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“Survivor 50” castaway Joe Hunter has made it to the final tribal council of the grueling competition show twice, but walked away with slim to none when it came to jury votes.

On Wednesday night, four-time “Survivor” player Aubry Bracco was crowned sole survivor and won the not $1-million but $2-million prize (thanks to a twist that involved a coin toss and MrBeast), and Jonathan Young came in second. Hunter, a firefighter and fan favorite, lost on an 8-3-0 vote.

According to Hunter, jury members had made up their minds before the remaining three castaways even had a shot to sweeten their chances at the final tribal council.

“I sit down in that chair for final Tribal, right? I’m thinking alright, here we go,” Hunter told “Entertainment Weekly.” “Right away, the second before any word was said, I went, ‘Oh, that one hates me, this one hates me, hate me, hate me, hate me.’ And I thought, ‘There’s zero chance.’”

Hunter was somewhat optimistic leading up to the tribal council and said that he thought some of the jury members had come with an open mind. “I’ll give credit to Emily, Rick Devens, Christian, Dee,” he said.

“I just felt it was very transparent based on the questions and responses that, before this thing started, I think it was a wrap.”

During the series finale, “Survivor” legend Cirie Fields put Hunter on blast, saying that castaways felt like they had to babysit him and jokingly calling it the “Joetation” when it was a player’s turn to sway Hunter to vote alongside them.

Hunter chalked up the babysitting remark to his own naivete when it came to being vulnerable with other players he thought were his friends on the island. “I just put that vulnerability in the wrong hands,” he told the outlet. “That’s really what it is. And that’s part of the game.”

Hunter also spoke with “Entertainment Tonight” and admitted that yes, he’d blocked a select few “Survivor” players on social media. “So, 751 players,” Hunter said, “yeah, there’s two.

“I’ll tell you this, each one of them is not random,” he said. “Actually, there’s three. It is not random. … All of which I would love to talk to and solve it, and have tried.”

Last week, former “Survivor” players Kelley Wentworth, who’s been a castaway three times, Savannah Louie, who won Season 49 and was on the same tribe as Hunter in Season 50, and Tiffany Ervin, who competed on Seasons 46 and 50, all said they’d been blocked by Hunter.

It’s not merely trendy psychologizing to salute the qualities of a sturdy tree: a humbling reminder of time’s immensity, but also a living embodiment of shelter, change and growth. Leave it, then, to a massive gingko on the grounds of a medieval German town’s college to cosmically center the three-pronged, multi-generational character study “Silent Friend” from Hungarian filmmaker Ildikó Enyedi.

Enyedi, from her mesmeric, calling-card period lark “My Twentieth Century” to the eccentric love story “On Body and Soul,” has always been preoccupied with that realm in which the everyday meets the all-seeing and possibility is awakened. So it shouldn’t surprise anyone that she’d give a starring role to a 200-year-old tree, which just may inspire the needed answers. And why not? Our living, “breathing,” sky-reaching neighbors have considerable communication skills with each other.

Our entryway is a modern day neuroscientist played by Tony Leung Chiu-wai (and called Tony), who arrives at the University of Marburg as a visiting professor ready to further his groundbreaking research into the mysteries of infant brain development. The gig becomes a lonely endeavor, however, when the pandemic hits and he’s confined to a depopulated campus, sent unwillingly into a kind of monkhood.

It’s as if the nearby natural world, photographed by Gergely Pálos and edited by Károly Szalai, was just waiting for such a solitary moment to draw Tony’s undivided attention into the prospect of green intelligence.

In tandem, Enyedi transports us to 1908 to meet aspiring botanist Grete (Luna Wedler), the university’s first female student, subjected to cruelly patronizing treatment by smug male elders, yet driven to see plants anew when introduced to the light-capturing rigor of photography. The movie’s third woven-in protagonist is a wide-eyed, resourceful farm boy, Hannes (Enzo Brumm), in 1972. While his fellow students spark to the winds of political change and sexual freedom, he becomes fixated on what a lone geranium, imaginatively monitored on its windowsill, might have to convey if given the chance.

The fluid, idiosyncratic charm of “Silent Friend” — which never feels like two and a half hours — is in Enyedi’s heartfelt belief that curiosity is simply a garden that grows progress. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that this veteran dreamweaver’s key cast are entrancing, inviting specimens themselves, led by an inner glow of compassion in Leung that feels like its own natural energy source. When his character contacts Léa Seydoux’s French plant expert, it becomes almost too much rapturously intelligent star wattage for one quietly poetic movie, even if these god-tier actors are just zooming and talking shop.

Hardly anything is overdone here and, in one essential way, Enyedi is also making the case for movies themselves as phenomena to protect and treasure: ecosystems of light, texture, wonder and nourishment. Visually, the film toggles between intimate 35mm black-and-white, grainy 16mm color and multi-purpose digital cameras that visually represent distinct eras. Needless to say, that gingko tree is sublime and majestic in all of them.

Vardy was released by his boyhood club Sheffield Wednesday for being too small, but the documentary unearths footage of his blistering goalscoring form in his Stocksbridge days while also working in a factory making medical splints.

However, in the first of a series of problems in 2007, Vardy admits in the documentary he had “no stability” in his life. He had been convicted of assault when out drinking and had to wear an ankle tag for six months.

He also had a 6pm curfew which meant he had to leave matches early.

Moves to Halifax Town – where Vardy met his long‑time agent John Morris – and later Fleetwood Town followed, before his £1m move to then‑Championship club Leicester City.

Woven throughout are “The Inbetweeners” – a nickname given to Vardy’s small, all‑male social group from Sheffield – who act as his main support, alongside his wife.

“If one of us is having a problem, then get it in the group. Might get abused for a bit but at least it’s us lot keeping an eye on each other,” Vardy says.

They were needed, as former Foxes midfielder Andy King says Vardy experienced an initial “culture shock” at Leicester, where the striker admits he initially felt not good enough.

Physiotherapist Dave Rennie also corroborates accounts of Vardy’s struggles with alcohol, worsened by the pressure of the move, including “manufacturing his own Skittles vodka at home”.

Vardy would arrive at training hungover and, on one occasion, uncontactable to his then-pregnant Rebekah, or Becky as he affectionately calls her.

There was a feeling he was going to throw away his career, but the work of a “good psychologist”, the patience of manager Nigel Pearson and his own efforts to grow up after the birth of his daughter Ella kept him going.

Fame still brought further problems. A 2015 Sun on Sunday story showed him on video using a racial slur against a Japanese man in a casino.

He later described it as “a massive, massive learning curve”, explaining he was never taught which terms he could and could not use.

The film also highlights “one of the harder things” Vardy experienced when he rushed home from a team‑bonding trip to Helsinki after being told a tabloid was publishing a story about his secret biological father, who he had no prior knowledge of.

Still, Vardy became the poster boy and top scorer for Leicester’s Premier League title‑winning campaign in 2015‑16, went on to lift the FA Cup and fulfilled his agent’s prediction, made when he signed for Halifax, that he would one day play for England.

Asked whether he could have achieved more internationally after retiring from England in 2018, Vardy replied: “Possibly. We’ll never know.

“I’ll be honest, going away with England is unbelievable – you want to play for your country – but the mental side of it was tough. That changed when Gareth [Southgate] came in, but before that you were stuck in your room all day.

“You trained and then you were just back in your hotel room, pulling your hair out. There’s only so much time you can spend on a PlayStation or speaking to the kids on video calls. You’ve already not seen them and now you’re getting pulled away for another two weeks. It’s tough.

“At the time, after the World Cup, I just wanted to protect [my legs] as much as possible, prolong my club career, and as I’m still going now, it was obviously the right decision.”

How’s Lee Cronin doing? Fine. You know, still making movies. This one’s his third feature. Somebody — perhaps it was Lee Cronin himself, probably not — wanted us to know that his latest project, “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy,” was no mere mummy movie. Certainly not the one you have in mind: bandaged dead guy, ominous hieroglyphics, maybe Brendan Fraser. This is not that mummy movie. This is “Lee Cronin’s The Mummy.”

As for what that possessive credit means, we’re still in a haze. Cronin’s previous outing was “Evil Dead Rise,” a sequel heavily devoted to the gooey game plan mapped out by Fede Alvarez’s 2013 rethink of Sam Raimi’s gross-out comedies. In our current moment, when horror seems to be mining an especially rich vein (we’ve even seen an Oscar go to an unforgettable witch in “Weapons”), Lee Cronin represents the safe old ways of dutiful stewardship, getting the job done for a generic night out.

There are worse sins in the world. And sometimes the best way to introduce an ancient Egyptian curse is via a prologue that’s tonally very much like the one in “The Exorcist.” Who is the spooky, smiling woman beckoning to a young girl at the edge of her garden? No matter. The kid goes missing and, eight years later, her American family, since relocated to suburban New Mexico, is still feeling the loss: TV reporter Charlie (Jack Reynor), his haunted wife Larissa (Laia Costa) and their two semi-surly children, Maud (Billie Roy) and Sebastián (Shylo Molina).

When their precious Katie (a game Natalie Grace) is somehow returned to them, though, nearly catatonic with wrinkled, desiccated skin and gnarly toenails that would make a pedi technician shriek, it’s hard to blame them for feeling euphoric. Working from his own screenplay, Cronin barrels over the gaping plot holes — a doctor might have some thoughts here — and gets to the good stuff with the family at home in squirm-inducing close quarters, a live-in demon resting in her bedroom.

“Lee Cronin’s The Mummy” works best as a variation on Ari Aster’s career-making “Hereditary,” slicker and less guilt-ridden, with Grace’s Katie prone to jaw-snapping clicks and faraway looks, a spin on Milly Shapiro’s hypnotic turn as a doomed host. Eventually, things get more obvious: a levitating wheelchair, some skittering around on the ceiling. If Cronin does have a signature — more of a penchant, really — it’s for juicy gore, Katie’s skin peeling off in sheets. She goes to town on her own teeth.

All these moments are good for audience groans and there’s an enjoyable bad movie here for the seizing — that is when Cronin isn’t steering the action back to Egypt for an underpowered mystery thread involving a one-dimensional Cairo detective (May Calamawy) pursuing the root of the trouble. Why deploy a plummy archaeology professor (Mark Mitchinson) if you’re only going to give him a single scene to cut loose? He’s the kind of character who usually makes it to the big finale.

The film is tangled in its mess of references: a possession thriller that also wants to dish out some grainy video footage à la “The Ring” or “Bring Her Back” along with the expected mouth-to-mouth vomiting. Ironically, an honest-to-goodness mummy movie consumed with exotica (the first one from 1932 was released in the wake of the global mania over King Tut’s tomb) makes a lot of sense right now, with America straying into foreign deserts.

Was that in mind at any point? You’d have to ask Lee Cronin. It’s his movie and these are his mummy issues.