because my friends and idols, Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne, great writers and great friends, lived on a cliff there overlooking the Pacific. They had been kind and invited me over for social events and just to talk. The suspected forger lived near there. She had various serious life problems. Our bank worked diligently to make sure that the accounts were made whole. And it was in that labyrinth that the problems rested for some time. Many years later after I first came, my wife and I bought a modest home there in nowhere near as prestigious a spot as the Dunnes’ home but still in a lovely spot overlooking the waves. By the beginning of this year, my wife and I had gone through several trials. Our 37-year-old son had died in a ghastly firearms tragedy. My wife had health problems that kept her from leaving Beverly Hills and coming to Malibu. I still went out there with friends and caregivers whom I needed because a poorly done orthopedic surgery had left me virtually immobilized. Still, I loved that house and went there whenever I could. Roughly two weeks ago I made arrangements to meet a dear friend, a middle-aged woman whose husband had recently died of pancreatic cancer. She went ahead of my little party. She arrived ahead of me and when we got there she was already there. She had discovered that someone or someones had unlawfully entered our home. It had been badly ransacked with many TVs, computers, and stereos strewn around the first floor and our basement. There was also a mess of souvenirs of my life and my wife’s life missing from where they had been for literally decades. I was especially upset that several drawers of correspondence between Mr. Richard Nixon and me and my father were missing. My helpful friends and I scoured the house. We also called the “Malibu-Lost Hills” Sheriff’s station. In slightly less than half an hour, a pleasant, cheerful sheriff’s deputy in a leather jacket appeared at the door. He had some alarming suggestions. The main one was that there were some signs that persons unknown were trying to “squat” in our house. In California, housebreakers could break into our house. Set up housekeeping even for a very short time, and then it was a long, painful, expensive ordeal to go into court here to get them out. In the meantime, my wife and I were deprived of the use of our home. Who knew what kind of mischief and vandalism could go on there? And what kind of maniac would want armloads of correspondence between Richard Nixon, post-1974, and me and my father, Herbert Stein? It is all deeply upsetting. As far as I know, there have been no crimes of this kind in our neighborhood — ever. And, again, who wants all of those letters from Richard Nixon at this stage? I already know Carl Bernstein very well and there’s nothing in my possession he would want or need. Too much like the beginning of a detective story. I don’t like it. The post Squatters in Northern Malibu appeared first on The American Spectator | USA News and Politics.