review

From bike hire to spa escapes and lodge stays, this Center Parcs review shares everything families need to know about the popular UK break

Center Parcs had been on our radar for some time; a getaway promising relaxation without the hassle of airports. However, I hadn’t anticipated just how much the experience would focus on unwinding and quality family time.

The absolute highlight for the children was cycling everywhere. We collected our bikes on site (though, if you have room you can also bring your own) and it quickly became our primary mode of transport – and some of the most unforgettable moments of our stay.

Not a mobile phone or tablet in sight. Without even trying, we slipped into a slower pace, chatting as we pedalled, pausing for snacks and savouring our time together.

Even sporadic rain didn’t dampen our spirits.

READ MORE: I visited Pureseoul’s K-beauty store and found hidden gems – it’s heaven for the skincare obsessed!’

Family time and adult time

Center Parcs is designed with families in mind, but it’s easy to carve out some adult time. I managed to escape to the Aqua Sana Forest Spa, a world away from the hustle and bustle of the village.

The treetop sauna was my standout spot, and a full body massage was the reset I didn’t realise I needed.

But what I adored was the balance. There’s an endless array of activities to keep children entertained – including the Subtropical Swimming Paradise, with indoor and outdoor pools, and rapids.

But there are also tranquil spaces to unwind without missing out on family time. In the Sports Cafe, for example, we could sneak in the Arsenal game, whilst the kids amused themselves on arcades.

Where we stayed

The lodge played a significant role in how relaxed the break felt. Luxuriating in one of the newly refurbished Grand Forest lodges, it’s clear they’re designed with families in mind.

In the kitchen, everything was designed to make cooking a breeze, with ample worktop space and storage. I realise it’s not everyone’s cup of tea (and there are plenty of other options on site if you’d rather not cook at all) but we relish cooking as a family, so having a clear, user-friendly space to do it in made a world of difference – instead of one of us being cooped up in the kitchen whilst the rest of the clan were enjoying themselves.

After action-packed days, it was lovely to cook together and settle down for an evening of board games or a film, whilst ducks would come and tap on the patio doors, much to my daughter’s sheer joy.

All the best things to eat

We stayed for three nights and cooked twice in the lodge, keeping evenings chilled and costs low (Stock up on supermarket essentials before you arrive; there’s a shop on site for extras, but it’s a bit steep).

For our dining out experience, we booked The Dozing Duck – an absolute treat. It boasts shuffleboard tables so the four of us divided into teams for some friendly rivalry.

Book ahead on the app where you plan your stay.

How to book a Centre Parcs break

Two-bedroom Grand Forest Lodge from £799 for a Mon-to-Fri stay. Three-bedroom Woodland Premium Lodge also from £799 – ideal for larger families who need a bit more space.

Breaks run Mon to Fri, or Fri to Mon. Book at centerparcs.co.uk.

You can’t help rooting for Colleen Hoover heroines, bless their bruised hearts. The bestselling novelist specializes in women who have been kicked around by life. She’s the new name brand of tragic romance, picking up where Nicholas Sparks’ terminal diseases left off.

“Reminders of Him,” directed by Vanessa Caswill, is the third film based on a Hoover book in three years and the first that the author herself has adapted alongside co-screenwriter Lauren Levine. Like the others, its lead suffers heartily before falling in love with a hunk. The previous two, “It Ends With Us” and “Regretting You,” were about, respectively, domestic abuse and adultery. “Reminders” adds more tarnish to the poor dear: She’s an ex-convict who served six years for killing her boyfriend in a DUI.

Finally freed from prison, Kenna (Maika Monroe) has returned to Laramie, Wyo., the hometown of her dead lover, Scotty (Rudy Pankow). From what we see of Scotty in flashbacks, he was a buoyant blond goofball — exactly the kind of guy that the apparently friendless and family-less Kenna would have clung to like a life preserver. But she’s not here to lay flowers at his grave. In a salty touch, the first thing Kenna does is remove his roadside cross, claiming he hated memorial shrines.

But Kenna is desperate to meet their 5-year-old daughter, Diem (Zoe Kosovic), who was born months into her incarceration. The girl’s name comes from carpe diem, as in Kenna’s vow to seize the child she never got to hold, but the script has the restraint not to make a big standing-on-a-desk speech about that. Nevertheless, the kid’s grandparents, Grace and Patrick (Lauren Graham and Bradley Whitford), who never liked Kenna to begin with, consider a restraining order in fear that Kenna might actually kidnap Diem.

The stakes are plain: Can Kenna prove herself worthy to be Diem’s mother? Her only tentative ally is Scotty’s childhood friend, Ledger (Tyriq Withers), who thinks she’s hot and intriguing until he realizes who she is. Then he wants Kenna gone too.

Caswill sets the mood with a shot of a snow-capped mountain range, fitting for a movie that proceeds at a glacial pace. (The book moves faster, with Kenna and Ledger hooking up immediately and then discovering their unfortunate connection.)

The first stretch of the movie is strong, with Kenna, who is too broke for a car or even a phone, hoofing it around town in search of any job willing to hire a broke girl with a criminal record. A grocery store manager sends her away coldly after nattering on in corporate-speak about the importance of treating people with respect — an exchange that feels so real it gives you the shivers — but his beleaguered assistant, Amy (country singer Lainey Wilson in her promising, but brief, film debut), steps in and treats Kenna like a person. “What’s your trauma?” Amy asks her and somehow Wilson delivers that line with a lilt that keeps it from sounding corny.

These female strangers share a moment of such sincere human connection that I would have happily watched a dozen more scenes of the two women leaning on each other while they endure their hard-luck lives. Alas, these nice detours don’t last long; the movie has a preordained higher parental purpose that’s bigger than anything else onscreen, from the Wyoming skies to the bond between Kenna and Ledger that’s the main reason an audience has bothered to come.

Where this is all going is as unavoidable as the fact that Scotty died on what seems to be only road in and out of town. As the title declares, there are traces of him everywhere, including Diem’s giggle.

To get anywhere with the film, you have to settle into the idea that Kenna and Ledger must slowly build trust in each other while spending most of the baggy running time talking about a little girl who is rarely around. (When Kosovic is, she’s charming.) Cinematographer Tim Ives snatches his rare opportunities to shoot the beautiful scenery, but most of the pair’s encounters take place in or near Ledger’s orange pickup truck, a totem from the book. Visually, these car chats get stagnant. At least Monroe and Withers generate decent chemistry, eyes shiny and gleaming as they try their hardest to put gas in this love story’s tank.

Ledger calls Kenna “the saddest girl in the world.” True, but the glumness of said world is central to Hoover’s zeitgeisty appeal — a point she underlines a few beats later, Kenna insisting that the radio only ever plays depressing songs. To prove her wrong, Ledger flips it on anyway and to his dismay, it plays one bummer after another, station after station, until finally, the two of them share a much-needed laugh. (Meanwhile, Tom Howe’s acoustic country score is adamantly winsome, even intercut with Coldplay covers.)

Hoover is a strong world-builder. When she writes about small towns with shuttered bookstores or dive bars with fetid pots of coffee, you feel that she truly knows these places and has made a principled choice to set her hard-earned happy endings there. Caswill gets it, keying into credible, lived-in details, like Kenna’s tiny glance at the price tag on a stuffed animal that she’s considering for Diem.

Monroe’s Kenna couldn’t be farther from the cliché romantic diva, usually a high-heeled glamazon who runs a cupcake boutique. Even her hair really does look like she fixed it in the squalid bathroom of the only apartment she can afford. The complex is called Paradise, an on-the-nose irony. The owner (Jennifer Robertson) cuts Kenna a deal if she promises to take a free kitten. (I never saw Kenna get a litter box, but the kitten’s pretty cute.)

Ledger is the fantasy: a former NFL player whose hobbies include babysitting Diem, wearing tight shirts and building himself a hilltop dream cabin that will someday belong in Architectural Digest. (He owns that dive bar but the cast stays Mormon-sober.) Withers, a former wide receiver at Florida State University, also played a football jock in the gorgeously made but narratively screwy horror film “Him,” and it’s a treat to see an actor who moves like a genuine athlete and has that “Yes, coach” politeness that comes from being humbled in a locker room. You don’t totally buy his character exists in reality, but Withers believes in it enough to get the job done.

Another Paradise tenant, Lady Diana (Monika Myers), a headstrong teenager with Down syndrome, is the closest thing the film has to comic relief. Bursting into Kenna’s quarters seemingly at will, she raids her near-empty fridge while bluntly shouldering much of the exposition. “Why are you so poor?” Lady Diana asks, following that up by wondering, “Why are you so sad?”

“Reminders of Him” could use a little more swooning, a little less of the endless middle stretch of driving and talking, interrupted by wet sprints through thunderstorms. The rain pours down so often that you can’t help but snort when the film cuts to Whitford’s granddad angrily watering his lawn.

Eventually, even the film itself seems over all of the dilly-dallying. It takes a narrative shortcut to wrap things up, leaving behind not much other than a few worthwhile scenes: Kenna and Scotty’s meet-cute at a dollar store, her and Ledger pushing through their morning-after guilt, and a powerful moment shortly after Diem’s birth when a fellow inmate gives her a friendly but stern pep talk that sums up everything this film takes nearly two hours to say.

NEW YORK — What makes life worth living? For hard-core “Harry Potter” fans with money to burn, it might be getting Broadway tickets to interact fleetingly with Daniel Radcliffe in “Every Brilliant Thing,” an ingenious and touching solo performance piece written by Duncan Macmillan with Jonny Donahoe on the subject of suicide — or more precisely, on the ordinary joys that militate against such a drastic step.

Radcliffe was breathlessly scampering up and down the aisles of the Hudson Theatre before the show began, enlisting audience members to be participants in the play. Having seen “Every Brilliant Thing” twice before, once at the Edye (the black box at Santa Monica’s BroadStage) starring Donahoe in 2017 and once at the Geffen Playhouse’s intimate Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater starring Daniel K. Isaac in 2023, I knew exactly what he was up to.

The play revolves around a list that the narrator began at the tender age of 7 after his mother first attempted suicide. While she was still in the hospital, he started compiling, as much for her benefit as for his own, sources of everyday happiness.

Ice cream, water fights, kind people who aren’t weird and don’t smell unusual. These items are given a number, and audience members assigned a particular “brilliant thing” are expected to shout out their entry when their number is called.

The list gradually grows in complexity as the narrator gets older. Miss Piggy, spaghetti bolognese and wearing a cape give way to more sophisticated pleasures, such as the way Ray Charles sings the word “You” in the song “Drown in My Own Tears” or the satisfaction in writing about yourself in the second person.

Music plays a prominent role in “Every Brilliant Thing,” which was adapted from a monologue/short story Macmillan wrote called “Sleeve Notes.” The narrator’s terribly British father takes refuge from the emotional storms of his household by listening to jazz records in his office. John Coltrane, Cab Calloway, Bill Evans, Nina Simone are favorite artists, and the narrator can tell his father’s mood simply by the record he’s decided to play.

The production, directed by Jeremy Herrin and Macmillan, involves every level of the Hudson Theatre. I assumed I would be safe, occupying an aisle seat in the murderously expensive prime orchestra during a press performance attended by critics. But I wasn’t flashing a pad as my colleague across the aisle from me was doing to ward off any intrusions. And just before the show was about to start, Radcliffe was suddenly kneeling beside my seat asking if the person I was sitting with was my partner.

I told him that we weren’t a couple, just friends, and that I would be the worst person he could possibly ask to perform anything. But Radcliffe wasn’t so easily put off. “Let’s just say that you’re an older couple who have been together for some time,” he whispered. “And all you have to do is hand me this box of juice and candy bar when I refer to the older couple.”

OK, what harm could there be? Little did I know that “older couple” was to become “old couple,” a term that seemed to be repeated incessantly, at least to my Gen X ears not yet accustomed to scurrilous millennial attacks! I composed myself by pretending that we were in the world of anti-realism. But in truth, I would like to be the kind of person who would offer an anxious kid in a hospital waiting room a juice box and a candy bar, so maybe the casting wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

Daniel Radcliffe in the Broadway production of “Every Brilliant Thing.”

(Matthew Murphy)

A theatergoer was called upon to play the vet who euthanized the narrator’s childhood pet, a dog named Indiana Bones that was symbolized by a coat someone volunteered from the audience. It was the boy’s first experience of death, a difficult concept for a young mind but an important precursor for a boy not given the luxury of existential innocence.

Other audience members, particularly those seated on the stage, played much more elaborate roles. One man, first invited to serve as a stand-in for the narrator’s father, was asked instead to play the boy. He was given one word to say in reply — “Why?” — as his father tries to explain the reason his mother is in the hospital. This same enlisted actor was later called upon to play the dad giving a toast at his son’s wedding, one of the rare occasions when he was able to summon language for the kind of deep feeling he would normally only be able to express through his records.

One kind and patient spectator conscripted to play the school counselor had to remove her shoe to improvise a sock puppet, one of the tools of her empathetic practice. Another audience member sensitively played Sam, the narrator’s love of his life, a relationship that reveals the long-term toll of being raised by a parent suffering from suicidal depression.

Radcliffe’s audience wrangling was as intuitively sharp as his deeply felt performance. He has the comfort of a good retail politician, who’s not afraid of making direct contact with crowds. Two-time Tony winner Donna Murphy, in the house at the reviewed performance, gamely went along when Radcliffe briefly enlisted her luminous services.

Obviously, Radcliffe is the main reason “Every Brilliant Thing” is on Broadway. The show, which began at Britain’s Ludlow Fringe Festival in 2013, is a gossamer piece, a 70-minute curio best experienced in close quarters without the high expectations and ludicrous prices of New York’s turbo-charged commercial theater. The Hudson Theatre lends a mega-church vibe to the proceedings, but the spirits of theatergoers are nonetheless moved.

A scruffy-faced Radcliffe, twinkling accessible geniality in jeans and a sweatshirt, zips up and down the cavernous theater as though waging a one-man campaign against the isolation epidemic. There’s no denying that Harry Potter has matured into an assured stage actor. His Tony-winning performance in “Merrily We Roll Along” should have put to rest any doubts, but the glare of his fame can still obscure his serious chops.

Sincere yet never smarmy, ironic without ever being cynical, well-groomed though far from swank, he’s a more glamorous version of the character than the one originated by Donahoe, the British comedian with an everyman demeanor whose portrayal seemed so genuine at the Edye that I mistakenly thought that the play was his personal story.

Donahoe’s performance was filmed for HBO, but “Every Brilliant Thing” is meant to be experienced in a theater. The whole point of the show is to transform the audience into an impromptu ensemble, a group of strangers emotionally united through the story of one young man’s intimate knowledge of suicide, a subject that Albert Camus called the “one truly serious philosophical problem.”

I’m of two minds about “Every Brilliant Thing.” I was moved once again by the piece, but I’m grateful I didn’t have to wreak havoc on my credit card to pay for my seats. I love the interactive, gentle humanity of the play, but I was also acutely aware of how the work has been commodified. I applaud Radcliffe’s willingness to carve an independent path as an actor, but I might have been more impressed by his adventurousness had he decided to perform in a pocket venue that didn’t have the tiers of pricing I associate with airlines.

Yet launching a conversation around mental health with an audience magnet as powerful as Radcliffe is on balance an excellent thing. And Radcliffe’s compassionate portrayal of a survivor recognizing that he’s not out of the woods just because he made it into adulthood is one of those things that makes a theater lover just a little more appreciative of the humanity at the center of this art form.

Rangers say “all parties must be prepared to have their actions and decision-making subjected to proper scrutiny”, with Celtic referencing “serious concerns” raised by supporters about pre-match access arrangements.

The Ibrox club have called for the review to be “thorough and wide-ranging” and to “include the broader context” around the match, from initial decisions on ticket allocation through to the post-match incidents.

Their statement adds: “The disorder that occurred on Sunday was unacceptable and we condemn it unequivocally. Safety must always come first in football, for supporters, players and everyone working in and around the game.

“There are now a number of serious issues which require proper examination. For that reason, we agree that there should be a fully independent review into the events surrounding the match.”

Rangers have vowed to represent the club and their supporters “robustly” but say they will take action – “including the potential withdrawal of ticketing privileges and stadium bans” – against anyone identified and convicted.

The club also say they are “appalled” to discover graffiti mocking the Ibrox disaster, which claimed the lives of 66 supporters in January 1971.

They add: “To desecrate their memory is vile. It is cowardly. It is shameful. This is not football rivalry and it is not banter. It is the abuse of a tragedy that claimed 66 lives.”

Meanwhile, Celtic say they are awaiting a response from the Green Brigade regarding safety and security measures – as required by the police and Glasgow City Council’s Safety Advisory Group – to allow the club “to advocate re-entry” of the banned fan group to Celtic Park.

March 11 (UPI) — A bipartisan group of senators penned a letter to the Government Accountability Office on Wednesday calling for an investigation into the Justice Department over its handling of the Jeffrey Epstein files release.

The letter accuses the Justice Department of noncompliance with the Epstein Files Transparency Act, the bipartisan law overwhelmingly passed by both chambers of Congress last year. The lawmakers shared concern that the department has still not released all of the files it is required to by the law, despite a December deadline.

Sens. Dick Durbin, D-Ill., Ben Ray Lujan, D-N.M., Jeff Merkley, D-Ore., and Lisa Murkowski, R-Alaska, signed the letter. They also shared concerns about the files that have been released, including victims’ names not being redacted and alleged coconspirators’ names being redacted.

The Government Accountability Office is an independent and nonpartisan agency in the legislative branch. Its purpose is to operate as a watchdog over the federal government, with the authority to investigate and perform audits.

“Contrary to Congress’s explicit directive to protect victims, these records included email addresses and nude photos in which the names and faces of publicly-identified and non-public victims could be identified,” the letter said. “But when it came to information identifying powerful business and political figures who are alleged coconspirators or material witnesses, DOJ appears to have heavily redacted those.”

The senators are requesting that Comptroller General Orice Williams Brown reviews the department’s process it used to review, redact and release the files. They specify that they want the Government Accountability Office to investigate whether the release of the files “has serve to cover up child sexual abuse.”

The Epstein files have continued to be a source of contention between lawmakers and the Trump administration more than two months after the Justice Department was required by law to release the files.

Lawmakers have pushed for answers about the delayed and mistake-filled release from Attorney General Pam Bondi, leading to fiery exchanges in a House Judiciary Committee hearing last month.

The House Oversight Committee issued a subpoena for Bondi’s testimony last week. Five Republicans joined all of the Democrats in the committee in voting for the subpoena.

“This horrific scandal is one where powerful, wealthy men groomed, abused, and raped young women, men, and children,” the letter from the senators reads. “It is critical to understand what led to DOJ’s failure to redact the victims; information and re-victimize those individuals while violating the Epstein Files Transparency Act in its redactions of information related to their alleged abusers.”

Everyone’s getting into podcasts — even demons.

“undertone,” a muted, personal and static microbudget horror debut by Ian Tuason, takes place in the writer-director’s actual childhood home where he tended to both of his parents before they died. Both hospice and inspiration, it’s a stifling place decorated with floral wallpaper and crucifixes. The pain and exhaustion and grief are so real and oppressive, the camera never dares set a foot outside.

Upstairs, Evy (Nina Kiri), watches over her own terminally ill mother (Michèle Duquet). Tuason funneled his emotional gloom into this movie; Evy co-hosts a horror podcast with her overseas best friend Justin (voiced by Adam DiMarco). “This is the only thing keeping me sane right now,” she says. They’re words she’ll regret within the week.

Kiri and DiMarco have the comfortable, convincing chemistry of two old pals who have done a show for a while. One snippet seems to be an episode on Elisa Lam, the real-life tourist found dead in the rooftop water tank of Los Angeles’ Cecil Hotel. There’s also a reference to a website with a red-faced ghoul who hypnotizes victims into cutting off their ears. The latter may be Tuason seeding his idea for a sequel.

Here the central story is that Justin, who lives in London, has received an email with 10 audio files recorded by a couple named Mike and Jessa (Jeff Yung and Keana Lyn Bastidas) who are trying to understand what she’s saying in her sleep. The sender is unknown. (Possibly an evil spirit hoping for the exposure of a mattress ad?) Justin, the believer, is instantly alarmed by how these eerie tapes escalate from cute banter to ghostly crying babies and backward incantations. Evy is the skeptic who dismisses the noises as either an online hoax or bad plumbing.

Due to the time zone differential, Evy and Justin record their show just before he heads out to work in the morning, which for her is 3 a.m. Most of the movie takes place in that witching-hour window, an airlessly silent time where an at-home podcaster doesn’t worry about being interrupted by a leaf blower, an ice cream truck or a dog. Sound-designed by David Gertsman, “undertone” is so quiet that a tea kettle sounds like a fire alarm. Story-wise, it’s equally inert. One of the biggest action shots in the first hour comes when — eek! — a sink turns on.

I’d love to understand why horror films that I find excruciatingly dull give others the heebie-jeebies. My working theory is that they tap into audiences with a preexisting suspicion that the world is wicked — they prove paranoia to be well-founded. My mental default is that the world is neutral-good, and that may be why I prefer movies with active villains scaring me out of my complacency. I spent “Paranormal Activity” and “Skinamarink” restlessly admiring the production design; here, my main thrill came from the soundscape, like when a vibrating cellphone made my chair rattle like it was a tractor, or a noise that can only be described as death-rattle ASMR.

When Evy slips her on headphones, she’s so focused making sense of the latest scary tape, playing it forward, reversed and slowed-down, that she’s oblivious to the bumps in the night in her own house, upstairs near her comatose mother’s bedroom. I suspect Tuason deeply relates to Evy, to the disassociation of living with death every day, and uses her resistance to explore denial. She refuses to admit that the supernatural is real, even as she repeatedly takes a break to steady herself and, as she puts it, “get back into character.” Her stifled panic makes it obvious that fear is taking over.

The screenplay also has a passing reference to Evy’s useless, off-screen boyfriend Darren (voiced by Ryan Turner). Their miserable dynamic is compelling but overall comes off like a plot point Tuason stuffed in his pocket and never got around to using. Our one peek into it comes when Darren phones Evy to pressure her to ditch her mom and come to a party. He claims he’s throwing a kegger to cheer her up. (A frozen lasagna on the doorstep would be better, dude.)

Evy does reluctantly leave the house — we don’t follow her there — and that one moment says as much about crossed-signals communication as anything else in the movie. It’s bullseye-accurate about how isolating it is to lose a parent earlier than your peers.

The film is so committed to its rigors — the two-person cast, the glacial camera pivots, the moody lighting — that it teeters on the line of becoming monotonous. When Tuason eases up a bit, say in a scene in which Evy pops on a sleep podcast that begins by describing a babbling brook and rapidly becomes a nightmare tale of bobbing corpses, he finally shows you that he has the potential for range.

But “undertone” is rooted in that slow-and-still horror discipline that holds its breath waiting for something to happen. It requires the audience to bring their own bad vibes to shots of religious icons on the wall and long takes of Evy clacking on her laptop, unaware of a flickering light behind her. (Rumor is Tuason has already signed on to shoot the next “Paranormal Activity” sequel.)

Mostly it puts the audience in the position of watching a protagonist so passive that chunks of the running time are watching her sit at a table waiting for Justin to look up things for her on Wikipedia. Like amateur detectives, we learn alongside them as they click around pages about Sumerian devils, Catholic saints and the origin of the nursery rhymes “London Bridge” and “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.”

As visuals go, “undertone” is so far removed from anything resembling the cinematic experience that I left with a fresh appreciation for campfire storytelling. At least then the listener gets to use their own imagination. But production designer Mercedes Coyle does dig up two satisfyingly creepy props: one, an antique speaking doll, the other, a small white statue that appears to be the Virgin Mary until we get a better look at her mouth, deformed by a hungry scream.

Despite my quibbles with how her character reacts when things really go awry, Kiri’s Evy has a clarity of purpose that holds our attention despite not having that much to do. In her strongest sequence, she and Justin take a few live callers on their podcast, some of whom bear bad news about Mike and Jessa, and another who phones up in the middle of a crisis that’s too big for these self-positioned experts to handle. Real violence is coming and these armchair ghosthunters are totally out of their depth. Yes, everyone is into podcasts. Maybe they shouldn’t be.

In “Rooster,” a genial comedy premiering Sunday on HBO, Steve Carell, comfortable as an uncomfortable person, plays Greg Russo, the author of a best-selling series of books whose hero is named Rooster. He has come to leafy, fictional Ludlow College to give a reading, but also because it’s where his daughter, Katie (Charly Clive) teaches art history, and because it’s all over school that her husband, Archie (Phil Dunster), a history professor, has left her for Sunny (Lauren Tsai), a graduate student in neuroscience. He’s a concerned father.

“They are light; they are fun. The characters that you like have sex, the ones you don’t get shot in the face,” Greg tells poetry professor Dylan (Danielle Deadwyler) of the “beach read” books he writes, as she ushers him to an auditorium. Unlike his fictional alter ego, Greg is by his own account a self-conscious introvert, heightened by the fact that his ex-wife, Elizabeth (Connie Britton) — “a philanthropist, a pioneer in corporate gender equality and an accomplished CEO” whose name adorns the school’s new student center — left him five years earlier and he never moved on. Additionally, Greg likes nuts and cocoa, can toss a penny into a jar from across a room, and played minor league hockey, which will put him back on skates here.

College president Walter Mann (John C. McGinley) decides it would be “a feather in his cap” to hire a reluctant Greg, “a best-selling author that the parents have actually heard of,” as an artist-in-residence — a deal he makes impossible to refuse by agreeing to keep Katie on staff after she accidentally burns down Archie’s house. (She was only trying to burn his first edition of “War & Peace.”) It’s a role quite like the one McGinley played/plays on “Scrubs,” but more politic and better dressed, when dressed — he takes meetings in his backyard sauna.

And they’re off.

Poetry professor Dylan (Danielle Deadwyler) and author Greg (Steve Carell) become colleagues when Greg is named artist-in-residence.

(Katrina Marcinowski / HBO)

The series was created by Bill Lawrence (“Ted Lasso,” “Shrinking,” “Scrubs,” “Bad Monkey”) and frequent collaborator Matt Tarses, and as men of at least a certain age, the view is slanted from experience back toward innocence; students play a secondary, though not insignificant role in the story. There are some pro forma jokes about the sensitivities of the young, with Greg getting into not-very-hot water over misunderstood references to “white whale” and the Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian.” (“Liberal arts college used to be havens for free thought, Greg,” says Walt. “When did you and I become the bad guys?”) Not that the olds are reliably smart about life — the ways in which they’re not power the series — but they have a better notion of where they’re stupid.

“No one must be humiliated,” Greg says to Archie, quoting Chekhov, as Archie goes off to talk to Katie. (The quote is in the animated opening titles as well, so you can take it as important.) But no one here is out to humiliate anyone, which is nasty and unkind and not at all the sort of humor Lawrence trades in. Of course, characters will be put into embarrassing positions, or embarrass themselves, embarrassment being the root of all comedy, or near enough. (There’s a good bit of slapstick knitted in.) And though we’re told that “there are real villains lurking around this place,” niceness reigns — at least through the six episodes, of 10, available to review — with the possible exception of Alan Ruck as the dean of English. (“There’s no way she wrote all these poems,” he says of Emily Dickinson.)

Though there are couples, and ex-couples and new couples, one doesn’t necessarily feel invested in their getting together, or staying together, or getting back together. Indeed, as in other Lawrence projects — which typically feature divorced or separated characters — romance is a sort of side dish, less the issue than whether people are managing to treat one another well. We knew Ted Lasso wasn’t going to get his wife back, but it wasn’t the point (nor was winning games, really); kindness was what mattered. Greg’s possibly pre-romantic friendship with Dylan is no more significant than his cross-generational friendship with a group of goofball students (led by Maximo Solas as Tommy); they treat each other as peers, while knowing they aren’t. He teaches them that peanut butter can make celery better, and they teach him that he’s cooler than he thinks.

Katie, who says she still loves Archie — who says he still loves her — will also call him “a run-of-the-mill narcissistic a— who sometimes smells like wildflowers.” (As for Sunny, practical and deadpan — that no one gets her jokes is a running joke — not even Archie can see what she sees in him, a problem you might have as well, but, as is true of most everyone here, we’re not meant to merely write him off. Funny secondary characters, who get some of the best business, notably include Rory Scovel as a cop who can’t keep track of his gun, Robby Hoffman as Sunny’s intense, anti-Archie roommate and Annie Mumolo (co-writer of “Bridesmaids”) as Walt’s arch assistant.

Old-but-not-that-old-fashioned, “Rooster” has a tinge of Gen X nostalgia, underscored by the ’80s college radio classics that line the soundtrack. (R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe co-wrote and sings the series’ theme, and Greg, drunk and in a mood, will kill a party getting the DJ to play “Everybody Hurts.” Directed by Jonathan Krisel (“Portlandia,” “Baskets”), it’s low stakes, soft-edged, humane, basically gentle, a little fantastic, a little farcical, well cast and well played in every instance — qualities I happen to like, and maybe you do, too.

The movie is called “Heel” and its frenetic opening — a flash-cut glimpse of young, handsome, swaggeringly cruel Tommy (Anson Boon) in drug-fueled party mode — seems enough to explain the title. The next time we see him, though, he’s neck-shackled in the basement of a remote English estate. What follows in Polish filmmaker Jan Komasa’s blackly comic, unnerving thriller is clearly meant to evoke “Heel’s” more obedience-minded reading.

And who would be harshing this hooligan’s buzz with a case of reform-minded abduction? An eerily isolated, rules-driven nuclear family: mild-mannered, soft-spoken Chris (Stephen Graham), haunted Catherine (Andrea Riseborough) and polite son Jonathan (Kit Rakusen). They all may as well have sprung from the combined neo-gothic conjurings of Edward Gorey and Harold Pinter. Under Komasa’s direction, the mix of fractured fable and terroristic morality play in Bartek Bartosik’s screenplay is absurd but potent, giving “Heel” enough psychologically twisted juju to nearly always feel like more than the sum of its parts.

Our first glimpse of Tommy chained up, pleading to be let go, is through the eyes of a young Macedonian refugee, Katrina (Monika Frajczyk), being given a tour of the large countryside manor where she’s just been hired by Chris for twice-a-week housework. Katrina, like us, is rightly horrified but she’s in her own bind: undocumented, saved by Chris from the streets, with her signature on a confidentiality agreement and a deportation threat hanging over her. She’s hardly in a position to do much more than accept what’s going on as a grimmer version of her own dead-end predicament.

And yet what’s readily apparent is that this weird, fragile, insular family is genuinely keen on folding Tommy into their lives. They’re also convinced of their unorthodox methods, which hinge on reinforcement and reward. Tommy seems receptive, too, with each invitation to participate in his abductors’ togetherness (meals, movie nights, a picnic). This is when “Heel” is at its most alluringly queasy, a dark commentary on all families as institutions inherently built on confinement and emotional blackmail. (It’s no coincidence one of the movie’s executive producers is Jerzy Skolimowski, who made his own pointed kidnapping allegory with “Moonlighting.”)

Everyone’s broken, so the collective strength of the cast in keeping us on our toes about where this is all headed is a huge plus. The wiry Boon doles out his brash character’s reserves of vulnerability to stunning effect — Tommy is a difficult part and Boon knows how to make it revealing and suspenseful. Graham’s tweaked, sensitive patriarch is tantalizingly far from the heartbreaking dad of “Adolescence” and the gloriously oddball Riseborough makes the most of her faint-voiced mom’s severity. Frajczyk and Rakusen are also pitch-perfect.

Last year Komasa had another family-centered thriller with “Anniversary,” a movie about politics corrupting a happy home. But we know that equation already. “Heel” is Tolstoy’s happy-family maxim cooked in a mad scientist’s lab. While it sometimes shows its seams as an idea movie, its elegant disturbia has a boldness, recalling that great mind-game ’60s era that gave us “TheServant,” “The Collector,” and the early psychological freak-outs of Komasa’s countryman, Roman Polanski.

“Pond rules” dictate that if an animal is hungry, the creature that’s about to become a meal should accept its fate. That’s the first lesson that Mabel (voiced by Piper Curda), an idealistic university student whose mind is transferred into the body of a robotic beaver, learns while interacting with wildlife as one of their own in Pixar’s inventive “Hoppers.” In typical human fashion (we love to meddle with nature), Mabel ends up breaking that directive by saving a “fellow” beaver, the slumberous Loaf (Eduardo Franco), attracting unwanted attention that leads her to a wacky group of characters who will transform her rigid young worldview.

For his second feature, Daniel Chong, best known for creating the popular “We Bare Bears” series for Cartoon Network, has unleashed a hilariously unexpected and outrageous crowd-pleaser with “Hoppers.” Recently, I bemoaned that a movie like Sony’s “Goat” stood as further proof that talking-animal animated films had mostly run their course. Chong and screenwriter Jesse Andrews swiftly push back on that read with this environmentalist tale in defense of people who stand up for something, even when it seems no one is willing to stand beside them.

“Hoppers” is Pixar by way of a creator, Chong, whose career isn’t exclusively tied to the studio. That’s likely why his movie is more daring in its humor and tone, bringing a refreshing infusion of mischief to Pixar while maintaining the genuine emotional gravitas that has endeared the company to audiences for over 30 years.

Why is Mabel’s psyche roaming around inside a fake beaver à la “Avatar”? After discovering that this technology has been developed by one of her professors, Mabel thinks it could be the answer to saving the local forest glade where self-aggrandizing mayor Jerry (Jon Hamm) wants to build a highway. Mabel’s grandmother instilled in her an appreciation for nature as a reminder that she’s part of something greater than herself. Collecting signatures isn’t yielding results to stop construction, so, to the dismay of the scientists in charge, Mabel hops into the human-made mammal to learn from the creatures themselves why they’ve left the glade, giving Jerry carte blanche to destroy their home.

The poignancy-to-comedy ratio is precisely calibrated. Sharp gags, whether visual or in superbly timed lines of dialogue often laced with irony, work on multiple levels. A few moments like an accidental death or the wild introduction of an aquatic character are so wonderfully out of left field they make one’s head spin. That also goes for instances late in Mabel’s adventure in which “Hoppers” steps into amusingly creepy terrain, paying homage to the horror genre. These impish touches involve a wicked caterpillar (Dave Franco) whose mother, the Insect Queen, is voiced by acting royalty Meryl Streep. Each group of animals has its own ruler.

Since most scenes occur in the forest glade, the artists at Pixar have created strikingly rendered settings which, while aiming for photorealism, also have a fantastical glow to them, highlighting the inherent magic of nature. That such a seemingly commonplace location is elevated to feel mesmerizing speaks to how animation can make the mundane anew. That’s on top of how the rotund beavers in “Hoppers” have been conceived for maximum cuteness. One of them, Mabel’s guide through this ecosystem, is the disarmingly adorable King George (Bobby Moynihan), who wears a tiny crown (Where did he get it? No one knows) and rules over all mammals with a gentle hand.

Mabel’s friendship with King George, who doesn’t know she is human, becomes the movie’s heartstring-pulling core. The jovial royal believes he can persuade Jerry to change course. Mabel, conversely, doesn’t think Jerry will listen. Her cynicism and King George’s sincere faith in others clash. Among Mabel’s non-furry pals, Tom Lizard (Tom Law) becomes a scene-stealer. (The crazy-eyed, eloquent reptile first became an online sensation as part of a post-credits scene in “Elio.”)

Chong and his team include a minuscule but brilliant detail that illustrates how character design can have major narrative impact: When the animals are speaking among themselves, their eyes are large and expressive, full of life. But when the film takes the perspective of a human looking at the forest dwellers, their eyes appear small and dark, almost nondescript. It’s a subtly visual symbol for how we often fail to gaze at others with understanding.

There are many heavy hitters still to come, but “Hoppers” feels like the first great animated movie of the year. At a time when our right to protest is under siege, this sci-fi yarn exalts the way an individual’s conviction can plant seeds of change, leading to a stronger sense of community. Neither simplistically optimistic nor preachy, “Hoppers” smuggles timely ideas inside a rodent body. Pond rules would probably call that a beaver victory.

By my count, Philip Glass has written 28 operas, the same number as Verdi. The count is iffy because Glass pushes the boundaries between what we tend to call opera and the fuzzier idea of music theater. His first, “Einstein on the Beach” in 1976 — a collaboration between the composer and the late, innovative theater maker Robert Wilson — is a non-narrative effusion of imagery, movement, music and text, each a brilliantly independent entity that somehow excites a hard-to-pin-down purpose.

His latest (and probably his last, Glass turns 90 this year) is “Circus Days and Nights” — a touching and thrilling opera for a circus and staged at a circus in Mälmo, Sweden, in 2021 — caps a wondrous 45 years of operatic advancement. You would have to go back to Handel’s 42 operas, Mozart’s 22 or Verdi’s oeuvre for operatic equivalence.

Glass’ subject matter varies widely in epochs and ethoses, from ancient Egypt to Walt Disney’s Hollywood. Taken as a whole, these 28 operas reveal how we got to be who we are historically, artistically, spiritually, politically and fancifully, often including more than one of those categories, as in his third opera, “Akhnaten,” which Los Angeles Opera has now remounted at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The instantly recognizable musical style has remained, over the years, consistently abstract and refreshing. It doesn’t tell you how to think, how to feel, even how to understand. It simply grabs your attention; you do the interpreting.

Still, America knows little of Glass’ operatic enormity. The early “portrait” operas — “Einstein,” “Satyagraha” (about Gandhi) and “Akhnaten” (the 14th century BC Egyptian pharaoh) — appear in repertory here and there (meaning mostly in Europe) as do a trio of operas based on Jean Cocteau films. The rest remain little mounted, while several but not all have been recorded. The Metropolitan Opera, for instance, commissioned “The Voyage” in 1992 to celebrate the 500th anniversary of Columbus’ arrival in the Americas, but the epic opera is nowhere to be found in our semisesquicentennial year. It is sadly no longer even thinkable that “Appomattox,” Glass’ revelatory reminder of an America that once honored goodwill negotiation over political self-interest, return to the Kennedy Center, where its final version had its premiere 11 years ago.

L.A. Opera has been better than most American companies in its attention to Glass. It has excellently presented the three portrait operas on its main stage, beginning with “Einstein” in the final and most brilliant revival of the original Wilson staging. The “Satyagraha” and “Akhnaten” revivals have been the designed-to-dazzle inventions of quirky director Phelim McDermott, a co-founder of Impossible, an eccentric British theater company. When new in the last decade, they felt the most arresting productions of these operas since Achim Freyer’s in Stuttgart, Germany, in the early 1980s. Almost every performance at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion has sold out.

John Holiday as the titular ruler in Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

McDermott’s “Akhnaten” got the most attention thanks to breathtaking jugglers and lavish costumes, along with a touch of full-frontal novelty as Akhnaten gets clothed in his kitschy, glittery getup for his inauguration. Glass had chosen the pharaoh because he is thought to have been the first monotheistic ruler.

Akhnaten is revealed in episodes of his life that are not fleshed out but presented as ritual, including the ravishing love duet with his wife, Nefertiti. The revolutionary pharoah builds a great city and reduces spiritual chaos by focusing on a single-minded form of worship. He looks androgenous in portraits, which led Glass to create the role for countertenor.

The sung texts are in ancient languages, and there are no projected song titles. Instead, a narrator gives a somewhat notion of what’s what in the language of the audience, as is Akhnaten’s great aria, a hymn to Aten (god of the sun).

Ultimately, the pharaoh’s prescient spiritual optimism comes in conflict with the all-powerful establishment priests, who kill Akhnaten and Nefertiti. The opera ends with Akhnaten’s son, presumably Tutankhamun, restoring polytheism, and then, once the staging jumps millennia into the future, it’s rediscovered by modern-day tourists. The currency couldn’t be missed Saturday, the Shia cleric and Iran’s supreme leader Ali Khamenei having just been assassinated along with his wife at the start of America’s and Israel’s Iran war.

Sun-Ly Pierce as Nefertiti and John Holiday as Akhnaten in Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

In the opera, it so happens, the ghosts of Akhnaten, his wife and mother, have the last word in a glorious trio.

When first performed at L.A. Opera a decade ago, the lavish production, co-produced with English National Opera, helped recover a neglected opera. In the meantime, “Akhnaten” has gone practically mainstream. The Metropolitan Opera, which also mounted McDermott’s production, released it on CD and DVD, winning a Grammy for best opera recording.

Since then, the choreographer Lucinda Childs, veteran of “Einstein on the Beach,” has staged a stunningly chic “Akhnaten” in Nice, France, that is available on YouTube. Last year, director Barrie Kosky created a sensation with his staging at Komische Oper Berlin, which starred American countertenor John Holiday.

Holiday happens to be the Akhnaten in the L.A. Opera revival, and he is magnificent. McDermott had built his production around the gracefully emotive Anthony Roth Costanzo, slight and luminous in voice and build and game for nudity. If Costanzo’s disarming enthusiasm for the role has been significant in mainstreaming “Akhnaten,” Holiday, who is a very different presence, may be the next step.

Although he can be a popularly gregarious crossover performer, here he suggests a ruler of profound, unflappable dignity, rather than vulnerability. His hymn to Aten is an exercise in majesty, an ode not just to the sun but to the expanses in which our solar system circulates.

In general, the singers class up the production. Sun-Ly Pierce as Nefertiti and So Young Park as Queen Tye add allure. The large cast of smaller roles and chorus is excellent. Zachary James returns as both Amenhotep III, Akhnaten’s father, and the engaging narrator who occasionally threatens to get carried away. McDermott had perfectly employed James as the droll animatronic Disneyland Lincoln in his animation-friendly, slightly goofy production of “Perfect American” in Madrid, where the opera premiered. Here McDermott’s inspired staging demonstrated that Glass’ forgiving personal portrait of Walt Disney makes it the quintessential Hollywood opera that no one dares bring to squeamish Hollywood.

Zachary James as Amenhotep III in Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Hollywood, however, is hardly squeamish when it comes to synchronized jugglers. For McDermott, they suggest somber ritual and were, in fact, known in Akhnaten’s Egypt. For the audience, they are a thrill a minute. For Glass, they may take on deeper meaning now that the circus is where he landed 26 operas later.

As for Finnish conductor Dalia Stasevska, making her L.A. opera debut, she keenly keeps score and bounding balls together with cinematic flair. Glass removed violins from the orchestra to achieve a dark, primordial orchestral sound along with pounding percussion. Stasevska finds light, color and action. She conducts for the moment. Picturesque wind instruments suddenly burst forth as if a flock of birds were flying over the pyramids. Solo brass can sound momentous. The percussion pounds like nobody’s business, opening the score up to all the implied emotion and glitter on an over-stuffed stage.

Childs’ exalted use of dance and Kosky’s dazzling theatrical imagination may have moved us into a sleeker, more sophisticated and paradisal Glassian realm, but the sheer passion McDermott and Stasevska bring continues its own attraction.

In the meantime, McDermott has worked with Glass on a theatrical show, “The Tao of Glass,” that has been seen in New York and will run throughout much of the summer in London. In a better world of Glass, it would be running alongside “Akhnaten” at the Ahmanson. But the Labèque sisters will be at Walt Disney Concert Hall at the end of the month with a two-piano program based on Glass’ operatic Cocteau trilogy. Also check out L.A. Opera’s several excellent podcasts on “Ahkhnaten” — the company has quietly become a leader in the medium.

“The Bride!” is a maniacal assemblage of ’30s musicals, ’40s noirs, 19th century literature and 21st century ideology. Every wacky second, you’re well aware how perilously close it is to falling apart at the seams. This spiritual sequel to “Frankenstein” is a romantic tale of obsession, possession and fantasy — adjectives that also apply to its filmmaker, Maggie Gyllenhaal, who expends massive quantities of energy jolting it to life. She succeeds by the skin of her teeth.

The monster’s missus comes with as much narrative anticipation as Godot. Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel has Dr. Frankenstein bicker with his creature about her potential existence before deciding against it in fear that “she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate.” Over a hundred years later, the debate continued, raging through nearly all of 1935’s “Bride of Frankenstein” which finally introduces Elsa Lanchester and her sky-high bouffant five minutes before the end credits, just enough time for her to make an iconic impression before her arranged husband blows them both to smithereens. Boris Karloff laments, “She hate me.” Lanchester’s Bride never speaks and quite possibly never knows what is happening to her at all.

Gyllenhaal’s empowerment story, meanwhile, feels like an unhinged scream. Jessie Buckley (who starred in Gyllenhaal’s debut, “The Lost Daughter”) tackles the dual roles of the Bride and Shelley, a hat tip to Lanchester, who did the same thing. The action starts in Shelley’s grave where she’s spent centuries seething about the sequel she never dared to write, then cuts to an American nightclub, where her spirit suddenly possesses a drunken strumpet named Ida (Buckley) — not smoothly but herky-jerky, with the angry author causing this gangster’s moll to go on the fritz. Her accent alternates mid-sentence from city gal to snidely British, Ida loudly accusing a mob boss of murdering women. She’s right and she’s next.

Our setting is 1936 Chicago, but this is an exaggerated, fictional world, not ours or even Karloff’s. Elsewhere in town, the original creature, played by Christian Bale, has lurched here from Austria still on his lonely quest for companionship. (For simplicity’s sake, he goes by Frank.) He begs the ethically gray Dr. Euphronius (Annette Bening) to help him finally experience what he chivalrously calls, “a garden of pleasure.” The blunter and crasser Euphronius asks if Frank has a specific shape of mammaries in mind. (Her maid, played by Jeannie Berlin, is a riot.)

This Bride comes alive roughly and rudely not having given her consent either. Regardless, now that she’s here, she still has to figure out her next move, with or without Frank, and often without key pieces of information. Frank has convinced her she’s an amnesiac. Also, somehow, she doesn’t even know that she’s dead.

The theme is, of course, a woman’s right to choose. But what’s interesting about Gyllenhaal’s approach is that she expands Ida’s options beyond an enthusiastic yes and a priggish no into a dim sum menu that includes a dubious yes, an asterisked yes and a no that rejects even having to answer the question. She also overuses Bartleby the Scrivener’s line, “I would prefer not to.” I would prefer not to hear that quote a dozen times in two hours, but neither I nor the Bride get exactly what we want.

A perversity in the script is that Frank is a manipulator and a gaslighter but overall a pretty good dude. Their bond is messy and thrilling, with one of the most delightful romantic montages in ages. There’s a great scene where Frank exposes his unbeating heart to her and gets rejected, yet he laughs with delight because the Bride’s stubborn spirit is exactly what he likes about her.

The Bride also looks dynamite in her bias-cut coral dress and peekaboo black lace bra. Her zapping turns her entire head of hair — not just a streak — shocking white à la Jean Harlow, and leaves an oddly-appealing black blotch on her cheek. It’s a fabulous look, at once sexy and frightful, with an element of cartoonishness as the movie sends her speeding around the country pursued by gangsters and the police, changing stolen cars but never her clothes.

The movie makes no secret of its phony mechanics. In one scene, the Bride is the most famous outlaw in America; in the next, a cop doesn’t recognize her at all. There are several moments that force you to accept that the characters can become psychic at will, including one where Frank somehow mind-controls a party to dance the jitterbug — heck, we almost believe that he invented it — and the smart move is just to give in and enjoy the number.

Whatever Gyllenhaal wants to do, she does, which becomes its own act of captivation and reckless empowerment. It helps that Buckley and Bale are terrific, as is the ensemble at large. The full force of Lawrence Sher’s cinematography, Karen Murphy’s production design and Hildur Guðnadóttir’s orchestral score is fabulous, combining to make something seedy, moody and extravagant.

Gyllenhaal’s love for other variations of this story is right up there onscreen with brash callbacks to Mel Brooks’ 1974 “Young Frankenstein” and the underrated “Frankenhooker.” Yet “The Bride!” isn’t just assembled from her passion for those movies. It seems to be made of every movie: a wild and playful and overbearing ambulation of references.

Almost every role is a Frankencharacter of the director’s cinematic obsessions, like Penelope Cruz’s lady detective who is named for “The Thin Man’s” Myrna Loy, acts like “His Girl Friday’s” Rosalind Russell, and dresses like Barbara Stanwyck in “Double Indemnity.” I suspect that Gyllenhaal’s favorite movie might be the same as my own, the bitterly nostalgic ’80s-does-’30s Steve Martin musical “Pennies From Heaven.” Watch it and tell me if you agree and even if you don’t, at least you’ll have seen one of the greatest films of all time.

There’s a scene in which Frank meets his own idol, an alt-world version of Fred Astaire (played by Gyllenhaal’s brother Jake, who is good at mugging and singing), and vomits his fandom at him until the actor recoils. The intensity of devotion can feel a bit like that. It also exposes that our culture is ready for its own shock of invention. Shelley spawned the entire genre of modern science fiction; today’s talents often feel like remix artists.

Like the mad scientists she’s sending up, Gyllenhaal goes too far. She triply underlines her feminist themes and nearly sabotages her own clever creation. Ironically, she doesn’t trust the audience to think for itself either. The overkill hits its nadir when the Bride repeatedly wails the survivors’ hashtag, “Me too!” But grab a scalpel and cut 10 minutes out of it and “The Bride!” would be a rip-roaring dazzler. This monster is more than alive, it’s allliiiiiive.

The lovely, funny “American Classic,” premiering Sunday on MGM+, is a love letter to theater, community and community theater. Kevin Kline plays Richard Bean, a narcissistic stage actor. He’s famous enough to be opening on Broadway in “King Lear,” but he has to be pushed onstage and is forgetting lines. After he drunkenly assails a hostile New York Times critic — caught on video, of course — he’s suspended from the play, and his agent (Tony Shalhoub) advises him to get out of town and lay low until the heat’s off, as they used to say in the gangster movies.

Learning that his mother (Jane Alexander, acting royalty, in film clips) has died, Richard heads back to his small Pennsylvania hometown, where his family — all actors, like the Barrymores, but no longer acting — owns a once-celebrated theater. To Richard’s horror, it has, for want of income, become a dinner theater, hosting touring productions of “Nunsense” and “Forever Plaid” instead of the great stage works on which he cut his teeth.

Brother Jon (Jon Tenney), running the kitchen at the theater, is married to Kristen (Laura Linney), Richard’s onetime acting partner, who dated him before her marriage; now she’s the mayor. Their teenage daughter, Miranda (Nell Verlaque) — a name from Shakespeare — does want to act and move to New York, as her mother had before her, but is afraid to tell her parents. Richard’s father, Linus (Len Cariou), is suffering from dementia, though not to the point he won’t actively contribute to the action; every day he comes out again as gay.

Across the eight-episode series, things move from the ridiculous to the sublime. Richard’s attempt to stage his mother’s funeral, with her coffin being lowered from the ceiling, while “Also sprach Zarathustra” plays and smoke billows toward the audience, fortunately comes to naught; but he announces at the ceremony that he’ll direct a production of Thornton Wilder’s 1938 play “Our Town” at the theater, to “restore the soul of this town.” (His big idea is to ignore Wilder’s stage directions, which ask for no curtain, no set and few props, with a “realistic version,” featuring a working soda fountain, rain effects and a horse.) Fate will have other plans for this, and not to give away what in any case should be obvious, the title of the play will also become its ethos, with a cast of amateurs, including Miranda’s jealous boyfriend, Randall (Ajay Friese), and ordinary people standing in for the ordinary people of Wilder’s Grover’s Corners.

The series has a comfortable, cushiony feeling; it’s the sort of show that could have been made as a film in the 1990s, and in which Kline could have starred as easily in his 40s as in his 70s; it has the same relation to reality as “Dave,” in which he played a good-hearted ordinary Joe who takes the place of a lookalike U.S. president. The town is essentially a sunny place, full of mostly sunny people, to all appearances, a typical comedy hamlet. But we’re told it’s distressed, and Mayor Kristen is in transactional cahoots with developer Connor Boyle (Billy Carter), who wants clearance to build a casino on the site of a landmark hotel. (Much of the plot is driven by money — needing it, trading for it, leaving it, losing it.) He also wants his heavily accented, bombshell Russian girlfriend, Nadia (Elise Kibler), to have a part in “Our Town.”

As in the great Canadian comedy “Slings & Arrows,” set at a Shakespeare Festival outside of Toronto, themes and moments and speeches from the play being performed are echoed in the lives of the performers, while the viewer experiences the double magic of watching a fine actor playing an actor playing a part. Kline, of course, is himself an American classic, with a long stage and screen career that encompasses classical drama, romantic and musical comedy and cartoon voiceovers; the series makes room for Richard to perform soliloquies from “Hamlet” and “Henry V,” parts Klein has played onstage. He brings out the sweetness latent in Richard. Linney, who played against her sweetheart image in “Ozark,” is happily back on less deadly ground (though she’s tense and drinks a little). Tenney, who was sweet and funny on “The Closer,” and who we don’t see enough of these days, is sweeter and funnier here, and gets to sing. (All the Beans will sing, except for Linus.)

As a comedy, it is often predicable — you know that things will work out, and some major plot points are as good as inevitable — but it’s the good sort of predictability, where you get what you came for, where you hear the words you want to hear, ones you could never have written yourself. “American Classic” is not out to challenge your world view in any way but wants only to confirm your feelings and in doing so amplify them. Shock effects are fine in their place — and to be sure there are major twists in the plot — but there is a certain release when the thing you’re ready to have happen, happens, whether it brings laughter or tears. Either is welcome.

That the “The Napa Boys” won’t be everyone’s cup of tea — or in this case, goblet of wine — almost feels like this meta comedy’s raison d’être. And to say its fusillade of jokes is hit-and-miss would also be a charitable take. They’re mostly miss, even if that, too, can seem like kind of the point.

Co-writers and co-stars Nick Corirossi and Armen Weitzman (Corirossi also directed) have assembled a series of scenes in search of a story, sending up pivotal moments from a hodgepodge of movies, some real (“Sideways,” “American Pie,” “The Lord of the Rings”), some invented. I’ll admit, it took a minute to understand what the filmmakers were doing (their grandiose statement in the movie’s press kit is purposely unenlightening) and, thus, for this grab bag of nonsense to sink in.

Still, once you realize what the heck it is you’re watching, you might just settle in for a more diverting — or less terrible — time than first expected. But the lower your entertainment bar, the better.

The barely-there plot finds a group of pals and wine aficionados, a.k.a. the Napa Boys, gathering in the California valley (Malibu subbed) for a screwball adventure that, among much else, will involve a coveted wine competition at something called the Great Grape Festival.

The hapless group includes its leader, the crassly horny Jack Jr. (Corirossi), sad-sack widower Miles Jr. (Weitzman), conflicted family man Kevin (Nelson Franklin), underdog vintner Mitch (Mike Mitchell) and a kinder, newer member known only — in an all-caps nod to “American Pie” — as Stifler’s Brother (Jamar Neighbors). Meanwhile, a devotee and “investigative podcaster,” Puck (Sarah Ramos), also joins the guys on their wayward journey.

The film’s goofy conceit is that this is the fourth installment of a Napa Boys movie series (based on nonexistent graphic novels), with the official on-screen title of “The Napa Boys 4: The Sommelier’s Amulet” (Dig that “Indiana Jones”-style font.) As a result, it unfolds as if the viewer is already intimate with a franchise’s culture and lore, dropping us smack into the thick of things with little, if any, context. Confused yet?

This ploy hands Corirossi (a former head creative at Funny or Die) and Weitzman a license to be as slapdash and surface as possible, which, it would seem, is also part of the picture’s wobbly in-joke. Because this alt comedy makes no bones about its characters or situations being even remotely logical or realistic, anything goes — and does. You sometimes wish it didn’t.

Case in point: After a meds mix-up, unruly Jack Jr. (he and Miles Jr. are always addressed with the suffix) unleashes his explosive diarrhea into a barrel of contest-qualifying wine, after which he “spontaneously” ejaculates into it. And then, natch, the judges must sample the concoction. It’s an awful, protracted sequence that begs the question, satire or not, is this truly the funniest bit they could hatch? (To be fair, it’s likely some viewers will, uh, eat it up.)

That aside, the film’s barrage of scenes, sketches, shout-outs and absurdist scenarios leading up to the climactic wine-making championship are largely harmless flights of farce. These involve sex, love, death, near-death, maybe incest, lots of wine tasting (why is the vino here iced-tea brown?) and a moose on the loose.

There are also rides in Jack Jr.’s showy “Wine Wagon” SUV (license plate: IH8MERLOT), beatific montages backed by swelling strings celebrating the “joys” of Napa Boys life (“To be a Napa Boy is to be free!”) and a surprise — and rather pointless — cameo by those other movie “brainiacs,” Jay (Jason Mewes) and Silent Bob (Kevin Smith). There’s also an anxious visit to Jack Jr.’s onetime hookup, the now-elderly sexpert called the Milfonator (Eve Sigall). Oh, and is that really iconic filmmaker and vintner Francis Ford Coppola as the wine competition’s “super-secret celebrity guest judge”? (Two guesses.)

All this inanity takes place over the course of a handful of days, during which no one ever seems to change clothes. Couldn’t Jack Jr. have packed at least two Hawaiian shirts?

And what of the title’s elusive sommelier (DJ Qualls of “Road Trip” fame) and his mystical green amulet? He makes an almost tacked-on, Yoda-like appearance, but it’s too little, too late.

The game if uneven cast includes Paul Rust (channeling Paul Reubens, with whom he co-wrote 2016’s “Pee-wee’s Big Holiday”) as Squirm, Mitch’s insufferably cruel wine-making rival; David Wain (who directed and co-wrote “Wet Hot American Summer,” another spoofy touchstone here) as the wine contest’s even-handed host; and playing the guys’ various love interests: Chloe Cherry, Vanessa Chester, Riki Lindhome and Beth Dover.

Reportedly shot in under 10 days, the film features such fun needle drops as the Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love,” Gerry Rafferty’s “Family Tree” and, of all things to accompany a seduction scene, “The Girls of Rock ‘n’ Roll” sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks and the Chipettes. How this proudly low-budget effort managed to license those tunes is as curious as so much else in this ragtag oddity.

Mexican writer-director Michel Franco (“Memory”) explores dynamics of money, class and the border through the spiky, unsettling erotic drama “Dreams,” starring Jessica Chastain and Isaac Hernández, a Mexican ballet dancer and actor.

In the languidly paced movie, Franco presents two individuals in love (or lust?) who experiment with wielding the power at their fingertips against each other. The film examines the push-pull of attraction and rejection on a scope that’s both intimate and global, finding the uneasy space where the two meet.

Chastain stars as Jennifer McCarthy, a wealthy San Francisco philanthropist and socialite who runs a foundation that supports a ballet school in Mexico City. But Franco does not center on her experience, but that of Fernando (Hernández), whom we meet first escaping from the back of a box truck filled with migrants crossing the U.S.–Mexico border. He’s abandoned in San Antonio on a 100-degree day.

His journey is one of extreme survival, but his destination is the lap of luxury: a modernist San Francisco mansion where he makes himself at home and where he’s clearly been before. A talented ballet dancer who has already once been deported, he’s risked everything to be with his lover, Jennifer, though, as a high-profile figure, she’d rather keep her affair with Fernando under wraps. He’s her dirty little secret but he’s also a human being who refuses to be kept in the shadows.

As Jennifer and Fernando attempt to navigate what it looks like for them to be together, it seems that larger forces will shatter their connection. In reality, the only real danger is each other.

The storytelling logic of “Dreams” is predicated on watching these characters move through space, the way we watch dancers do. Franco offers some fascinating parallels to juxtapose the wildly varying experiences of Fernando and Jennifer — he almost dies of thirst and heat stroke; she arrives in Mexico on a private plane, but both enter empty homes alone, melancholy. During a rift in their relationship, Fernando retreats to a motel, drinking red wine out of plastic cups with a friend in his humble room, ignoring Jennifer’s calls, while she eats alone in her darkened dining room, sipping out of crystal.

These comparisons aren’t exactly nuanced but they are stark and, for most of the film, Franco just asks us to watch them move together and apart, in a strange, avoidant pas de deux. Often dwarfed by architecture, their distinctive bodies in space are more important than the sparse dialogue that only serves to fill in crucial gaps in storytelling.

Cinematographer Yves Cape captures it all in crisp, saturated images. The lack of musical score (beyond diegetic music in the ballet scenes) contributes to the dry, flat affect and tone, as these characters enact increasing cruelties — both emotional and physical — upon each other as a means of trying to contain each other, until it escalates into something truly dark and disturbing.

Franco loses the plot of “Dreams” in the third act. What is a rather staid drama about the weight of social expectations on a relationship becomes a dramatically unexpected game of vengeance as Jennifer and Fernando grasp at any power they have over the other. She fetishizes him and he returns the favor, violently.

Ultimately, Franco jettisons his characters for the sake of unearned plot twists that leave the viewer feeling only icky. These events aren’t illuminating and feel instead like a bleak betrayal. The circumstances of the story might be timely, but “Dreams” doesn’t help us understand the situation better, leaving us in the dark about what we’re supposed to take away from this story of sex, violence, money and liberty. Anything it suggests we already know.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

Writer Becky Ward followed the Blue Zone principles for living a healthy life on a trip to the northern region of the Italian island of Sardinia

If you’re not familiar with the world’s Blue Zones, they are regions where life expectancy is higher due to the diet and lifestyle habits of the locals. Exercise, stress management and social connections are all thought to play a part, with many residents living beyond 100 years.

One such region is in Sardinia, the Italian island often referred to as the Jewel of the Mediterranean thanks to its glorious beaches and lush landscape. The Nuoro province in the mountainous centre of the island is known for its high concentration of centenarians and was at one point home to the oldest women in the world, who lived to 113. While that record has since been surpassed, Sardinia is still a place where you can embrace a healthy lifestyle, and we headed to the 7Pines Resort in the north of the island to do exactly that.

The five-star resort has that laid-back vibe that makes you relax from the moment you arrive and are handed a welcome glass of prosecco. At its centre is a double layered pool with ambient house music playing softly in the background. There are floor-to-ceiling windows in the two restaurants and the gym to give the impression of the outside flowing in.

The rooms blend seamlessly into the landscape and are decorated with natural wood and textured stone tiles, and the little extras in our deluxe room, such as complimentary flip flops and a mini freezer filled with ice to chill our drinks, made our stay here feel even more special.

Get active

We started our days with an early morning swim. As well as the main pool, there’s an adults-only pool and a sandy beach with calm waters where you can go for a dip. The resort offers an activity such as a stretch class or Pilates each morning. We were initially wary of using the gym owing to the fact that everyone can see you through the glass walls, but we quickly realised what this actually means is you have a wonderful view to accompany your workout.

Keen to stretch our legs some more, we headed out of the resort for a two-hour walk around neighbouring Baja Sardinia. Along the way – which is part roadside path and part trail – we stopped off at five beaches, ranging from small sandy coves that we had all to ourselves to the large stretch of golden sand in the heart of the resort town. Here the water is crystal clear and not too deep, and when you’re ready for refreshments there are restaurants and bars on the concourse where you can enjoy a cool drink and a snack in the sunshine.

Further afield, the Pevero Health trail is a network of paths through aromatic scrubland with viewpoints to climb to and accessible beaches. It’s a 20-minute drive from the resort and it’s worth considering car hire as taxis here are expensive.

Eat well

The breakfast buffet at 7Pines will set you up for the day. As well as the usual fresh fruit and pastries, you’ll find cooked meats, grilled vegetables and a choice of egg dishes, including Uova Frattau, a typical Sardinian dish combining traditional bread, tomato purée, pecorino cheese and a poached egg.

The poolside Spazio by Franco Pepe restaurant boldly claims to serve the world’s best pizza and you’ll find unique offerings such as the delicious Spazio Mare, a fried pizza with buffalo mozzarella, red prawn, green salad and lime. We also tried the trattoria menu here, which includes catch of the day, pasta dishes and Italy’s best (in our opinion) dessert: tiramisu.

At the fine dining restaurant Capogiro, we enjoyed the Le Nostre Storie (our stories) tasting menu, a delightful mix of theatre and flavour using fresh herbs from the resort’s kitchen garden. From the amuse bouche served on ceramic sea creatures to the delicate lobster ravioli in a crab broth, every dish was beautifully presented and made our taste buds dance.

Pamper yourself

The spa at 7Pines has five treatment rooms named after flowers and plants found on the island. They face into an open-air relaxation area from where you can also access the sauna, steam room, ice bath and experience showers. To maintain the intimate feel of the area the resort allows a maximum of five guests at a time, so you’re advised to book a time slot.

Our personalised body massage somehow managed to be both relaxing and invigorating. While we almost dozed off during the treatment as our therapist worked the tension out of our back and shoulders, we felt full of renewed energy afterwards. Other pampering treats on offer include body scrubs, facials, manicures and reflexology.

Have fun

Being social and having fun are key components of living well. The resort’s beachside bar Cone Club was closed during our visit, but has DJs and party vibes throughout the summer. It’s the perfect spot to watch the sunset too. Over in Baja Sardinia, Phi Club is another popular beach club during the summer months.

The swim-up bar at 7Pines attracts a crowd towards the end of the afternoons. Our favourite tipple was the Bellavista sparkling wine – a crisp and fresh Italian fizz that became our daily sundowner.

If you’re a wine lover, the hotel can organise for you to go wine tasting at a local vineyard. Capichera Vineyard is a 20-minute drive from 7Pines and offers a golf buggy tour of the estate followed by a tasting of five wines. Watersports and boat trips (half and full day) are also bookable at the concierge desk. Of course if all you want to do is lounge around on the uber comfy sunbeds, that’s perfectly okay too!

How much does it cost?

Rooms at 7Pines Resort Sardinia start from €350 per night based on two people sharing. See BA or Ryanair for flights from the UK to Olbia, which is a 30-minute drive from the resort.

“The Gray House,” a limited series now streaming on Prime Video, purports to tell the fact-based story of Elizabeth Van Lew, who spied for the Union in the Civil War while living in the midst of Southern society in Richmond, Va. And in very broad terms it does, though it fills up the space within those outlines with an army of imagined details and melodramatic plots and subplots.

It is not the first work for the screen that betrays history by attempting to make it more exciting than it already is, and if you go in ready not to wonder or care what did or did not actually happen, and which characters are real or invented, you may make out alright. (If you do care, there is Gerri Willis’ 2025 volume “Lincoln’s Lady Spymaster: The Untold Story of the Abolitionist Southern Belle Who Helped Win the Civil War.”)

So I will not ring a bell every time the miniseries, which admittedly bills itself as “inspired by a true story,” diverts from the record, even though in my head it may be clanging.

It’s July 4, 1860, nine months before the beginning of the Civil War. Elizabeth (Daisy Head) lives in a mansion in Richmond with her mother Eliza (Mary-Louise Parker), and the two are throwing a party. Guests, including the historical Swedish novelist and social reformer Fredrika Bremer (Oxana Moravec), congressman Sherrard Clemens (Ionut Grama), Virginia Gov. Henry Wise (Mark Perry) and his awful son Obie (Blake Patrick Anderson), unload expository dialogue and provide a primer for anyone not acquainted with the roots of the Civil War. Meanwhile, a runaway slave shows up out back, pursued by hounds, having heard that the Van Lew house is the place to run for help. The women, who are against secession and for abolition but are practiced in the art of deceiving their neighbors, are involved with the Underground Railroad in some way that’s not exactly clear.

Among their servants — the Van Lew slaves were (secretly) freed upon the death of Elizabeth’s father — are head porter Isham, played by Ben Vereen, who it is a pure pleasure to see back on screen, and Mary Jane (Amethyst Davis). A well-educated, determined young woman who is just back from Liberia, which did not suit her — she calls it a “tricky little way of ridding America of free Blacks” — the series gives her a lot of agency and makes her a virtual partner in the spy ring. White and Black, they live as much like a family as is possible when some people are labor and others are management and it’s the antebellum, then the wartime South.

Also involved in Elizabeth’s tradecraft are Scottish baker Thomas McNiven (Christopher McDonald) and Clara Parish (Hannah James), a beautiful prostitute who dreams “of Bronte’s moors” and gets, of all things, a big musical number in an out-of-place Western saloon, like Marlene Dietrich in “Destry Rides Again.” (The saloon is a standing set at Castel Film Studios in Romania, where the production was based; their backlot Western street, too, makes an implausible appearance.)

Ben Vereen as Isham Worthy, a porter in the Van Lew home.

(Bogdan Merlusca/Prime Video)

Out of the loop are Elizabeth’s brother, John (Ewan Miller), whose heart is in the right place, but who’s married to Laurette (Catherine Hannay), whose heart is not. An avaricious, envious flirt on the undisguised lookout for something better, she is angry that John wouldn’t use slave labor to build their house. She’s Scarlett O’Hara, minus the intelligence and charm.

Calling roll on the enemy, we find present Confederate President Jefferson Davis (Sam Trammell), in whose house — the eponymous Gray House — Mary Jane will be embedded, with a cocked ear and a photographic memory, to gather intel; Secretary of War (and then State) Judah P. Benjamin (Rob Morrow), who has a thing for Clara, to whom he opines on property rights while they share a bathtub; and a pip-squeak John Wilkes Booth (Charles Craddock), popping in and out no reason, unless it’s to foreshadow the death of Lincoln (who makes a rearview cameo), or just because everybody’s heard of him. Below them, but more in the action, are the nasty, thuggish Sheriff Stokely Reeves (Paul Anderson) and slave hunter Bully Lumpkin (Robert Knepper); and while thuggery and violence were endemic in a racist South, caricature and cliche do your history lesson no favors, however valuable it is.

Because Hollywood hates, let’s call it a love vacuum when it comes to screen heroines, Elizabeth will find herself the object of not one, not two, but (at least) three admirers, who prize her brains and spirit and talent for conversation. (She is no frilly, fizzy, fuzzy Southern belle, like the mean girls around her sister-in-law.) There is Hamton Arsenault (Colin Morgan), a sort of Rhett Butler lite, visiting from New Orleans with a huge live alligator, because I guess that’s something you could manage in 1860 just to make a splash at a party a thousand miles away. Capt. William Lounsbury (Colin O’Donoghue) is a dashing Union officer, escaping a Confederate prison, who passes through the Van Lew house on the way to freedom; they click together like Legos. Finally, there’s shy puppy dog Erasmus Ross (Joshua McGuire), who works at the Van Lew’s hardware store and will later have a post at a prison for captured Union soldiers, which the Van Lews will turn to their advantage.

“The Gray House” isn’t all bad, and its intentions are good, but it’s dramatically predictable and at eight episodes, some over an hour, goes on much, much longer than it needs to, letting scenes play out past profitability and wasting time on extraneous subplots involving minor characters — and minor minor characters — that do nothing to enrich the fabric of the show. A duel between two characters with no significant connection to the rest of the story exists here seemingly just because their historical counterparts did fight one, and gives the filmmakers the chance to add a duel — on horseback, like jousting with guns — to the show.

Parker is always fine, though the part requires a bit too much Southern breathiness. Davis and Head make strong impressions, masking the pedestrian, sometimes cornball dialogue. (The miniseries was written by Leslie Greif and Darrell Fetty, who collaborated on “Hatfields & McCoys”, with an undiscernable assist from John Sayles.) Keith David, who plays real-life activist minister Henry H. Garnet, gives a seven-minute speech on education as if he’s performing a Shakespearean monologue, after which he faces down a murderous sheriff like he’s Shaft. It’s a high point of the series, and the one scene I was happy to see go long.

Directed by Roland Joffé, who four decades ago was Oscar-nominated for “The Killing Fields” and “The Mission,” the production is a mixed bag; much care has been lavished on the costumes; the crowd scenes are well populated; printed material is done really well. (It matters.) Battle scenes — including Bull Run, where picnicking tourists are accurately shown in attendance — are convincingly rendered. But Romania, whether on or off the studio lot, only occasionally musters a decent impression of 19th century Virginia, reminding you, as “The Gray House” often does, that this is only a movie.

Suddenly it feels like the 2000s again, with a revived “Scrubs” premiering Wednesday on ABC and Tracy Morgan reincarnating the spirit of “30 Rock” in NBC’s “The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins” — network television shows, too, as in the days when streaming was just something tears and traffic did.

Beginning as a tale of new doctors at work and in love, “Scrubs” may also be seen as a looking-glass “Grey’s Anatomy,” although as “Scrubs” premiered first, it’s fairer to say that “Grey’s” is a straight-faced “Scrubs,” probably not a thought that ever crossed Shonda Rhimes’ mind. The show, then and now, combines a sentimental, satirical, soapy, sometimes surreal comedy with a straightforward medical show. Stars Zach Braff, Donald Faison and Sarah Chalke are back full-time, not quite in their old places, but arranged in close quarters, with Judy Reyes and John C. McGinley listed as recurring and other old faces slated to peek in.

The show left the air in 2010, after its ninth season, a virtual spin-off that has been declared noncanonical. The Season 8 finale saw protagonist, narrator and inveterate daydreamer J.D. (Braff), a person who really needs people — “I can’t do this all on my own” runs the show’s title song — looking into a happy future, married with a child to surgeon Elliot (Chalke). But that was just a dream, just a dream. The new season finds them at odds, and while a child is mentioned, it remains unseen, at least for the four episodes (of nine) out for review.

As we begin again, J.D. is working as a concierge doctor, tending to the minor ailments of the rich — cut toe, long-lasting chemically induced erection — when he’s drawn back to Sacred Heart Hospital to check on a patient. By the end of the first episode, his former mentor, the acerbic yet strangely sympathetic Dr. Cox (McGinley), will give him a job, of which is officially a spoiler to describe — even though it’s the premise of the show — noting his gift for teaching and reuniting J.D. with bromantic best friend Turk (Faison), the chief of surgery. (“Two chiefs!” is their chanted motto, followed by a special handshake. They are men who will be boys.) Turk is still married to head nurse Carla (Judy Reyes); they have four daughters, whom we do see, briefly. (J.D.’s appointment rankles Dr. Park, played by Joel Kim Booster, the series’ designated mean person.)

Moving into the space Turk, J.D. and Elliot occupied 25 years earlier are a new crop of interns, bringing youth appeal and naivete (the better to instruct them). Blake (David Gridley) is a cocky know-it-all, who will become a less cocky know-it-not-all; Asher (Jacob Dudman) is British, insecure and attracted to Amara (Layla Mohammadi), who is homeschooled (“I almost won prom queen twice but my brothers voted for my mom”) and a fan of Sam (Ava Bunn), a social media star who hangs her hands like Alexis Rose. Dashana (Amanda Morrow), the serious one, who sees Turk as an ally: “You’re, like, the only Black surgeon in this place; the rest of them just got, like, Coldplay on loop in the ER and say things like, ‘You’re so articulate.’” (“This brother likes Coldplay, too,” says Turk, pressing play on “Clocks.” Another lesson learned.)

As before, the show is fast-paced, packed with asides and ironic cutaways, with jokes riding on the back of jokes and some unexpected slapstick (the best kind), though it will shift into a lower gear when something capital-I important needs to be said. The world has changed in 16 years (“I am now supposed to watch every word that comes out of my mouth because apparently they are all fragile little Christmas ornaments,” grumbles Dr. Cox) and so the risqué material is left to the older characters, though the sex jokes now mostly amount to lack-of-sex jokes. (“She used to get worked up by ‘Bridgerton,’” Turk says of Carla, “but the new season doesn’t come out for another year.” “Spring 2027,” nods J.D.) Monitoring behavior is Vanessa Bayer as Sibby, a tightly wound administrator with an effortful smile, whom Turk calls “the feelings police.” (A longtime favorite of this department, Bayer is a brilliant addition. Told that Tarzan is a fictional character, Sibby replies, “I wouldn’t be so sure. They did make a movie about his life.”)

They say you can’t go home again, but with a good map and a good crew you can get pretty close. Not every bucket drawn up from the well of old IP will prove potable, but it often has: “Arrested Development,” “Veronica Mars,” “Party Down,” “Roseanne/The Conners,” “Frasier,” even “Dallas.” “Twin Peaks: The Return” is, of course, a work of art. Under the watchful eye of creator Bill Lawrence — later to co-create “Ted Lasso,” which is coming back for a fourth season even though it really ended after the third — with Aseem Batra, who wrote for the original series, as showrunner, it is very much the sitcom of old, older. (But everyone still looks good.)

There will undoubtedly be some who find nits to pick, but it’s hard to imagine any less-than-obsessed fans unhappy with this lagniappe, apart from its comparative brevity. And references to the original run notwithstanding — appletinis, “Star Wars,” a certain closet — it’s intelligible and funny on its own terms , and as full of love as ever. “When this work makes you fall apart,” says J.D., narrating, “someone is there to patch you up.”

New viewers will not be shut out.

Imelda Marcos’ fetish for fiendishly expensive shoes was a running gag in the 1980s. But did you know that she was also something of a disco queen?

The image of a jet-setting Marcos in her Beltrami pumps boogieing with arms dealers at fashionable New York nightspots is one of the inspirations of David Byrne’s musical about the notorious former first lady of the Philippines, who sang on the campaign trail for her husband, Ferdinand E. Marcos, and ruled with an iron fist alongside him after he declared martial law and plunged his nation into a brutal dictatorship.

“Here Lies Love,” which is having its Los Angeles premiere at the Mark Taper Forum, traces the political power couple’s rise and fall through a series of dance cuts that capture the irrational hold charismatic leaders can have on a public — at least while the music is blasting.

Byrne, the ingenious Talking Heads co-founder, conceived the show and wrote the music and lyrics. Fatboy Slim, a Grammy Award-winning DJ, musician and record producer, contributed to the music. The score, a mix of lush disco and synth pop with hints of island breezes and karaoke camp, brings a club-like energy to the stage.

Aura Mayari and the company of “Here Lies Love” at the Mark Taper Forum.

(Jeff Lorch)

I first saw “Here Lies Love” at New York’s Public Theater in 2013, when the production, directed by Alex Timbers, was staged as an immersive dance party. Audience members moved along a shifting dance floor as the love story between Imelda, a beauty queen from the provinces, and Ferdinand, an ambitious senator accustomed to getting what he wants, sourly played out amid the backdrop of a traumatic national story.

This sung-through musical pulled off something of a coup of its own. As Ferdinand, now president and philandering husband, and Imelda, his embittered wife dripping in compensatory luxury, shore up their “conjugal dictatorship,” theatergoers discovered that, while partying to the seductive beat, a political dystopia was solidifying around them.

Imagine if, in “Evita,” audience members were invited to sing back up on the balcony as Eva Perón belts out “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina,” accompanying her in her last manipulative hurrah. “Here Lies Love” seemed to want its audience to leave with an aftertaste of cognitive dissonance.

Audiences don’t usually like being duped. But voters need to be continually reminded that when they go to bed with a strongman, they’ll likely wake up without healthcare or voting rights.

“Here Lies Love” at the Taper doesn’t follow the Public Theater’s staging or the similarly immersive Broadway production by Timbers that followed in 2023. It’s a more straightforward presentation that keeps audience members in their seats, except for a moment when uprising is in the air and a few theatergoers are conscripted to join the ecstatic rebellion.

Jeff Lorenz Garrido, from left, Joshua Dela Cruz, and Garrick Goce Macatangay in “Here Lies Love” at the Mark Taper Forum.

(Jeff Lorch)

Snehal Desai’s direction is politically clear-eyed and scrupulous. Corruption, authoritarianism and censorship, as we’re learning firsthand, scandal after constitutional scandal, are no laughing matter. The question is whether “Here Lies Love” can bear the scrutiny of a more traditional musical.

There’s not a traditional libretto, so the story is transmitted mostly through song lyrics. But stump speeches, rallying cries and the theatrical guidance of Imeldific (Aura Mayari, alum of Season 15 of “RuPaul’s Drag Race”) help flesh out the chronicle.

This emcee figure, a Taper innovation, replaces the DJ role of previous productions and establishes the show’s metatheatrical frame. The opening number, “American Troglodyte,” underscores the American imperial role in the story and provides Imdeldific with a satiric banner that doesn’t let a smiling superpower off the hook.

William Carlos Angulo’s choreography is unfailingly kinetic, but participating in a party is more energizing than watching one at a remove. Yet the political case of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos, a tale of celebrity and tyranny marching in lockstep, speaks so directly to our own time that I found myself gripped by the object lesson of this public saga, even if it’s not always easy to connect all the fragments, never mind distinguish between hard fact and fictional license.

I was particularly fascinated by the portrayal of Imelda (Reanne Acasio), whose political character seems to be shaped by personal disappointments and run-of-the-mill humiliations. Imelda is wounded not only by the philandering of Ferdinand (Chris Renfro) but by an even more painful injury inflicted by her first love, Ninoy Aquino (Joshua Dela Cruz), a politician determined to become the voice of his people.

Ninoy recognizes an essential incompatibility between them. Imelda lives for love while he has political work to do. He bids her adieu in the song “Opposite Attraction,” though fate will bring them together after Imelda and her husband gain power and Ninoy, as the leading opposition figure, becomes their prisoner and eventual victim of the chaos unleashed by their regime.

Joan Almedilla and the company of “Here Lies Love” at the Mark Taper Forum.

(Jeff Lorch)

Unfolding under the theatrical auspices of Imeldific, “Here Lies Love” retells the history of the Marcos years as a musical pageant. Imelda’s transformation, from shy, lowly country girl to “Iron Butterfly,” covering up her shame with jewelry from Tiffany and revealing a will every bit as hard as the diamonds she flaunts, is presented with music so catchy and compulsive that it has the force of historical inevitability

The grooves supplied by Byrne and Slim take not just the characters but the audience on a ride through a brutal anti-democratic period. Does the disco spectacle aesthetic treat this history too lightly?

The production seems wary of this criticism. A program note from dramaturg Ely Sonny Orquiza, attuned to the sensitivities of the large Filipino diaspora in Los Angeles, notes that the production, “featuring an all-Filipino cast and majority-AAPI creative team, is not intended as a definitive or comprehensive history, but as an entry point for dialogue and inquiry.”

The scale of damage perpetrated by the regime is still being collectively processed. One victim, Estrella Cumpas (Carol Angeli), makes the mistake of confronting Imelda, a childhood friend, and is taken into custody. She will have to stand in for thousands of others.

The design scheme certainly doesn’t want to spoil anyone’s good time. Arnel Sancianco’s sets, Marcella Barbeau’s lighting and the more glittering of Jaymee Ngernwichit’s costumes seem to place us in a retro Euro-style disco world, where fun is typically a function of the strength of the cocktails consumed.

But there’s a countermovement in the show, the People Power Revolution that gains momentum after the assassination of Nimoy. The funeral speech of his mother (Joan Almedilla) is turned into the galvanizing protest song, “Just Ask the Flowers,” in which something as basic as maternal love wakes the country to the madness around them. Desai, whose directorial work at the Taper thus far has brought together rave and rebellion, smoothly merges the Dionysian frenzy of the music with the nonviolent revolution that ended Ferdinand Marcos’ protracted dictatorship in 1986.

Dela Cruz’s stirring Ninoy standing tall against the patriarchal savagery of Renfro’s Ferdinand and the petty vindictiveness of Acasio’s well-drawn Imelda is a powerful call to action. Byrne and Slim’s score insists that not even death can stop the beat of this democratic spirit.

The production points out at the end that another Marcos, Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos Jr., Ferdinand and Imelda’s son, is now president. Perhaps the show’s final number can shed light: “God draws straight, but with crooked lines.”

Director Sang-il Lee sets his epic-scaled “Kokuho” in the vivid world of kabuki theater, but it’s not just the movie’s milieu that distinguishes it. Spanning 50 years and running nearly three hours, “Kokuho,” which has become Japan’s biggest live-action hit ever, evinces intensely mixed feelings about its two main characters’ quest for greatness. Kabuki is presented as an art form of balletic skill, but it can never fully redeem or repair the film’s central figures, who once were friends before ambition got in the way.

In 1964 Nagasaki, 14-year-old Kikuo (Soya Kurokawa) performs at a New Year’s event, impressing Hanjiro (Ken Watanabe), a beloved kabuki legend. But after Kikuo’s father, a yakuza crime boss, is murdered, Hanjiro takes the grieving teen under his wing. Soon, Hanjiro is training Kikuo and his own son Shunsuke (Keitatsu Koshiyama) in his Osaka studio to become “onnagata” — male kabuki actors who portray female characters. Both sweet and bashful, Kikuo and Shunsuke quickly grow close, enduring Hanjiro’s exacting requirements as he shapes them to be graceful, disciplined performers.

“Kokuho” then fast-forwards to the early 1970s as we meet the grown-up versions of Kikuo (Ryo Yoshizawa) and Shunsuke (Ryusei Yokohama). Now practically brothers, the young men are making their name as a well-regarded kabuki duo, but their personalities have begun to diverge. Kikuo remains soft-spoken, while Shunsuke is more of a partier and big talker, dominating their interviews with local journalists. Hanjiro still thinks highly of them both, although each pupil faces disadvantages. Kikuo is more gifted but in this nepotistic art form, being part of a respected kabuki lineage is crucial, something this yakuza scion doesn’t possess. Shunsuke, meanwhile, lacks his friend’s formidable technique, but because he’s Hanjiro’s son, his future prospects are practically assured. Kikuo and Shunsuke complement one another as performers but a shocking turn of events will sever their bond.

Adapting a novel by Shuichi Yoshida, Lee maps the arc of a friendship while exploring the minutiae of kabuki, both on stage and behind the scenes. (The movie’s Oscar-nominated makeup is an acknowledgment of the blinding-white face paint and bright red lipstick that kabuki actors wear to transform into their roles.) Much like ballet, kabuki necessitates precise choreographed actions: Not only does “Kokuho” provide generous samples of different kabuki pieces but also includes captions that list the title of the individual works and a brief synopsis. Rarely do these pieces directly echo the two men’s interpersonal drama, but the information adds context to the actors’ enchanting movements, which are backed by gorgeous outfits and striking set design that accentuate the mythical tales being played out.

Kikuo and Shunsuke’s fortunes shift over the decades — one of them will literally be kicked when he’s down on two separate occasions — but Lee doesn’t let us settle on a definitive impression of either performer. Our sympathies change as we witness both men’s failings as well as their enduring virtues. “Kokuho” is a hearty melodrama with a little bit of everything — sex scandals, betrayals, unlikely comebacks, health scares — but the film’s gaudy plot twists (which shouldn’t be spoiled) belie the filmmaker’s unsentimental attitude regarding stardom’s perils. Refreshingly, “Kokuho” is that rare film to be un-awed by talent alone. Both Kikuo and Shunsuke will enjoy high highs and low lows, but it’s their perseverance that ultimately means more than arbitrary benchmarks like “genius” or “brilliance.”

The film’s title translates to “national treasure,” another clichéd term thrown around when trying to categorize greatness. Kikuo and Shunsuke revere kabuki’s bygone giants, who are affixed with that moniker. But as “Kokuho’s” characters seek such an accolade for themselves, they come to realize how misleading it is. Yoshizawa and Yokohama bring abiding tenderness to their characters’ friendship while refusing to allow either protagonist to be reduced to a simple set of qualities. Kikuo’s delicate features suggest a pure soul, but Yoshizawa gradually reveals other sides to this gifted, haunted performer. And Yokohama ably depicts a privileged young man who rightly views his good fortune as both blessing and curse.

Their lives intersect, then disentangle, then return to each other’s orbit again. That elegant dance matches what we see on stage, the kabuki performances melding melancholy and beauty, anguish and catharsis.

We used to have more films like “Midwinter Break,” in which the combination of a couple of great actors, a gifted writer and the unfussy shepherding of a thorny, intimate scenario gave discerning moviegoers their recommended weekly allowance of adult drama about the human condition.

That’s no longer the case, so you would be forgiven for attaching more importance to the small-scale appeal of this adaptation of Irish author Bernard MacLaverty’s 2017 novel. Without gimmicks or pomp (save a picturesque setting) and through the supreme talents of Lesley Manville and Ciarán Hinds, it offers up an affecting two-hander about a couple on the brink who’ve never really acknowledged said precipice. As directed with low-key confidence by Polly Findlay, the movie is both good and, in a certain way, good enough.

Should a marriage be merely good enough? Because hiding in the 40-year togetherness of retired teacher Stella (Manville) and ex-architect Gerry (Hinds) is an unmistakable chasm. It’s a divide with roots in the turbulent Belfast of their youth, which necessitated starting their family in Glasgow. It manifests now in a brittleness that tints their everyday exchanges as ossifying empty nesters.

Stella’s restless energy in wanting to fix things spurs her to arrange an impromptu trip for them to Amsterdam. Initially they rekindle a genial intimacy over art, meals and the city’s beauty. She eases off her intolerance for his drinking by tagging along to bars, while he accompanies his faith-driven wife to the Begijnhof, a historical religious site of dwellings initially intended to house a sisterhood of single Catholic women. We gather her keen interest isn’t entirely touristy but also, because Hinds is so good, that his wisecracks about religion — which she bristles at — have a basis in something personal, too.

We eventually learn what it is that has kept Stella and Gerry in a state of deepening apartness. But these expected revelations aren’t as cathartic as one might hope, probably because what “Midwinter Break” had going for it was a gathering totality of unhurried observance, as if we, too, were stumbling in the dark along with these nervous dancers, who once knew each other so well yet had lost the ability to turn knowing into understanding.

Still, the chance to see Manville and Hinds give heart, soul and edge to a cracked marriage is a display of nuanced skill that no screenwriting choice (even if true to the source material) can fully hamper. Manville, one of our greatest actors, is achingly real, giving Stella the protective bearing of a wounded soldier. Hinds, meanwhile, masterfully shows an affable partner’s emotional immobility.

Findlay knows to stay out of the way when her actors are deep inside what’s lived-in about their situation, or when grace notes — especially the story’s real ties to the Troubles — needn’t be overstruck. Modest to a fault, “Midwinter Break” seems to float like something cautious and wishful, hoping along with the audience that this union’s individual strains will fall into harmony once more.

“Strip Law,” a new cartoon premiering Friday, finds Netflix in an Adult Swim state of mind, which is to say there was no thought of it being made for everybody. (Possibly including some of the people it was made for.) It’s rude, lewd, surreal in a banal sort of way, at times ridiculously violent — that is, the violence is ridiculous.

It was the cast that attracted me: Adam Scott, once more the schlemiel as leading man; Janelle James, sure of her own magnificence, not far from her character on “Abbott Elementary”; and Keith David, whose deep, sonorous voice is almost necessarily one of authority, turned to good or evil or in between as the script demands. James and David, especially, I could listen to for days.

Created by Cullen Crawford, (“The Late Show With Stephen Colbert,” “Star Trek: Lower Decks”), the series is centered on a failing Las Vegas law firm, headed by Scott’s Lincoln Gumb, with James as Sheila Flambé, “a magician and three-year all-county sex champion” he hires as his “co-counsel in charge of spectacle.” Niece Irene (Shannon Gisela), an iron-pumping 16-year-old, works as his investigator; she wears a blindfold labeled “Underage” whenever she’s required to be in a bar. Stephen Root plays his disbarred (later undisbarred — rebarred?) lawyer uncle, Glem Blorchman, the strangest of them all — “It’s 115 degrees out so I put marshmallows in gin,” is something he says as they gather to watch Christmas movies. And David plays Lincoln’s nemesis, Stevie Nichols, the very successful former partner of Lincoln’s late mother, upon whom the son remains perversely fixated.

Much of it is the sort of thing that will work or not work depending on your mood, but generally I prefer the small throwaway jokes to the big gross ones. There are self-reflexive meta gags about “hard-working cartoon writers” and “reappropriating out-of-date catchphrases.” There are many nods to “The Simpsons,” including “frosty chocolate milkshakes” and James L. Brooks’ Gracie Films logo. The final episode, of 10, takes place within the finale of a “Suits”-like legal dramedy. (“It’s against their nature to let something be sweet and fun and airy,” that firm’s bromantic lawyers say of Lincoln’s team. “They have to make it dark and strange and crass.”) And there are left-field references to Cocteau Twins and Bikini Kill, whose “original bass player” Glem claims to be. (“I don’t know what Bikini Kill is,” says Irene. “Neither did I, according to Kathleen Hanna,” says Glem.)

There are various oddball judges (nothing remotely legal happens in a courtroom); “local character” Lunch Meat, who turns up in many roles; a barman, Mr. O’Raviolo, who switches between exaggerated Irish and Italian accents in mid-sentence. Comedian George Wallace plays himself as the mayor of Las Vegas. A Halloween Christmas episode parodies “Miracle on 34th Street”; another takes off on Colton Burpo, the “boy who saw Heaven,” which includes a live-action trailer for a faith-based film featuring Tim Heidecker as a coke-snorting atheistic Lincoln. A virtual reality HR seminar is hosted by “a computerized amalgamation of all five personalities of the Rat Pack,” an immersive Autoverse, in which actors create situations that somehow amount to a driving test. There are the “Nevada-grown” Hot Dates, a sexualized version of the California Raisins; riots occur when the characters are redesigned to be more respectable (“They’re walking away from years of established canon,” laments Lincoln.)

The series felt a little off-putting at first, as if it were straining for effect, but gathered steam as it went on, either because the later episodes are weirder or better written, or because one just gets used to being in that world with those people. There is just enough character in the comedy to create stakes in the narrative; its misfit energy has fueled the screen’s bands of outsiders throughout the years. (“Even when you’re a disaster, you’re a disaster for the right people,” Irene tells Lincoln.) As to the famous fine line between stupid and clever, the stupidity and the cleverness are all but inextricable, and to the point.

The credits declare that the series is “proudly made by real, non-computer human beings,” which is pleasant to know, and in 100 years will still have been the best way to make cartoons, even if by then they are only made by and, for all we know, for machines. The thin-lined drawing style is standard for more or less realistic 21st-century adult TV animation, with perhaps a hint of comics artist Daniel Clowes laid on. But the characters are expressive, and the medium is used to unreal ends, which is, after all, what cartoons are good for.

The first hour of “EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert” convinces you that the King is the greatest entertainer who ever lived. By the end of it, he’s a god. Director Baz Luhrmann claims he made this Imax documentary so that any poor souls who never got to see the King live can worship him in action. Really, I think Luhrmann is praying that in a thousand years, some alien civilization will discover this footage and build a whole religion around the thrall Elvis’ hip thrusts had over a crowd.

If that future comes to pass, then Luhrmann himself will be elevated as a key disciple. He’s so devoted to Elvis that this is his second tribute in four years, the other being, of course, his 2022 biopic “Elvis,” starring Austin Butler, who was good in the role if not quite iconic. That more traditional film hewed to the genre’s standard rise-and-fall narrative and was dinged mostly because the King’s life represents so many things to so many people — race, class, controlling relationships — that it’s impossible to please everyone or for any actor to fill his blue suede shoes.

“EPiC” sticks to the surer footing of documentary footage: the man himself performing over two dozen tunes — including “That’s All Right,” “Burning Love” and “In the Ghetto” — plus twice that number on the background soundtrack. (I’m not into his gospel hits, but they suit the mood.) A dream concert that’s longer and larger than what fans could have seen in reality, the movie is stitched together primarily from Elvis’ Las Vegas appearances in 1970 and 1972. You can tell which year it is by the amount of rhinestones on his costumes, which become increasingly maximalist.

When Elvis retook the stage in 1969, he hadn’t performed before a live audience in nine years and he’d gotten a little uncool. Beatlemania had dinged his appeal so perilously that editor Jonathan Redmond splices its arrival with images of car crashes and missile attacks. Reporters at that comeback show noted that most of his fans were now — horrors! — over 30, with the exception of a 25-year-old who said he attended out of nostalgia.

Luhrmann quickly sets up the essential framework, then Luhrmann picks up a year after Elvis proved he was still a smash. No longer constrained by moral panic, the Army draft or the decade he spent trapped within the Hollywood industrial complex, this is the King at arguably the high point of his career, right in that sweet spot before his 1973 divorce from Priscilla Presley, after which his mood and health started to flag.

This Elvis comes across confident, breezy, comfortable and funny. In one scene, he jokes about the difficulty of lunging to the ground in a tight jumpsuit (an outfit he adopted because he was nervous of ripping his pants). Later, he switches up the lyrics to “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” to croon, “Do you gaze at your forehead and wish you had hair?”

The camera often seems to be right under his chin, gazing as the sweat on his cheeks and lashes shimmers under the Vegas lights like diamonds. His spell over the crowd feels at once intimate and volcanic. You get the best look at his charisma when Elvis targets his energy at an unsuspecting back-up singer in the middle of “Suspicious Minds.” Slowly striding toward the girl, he hypnotizes her as skillfully as a snake charmer and then, as a punchline, lunges in her direction. She jumps and giggles.

While we become familiar with the faces of his band members, the film doesn’t bother to mention any of their names, not even in the credits. They deserve better, but the film is about how the concert felt, not how it came to fruition. Still, once you get over the contact high of Elvis’ psychedelic neon pink paisley shirt in the rehearsal studio, it’s delightful to see that he gives as much of himself when performing in a small setting as he does in a massive one. He loses himself in thrall to the beat, gyrating his pelvis so fast it resembles a machine gun.

Naturally, there’s a montage of the women in the audience overwhelmed by joy, from a sobbing little girl who won’t let go of his arm to a glamazon in a dangerously low-cut minidress who scoots under the curtain before it closes. The ladies tug on his scarves and toss bras at him, one of which he wears on his head. Surprisingly to modern eyes, when his female fans grab and kiss him, Elvis smooches them back, even after he wades into a sea of his admirers and emerges with the chains on his jumpsuit torn off. If you happen to spot your mother or grandmother in the crowd, well, good for her.

In lieu of mentioning Elvis’ off-stage reality, Luhrmann deepens a song’s effect by cutting to personal photographs that are a little out of context. As Elvis wails the line, “And I miss her,” from his cover ballad about a bad husband, we see a shot of Elvis’ dead mother, Gladys. “Always on My Mind” becomes a brisk yet moving acknowledgment of Priscilla and his infant daughter Lisa Marie. Otherwise, Lurhmann only wants to celebrate the good stuff. There’s no tragedy here. It’s ecstasy minus the agony.

If Elvis was ever cranky, that’s been stripped out. Though we hear him get hound-dogged by nosy questions from the press, the closest Elvis comes to snark is when he sits on a stool to play “Little Sister.” He sings the chorus, then cranks up the tempo a notch and suddenly starts belting the Beatles’ “Get Back,” before smoothly transitioning once more into his own song. Point made: Don’t give those Brits too much credit for revolutionizing rock ‘n’ roll.

Lurhmann’s got his own score to settle. In the Butler version of “Elvis,” he made the case that, as big an artist as Elvis was, he should have been bigger. Colonel Parker, Elvis’s manager, kept his cash cow on a leash, tethering him first to middling B-pictures, then to casinos. The Beatles invaded his country; he never played a single gig in theirs. We never got to find out who Elvis, with his magpie love for all music, might have become if he’d traveled the world and gotten to pick up an ashram sitar.

And while that argument got a little drowned out in the biopic by Tom Hanks’ double-phony put-on accent as Parker, this rapturous salute to the King’s majesty wants to make sure we don’t miss it now. Lurhmann even scores his footage of the Colonel to “The Devil in Disguise.” Hey, every religion needs a heel.