Dead Dead Demon’s Dededede Destruction Part 2 is a film I never want to watch again. However, this is not because it’s bad. Rather, it’s a testament to just how incredible this film is.

The film is full of well-developed and memorable characters—especially its lead trio, Ouran, Kadode, and Ooba. It’s wonderfully animated—combining cartoony character designs with ultra-violence to create something shocking and memorable. To top it off, it has incredibly strong themes conveyed with maximum impact through excellent storytelling.

What makes it hard to watch (or want to rewatch) is the simple fact that it feels too damn real. Despite the aliens, UFOs, super-lasers, and Doraemon-inspired gadgets, this is a film that is bound and determined to drag humanity and modern society into the spotlight—to use sci-fi trappings to put our blemishes on full display.

The central conceit of Dead Dead Demon’s Dededede Destruction is the idea that humans can (and will) get used to anything. Even when confronted with a world-changing event—like, say, the existence of alien life or a UFO floating above Tokyo for years—humanity as a whole doesn’t change. Instead, we just go on about our lives as usual. If it doesn’t directly affect us, we put it out of our minds.

This film kicks it up a notch from the first by showing that even things like public genocide are passively accepted by the masses. Even those who feel compelled to act do so with things like peaceful protests—basically doing nothing to directly help those in need, all while convincing themselves that they’re heroes fighting oppression. But then again, what is there that they can do? This film perfectly captures the masses’ self-righteousness and utter helplessness in the face of the apathetic, the powerful, and the government.

The movie is a damningly pessimistic look at humankind as a whole. The world is full of things we can’t control. People driven by their zeal or self-interest will crush the weak underfoot—never noticing or caring about those they’ve destroyed. In such a world, our only hope is to find something we care about and do all we can to protect it. That is the beautiful yet horrible message of this film.

While this story is full of villains and innocents, it’s hard to say there are any true heroes. Oh sure, we may sympathize with Ouran and Ooba, but the two of them ultimately have a body count that surpasses government genocide squads and vigilante alien killers alike. Yet, throughout the film, we root for the pair. If nothing else, we can see that they are working for, if not altruistic reasons, then for human ones that we can understand on a deeply personal level. Love is their driving motivation—even if they’re forced to accept the cost of that love by the time the credits roll.

In the end, Dead Dead Demon’s Dededede Destruction Part 2 is a powerful film that will leave you depressed about the state of the world. It puts the foolishness of humanity on full display and concludes that there is no easy fix—that no force, internal or external, will appear and make everything alright. All we can do is take our happiness where we can get it—and sometimes, we may find ourselves in the right place at the right time to make things just a little bit better.

…Or maybe we’ll die horribly due to events wholly outside of our control.

Caleb Carr, the novelist and military historian who died of cancer Thursday at age 68, was best known for exploring the darker angels of human nature. His breakout novel, “The Alienist” (1994), helped pioneer the historical thriller as we know it, telling the grisly tale of a child psychiatrist tracking a killer of young male prostitutes in 1890s New York. His other books include a sequel, “The Angel of Darkness” (1997), and a historical study of terrorism and warfare, “Lessons of Terror” (2002).

But when I had a late-night, hourlong conversation with Carr in late January, we mostly talked about our mutual love of cats.

Carr, his illness already far along, was eagerly awaiting the publication of what he correctly figured would be his final book, “My Beloved Monster.” It’s the story of his bond with Masha, the Siberian forest cat with whom he shared his fortress of a home in upstate New York, near a ridge called Misery Mountain. Contracted to do a third “Alienist” book, Carr instead called an audible, choosing to write his first memoir. Dipping briefly into his tortured childhood — he was regularly beaten by his father, the journalist and Beat poet muse Lucien Carr, and grew up in hardscrabble bohemian conditions on Manhattan’s Lower East Side — the book’s primary subject is how Carr found solace in the unconditional love of animals, and with his grief for Masha, who died in April 2022.

Staring down death, talking about grief, he was casually, effortlessly, macabrely funny that night. He spoke of how he argued with his publisher, Little, Brown, to forgo the standard “Author of ‘The Alienist’” tag on the front cover, which features a photo of his blond, fluffy rescue cat: “I thought, ’Guys, they’re going to think I wrote a book about murdering cats or some horrible thing.’” He discussed the challenges of getting cat lovers to read a Caleb Carr book: “We may have to convince them. These may not be people who spend their time reading grim stories about serial killers 130 years ago.”

And we talked a lot about what animals can teach us, and how they can even provide a kind of love that many of us didn’t know growing up. Even in childhood, when his father was knocking him down flights of stairs, Carr had pets to comfort him. “It’s amazing to think about it now, but there were cats, and other animals, that were trying to make me feel better,” he said. “The idea of that was so at odds with everything I was experiencing.”

I didn’t realize how much I had in common with the guy who wrote “The Alienist,” a book I admire for its vivid, doggedly researched detail but whose author I hadn’t studied. We were both basketball freaks; when we spoke, Carr’s beloved Knicks were on a roll (“They’re doing scarily well,” he said). We both survived childhoods fraught with danger, though mine wasn’t as dramatic or brutal as Carr’s. And we have both found comfort in the companionship of cats, known for self-sufficiency but also, quiet as it’s kept, quite loving and dependable when the chips are down. If you have a cat, and you’re not feeling well, that cat won’t stray far.

As we talked, my attention-hogging, gray-and-white tuxedo cat, Mr. Kitty, strolled in front of my laptop camera. “He’s cool-looking!” Carr enthused, the energy in his voice rising. I explained that he was a good cat but could also get pretty aggressive with his teeth and claws. He likes human flesh. “Well, they’re hunters,” Carr replied. “They’re wildlings. Sitting inside, being all the things that they’re pictured as being in Victorian literature, is not their nature.” Over the years I have always tried not to get mad at my cats for being cats — knocking things over, going on the attack when I least expect it. Carr’s words have actually helped me succeed in this endeavor.

Carr, too, could have been a wildling. “I could have been one of those dead-eyed drone troublemakers that comes out of an abusive household very easily, if it hadn’t been for cats,” he told me. His childhood home life was chaos, but he and his siblings always had pets. “All the animals we had really did teach us enough about love that we understood it outside of any human definition, although this was never something I talked about with anybody,” he said.

Carr’s longtime agent, Suzanne Gluck, was also a friend since they were both in high school at Friends Seminary in Manhattan. The irony of a future military historian attending a Quaker school is not lost on Gluck. “He was such a square peg in a round hole,” Gluck said in an interview the day after Carr’s death. “The administration really didn’t know what to make of him.”

He didn’t talk much about his home life then. And he was no misanthrope. “He was this pied piper,” Gluck said. “He was this very vibrant, interesting, thoughtful, charismatic guy with a lot of friends. He wasn’t someone sitting in the corner, troubled and wanting to be alone.”

Gluck recalls her response when Carr told her he was writing about Masha instead of serial killers: “This might be where the music stops.” The assignment, after all, called for more “Alienist.” But Bruce Nichols, then the publisher at Little, Brown and Carr’s editor, loved the story of Masha. (As the husband of a veterinary behaviorist , his might have been the perfect pair of eyes for the project.)

“When I read it, I just stopped thinking about ‘The Alienist,’” Nichols said. “I stopped thinking about fiction and just thought about all the great books that had been written as memoirs by dog and cat owners”— books like “Merle’s Door,” Ted Kerasote’s account of lessons learned from his Labrador mix. Carr, and Masha, got the go-ahead.

Readers should be thankful for that. Carr wasn’t in need of redeeming in his final years, but “My Beloved Monster” is nonetheless an act of redemption. It gives specific life, and teeth and claws, to that old cliché about how we don’t rescue animals; they rescue us.

A staff report

Title: Memorial Day
Director: Samuel Fischer
Starring: James Reynolds, Sarah Connors, Michael O’Neal
Genre: Drama/War
Rating: PG-13

“Memorial Day” is a powerful drama that weaves together the past and present in a poignant tribute to the sacrifices made by service members and their families. Directed by Samuel Fischer, this film stands out for its emotional depth and compelling storytelling.

The narrative unfolds through the eyes of Kyle Vogel (James Reynolds), a young man who discovers his grandfather Bud’s (Michael O’Neal) World War II footlocker on Memorial Day. What begins as a simple curiosity turns into a profound journey as Bud reluctantly opens up about his wartime experiences. The film seamlessly transitions between the present day and flashbacks to the 1940s, showcasing Bud’s harrowing and heroic moments on the battlefield.

James Reynolds delivers a heartfelt performance as Kyle, whose growing understanding and appreciation of his grandfather’s sacrifices mirror the audience’s own emotional journey. Michael O’Neal is exceptional as Bud, capturing the quiet strength and lingering pain of a man who lived through unimaginable horrors. Sarah Connors, playing Kyle’s mother and Bud’s daughter, adds another layer of depth to the family dynamic, highlighting the generational impact of war.

The cinematography and production design deserve special mention, effectively transporting viewers from the calm of modern-day Minnesota to the chaotic frontlines of World War II. The film’s score, composed by Jonathan Miller, enhances the emotional resonance of key scenes without overpowering them.

“Memorial Day” is not just a war movie; it’s a meditation on memory, legacy, and the enduring bonds of family. It reminds us that the impacts of war extend far beyond the battlefield, affecting generations and shaping lives in ways that are often unseen.

While the film does not shy away from the brutal realities of war, it also offers moments of hope and resilience. It’s a fitting tribute to the men and women who have served and a reminder of the importance of remembering their stories.

In conclusion, “Memorial Day” is a moving and thoughtful film that honors the sacrifices of the past while connecting them to the present. It’s a must-watch for anyone looking to understand the true meaning of this solemn holiday.

Rating: 4.5/5 Stars

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