Growing up in the ‘60s and ‘70s, it was a yearly end of school ritual. We would sit in our living rooms, Libbyland Dinner’s cooling on the TV tray, waiting for the Big Three Networks (yes, we only had ABC, CBS, and NBC back then, along with PBS and various UHF options) to announce their Summer Saturday morning cartoon selections. We would wait to see what was returning, what Sid and Marty Krofft had up their sleeve, and what new offerings would become our watercooler (read: local park and/or playground) conversation pieces. Today, with 24-hour networks devoted to animation and dozens of daily examples to enjoy, there’s an overload that even the most ADD-addled child would find daunting. The same applies to adults who like animation. Certainly there are choices for the mature viewer within the kiddie spectrum, but sometime, the options are adult swim or Comedy Central oriented.

There’s been a lot of debate online over the weekend regarding the new Superman reboot, Man of Steel. Most has centered on the quality of the movie itself, which seems to be divided strictly along “love it or loathe it” lines. Few are in middle, though you will get the occasional comic book nerd who defends the reinterpretation of the character while condemning Zack Snyder’s handling of same. But the biggest brouhaha has centered around the last act battle between Clark/Kal-El and the Kryptonian tyrant, General Zod. In order to address this grievance, and the conclusion of their clash, one will have to delve deeply into Spoiler Territory. If you have yet to see the film, we recommend you stop reading now, and comeback once you’ve witnessed what has so many in an uproar.

You’ve been warned…

Now on demand from Warner Archive is a triple-feature about the little-known sleuthing couple of Joel and Garda Sloane, played by different actors in every outing.

The Sloanes, created by novelist Marco Page, are a transparent response to Nick and Nora Charles of the Thin Man series (also produced by MGM). In case we don’t get it, the trailer for the first film makes the comparison twice. These amateur investigators have an unusual set-up. They’re rare book dealers and their cases involve valuable insurance frauds, lost Shakespeare manuscripts, and the like. Under the handsome covers, however, the Sloanes are cheap imitations complete with hangovers and constant brittle banter, which would be fine if all that repartee was terribly witty or the whodunits were interesting.

Newly available from Warner Archive is a rarely seen John Ford project shot in Ireland. Made directly after The Searchers, the movie was intended by its production company to promote Irish filmmaking. Perhaps it did, although the notes at TCM’s website quote a 1958 Variety report claiming that D.P. Quish of Limerick County Council called it “a vile production and a travesty of the Irish people”. That’s the kind of sensitivity unleashed when there’s no homegrown industry allowing people to trash themselves. While no major accomplishment, it’s a warm, ambiguously cozy “fillum” that wears well in the memory.

The Rising of the Moon is an anthology of three stories enacted by players of the Abbey Theatre Company and taken from Irish authors. This makes their cast of comic stereotypes (everyone is vaguely larcenous, prone to the bottle, or hypocritically upright) at least authentic more than Hollywood burlesque. The only imported Yank is Tyrone Power, who does nothing but stand handsomely in a doorway and introduce the tales with dashes of gentle blarney.

We all have our Oprah moments, memories of childhood upheaval or dysfunction that plague us beyond our ever advancing maturity. For some, it’s abuse. For others, it’s abandonment. In my case (true confessions time) it was discovering that Grandpa Johnson, the man who was my mother’s biological father, was not dead. You see, we all grew up thinking we knew the story of my mom’s side of the family. Grandma Ridgeway had married Mr. Johnson, had two children (the other being my wonderful Aunt Sarah) and then he died. We knew it. Mom knew it. Aunt Sarah knew it. After the war, my Grandmother married Sgt. Ridgeway and they had a son, Gary. “Sarge”, as he liked to be called, had an older boy named Ike as well.