review

Renate Reinsve is the new face of Scandinavia: depression with a smile. Standing 5 feet 10 with open, friendly features, the Norwegian talent has a grin that makes her appear at once like an endearing everywoman and a large, unpredictable child. Reinsve zoomed to international acclaim with her Cannes-winning performance in Joachim Trier’s 2021 “The Worst Person in the World,” a dramedy tailor-made to her lanky, likable style of self-loathing. Now, Trier has written his muse another showcase, “Sentimental Value,” where Reinsve plays an emotionally avoidant theater actor who bounces along in pretty much the same bittersweet key.

“Sentimental Value” gets misty about a few things — families, filmmaking, real estate — all while circling a handsome Oslo house where the Borg clan has lived for four generations. It’s a dream home with red trim on the window frames and pink roses in the yard. Yet, sisters Nora (Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) aren’t fighting to keep it, perhaps due to memories of their parents’ hostile divorce or maybe because they don’t want to deal with their estranged father, Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård, wonderful), who grew up there himself and still owns the place, even though he’s moved to Sweden.

Trier opens the film with a symbolically laden camera pan across Oslo that ends on a cemetery. He wants to make sure we understand that while Norway looks idyllic to outsiders jealous that all four Scandinavian countries rank among the globe’s happiest, it can still be as gloomy as during the era of Henrik Ibsen.

More impressively, Trier shifts to a fabulous, time-bending historical montage of the house itself over the century-plus it’s belonged to the Borgs. There’s a crack in it that seems to represent the fissures in the family, the flaws in their facade. Over these images, Reinsve’s Nora recites a 6th-grade school essay she wrote about her deep identification with her childhood home. Having grown up to become terrified of intimacy, today she’s more like a detached garage.

Nora and Agnes were young when their father, a modestly well-regarded art-house filmmaker, decamped to a different country. At a retrospective of his work, Gustav refers to his crew as his “family,” which would irritate his kids if they’d bothered to attend. Agnes, a former child actor, might note that she, too, deserves some credit. Played in her youth by the compelling Ida Atlanta Kyllingmark Giertsen, Agnes was fantastic in the final shot of Gustav’s masterpiece and Trier takes a teasingly long time to suggest why she retired from the business decades ago, while her older sister keeps hammering at it.

Gustav hasn’t made a picture in 15 years. He’s in that liminal state of renown that I’m guessing Trier has encountered many times: a faded director who’s burned through his money and clout, but still keeps a tuxedo just in case he makes it back to Cannes. Like Reinsve’s Nora, Gustav acts younger than his age and is at his most charming in small doses, particularly with strangers. Trier and his longtime co-writer Eskil Vogt have made him a tad delusional, someone who wouldn’t instantly recognize his graying reflection in a mirror. Sitting down at a cafe with Nora, Gustav jokes that the waitress thinks that they’re a couple on a date. (She almost certainly doesn’t.)

But the tension between Gustav and Nora is real, if blurry. He’s invited her to coffee not as father and daughter, but as a has-been angling to cast Nora as the lead of his next film, which he claims he’s written for her. His script climaxes with a nod to the day his own mother, Karin (Vilde Søyland), died by suicide in their house back when he was just a towheaded boy of 7. Furthering the sickly mojo, Gustav wants to stage his version of the hanging in the very room where it happened.

His awkward pitch is a terrific scene. Gustav and Nora are stiff with each other, both anxious to prove they don’t need the other’s help. But Trier suggests, somewhat mystically, that Gustav has an insight into his daughter’s gloom that making the movie will help them understand. Both would rather express themselves through art than confess how they feel.

When Gustav offers his daughter career advice, it comes off like an insult. She’s miffed when her dad claims his small indie would be her big break. Doesn’t he know she’d be doing him the favor? She’s the lead of Oslo’s National Theatre with enough of a social media following to get the film financed. (With 10 production companies listed in the credits of this very film, Trier himself could probably calculate Nora’s worth to the krone.)

But Gustav also has a lucky encounter with a dewy Hollywood starlet named Rachel (Elle Fanning) who sees him as an old-world bulldog who can give her resume some class. Frustrated by her coterie of assistants glued to their cellphones, Rachel gazes at him with the glowy admiration he can’t get from his own girls. Their dynamic proves to be just as complex as if they were blood-related. If Rachel makes his film, she’ll become a combo platter of his mother, his daughter, his protégée and his cash cow. Nora merely merits the financing for a low-budget Euro drama; Rachel can make it a major Netflix production (something “Sentimental Value” most adamantly is not).

It takes money to make a movie. Trier’s itchiness to get into that unsentimental fact isn’t fully scratched. He seems very aware that the audience for his kind of niche hit wants to sniffle at delicate emotions. When Gustav’s longtime producer Michael (Jesper Christensen) advises him to keep making films “his way” — as in antiquated — or when Gustav takes a swipe at Nora’s career as “old plays for old people,” the frustration in those lines, those doubts whether to stay the course or chase modernity, makes you curious if Trier himself is feeling a bit hemmed in.

There’s a crack running through “Sentimental Value” too. A third of it wants to be a feisty industry satire, but the rest believes there’s prestige value in tugging on the heartstrings. The title seems to be as much about that as anything.

I’ve got no evidence for Trier’s restlessness other than an observation that “Sentimental Value” is most vibrant when the dialogue is snide and the visuals are snappy. There’s a stunning image of Gustav, Nora and Agnes’ faces melting together that doesn’t match a single other frame of the movie, but I’m awful glad cinematographer Kasper Tuxen Andersen got it in there.

The film never quite settles on a theme, shifting from the relationship between Nora and Agnes, Nora and Gustav, and Gustav and Rachel like a gambler spreading their bets, hoping one of those moments will earn a tear. Nora herself gets lost in the shuffle. Is she jealous of her father’s attention to Rachel? Does she care about her married lover who pops up to expose her issues? Does she even like acting?

Reinsve’s skyrocketing career is Trier’s most successful wager and he gives her enough crying scenes to earn an Oscar nomination. Skarsgård is certainly getting one too. But Fanning delivers the best performance in the film. She’s not only hiding depression under a smile, she’s layering Rachel’s megawatt charisma under her eagerness to please, allowing her insecurity at being Gustav’s second pick to poke through in rehearsals where she’s almost — but not quite — up to the task.

Rachel could have been some Hollywood cliché, but Fanning keeps us rooting for this golden girl who hopes she’ll be taken seriously by playing a Nordic depressive. Eventually, she slaps on a silly Norwegian accent in desperation and wills herself to cry in character. And when she does, Fanning has calibrated her sobs to have a hint of hamminess. It’s a marvelous detail that makes this whole type of movie look a little forced.

Discrimination against black people is “baked” into the leadership, culture and governance of the Metropolitan Police, an internal review has found.

The independently commissioned review, authored by Dr Shereen Daniels, surveyed 40 years of evidence of how racism had affected black communities, as well as black officers and staff.

Baroness Doreen Lawrence, mother of murdered black teenager Stephen Lawrence, said that while the report was welcome, it “contains nothing I did not already know”.

Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Mark Rowley described the report as “powerful”, adding that it “calls out that further systemic, structural, cultural change is needed”.

The review, commissioned from the consultancy HR Rewired, concluded that darker-skinned Met staff were “labelled confrontational” while lighter-skinned employees might receive quicker empathy and leniency.

Dr Shereen Daniels said that systemic racism was “not a matter of perception”, adding that “true accountability begins with specificity”.

“The same systems that sustain racial harm against black people also enable other forms of harm. Confronting this is not an act of exclusion but a necessary foundation for safety, fairness and justice for everyone,” Dr Daniels said.

Baroness Lawrence said that discrimination “must be acknowledged, accepted and confronted in the Met”, adding that racism was the reason why her son had been killed and why the police had “failed to find all of his killers”.

She added: “The police must stop telling us that change is coming whilst we continue to suffer. That change must take place now.”

Imran Khan KC said that the report’s conclusions were “little surprise”, adding that Sir Mark Rowley should resign if he did not “recognise, acknowledge and accept” its findings.

He added: “This Report lays out in shocking clarity that the time for talking is over, that promises to change can no longer be believed or relied on.”

The report is the latest to highlight racism within Britain’s biggest police force, after Louise Casey’s 2023 review – commissioned after the murder of Sarah Everard – concluded that the Met was institutionally racist, misogynistic and homophobic.

Reviews conducted decades ago have criticised discrimination within the Met – including the 1999 Macpherson report that called the force “institutionally racist” after the mishandling of Stephen Lawrence’s case.

Earlier this year, secret BBC filming found serving Met Police officers calling for immigrants to be shot and revelling in the use of force.

Several officers have since been sacked, after Sir Mark Rowley pledged to be “ruthless” in getting rid of officers who are unfit to serve.

Following the publication of the latest report, Sir Mark Rowley said: “London is a unique global city, and the Met will only truly deliver policing by consent when it is inclusive and anti-racist.”

Movies that depict the history of war criminals on trial will almost always be worth making and watching. These films are edifying (and cathartic) in a way that could almost be considered a public servic and that’s what works best in James Vanderbilt’s “Nuremberg,” about the international tribunal that tried the Nazi high command in the immediate wake of World War II. It’s a drama that is well-intentioned and elucidating despite some missteps.

For his second directorial effort, Vanderbilt, a journeyman writer best known for his “Zodiac” screenplay for David Fincher, adapts “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist” by Jack El-Hai, about the curious clinical relationship between Dr. Douglas Kelley, an Army psychiatrist, and former German Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring during the lead-up to the Nuremberg trials.

The film is a two-hander shared by Oscar winners: a formidable Russell Crowe as Göring and a squirrely Rami Malek as Kelley. At the end of the war, Kelley is summoned to an ad-hoc Nazi prison in Luxembourg to evaluate the Nazi commandants. Immediately, he’s intrigued at the thought of sampling so many flavors of narcissism.

It becomes clear that the doctor has his own interests in mind with this unique task as well. At one point while recording notes, in a moment of particularly on-the-nose screenwriting, Kelley verbalizes “Someone could write a book” and off he dashes to the library with his German interpreter, a baby-faced U.S. Army officer named Howie (Leo Woodall), in tow. That book would eventually be published in 1947 as “22 Cells in Nuremberg,” a warning about the possibilities of Nazism in our own country, but no one wants to believe our neighbors can be Nazis until our neighbors are Nazis.

One of the lessons of the Nuremberg trials — and of “Nuremberg” the film — is that Nazis are people too, with the lesson being that human beings are indeed capable of such horrors (the film grinds to an appropriate halt in a crucial moment to simply let the characters and the audience take in devastating concentration camp footage). Human beings, not monsters, were the architects of the Final Solution.

But human beings can also fight against this if they choose to, and the rule of law can prevail if people make the choice to uphold it. The Nuremberg trials start because Justice Robert Jackson (Michael Shannon) doesn’t let anything so inconvenient as a logistical international legal nightmare stop him from doing what’s right.

Kelley’s motivations are less altruistic. He is fascinated by these men and their pathologies, particularly the disarming Göring, and in the name of science the doctor dives headlong into a deeper relationship with his patient than he should, eventually ferrying letters back and forth between Göring and his wife and daughter, still in hiding. He finds that Göring is just a man — a megalomaniacal, arrogant and manipulative man, but just a man. That makes the genocide that he helped to plan and execute that much harder to swallow.

Crowe has a planet-sized gravitational force on screen that he lends to the outsize Göring and Shannon possesses the same weight. A climactic scene between these two actors in which Jackson cross-examines Göring is a riveting piece of courtroom drama. Malek’s energy is unsettled, his character always unpredictable. He and Crowe are interesting but unbalanced together.

Vanderbilt strives to imbue “Nuremberg” with a retro appeal that sometimes feels misplaced. John Slattery, as the colonel in charge of the prison, throws some sauce on his snappy patter that harks back to old movies from the 1940s, but the film has been color-corrected into a dull, desaturated gray. It’s a stylistic choice to give the film the essence of a faded vintage photograph, but it’s also ugly as sin.

Vanderbilt struggles to find a tone and clutters the film with extra story lines to diminishing results. Howie’s personal history (based on a true story) is deeply affecting and Woodall sells it beautifully. But then there are the underwritten female characters: a saucy journalist (Lydia Peckham) who gets Kelley drunk to draw out his secrets for a scoop, and Justice Jackson’s legal clerk (Wrenn Schmidt) who clucks and tsks her way through the trial, serving only as the person to whom Jackson can articulate his thoughts. Their names are scarcely uttered during the film and their barely-there inclusion feels almost offensive.

So while the subject matter makes “Nuremberg” worth the watch, the film itself is a mixed bag, with some towering performances (Crowe and Shannon) and some poor ones. It manages to eke out its message in the eleventh hour, but it feels too little too late in our cultural moment, despite its evergreen importance. If the film is intended to be a canary in a coal mine, that bird has long since expired.

Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

If our waking hours are a canvas, the art is how one fills it: tightly packed, loosely, a little of both. At a time when they were both 40 and the art scene in ’70s New York was in thrall to street-centered youth of all stripes, real-life writer Linda Rosenkrantz asked her close friend, photographer Peter Hujar, to make a record of his activities on one day — Dec. 18, 1974 — and then narrate those details into her tape recorder the following day at her apartment.

The goal was a book about the great mundane, the stuff of life as experienced by her talented confidants. In Hujar’s case, an uncannily observant queer artist and key gay liberation figure planning his first book, what emerged was a wry narrative of phone calls (Susan Sontag), freelancing woes (is this gig going to pay?), celebrity encounters (he does an Allen Ginsberg shoot for the New York Times) and chance meetings (some guy waiting for food at the Chinese restaurant). The Hujar transcript, recovered in 2019 sans the tape, was ultimately published as “Peter Hujar’s Day.”

Now director Ira Sachs, who came across the text while filming his previous movie “Passages,” has given this quietly mesmerizing, diaristic conversation cinematic life as a filmed performance of sorts, with “Passages” star Ben Whishaw perfectly cast as Hujar and Rebecca Hall filling out the room tone as Rosenkrantz. (They also go to the roof a couple of times, which offers enough of an exterior visual to remind us that New York is the third character getting the time-capsule treatment.)

From the whistle of a tea kettle in the daylight as Hujar amusingly feels out from Rosenkrantz what’s required of him, to twilight’s more honest self-assessments and a supine cuddle between friends who’ve spent many hours together, “Peter Hujar’s Day” captures something beautifully distilled about human experience and the comfort of others. For each of us, any given day — maybe especially a day devoid of the extraordinary — is the culmination of all we’ve been and whatever we might hope to be. That makes for a stealthy significance considering that Hujar would only live another 13 years, succumbing to AIDS-related complications in 1987. It was a loss of mentorship, aesthetic brilliance and camaraderie felt throughout the art world.

Apart from not explaining Hujar for us (nor explaining his many name drops), Sachs also doesn’t hide the meta-ness of his concept, occasionally offering glimpses of a clapperboard or the crew, or letting us hear sound blips as it appears a reel is ending. There are jump cuts too, and interludes of his actors in close-up that could be color screen tests or just a nod to Hujar’s aptitude for portraits. It’s playful but never too obtrusive, approaching an idea of how art and movies play with time and can conjure their own reality.

The simple, sparsely elegant split-level apartment creates the right authenticity for Alex Ashe’s textured 16mm cinematography. The interior play of light from day to night across Whishaw and Hall’s faces is its own dramatic arc as Hujar’s details become an intimate testimony of humor, rigor and reflection. It’s not meant to be entirely Whishaw’s show, either: As justly compelling as he is, Hall makes the act of listening (and occasionally commenting or teasing) a steady, enveloping warmth. The result is a window into the pleasures of friendship and those days when the minutiae of your loved ones seems like the stuff that true connection is built on.

“Death By Lightning,” premiering Thursday on Netflix, introduces itself as “a story about two men the world forgot,” and while it is undoubtedly true that few in 2025 will recognize the name Charles Guiteau, many will know James A. Garfield, given that he was one of only four assassinated American presidents. There are less well remembered presidents, for sure — does the name John Tyler ring a bell? — and assassins better known than Guiteau, but if you’re going to make a docudrama, it does help to choose a story that might be more surprising to viewers and comes with a murder built in. It is also, I would guess intentionally, a tale made for our times, with its themes of civil rights, income inequality, cronyism and corruption.

Indeed, most everything about the Garfield story is dramatic — a tragedy, not merely for the family, but for the nation. For the sense one gets from “Death by Lightning” and from the historical record it fairly represents, is that Garfield, killed after only 200 days in office, might have made a very good chief executive. (The stated source for the series is Candice Millard’s 2011 book “Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President”; Millard is also a voice in the more briefly titled, illuminating “American Experience” documentary “Murder of a President.”)

That the longtime Ohio congressman did not seek but was drafted for the job — a compromise chosen, against his protests, on the 36th ballot at the 1880 Republican National Convention, where he’d given a stirring speech to nominate a fellow Ohioan, Treasury Secretary John Sherman — made him, one might say, especially qualified for the job; unlike some politicians one might name, he was self-effacing and humble and not out for personal gain. But he saw, finally, that he had a chance to “fix all the things that terrify me about this republic,” most especially the ongoing oppression of Black citizens, a major theme of his inauguration speech (with remarks transferred here to a campaign address delivered to a crowd of 50,000 from a balcony overlooking New York’s Madison Square Park). “I would rather be with you and defeated than against you and victorious,” he tells a group of Black veterans gathered on his front porch, from which he conducted his campaign. (Some 20,000 people were said to have visited there during its course.)

Political machinations and complications aside, the narrative, which stretches two years across four episodes, is really fairly simple, even schematic, cutting back and forth between Garfield (Michael Shannon, between tours covering early R.E.M. albums) and Guiteau (Matthew Macfadyen), a drifter with delusions of grandeur, as they approach their historically sealed date with destiny. Garfield is goodness personified; we meet him on his farm, cooking breakfast for the family, planing wood to make a picnic table. (A table we will meet again.) Guiteau goes from one failed project to another, living it up on money stolen from his sister, running out on restaurant checks and rooming house bills, telling lies about himself he might well have thought were true, until he decides that politics is the place to make his mark. Under the impression that he was responsible for Garfield’s election, he believed the new president owed him a job — ambassador to France would be nice — and when none was coming, turned sour. A message from God, and the belief that he would save the republic, set him on a path to murder.

Matthew Macfadyen plays Garfield’s assassin, Charles Guiteau, in the miniseries.

(Larry Horricks / Netflix)

The series largely belongs to them — both actors are terrific, Shannon imbuing Garfield with a gravity leavened with kindness and humor, Macfadyen’s Guiteau, optimistically dedicated to his delusions yet always about to pop. But it’s a loaded cast. The ever-invaluable Betty Gilpin, in her fourth big series this year after “American Primeval,” “The Terminal List: Dark Wolf” and “Hal & Harper,” plays Garfield’s wife, Crete, fully up on the political scene and free with her opinions. Shea Whigham is New York senator and power broker Roscoe Conkling, Garfield’s moral opposite, and the series’ villain, if you excuse Guiteau as mentally ill. (The jury didn’t.). As wise Maine Sen. James Blaine, Bradley Whitford exudes a convincing, quiet authority, honed over those years working in the pretend White House on “The West Wing.” All the men have been whiskered to resemble their historical models.

Where most of them, even Guiteau, remain consistent from beginning to end, it’s Nick Offerman’s Chester A. Arthur who goes on a journey. Conkling’s right hand, in charge of the New York Customs House — which generated a third of the country’s revenues through import fees — he’s offered the position of vice president to appease Conkling, New York being key to winning the election. Arthur begins as a thuggish, cigar-smoking, sausage-eating, drunken clown, until he’s forced, by events, and the possibility of inheriting the presidency, to reckon with himself.

When First Lady Crete Garfield wonders whether there should be a little extra security (or, really, any security at all) around her husband, he responds, “Assassination can no more be guarded against than death by lightning — it’s best not to worry too much about either one,” giving the series its title and clearing up any confusion you may have had about its meaning. Indeed, Guiteau moves in and out of what today would be well guarded rooms with surprising ease, managing encounters (some certainly invented) with Crete, Blaine, a drunken Arthur and Garfield, whom he implores, “Tell me how I can be great, too.”

Created by Mike Makowsky, it isn’t free from theatrical effects, dramatic overreach or obvious statements, but as period pieces go, it’s unusually persuasive, in big and little ways. Only occasionally does one feel taken out of a 19th century reality into a 21st century television series. The effects budget has been spent where it matters, with some detailed evocations of late 19th century Chicago and Washington that don’t scream CGI. The first episode, which recreates the 1880 convention, held at the Interstate Exposition Building in Chicago, aligns perfectly with engravings of the scene and brings it to life, supporting the wheeling and dealing and speechifying in a way that one imagines is close to being there.

Because we know what’s coming, the series can be emotionally taxing, especially as a wounded Garfield lingers through much of the final episode, while being mistreated by his doctor, Willard Bliss (Zeljko Ivanek), who ignores the advice of the younger, better informed Dr. Charles Purvis (Shaun Parkes), the first Black physician to attend to a sitting president; many, including Millard, believe it was the doctor who killed him through a lack of sanitary precautions, and that Garfield might have recovered if he’d just been left alone, an idea the series supports.

But you can’t change history, as much as “Death By Lightning” makes you wish you could.

The first shot of director Lynne Ramsay’s stubborn and exasperating postpartum nightmare “Die My Love” would be a great opener for a horror movie. The camera lurks in the kitchen of an isolated ranch house, as still and foreboding as a ghost, while a couple named Grace and Jackson (Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson) poke around the front porch of their newly inherited property. The two take several beats to go inside, long enough that we suspect these crazy kids are making a dangerous mistake. Just look at the wallpaper. Those florals would make anyone crack.

“It’s not New York but it’s ours,” Jackson says of the rural home, left to him by his uncle who died violently upstairs in a way that Grace finds hilarious. He grew up in the area and his parents, Pam and Harry (Sissy Spacek and Nick Nolte), still live nearby. Neither Jackson nor Grace say anything about their past lives back in the city, but he yearns to play drums and she once claimed to write. There’s a sense that their dreams have stalled out, either due to finances, passion or talent. So they move in, have a baby and pivot to domestic chaos.

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Lawrence and Pattinson are such a natural, overdue pairing that it’s a surprise to realize this is the first time they’ve teamed up to make the kind of polarizing, go-for-broke prestige film they both enjoy. The two stars launched into the public consciousness roughly around the same time, then followed the same trajectory from teen franchise idols to creatively ambitious A-listers and now, more recently, newish parents making a movie about miserable parents whose hopes have run aground. Lawrence has two tots under 3; Pattinson, a toddler. Their kids shouldn’t watch this movie until college.

In a dynamic montage, Ramsay sets up their boyfriend-girlfriend pair as lusty but strange. Jackson and Grace flirt by fighting like wild beasts. Nuzzling, sniffing, biting, wrestling — that’s foreplay (and she’s more into it than he is). But they can’t communicate with words. “If you’re not feeling good, maybe we should, like … talk?” Jackson says tentatively to his increasingly restless and unstable partner. Grace isn’t interested in talking, though occasionally she’s game to scream. When they fight for real, their bodies twist into spasms of outrage. And when the other one isn’t looking, each seems to power down — Lawrence’s Grace physically collapsing like an unplugged air dancer — a clue of how much energy they must privately expend to make it work.

“Die My Love,” adapted by Ramsay, Enda Walsh and Alice Birch from the 2012 novel by Argentine author Ariana Harwicz, makes parenthood feel like being handcuffed to an anchor that’s sinking into a swamp. Lawrence’s Grace needs help and the more she flails, the worse she makes things. The book is an inner monologue of poison: “How could a weak, perverse woman like me, someone who dreams of a knife in her hand, be the mother and wife of those two individuals?” the first paragraph seethes. But Ramsay rejects putting its angst into words. As with Joaquin Phoenix in “You Were Never Really Here,” she prefers characters who silently roil under their skin.

The tension in this home starts quiet — too quiet — with Grace cranking up kiddie albums by Alvin and the Chipmunks and Raffi to drown out whatever noise is happening in her head. After Jackson brings home a stray dog, the racket becomes unbearable, with sound designers Tim Burns and Paul Davies skillfully and cruelly making sure that no matter how far Grace roams, she can still hear the darned thing bark.

Lacking much perspective into Grace, we mostly see a mentally unwell woman incensed that her sexual playtime is over. She howls with the urge to mate, prowling the house in matching fancy bras and thong sets that clash with this disheveled house and its stockpile of cheap beer. Occasionally, a mysterious leather-clad biker (LaKeith Stanfield) speeds by, considering a quickie with this bored beauty.

Grace’s erotic agony is reductive and a bit ridiculous, although I think the script is also trying to imply that Grace herself is focused on the wrong problems. The film represents her depression by coating the night scenes in so much blue tint that even Picasso might suggest dialing it back. Despite cinematographer Seamus McGarvey’s efforts to put us in her headspace with lenses that make the world blur and swirl around her, you’re more afraid of Grace than for Grace, especially when the shock editing has her smashing through doors like Michael Myers.

Hurling herself into every scene, Lawrence puts her full faith in Ramsay. It’s not a trust fall so much as a trust cannonball. As good and committed as Lawrence is, there were times I wanted to rescue her from her own movie, to protect her from the fate of Faye Dunaway when “Mommie Dearest” turned another blond Oscar winner into a joke.

Yet, this is a character who hates pity and I can’t help but admire that Ramsay faces down today’s phonily upbeat and relatable motherhood discourse with this boogey-mom who keeps herself aloof. Grace treats the older women in her family like a wall of advice to be tuned out even when they’re right. “Everybody goes a little loopy the first year,” Spacek’s Pam says, offering empathy that falls on deaf ears. (Spacek delivers a lovely, endearingly layered turn.) And while Grace is so lonely she literally claws the walls, she rejects any overture of friendship, either from a perky fellow parent (Sarah Lind) or a peppy cashier (Saylor McPherson) whose attempts to start a conversation go so badly that when the poor dear asks Grace if she’s found everything she’s looking for, Grace huffs, “In life?”

Pattinson has the more recessive role but his performance is so subtle and clever that it’s worth watching closely. His Jackson is pathetic, passive and skittish around his baby’s mother, who he both longs to heal and tries to avoid. He has a few moments that play so close to comedy — say, whining to be let into the bathroom — that you wish the movie would do more to encourage our pained, guttural laughs. The punchlines are there, such as a beat after one meltdown where Jackson admits he’s getting really stressed out and Grace coolly replies, “About what?”

There’s one scene in which Grace reveals a snippet of backstory that might explain her psychology, and I think that specificity is a narrative misstep. What’s powerful about Grace is that she’s howling for all parents, even the mostly happy ones. Harwicz’s book deliberately never gave her character a name.

Even inside this movie, Grace’s anguish is universal. Yes, she wanders into the wilderness at night, but so do her in-laws Harry and Pam, for reasons of their own.There are dark vibrations emanating from almost every character, even the minor ones, although Grace is too caught up in herself to take any comfort from that. But Ramsay is comfortable suggesting that everyone feels crazy and miserable. I suspect she thinks it’s the most normal way to live.

Polish director Jan Komasa might be best known in the United States for his 2019 Oscar-nominated film “Corpus Christi,” but his biggest box-office success was in Poland for his 2014 film “Warsaw 44,” about the Warsaw Uprising, the bloody effort by the Polish resistance to expel the occupying German army from the city toward the end of World War II.

Komasa knows authoritarianism in its most flagrant, brutal forms, but his new film “Anniversary” imagines a scenario in which fascism doesn’t stomp in, jackbooted, but creeps, pretty and ladylike, on kitten-heeled feet. It’s a thought experiment more than anything else, from a story by Komasa and Lori Rosene-Gambino, the latter who wrote the screenplay.

“Anniversary” maps five years in the life — and obliteration — of an American family, a microcosm of a larger rapid political devolution that turns suburban utopia into a dystopia with a speed that could make your head spin.

Meet the Taylors — we’ll get to know them across reunions and celebrations starting with an anniversary party for Ellen (Diane Lane) and Paul (Kyle Chandler). She’s a professor at Georgetown, a public intellectual caught up in the university culture-wars debate; he’s a chef, and they have four children upon whom they dote: Cynthia (Zoey Deutch, also in this week’s “Nouvelle Vague”), an environmental lawyer, Anna (Madeleine Brewer), a provocative comedian, high-school science nerd Birdie (Mckenna Grace) and brother Josh (Dylan O’Brien), a nebbishy, struggling writer. The camera knits them all together in long shots, swirling around their idyllic backyard.

Josh has brought home a new girlfriend, Liz (Phoebe Dynevor, of 2023’s “Fair Play”), who is carefully coiffed and poised, immaculately presented and mannered, though her perfection gives his sisters pause. After the introductions, she and Ellen have a quiet, awkward moment together. As one of Ellen’s former students, Liz wrote a thesis that scandalized the professor, which Ellen describes to her husband as having “radical anti-democratic sentiments,” advocating for a single-party system. The title? “The Change.”

While Liz says she “came here with the best of intentions” and claims she and Josh were introduced by their shared agent, Ellen is suspicious and rightly so. The enigmatic Liz is mild-mannered and quiet, but her ideas are anything but. As she hugs Ellen, she whispers, “I used to be afraid of you but I don’t think I am anymore.” That is never more clear than when she sends Ellen a copy of her newly published book, “The Change,” dedicated to “the haters, the doubters and the academic stranglers.”

Two years later, the Change is officially afoot. Liz is a celebrity, now working with a mysterious organization called the Cumberland Company. She and Josh are married, pregnant with twins, and he’s achieved a conservative glow-up. New flags are popping up in the Taylor’s well-heeled neighborhood and things are shifting in ways that make Ellen uncomfortable, enraged even. But in the spirit of politeness and family unity, she acquiesces to Paul’s desire for a nice family Thanksgiving, despite their political differences.

Therein lies what might be “Anniversary’s” biggest warning: Don’t let the fox into the henhouse, even if it seems rude not to. Ellen maintains an appropriately wary distance and skepticism of Liz, but Paul’s fatal flaw is his assumption of good faith. He hasn’t even read “The Change” because, frankly, he doesn’t want to know. But as Liz attaches herself to Josh like a parasite, perhaps in an attempt to enact revenge on her former professor, so too do the other Taylor children topple as the nation changes under their feet.

Some might find “Anniversary” too vague: What, precisely, is Liz’s political stance that makes her so powerful and so repugnant to Ellen? She has advocated for a “single-party system” branded under the guise of “solidarity,” but the result is an autocratic surveillance state that suppresses free speech, upheld by a violent paramilitary police force. The film never gets into the specifics, perhaps because the only ideology of fascism is the concentration of power. “Anniversary” suggests the rhetoric doesn’t matter when we can turn on each other so easily, humanity and freedom crushed under such a state.

It is fascinating that recent movies that attempt to grapple with contemporary sociopolitical issues often feminize the threat: the #MeToo cancel culture fable “Tár” or this year’s academia scandal film “After the Hunt.” “Anniversary” situates a nonthreatening woman as the vessel for such evil, even as Liz’s male host, Josh, starts to embody the most extreme outcomes of what she has set in motion.

“Anniversary” is a deeply nihilistic film that can’t be described as a cautionary tale — that horse has already left the barn. Rather, it’s a hypothetical question as character study, an examination of how this happens and an assertion that a system like this shows no mercy, not even to its most loyal subjects, despite what we want to believe.

Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

As attention spans keep getting whittled down, intellectually impish Romanian satirist Radu Jude continues to go longer and longer, his latest act of cinematic disobedience the nearly three-hour mythbuster “Dracula.”

But you will not be getting a worshipful retelling of author Bram Stoker’s horror classic. For that, call Francis Ford Coppola. Rather, Jude has Frankensteined together a grab bag of notions about the vampire saga that is his country’s most well-known cultural export — originating with real-life medieval slaughterer Vlad the Impaler but most famously immortalized by a 19th century Irish author. Jude turns it into a vaudeville that, even at its most entertaining, is best described by a common bat-related term that’s more scatological.

For the last decade, festival favorite Jude has turned contemporary Romania’s fault lines into his own jangly, caustically funny microcosm of the world’s glaring sociopolitical hypocrisies, from the warping of the past (“I Do Not Care if We Go Down in History as Barbarians”) to sexual attitudes (“Bad Luck Banging or Loony Porn”) to late-stage capitalism (“Do Not Expect Much From the End of the World”). Jude is especially trenchant about how these realities are sold to us, and what’s inherently funny and tragic about that.

Halfway between an endurance test and a mad romp, “Dracula” is still proof he’s cinema’s brainiest, raunchiest crank: Eastern European’s own X-rated Monty Python. “Dracula” was birthed initially as a jokey response to his anti-commercial tendencies — as if Jude could ever make a conventional horror movie. But it still managed to percolate (fester?) until he’d found a unifying idea across a dozen or so vignettes of prurient humor and social commentary: the twinned legacy of a bloodthirsty despot who still stirs national pride, and an invented, Hollywoodized legend. All of it is engineered around the brutality of capitalism, which bites, slurps, then discards. It’s economics and entertainment.

As for that sucking sound in Jude’s antic organizing concept, it’s artificial intelligence: His proxy narrator is a creatively blocked filmmaker (Adonis Tanţa, in one of many roles) turning to an AI chatbot to generate ideas for his vampire film. The film’s cheeky opening is a succession of AI-generated Vlads/Draculas of all genders, colors and ages. From there, the intermittent interludes of hilariously nonsensical AI slop visuals — whether inoffensively ugly, as when inserted into a doomed peasant love story, or pornographic, when the prompt is sexing up Coppola’s 1992 version — are a consistently funny middle finger directed at a grotesquely vampiric, art-leeching technology.

The various “generated” stories and sketches, meanwhile, break up a narrative about a sleazy Dracula dinner theater in Transylvania that, when its underpaid, slave-labor leads decide to bolt mid-performance, gives dissatisfied customers a (ahem) stake in the outcome. The punchy bits work best, as when a reincarnated Vlad interrupts a modern-day tour of his home to clap back at rumors (“I didn’t kill rats!”) or a very Jude-like scenario in which Dracula is a ruthless video game company head exploiting his workers. Less effective is an overlong adaptation of the first Romanian vampire novel, its phone-shot cheapness and amateur theatrics eventually grating, and a Chaucer-adjacent fable about a cursed farmer’s harvest of phalluses that is more obnoxious than clever.

With Jude, of course, vulgarity is often the point, and maybe, as two hours becomes three, the excessiveness is part of the point too. When will we all be worn down by stupid consumerism? It doesn’t make the devilish, insane and extreme “Dracula” any easier to take as a skewering of sensibilities and conventions. As often as you may be tickled by its fanged silliness, you’ll also be drained.

“Bread of Angels,” Patti Smith’s mesmerizing new memoir, only deepens the mystery of who this iconic artist is and where her singular vision originated. I’ve long been struck by her magnetism on stage, her fearless approach to her craft, and the stark beauty of her words on the page, including the National Book Award-winning “Just Kids.” She has a preternatural belief in her own instincts and a boundless curiosity that, taken together, help explain the extraordinarily rich life and oeuvre she’s constructed. This transcendent — and at times terrifying — account of that evolution enriches that understanding. And yet, Smith’s persona remains veiled — sphinx-like — an ethereal presence whose journey to fame was fueled by her questing spirit and later detoured by tragedy.

Like Jeanette Walls’ classic, “The Glass Castle,” Smith’s saga begins with a hard-scrabble childhood she relates as if narrating a Dickensian fairy tale. In the first four years of her life, her family relocated 11 times, moving in with relatives after evictions, or into rat-infested Philadelphia tenements. Smith’s mother was a waitress who also took in ironing. Her father was a factory worker, a World War II veteran scarred by his experience abroad. They shared their love of poetry, books and classical music with their daughter, who was reading Yeats by kindergarten.

Smith, who was born in 1946, was often bed-ridden as a young girl, afflicted with tuberculosis and scarlet fever, along with all the usual childhood ailments. She writes: “Mine was a Proustian childhood, one of intermittent quarantine and convalescence.” When she contracted Asian flu, the virus paralyzed her with “a vise cluster of migraines.” She credits a boxed set of Puccini’s “Madame Butterfly” recordings her mother bought with tip money for her return to health.

As a 3-year-old, Smith recalls grilling her mother during evening prayers, posing metaphysical questions about Jesus and the soul, immersing herself in Bible study and later joining her mother as a Jehovah’s Witness. She didn’t confine herself to a single religious discipline, though. For example, while still a young child, she saw the movie “Lost Horizons” and became entranced by Tibet and the teachings of Buddhism — “an awareness of the interconnectedness of all things.” While “this seemed beautiful,” she writes, “it nonetheless troubled me.”

There is a romantic quality even to the deprivations Smith chronicles, an effect heightened by what she chooses to highlight or withhold. With little money for toys, she and her siblings entertained themselves using the knobs on a dresser as instruments on a ship, sailing on faraway seas. She and her younger siblings regularly set out with their mother to the nearby railroad tracks, where they harvested leftover lumps of coal to fuel their pot-bellied stove — the apartment’s sole source of heat. Under the floorboards of her closet, Smith conceals “glittering refuse I had scavenged from trash bins, fragments of costume jewelry, rosary beads,” along with a blue toothbrush she’s invested with magical powers.

Their apartment building overlooks a trash-strewn area dubbed “the Patch,” which is bordered by “the Rat House.” There, Smith proclaims herself general of the neighborhood’s Buddy Gang, fearlessly fending off bullies twice her size, while at school, she was viewed as odd by her teachers, “like something out of Hans Christian Andersen.”

Within this urban setting, Smith often paused to marvel at nature. Taking a short cut on the long walk to school, she stumbles on a pond in a wooded area. A snapping turtle emerges and settles a few feet away. “He was massive,” she recalls, “with ancient eyes, surely a king.”

It’s impossible to know if Smith was really this self-possessed and ruminative as a child or if nostalgia has altered her perspective. What’s undeniable, though, is that her extraordinary artist’s eye and soulful nature emerged at an age when the rest of us were still content to simply play in our sandboxes. She recollects fishing Vogue magazines out of trash cans around age 6 and feeling “a deep affinity” with the images on their pages. She’s immersed in Yeats and Irish folk tales while being bored at school reading “Fun With Dick and Jane.” On her first visit to an art museum, viewing Picasso’s work produces an epiphany: She was born to be an artist. A decade later, she boards a bus bound for New York City.

At this point, about a third of the way into the book, we enter the vortex that is Patti Smith’s talent and ambition on fire. The pace of the memoir accelerates. An alchemy infuses each chance encounter. Opportunities abound. Everywhere she turns there are talented photographers, poets, playwrights and musicians encouraging and supporting her. She writes poetry and finds a soulmate in Robert Mapplethorpe. She meets Sam Shepard, who features her poem in a play he’s writing. She meets William Burroughs, performs a reading with Allen Ginsberg. She forms a musical partnership with Lenny Kaye, and begins performing her poetry, with the 19th century French poet Arthur Rimbaud as her spiritual inspiration.

Smith’s story unfolds as a bohemian fairy tale. Luck is with her, bolstered by a fierce conviction in her own bespoke vision. “There was no plan, no design,” she writes of that time, “just an organic upheaval that took me from the written to the spoken word.” Bob Dylan becomes a mentor. Her fame grows enormous with the 1975 release of “Horses” and the international touring that followed, yet she retains the bearing of an ascetic. She writes: “We hadn’t made our record to garner fame and fortune. We made it for the art rats known and unknown, the marginalized, the shunned, the disowned.”

Smith’s rock star trajectory is diverted by her love affair with Fred Sonic Smith, for whom she ditches her career at its height, against the advice of many of those closest to her. But as with every decision she’s ever made, she can’t be dissuaded. In this intimate portion of the book, we receive glimpses of two passionate artists hibernating, in love. They marry, have two children, and cultivate an eccentric version of domestic bliss. But harsh reality intervenes and the losses begin to accumulate. One after the other, Smith loses the men she loves most — Robert, then Fred, then her beloved brother, Todd. These losses haunt the memoir; she grapples with them by returning to the stage with a fierce new hunger.

The book’s final pages reveal Smith continuing to grieve, mourning the loss of other loved ones — her parents, Susan Sontag, Sam Shepard. I wish I could simply reprint those pages here — they moved me deeply. At 78, she reflects on the process of “shedding” — which she describes as one of life’s most difficult tasks. “We plunge back into the abyss we labored to exit and find ourselves within another turn of the wheel,” she writes. “And then having found the fortitude to do so, we begin the excruciating yet exquisite process of letting go.”

“All must fall away,” she concludes. “The precious bits of cloth folded away in a small trunk like an abandoned trousseau, the books of my life, the medals in their cases.” What will she retain? “But I will keep my wedding ring,” she writes, “and my children’s love.”

Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.

What is there left to know about Paul McCartney in 2025? Actually, quite a bit. The octogenarian megastar is seemingly ever-present, popping up on social media feeds with his affable avuncularity, his relentlessly sunny, two thumbs up ‘tude. Yet despite the steady trickle of Beatles scholarship that continues to be published, including Ian Leslie’s insightful book, “John & Paul: A Love Story in Songs,” earlier this year, McCartney is a cipher, a blank page. He has masterfully created the illusion of transparency, yet his life remains stubbornly opaque. Does the man ever lose his temper? Has he ever cheated on his taxes? If there is a chink in McCartney’s armor, we are still looking for it.

Denny Laine, Paul McCartney, Linda McCartney and Denny Seiwell in Osterley Park, London, in 1971.

(Barry Lategan / MPL Communications )

Yet according to this new book, an oral history of McCartney’s band Wings, there is still much to be excavated from what is the most examined life in pop music history, especially when it comes from the horse’s mouth. The book is ostensibly “authored” by McCartney even though it is an oral history that has been edited by Ted Widmer, an estimable historian and a former speechwriter for Bill Clinton. Widmer has also written third-person interstitial information to guide the reader through the story.

Stitching together interviews with McCartney, his wife Linda, erstwhile Beatles, and the various musicians and other key players who found themselves pulled into the Wings orbit across the nearly decadelong tenure of the band, “Wings: The Story of a Band on the Run” is a smooth, frictionless ride across the arc of McCartney’s ’70s career, when he continued to mint more hits, and secured a lock on a massive career that is presently in its 55th year.

Joe English, Jimmy McCulloch, Linda McCartney, Paul McCartney and Denny Laine in 1976.

(Clive Arrowsmith / MPL Communications)

Hard as it is to fathom, McCartney has had pangs of doubt concerning his art and career, never more so than in the immediate aftermath of the Beatles’ breakup in 1970, when he found himself at loose ends, unsure of how to follow up the most spectacular first act in show business history. In the immediate aftermath of that epochal event, McCartney retreated to a 183-acre sheep farm on the Kintyre Peninsula in Argyllshire, Scotland, with his wife Linda and their young family. According to the book, there was uncertainty about his ability to write songs that could stand alongside his Beatles work. Hence, his first solo offering, “McCartney,” was mostly tentative, half-baked notions for songs, interlaced with a few fully realized compositions like “Maybe I’m Amazed,” all recorded by McCartney in his home studio.

Home recording sessions for the McCartney album in London, 1970.

( Linda McCartney / © 1970 Paul McCartney under exclusive licence to MPL Archive LLP)

But the gentleman farmer couldn’t stay down on the farm for long. Eventually, the old impulse to be in a band and to perform became McCartney’s new imperative, but he would go about it in an entirely different way. No more camping out in Abbey Road studios, the Beatles’ favorite laboratory, hiring out string sections and horn sections, ruminating over tracks for as long as it took. McCartney would instead take an incremental DIY approach, starting modestly and progressing accordingly. Instead of meticulously recording tracks, records would be dashed off spontaneously. Bob Dylan became a kind of North Star for how to approach a record: “Bob Dylan had done an album in a week,” says McCartney in the book. “I thought, ‘That’s a good idea.’’’

Paul McCartney, Wings Over the World tour, Philadelphia, 1976.

(Robert Ellis / MPL Communications)

It was around this time that McCartney hired Denny Laine, who became (aside from wife Linda) the only full-time member of Wings for the duration of the band’s life. The two had met years earlier, when the Beatles were partying in Birmingham with Laine and his band the Diplomats. “Truth be told, I needed a John,” McCartney admits in the book. The first Wings album, “Wild Life,” recorded in a barn on McCartney’s Scotland farm, was critically savaged, but listening to it now, it retains a certain homespun charm, the amiable slumming of a master musician tinkering with various approaches because he can and because it’s fun. A short tour of universities around the U.K. further contributed to the low-key vibe that McCartney was intent on maintaining; he was waiting for the right time to pounce on the American market, specifically, and reclaim his mantle as the King of Pop.

1973’s “Band on the Run” would be the album that cracked it wide open again for McCartney, but he was still in a rambling mood, this time eager to try one of EMI’s studios in Lagos, Nigeria. “It wasn’t the sort of paradise we thought it would be,” McCartney is quoted in the book, “but it didn’t matter, because we were basically spending a lot of time in the studio.” Once in Africa, Paul, Linda and Denny Laine were mugged, their tapes stolen. Another night, they were guests of the master afrobeat musician Fela Kuti, who invited the three to his Afrika Shrine club for an indelible performance: “It hit me so hard,” says Paul. “It was like boom, and I’ve never heard anything as good, ever, before or since.”

McCartney II recording sessions, Lower Gate Farm, Sussex, 1979.

(Linda McCartney / © 1979 Paul McCartney under exclusive licence to MPL Archive)

“Band on the Run” became an international smash and McCartney once again found himself playing arenas and stadiums with yet another iteration of Wings. It is also at this point that the story of Wings settles into a more of an “album-tour-album” narrative, save for a harrowing drug bust for pot in Japan on the eve of a Wings tour in January 1980, when McCartney spent nine days in jail. “I had all this really good grass, excellent stuff,” explains McCartney, who had cavalierly packed it in his suitcase. Once in jail he had to “share a bath with a bloke who was in for murder,” organizing “singsongs with other prisoners” until his lawyers arranged for his release. The bust would presage the dissolution of Wings; McCartney would release a solo album, “McCartney II,” in May.

Paul McCartney, Linda McCartney, Denny Seiwell and Denny Laine. Promotional photo shoot for “Wild Life,” 1971.

(Barry Lategan / © 1971 MPL Communications)

How you feel about the albums that Wings made after 1975’s excellent “Venus and Mars” will perhaps affect your judgment of the back half of “Wings: The Story of a Band on the Run.” But even a charitable fan will have a hard time making a strong claim for the albums that followed 1975’s “Venus and Mars,” which includes “London Town,” “At the Speed of Sound” and “Back to the Egg.” The book’s best stuff is to be found at the start, when the superstar was making his first baby steps toward renewed relevance, and then found it.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

Unto every generation, and fraction thereof, a sitcom is born, in which the young people of the moment state their case, self-mockingly. FX recently gave us a State of New York Youth in “Adults,” and here we are now, closer to home with “I Love L.A.,” premiering Sunday on HBO, the network of “Girls” (your guide to the 20-teens), still the most prestigious slot on linear television.

As a native of this fair city, who will never call downtown “DTLA” — let alone #DTLA — I miss the days when the rest of the country wanted nothing to do with us. (Real conversation from my life: Person: “Where are you from?” Me: “Los Angeles.” Person: “I’m sorry”). I can get a little cranky when it comes to the gentrihipsterfication of the city by succeeding hordes of newly minted Angelenos. (The place-name dropping in “I Love L.A.” includes Canyon Coffee, Courage Bagels, Jumbo’s Clown Room, Crossroads School and Erewhon.) I’m just putting my cards on the table here, as I approach characters whose generational concerns are distinct from mine, even as they belong to a venerable screen tradition, that of Making It in Hollywood, which runs back to the silent era. (The heroine of those pictures, stardom escaping her, would invariably return to the small-town boy who loved her. No more!)

Created by and starring Rachel Sennott (“Bottoms”), “I Love L.A.” takes its title from a Randy Newman song written well before Sennott or any of her co-stars were born. (To tell us where we are, as regards both HBO and the location, the series opens with a sex scene in an earthquake.) As in many such shows, there is a coterie of easily distinguishable friends at its center. Sennott plays Maia, turning 27 and in town for two years, working as an assistant to talent/brand manager Alyssa (the wonderful Leighton Meester, from “Gossip Girl,” that 2007 chronicle of youth manners) and hungry for promotion. Back into her life comes Tallulah (Odessa A’zion, the daughter of Pamela Adlon, whose throatiness she has inherited), a New York City It Girl — does any other city have It Girls in 2025? — whose It-ness has lately gone bust, as has Tallulah herself, now broke and rootless. She is one of those exhausting whirlwind personalities one might take to be on drugs, except that there are people who really do run at that speed, without speed — Holly Go-Heavily.

Also starring in the series are Jordan Firstman, left, True Whitaker and Odessa A’zion.

(Kenny Laubbacher / HBO)

Charlie (Jordan Firstman) is a stylist whose career depends on flattery and performative flamboyance. (“What’s the point of being nice,” he wonders, “if no one that can help me sees it?”) Alani (True Whitaker) is the daughter of a successful film director who has presumably paid for her very nice house, with its view of the Silver Lake Reservoir, and whatever she needs. (She has a title at his company even she admits is fake.) Since she wants for nothing, she’s the least stressful presence here, invested in spiritual folderol in a way that isn’t annoying. Attached to the quartet, but not really of it, is Maia’s supportive boyfriend, Dylan (Josh Hutcherson), a grade-school teacher and the only character I came close to identifying with. Do the kids still call them “normies”? Or did they ever, really?

That I find some of these people more trying than charming doesn’t prevent “I Love L.A.” from being a show I actually quite like. (The ratio of charm to annoyance may be flipped for some viewers, of course; different strokes, as we used to say back in the 1900s.) If anything, it’s a testament to Sennott and company having done their jobs well; the production is tight, the dialogue crisp, the photography rich — nothing here seems the least bit accidental. The cast is on point playing people who in real life they may not resemble at all. (My own, surely naive, much contradicted assumption is that all actors are nice.)

Desperation, in comedy, is pathetic but not tragic; indeed, it’s a pillar of the form. Maia, Tallulah and Charlie are to various degrees ruled by a need to be accepted by the successful and famous in the hope of becoming famous and successful themselves. (Alani is already set, and Dylan is almost a hippie, philosophically.) At the same time, the successful and famous come in for the harshest lampooning, including Elijah Wood, in an against-type scene reminiscent of Ricky Gervais’ “Extras.” On the other hand, Charlie’s unexpected friendship with a Christian singer he mistakes for gay is quite sweet; comedy being what it is, one half-expects the character to be taken down. Miraculously, it never happens. You can take that as a recommendation.

Last year the prolific and gifted Zadie Smith stumbled into controversy with the publication of “Shibboleth” in the New Yorker. She purportedly approached the white-hot Gaza demonstrations with the nuance and complexity they deserved and yet derided pro-Palestinian students at Columbia University as “cynical and unworthy,” stirring up a hornets’ nest among her young fans, who expressed their anger on various internet platforms. The controversy gained traction because of Smith’s record of championing the marginalized, citing theorists like Frantz Fanon while targeting empires and the omnipresent patriarchy. That she singled out one group of activists, many Jewish, at the very moment Arab toddlers were being blown apart by U.S.-funded bombs raised doubts about her touted values. Her conclusion was startling, her tone defiant: “Put me wherever you want: misguided socialist, toothless humanist, naïve novelist, useful idiot, apologist, denier, ally, contrarian, collaborator, traitor, inexcusable coward.” The lady doth protest too much?

“Shibboleth” appears in “Dead and Alive,” Smith’s collection of previously published essays, in which she assumes most if not all those roles she attributes to herself. Fanon is here as well, amid an array of artists and authors such as Joan Didion, Toni Morrison, and Philip Roth. Smith is arguing for the necessity of vigorous criticism and often makes her case. The book’s finest pieces wrangle, in elegant prose, with humanity’s contradictions; the weaker ones indulge in name-dropping, footnotes and op-ed invective.

Zadie Smith

(Ben Bailey-Smith)

“The Muse at Her Easel,” in the opening section, probes the relationship between English painter Lucian Freud and his model, Celia Paul, also a painter, via a review of her memoir. (Paul is the mother of one of 12 children he fathered outside of marriage.) Smith’s sly trick here is a bit of Freud-play: Lucian seen through the prism of his grandfather Sigmund, the family romance on steroids. Celia revolves around the artist here much as she did when he was alive, vulnerable and reflective, a moon to his sun. It’s both a restrained and overwrought essay, a cryptic tale of sexual politics, like her fellow Brit Rachel Cusk’s novel, “Second Place,” but one that urges us to think hard about abuses in the service of “museography.”

Smith brings an empathic eye to other artists, from the allegorical Toyin Ojih Odutola to the subversive Kara Walker. And she shines a bright light on numerous writers who have inspired her, particularly in remembrances of Didion (whose influence we sense throughout “Dead and Alive”) and the great Hilary Mantel. Her pieces on two books, “Black England” and “Black Manhattan,” excavate hidden histories of Black resistance and the painful compromises brokered to move forward. Her tone in “Fascinated to Presume: In Defense of Fiction” is elegiac, as though smartphones have killed off the craft; yet it’s also a manifesto of sorts, and a declaration of her own aesthetics. “Belief in a novel is, for me, a by-product of a certain kind of sentence,” Smith observes. “Familiarity, kinship, and compassion will play their part, but if the sentences don’t speak to me, nothing else will.” Amen, sister.

Her forays into social commentary are more problematic. She’s strong on the weird population kink known as Gen X, squeezed between the larger boomers and millennials, and the switchback road we traveled to marriage and parenthood: “We all still dressed like teenagers, though, and in the minds of the popular culture were ‘slackers,’ suffering from some form of delayed development, possibly the sad consequences of missing such key adulting experiences as a good war or a stock market crash,” Smith asserts. “We felt history belonged to other people: that we lived in the time of no time.” She’s persuasive when she remains within her comfort zone, opining on race, gender and, occasionally, class. Not so much when she ventures into technology. In “Some Notes on Mediated Time,” she broods at length on the destabilizing effects of the internet, social media and the algorithm silos that shape our present. It’s tough to parse irony from self-congratulation. “I have to say how immensely grateful I am that the work I have been so fortunate to do these last twenty years — writing books — has also gifted me the opportunity, the privilege, of devoting the time of my one human life to an algorithm. To keep almost all of it, selfishly, outrageously, for myself, my friends, my colleagues, my family,” Smith writes. “There are memes I will never know. Whole Twitter meltdowns I never witnessed. Hashtags I will forever remain ignorant about.” Which raises the question: Why lament a social paradigm shift if you haven’t bothered with it in the first place? Something isn’t right. Elsewhere in the essay she claims that social media is “excellent for building brands and businesses and attracting customers.” Could the same be said of a disingenuous essayist?

She comes across as preaching to her peers rather than seeking converts, a whiff of Oxbridge elitism. Hence references to Derrida, Dickinson, Knausgaard, Borges, shout-outs to Booker laureates “Salman” (Rushdie) and “Ian” (McEwan). This level of self-regard in a writer and thinker as justifiably exalted as Smith may explain why our nation is turning on reading: aristocracies breed resentment among the proles. Then Smith steps into the muck of global conflicts. The moral bothsidesism found in “Shibboleth” splits the baby; she does herself no favors with Solomonic pronouncements and Pontius Pilate-like self-exoneration. (Elsewhere she indicts Trump and Netanyahu while neglecting the money and media that empower them.)

“Dead and Alive” does what it was designed to do: It gathers the author’s criticism, literary obituaries, a university address and an interview with a Spanish journal between two covers. The execution falters. Smith’s provocations are often stunning; her prose is thrillingly strident; but her fiction better captures the messiness of public and private selves at war with each other.

Cain is a book critic and the author of a memoir, “This Boy’s Faith: Notes From a Southern Baptist Upbringing.” He lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

Cameron Crowe’s charming new memoir is an elegy for a lost time and place, when rock ‘n’ roll culture was still a secret handshake and the music press wasn’t just another publicity tentacle for giant corporations to shill their product (excepting the fine writers at the Los Angeles Times, of course). In fact, the “music press” as a concept is vestigial at best now, the internet having snuffed it out, but when Crowe was writing his features in the 1970s, primarily for Rolling Stone, only a handful of print publications allowed fans to glean any insight about the musicians they admired or to even see photos of them.

Crowe was one of those fans. He spent his adolescence in Palm Springs, a town with “a thousand swimming pools and the constant hum of air conditioners,” in a basement apartment near the freeway. A loner and a nerd raised by a former Army commanding officer and a strong-willed, whip-smart mother who had firm ideas about how young Cameron should conduct himself. Any humiliations Crowe might have suffered as an uncertain teen were for his mother merely speed bumps on the journey to self-actualization, ideally as a lawyer. She had a wealth of Dale Carnegie-esque aphorisms to pump up her young charge, such as “put on your magic shoes,” or “Mind is in every cell of the body. Thoughts are everything.”

“She hated rock and roll,” Crowe writes. “Rock was inelegant, and worse, obsessed with base issues like sex and drugs.”

(Avid Reader Press / Simon & Schuster)

As we have seen in the 2000 film “Almost Famous,” Crowe’s autobiographical account of his early years, young Cameron cared little about sex or drugs, music being his only lodestar. When his family relocated to San Diego, Crowe found himself in a conservative town with virtually no outlets for music except the local sports arena, where he witnessed his first big-time rock show accompanied by his mom: a post-comeback Elvis, knee deep in Vegas schmaltz, bounding onstage “in a glittering white jumpsuit …. striking karate poses.” A week later, mom and son witnessed Eric Clapton, full of fire with his band Derek and the Dominos. “I understand your music,” Alice Crowe finally conceded. “It’s better than ours.”

San Diego had little pockets of cultural insurrection that Crowe sought out like a moth to flame. When his sister Cindy nabbed a job with the local underground paper called the Door, Crowe wedged his way in, not because he had any interest in radical politics: his hero Lester Bangs, the iconoclastic rock critic whom he had read in Rolling Stone and Creem, had contributed work there.

As he does so often in this book, Crowe pulls the reader in with his keenly observant eye that would serve him so well in his second career as a filmmaker. The Door’s editor Bill Maguire “had a healthy girth, an open shirt with a silver pendant, and rippling brown hair. The kind of character Richard Harris used to play, most of the time with a goblet in his hand.” Maguire and his staff are hippie idealists, wary of sullying their political mission with trivialities like record reviews. But Crowe talks Maguire into letting him weigh in on a James Taylor record, and Crowe’s career is launched. He is 14.

Cameron Crowe, who started his music journalism career as a teen, pulls the reader in with his keenly observant eye that would serve him so well in his second career as a filmmaker.

(Neal Preston)

Crowe would encounter no such resistance as he worked his way into Rolling Stone, whose owner Jann Wenner gladly accepted record company advertising to keep his counterculture publication afloat. Crowe had found his professional home, filing long, admiring features with some of the era’s most important acts.

Crowe’s Dec. 6, 1973, cover story on the Allman Brothers was meant to atone for an earlier profile on the band written for the magazine by Grover Lewis, a brutally honest and often unsavory portrait. Crowe’s do-over feature, in contrast, is anodyne and respectful; the band is even given room to refute some of the facts Lewis included in his story.

Far more interesting is the stuff Crowe left out of that piece that he has now put into his memoir. To wit: Shortly after their perfectly lovely afternoon together, Gregg Allman, clearly in a drug-induced psychotic state, calls Crowe to his hotel room and demands that Crowe physically hand over the tapes of their interview, or else face legal consequences. “How do I know you aren’t with the FBI?” Allman asked Crowe. “You’ve been talking to everybody. Taking notes with your eyes.” It’s hard to imagine Crowe’s mentor Bangs not leading with that scene.

Crowe was covering rock music at a time when publicists had not become the human guardrails they are today, insulating their clients from anything that doesn’t celebrate them. There were no record company representatives present when Crowe sat in the lobby of an El Torito restaurant in Mission Hills with Kris Kristofferson, whose wife Rita Coolidge was waiting for the singer with her family in the bar (underage Crowe wasn’t allowed inside). Or when Crowe went long with David Bowie, interviewing him on and off for a year and a half while Bowie was making his 1976 album “Station to Station.”

Camped out with his wife Angie in a Beverly Hills mansion on North Doheny Drive, Bowie is affable and candid, despite subsisting on a diet of red peppers, milk and cocaine. “Over the months, I became acclimated to the normality within his insulated lifestyle,” Crowe writes. “Oh, sometimes there might be a hexagon drawn on the curtains in his bedroom or a bottle of urine on the windowsill.” While showing Crowe the indoor swimming pool, Bowie remarks that the only problem with the house “is that Satan lives in that swimming pool.”

Such weird scenes inside this once-mysterious world have been totally effaced, now that every musician can curate his own image on social media. Reading “The Uncool,” which touches on Crowe’s Hollywood career without delving too deep into it, reminds us of what has been lost, the myths and mystique that fueled our rock star fantasies and gave the music an aura of magic.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

“They’re coming to get you, Barbara” is the most famous line from 1968’s revolutionary “Night of the Living Dead.” It’s a mean taunt that comes from a sibling, unaware that civilization is crumpling around him. In a few moments, his sister will be fleeing across a field barefoot from an undead zombie (terms that are never used in the movie because it’s so ahead of its time) and any Boris Karloff impressions will quickly be forgotten.

The line also sounds remarkably comfortable coming out of the mouth of a drag queen — one of the many sides of shade served in the generously funny and sharp “Queens of the Dead.” Directing and co-writing the film is 42-year-old Tina Romero, daughter of George Romero, “Night’s” original progenitor, whose death in 2017 was met with the kind of belated cultural praise usually reserved for Oscar winners.

Tina Romero understands the legacy of her father better than most. It’s not just a matter of gathering a bunch of bickering survivors inside a besieged location — here it’s a converted Bushwick warehouse — while the outside world goes to hell. (Adding to the film’s bona fides, legendary makeup artist Tom Savini makes a cameo as the city’s mayor on TV: “This is not a George Romero movie,” he warns.) Shrewdly, “Queens of the Dead” also foregrounds the deeper meanings that gore-obsessed knockoffs sometimes miss: the idea that working together across differences is harder than it seems and maybe the monster is already calling from inside the house.

Pink-hued and queered so aggressively that only a prig won’t be able to find some RuPaul-adjacent enjoyment in it, “Queens” stars Katy O’Brian, last seen as Kristen Stewart’s sculpted lust object in “Love Lies Bleeding.” Here O’Brian has much more to do emotionally as Dre, a wanna-be impresario with big dreams for her drag event, Yum, even if her attractions keep bailing and her target audience of influencers is in the process of turning into lumbering flesh-eaters. (They still clutch onto their cellphones, a nice touch.)

Within the makeshift club — a dressing room, a bar, some dance cages that will figure later — tensions flare and Dre has her hands full. Ginsey (Nina West), a hardworking diva, holds down the fort while unreliable protégé Sam (Jaquel Spivey) chooses this moment to show up and ruffle feathers. Unhappy with second billing, a younger queen (Tomás Matos) insists on being called Scrumptious while a gruffly accommodating handyman named Barry (Quincy Dunn-Baker, a smart inclusion of George Romero’s blue-collar streak) tries to keep all the pronouns straight.

Confidently, Tina Romero makes room for a wonderfully dumb makeover montage and a daring escape via Pride Parade float. If the comedy overcompensates at the expense of landing every gag, then good on her. It’s long overdue and there’s something touching to the idea that the end of the world might unleash leadership qualities in those who’ve had a rough time existing in the old one.

But a film this well-made and cut (the pacy editing by Aden Hakimi calls back to the elder Romero’s own cutting of his major titles) shouldn’t be relegated to just one kind of audience. Anyone who appreciates horror should find something to smile at here. Maybe it’s the side plot — as satisfying as a worn-in pair of shoes — of Dre’s wife, Lizzie (Riki Lindhome), a hospital nurse, racing across town in an old Impala.

Or, true to zombie movie form, there’s the mid-film arrival of a game-changing character, the synthesizer music pumping. Here it’s Margaret Cho on a motor scooter, cruising through a cloud of exhaust. “You all look healthy enough,” she tosses off, an action hero in the making. And yes, that’s as thrilling as it sounds.

It’s dead certain that if you’ve been a television critic for, ahem, a number of years, you’re going to have reviewed a passel of shows based on the writing of Stephen King, America’s most adapted, if not necessarily most adaptable author. (It’s been a mere three months since the last, “The Institute,” on MGM+.) The latest float in this long parade premieres Sunday on HBO — it’s “It: Welcome to Derry,” a prequel to the 2017 film, “It” (and its 2019 follow-up, “It: Chapter Two”) based on King’s 1986 creepy clown novel, each of which made a packet. (There was a 1990 TV miniseries version as well.)

Developed by Andy Muschietti (director of the films), Barbara Muschietti and Jason Fuchs, “Derry” is an extension of the brand rather than an adaptation, which features a white-faced circus-style clown called Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård, back from the movies) who lives in the sewer and comes around every 27 years to feed on children’s fear — fear being the preferred dish of many famous monsters of filmland, and white-faced circus clowns having lost all goodwill in the culture. (No thanks to King. Or Krusty.) And while I assume some of the series’ points may be found within King’s original 1,138-page novel, life is short and that is going to have to remain an assumption. In any case, it’s very much a work of television — not what I’d call prestige television, despite a modicum of well-done fright effects — just ordinary, workman-like TV, with monsters. (Or one monster in many forms.)

It’s 1962 in Derry, Maine, and everywhere else. (Subsequent seasons — prequel prequels — will reportedly be set in 1935 and 1908.) The Cold War is heating up. Schoolchildren, forced to watch animated films about the effects of a nuclear blast, are ducking and covering beneath their desks (a psychological rather than a practical exercise). But the threat of annihilation has done nothing to slow them in their teenage rituals. Bullies chase a target down the street. A group of snobby girls is called the Pattycakes, because they play patty cake, and their leader is named Patty. On the other hand are the kids we care about, the outsiders, banded together in unpopularity. It’s a paradoxical quality of horror films that to be an outsider either qualifies you as a hero or the monster — the insiders are usually just food. Not that the monsters are particular about whom they eat.

We open in a movie theater. Robert Preston is on the screen in “The Music Man,” performing “Ya Got Trouble.” (Chronologically accurate foreshadowing!) In the audience is Matty (Miles Ekhardt), a boy way too old to be sucking on a pacifier. Chased from the theater — he’s been sneaking in — it’s a snowy night, and he accepts a ride from a seemingly normal family, who quickly turn abnormal. Suddenly it’s four months later and Matty is an officially missing child.

Taylour Paige, Blake Cameron James and Jovan Adepo play the Hanlon family, who have just moved to Derry, Maine.

(Brooke Palmer / HBO)

The series begins promisingly, setting up (as in “It,” or, hmmm, “Stranger Things”) a company of junior investigators. Phil (Jack Molloy Legault) has a lot of thoughts about aliens and sex; Teddy (Mikkal Karim Fidler) is studious and serious and has thoughts about Matty. Lilly (Clara Stack) is called “loony” because she spent time in a sanitarium — the King-canonical Juniper Hill Asylum — after her father died in a pickle factory accident. (Not played for laughs, although the pickle is perhaps the funniest of all foods.) Lilly thinks she heard Matty singing “Trouble” through the drain in her bathtub; Ronnie (Amanda Christine), the daughter of the cinema’s projectionist Hank (Stephen Rider), has heard voices in the theater’s pipes. The kids run the film, and supernatural mayhem ensues. It’s pretty crazy! Gross hallucinations — or are they? — will afflict them through the series.

Meanwhile, Air Force Maj. Leroy Hanlon (Jovan Adepo) has been transferred to the local base, where secret doings are afoot, involving (classic plot line) the military’s desire to claim and weaponize whatever barely understood dangerous thing that’s out there in the woods. (His value to this operation is that he cannot feel fear, the result of a brain injury.) The Hanlons — including wife Charlotte (Taylour Paige), a civil rights activist in a Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat, and son Will (Blake Cameron James) — are Black (as are Ronnie and her father, seemingly accounting for 100% of Derry’s in-town African American population). “Don’t be looking for trouble,” Leroy tells Charlotte, who responds, “There’s going to be trouble anywhere we go. That’s the country you swore your life to defend.” Will, who is scientific, will become friends with Rich (Arian S. Cartaya), an appealingly goofy kid in a band uniform; they’ll both wind up on the Pennywise case.

Typically, the kids — also including Marge (Matilda Lawler, the secret weapon of “Station Eleven” and “The Santa Clauses”), Lilly’s socially desperate friend — are the strongest element in the story and the show; their energy overwhelms the obviousness of the narrative, and whatever takes us away from them, into pace-slowing side plots, is time less well spent.

What else? There’s a Native American element — including the old Indian burial ground story — represented by Rose (Kimberly Guerrero), who runs a thrift store (called Second Hand Rose, in a nice nod to Fanny Brice) and whose indomitable air makes her a kind of counterpart and potential ally to Charlotte. Manifest destiny gets a mention, and the plot will conventionally pose Native humbleness against white hubris. Dick Hallorann (Chris Chalk) is a Black serviceman with a tragic mental gift, used cruelly by his superiors — a familiar King type. Racism is a recurring theme without becoming a consistent plot point, with messages for 2025. (Rich: “This is America. You can’t just throw people in jail for nothing.” Will: “Are we talking about the same country?”)

Also: A statue of Paul Bunyan is going up in town — and in fact a 31-foot-tall Bunyan statue was unveiled in Bangor, Maine, in 1959. This is pointed to a couple of times, so I would imagine some kind of Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man scenario coming in the series’ unseen back half. Or something.

Horror, especially body-horror — there are two monstrous birth sequences in the five episodes, out of nine, available to review — has, you may have noticed, moved from the fringes to the center of popular (even high) culture, with A-list stars signing on and Oscar and Emmy nominations not unlikely. Indeed, the good, cheap, unrespectable, unambitious variety of scare flick has mostly disappeared from the big screen. That “Welcome to Derry” is more of a cheesy B-picture than its makers might like to imagine, assembled from worked-over tropes — somewhat excusable for King having originated many of them — is more in its favor than not. TV remains a haven for cheesiness. Long may it remain so.

In the context of the US-China competition and the post-COVID-19 global economic recession reshaping the international order, Vietnam has emerged as a stable and dynamic bright spot in Southeast Asia. The concept of “the era of the Vietnamese nation’s rise,” first mentioned by General Secretary of the Communist Party of Vietnam To Lam at the 10th Central Conference of the 13th tenure, reflects the aspiration to enter a new stage of development from “renovation” to “rise.” In fact, over the past year, Vietnam has achieved a growth rate of about 5.5-6%, higher than the average of many other countries in the region. Record FDI inflows, led by technology projects of technology companies Samsung, Apple, and Intel, as the expanding “China+1” trend helps Vietnam become an important link in the global supply chain. Inflation is maintained at 3-4%, and exports and domestic consumption recover strongly, while digital transformation, green development, and the semiconductor industry are considered new growth pillars.

One of the important milestones of the year is the program of reorganizing and merging administrative units, helping to streamline the apparatus and improve the efficiency of state administration. The reduction of nearly 30% of commune-level units and more than 10% of district-level units not only saves budget costs but is also considered a step forward in institutional quality towards a professional administration.

In foreign affairs, Vietnam has shown an increasingly confident role as a middle power expanding its strategic space. The upgrade of relations with the United States to a Comprehensive Strategic Partnership puts Hanoi among the few countries that maintain special relations with both Washington and Beijing. Relations with Japan, South Korea, India, and Australia continue to be strengthened, while cooperation channels and mechanisms for controlling maritime disputes with China are maintained stably.

Multilaterally, Vietnam has shown a more proactive role in ASEAN and actively participated in global initiatives on climate and energy. Its image as a trustworthy, constructive, and balanced country has been reinforced, helping Vietnam to enhance its position in the reshaping regional structure.

However, despite many positive results, Vietnam’s growth still relies heavily on capital flows from the FDI sector, while domestic enterprises lack competitiveness. Labor productivity growth is slow, the efficiency of state-owned enterprises is still low, and institutional reforms have not created breakthroughs. These are barriers that put Vietnam at risk of being stuck in the “middle-income trap.”

On the social front, Vietnam faces challenges of climate change, development disparities, and rapid population aging. The Mekong Delta is being severely impacted by rising sea levels and saltwater intrusion. These pressures require more inclusive and sustainable development policies.

Politically, the anti-corruption campaign continues to strengthen the legitimacy of the regime and national leadership. However, fear of accountability and slow decision-making are hampering the effectiveness of administrative unit mergers. Vietnam still needs extensive institutional reforms to promote transparency, innovation, and accountability to the people as the foundation for modern state governance.

In the coming time, Vietnam’s “rising” prospects in the period 2025-2030 depend on the ability to take advantage of opportunities from the wave of global supply chain shifts. The shift of supply chains away from China, along with trade agreements such as CPTPP, EVFTA, and RCEP, significantly expands the economic space. The young population base and expanding middle class give Vietnam the potential to maintain strong growth momentum in the coming decade.

However, opportunities always come with risks. Over-reliance on FDI can lead to the situation of the “FDI dependency trap.” Therefore, strong investment priority should be given to supporting industries, education, and science and technology as key factors to enhance self-reliance and domestic value.

On the foreign front, Hanoi will need to continue to maintain a delicate balance between the great powers. Deepening ties with the US and the West in technology and energy must go hand in hand with maintaining stable relations with China, its largest trading partner and strategic challenge. The East Sea, maritime security, and strategic supply chains will continue to be a test of Vietnam’s diplomatic mettle of “multilateralization and diversification.”

In conclusion, Vietnam’s “Era of Rising Power” can only be realized if the country turns its current momentum into long-term competitiveness. This requires institutional reform, productivity enhancement, and a shift to an inclusive growth model. If successful, Vietnam can position itself as a dynamic middle-class economy and contribute to the formation of a more balanced regional order in the coming decade.

The past year has shown that Vietnam is at a pivotal moment with great potential but also full of challenges. The “era of rising up” is therefore not just a political slogan but a real test of Vietnam’s leadership, reform, and integration capacity in a turbulent world.

The image of a grieving parent is not an uncommon sight on the dramatic stage. Euripides, whom Aristotle called “the most tragic of the poets,” returns to the figure of the grief-stricken parent in “Hecuba,” “Hippolytus” and “The Bacchae,” to cite just a few disparate examples of characters brought to their knees by the death of their child.

Shakespeare offers what has become the defining portrait of this inconsolable experience in “King Lear.” Cradling the lifeless body of his murdered daughter, Lear can do nothing but repeat the word “never” five times, the repetition driving home the irrevocable nature of loss.

In tragedy, the protagonist is often plagued by guilt for his own role, however inadvertent or inescapable, in the catastrophe that befell his loved one. Theseus in “Hippolytus” and Agave in “The Bacchae” both have reason to feel that they have blood on their hands. Lear, though “more sinned against than sinning,” recognizes only after it’s too late the error in judgment that led to the devastation from which there can be no return.

The difference with “Guac,” the one-man performance work at the Kirk Douglas Theatre, is that Manuel Oliver isn’t just playing a bereaved father. He is one.

Manuel Oliver in “Guac.”

(Cameron Whitman)

Oliver’s 17-year-old son, Joaquín, known as Guac to family and friends, was one of the 17 lives lost in 2018 at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla. The production, written and performed by Oliver, turns a parent’s grief into a theatrical work of activism.

Co-written by James Clements and directed by Michael Cotey, “Guac” has been sharing the story of Joaquín’s short but vividly lived life with audiences around the country. Oliver didn’t just love his son. He liked him. Guac was his best friend. He was also his trusted guide to American culture.

Immigrants from Venezuela, the family had made a new start in a country that Guac helped them feel was their home. To convey the meaning of Guac’s life, Oliver introduces his family members through a series of photo images he has crafted into artworks.

The last picture, and the one that remains staring at us throughout the performance, is of Guac. Oliver continues to enhance the portrait. While adding flourishes to the background and making adjustments to what his son is wearing, he tells us about the life they shared before it was tragically stolen.

Manuel Oliver works on a portrait of his late son in “Guac.”

(Donna F. Aceto)

The tragedy is overwhelmingly real. Oliver bears the weight of it by transforming his grief into fuel for activism. The performance makes the case for stricter gun law in America with the heartbreaking eloquence of a father whose life changed permanently after dropping his son off at school on a Valentine’s Day that started so promisingly.

What happened to Joaquín could happen to any of us, anytime, anywhere, in a country that has allowed its elected officials to deflect responsibility for their repeated failure to pass common sense gun legislation. While taking money from the NRA, these cynical politicians offer empty “thoughts and prayers” in place of meaningful reform. The result is that no one can go anywhere in public without eyeing the emergency exits and scanning the crowd for trouble.

Oliver isn’t a polished theatrical professional. He’s a dad, first and foremost. But it’s his comfortable ordinariness that allows him to make such a powerful connection with the audience. He’s onstage but could very well be exchanging a few neighborly words with us on our street.

Oliver summons his son by joyfully remembering his virtuosity on air guitar. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” resounds throughout the Douglas while he enlivens the portrait with impassioned strokes. The words “I wish I was here” are added to Guac’s T-shirt, and it’s a sentiment we all devoutly, agonizingly share as Oliver brings his wife, Patricia, onto a stage that has urgently become an extension of our national reality.

In honor of Joaquín, the couple formed Change the Ref, an organization dedicated to raising awareness about mass shootings and empowering the next generation of activists through “creativity, activism, disruption and education.” “Guac” is a potent example of what can be done in the wake of a tragedy that can no longer be described as unthinkable.

Ben Stiller has made a lovely, dreamlike film about his parents, the comedian-actors Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara, which is also a film about himself, his sister, Amy Stiller, and his own fatherhood as reflected back by his children and his wife, the actor Christine Taylor. Premiering Friday on Apple TV, “Stiller & Meara: Nothing Is Lost” is a show business story, in large part, but will be emotionally familiar to anyone who has had the occasion to wonder about their parents’ lives, in their parents’ absence.

Though both had set out to be actors — “I carried Eleanora Duse’s life under one arm,” says Anne, “and ‘An Actor Prepares,’ Stanislavski, under the other” — Jerry had been thinking of getting into comedy when he met Anne. They married in 1954, but it wasn’t until 1963 that the conjoined career of Stiller and Maera took off, with an appearance on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” They might play the last two people on Earth meeting for the first time, or an Irish girl and a Jewish boy matched by computer dating. He was a fretful perfectionist who would endlessly rehearse; Anne was naturally funny; she flowed.

As documentary subjects go, the Stillers were not remarkably dysfunctional — no violence, no skeletons — past the not uncommon situation of parents whose work, or fixation on work, often took them away from their kids, physically or mentally, with the added fillip of that work having made them famous. (There are references to Anne’s drinking, which bothered Jerry, but this is not a hole the film runs down, and there’s nothing here to suggest it diminished her life or work.) As different people with different goals — “My mom wanted to be happy independent of performing,” says Ben, “and I think for my dad performing was so important to him it was part of his happiness” — there was tension, but they loved each other, and they loved their kids, and stayed married for 62 years, until Anne’s death in 2015.

Stiller frames the film with his and Amy’s return to the Upper West Side apartment where they were raised in order to clear it out to be sold, providing the opportunity to see what their parents had left behind. (Jerry died in 2020.) And it was a lot — nothing is lost if nothing is thrown away. There are love letters, diaries, scripts, manuscripts. (Anne: “I think Jerry has a need to keep his name going and for some reason he thinks that when we check out and pass over that the Smithsonian institute is going to want his memorabilia.”) Jerry had a habit, amounting to a compulsion, of documenting their life on film and tape; some of their conversations, and arguments, would turn into routines. (“Where does the act end and the marriage begin?” Anne wonders.) Raised voices in another room might be rehearsing or fighting. One routine consisted of escalating declarations of hate: “I hated you before I met you.” “I hated you before you were born.”

They quit playing nightclubs in 1970 (they drove her “meshuggah”), but remained in public view — in guest appearances, game shows and talk shows, where, unlike the highly managed appearances of today, they seemed ready to dish the dirt on themselves, providing Ben Stiller with material for this film. And they went to work as actors, each amassing a long list of screen and stage appearances. Jerry, of course, is now best known from “Seinfeld,” where he played George’s father, Frank Costanza, and “The King of Queens,” acting in nearly 200 episodes.

Much of it has to do with Ben and Amy as children of famous people, of family vacations that became working vacations, and growing up on display. In one clip from “The Mike Douglas Show,” the siblings perform “Chopsticks” as a screechy violin duet. Young Ben, already interested in film and asked by an interviewer if his parents will feature in his movies, says that they won’t: “I’ll be making adventure or a murder or something like that, but never a comedy. I don’t like comedy.”

We get glimpses of Stiller’s own prolific career — in comedy, mostly, as it turned out — as well as confessions of his own failings as a family man. (His children, Quin and Ella, get to have their good-humored but penetrating say, as does Taylor, from whom he separated in 2017, and with whom he reunited during the pandemic.) But there’s no evident resentment on the part of Ben and Amy, just curiosity and self-examination as adults whose own lives have taught them something about being adults, amid the knowledge that their parents had parents, too, and some of their imperfections became imperfections of their own.

Both Anne and Jerry had come from dark places. “Their lives were always reaching for the light,” says the playwright John Guare, whose black comedy “The House of Blue Leaves” Anne performed in off-Broadway. “Why don’t you become a stagehand?” Jerry’s father told him when Jerry first told him of his ambition. “Where do you get off trying to be Eddie Cantor?” Anne’s mother died by suicide. “Your father was kind of a saint, you know,” Christopher Walken tells Ben.

Stiller’s approach is musical; his assembly of clips and photos is musical — poetic, not prosaic. He ends his film with a conversation between Jerry and his aged father, Willie, cut to a montage of the family through time.

“Isn’t this better than anything, just being alive?” says Jerry. “When we go, we’ll go together, you and me”

Willie: “Yeah, OK, hold hands and everything else.”

“You’ll take me to shows again when we get up there?”

“Yeah, when I go I’ll take you any place. … What is this?”

“It’s a tape recorder. … Whatever you say is on that tape. They’ll hear you forever. You’ll never be lost.”

And we see young Ben, filming a camera that’s filming him, as his father steps in behind him.

Throughout the spring and summer of 2020, across the U.S. and the world, millions of quarantined citizens appeared nightly at their windows and balconies, offering thanks to the healthcare workers whose lives were dedicated to saving theirs. In my little corner of Silver Lake, 7 p.m. commenced a daily cacophonous communal concert of pots and pans banging, trombones and trumpets blaring, dogs and coyotes howling: a grateful group roar. I was 67 with a history of respiratory illness: extra high risk. My younger neighbors, knowing this, grocery-shopped for me, sweetening my mornings with fresh milk and fruit during those long, grim days.

“Sacrament” is Susan Straight’s homage to a small fictional band of ICU nurses battling the 2020 COVID-19 surge at a San Bernardino hospital. Her 10th novel follows the beat she’s been covering, and living, since her first. “Aquaboogie,” her 1990 debut, was set in Rio Seco, a fictional stand-in for Riverside, where Straight grew up and still lives. The first in her bloodline to graduate high school, Straight earned an MFA at the University of Massachusetts and brought it home to UC Riverside, where she’s been teaching creative writing since 1988. Her twin passions for her homeland and lyrical artistry bloom on every page. “All summer, there had been fewer cars on the road in Southern California, and everyone remarked on how with no smog, the sunsets weren’t deep, heated crimson. Just quiet slipping into darkness.”

As Susan Straight’s work invariably does, “Sacrament” challenges the prevailing notion that the overlooked Californians she centers in her work and in her life are less worthy, less interesting, less human than their wealthier, whiter, more visible urban counterparts.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

The Los Angeles Times dubbed Straight the “bard of overlooked California,” and “Sacrament” proves the praise. Straight’s African American ex-husband and three daughters; her Latino, Filipino, white, Native and mixed-race neighbors; and her immersion in overlooked California bring new meaning to the advice “write what you know.” Straight’s personal and literary missions extend to who she knows.

In “Sacrament,” Straight turns her singular focus to a handful of nurses camping in a wagon train of funky, sweltering trailers near the hospital they call Our Lady. Separated from their spouses and kids — “Six feet apart or six feet under,” Larette’s son Joey chants — Larette, Cherrise, Marisol and their colleagues are themselves underprotected from the virus, which they eventually contract, and from the domestic dramas that seep from home into their pressure-cooker days. Fearful that her mom will die, Cherrise’s teenage daughter, Raquel, convinces Joey to drive her to the hospital from the date farm where Raquel has been deposited into her Auntie Lolo’s care. The drive should take two hours, but the teens are MIA for two nightmare days. Having narrowly escaped a would-be captor, Raquel remains haunted by her near fate. “The fingers in her hair pulling so hard her scalp felt like it had tiny bubbles under the skin. Wait till I pull your hair for real, bitch. She heard him even now.”

Diving deeper than the quotidian insults of her characters’ loneliness, poverty and fear, Straight brings us inside their exhausted minds. Attempting a nap, Larette lies on the break room cot, eyes closed, to no avail. “Ghost fingers in her left palm. Her right hand holding the phone on FaceTime for the wives. The husbands. The children who were grown,” she writes. “All their faces. Stoic. Weeping. Biting their lips so hard.” Later, Larette tells her husband, “Everyone you see on TV, banging pots and pans, everyone doing parades, it’s so nice. But then I have to be all alone with — their breath. Their breath just — it slows down and it’s terrifying every time.”

Perhaps most painful among the nurses’ many miseries is their isolation: the secrets they keep in hopes of sparing their loved ones an iota of extra suffering. “None of us are telling anyone we love about anything, Larette thought. She hadn’t told [her husband] anything true in weeks.”

As Straight’s work invariably does, “Sacrament” challenges the prevailing notion that the overlooked Californians she centers in her work and in her life are less worthy, less interesting, less human than their wealthier, whiter, more visible urban counterparts. Programmed to equate “rugged independence” with success, many advantaged Americans first appreciated human interdependence (berries in our cereal, test kits on our porches) in lockdown. In Straight’s world, raising each other’s kids, feeding each other’s elders, keeping each other’s secrets, mourning the dead and fighting like hell for the living is not called exigence. It’s called life.

“Sacrament” broadens the reader’s understanding of community beyond flesh-and-blood friends, family and neighbors. The love and care that flow within her community of characters draws the reader into their bright, tight circle, making the characters’ loved ones and troubles feel like the reader’s own.

Spoiler alert: The nurses’ sacrifices, strengths and foibles; their families, robbed not only of their moms and wives and daughters but also of any shred of safety; and their patients — who have tubes stuffed into their urethras and down their throats, blinking their desperate last moments of life into iPads as they take their final breaths — will likely make the reader see and respect and love not only these characters, but the consistently brilliant author who gave them life on the page of this, her finest book.

Maran, author of “The New Old Me” and other books, lives in a Silver Lake bungalow that’s even older than she is.

“What a horrible story! What a hideous play!” a theater critic for the Daily Telegraph lamented after the London premiere of “Hedda Gabler” in 1891. Victorian audiences were repelled by Henrik Ibsen’s fatally attractive newlywed who appears to have it all — the fancy house, the doting husband — only to be violently bored.

But writer-director Nia DaCosta (“Candyman,” “The Marvels”) and her star Tessa Thompson understand Hedda down to the pretty poison in her molecules. Their rollicking redo, set from dusk to hangover at a drunken bacchanal, is vibrant and viciously alive. With apologies to Ibsen’s ghost, DaCosta’s tweaks have sharpened its rage. I don’t think that long-dead critic would like this “Hedda” any better. I think it’s divine.

Thompson’s Hedda is a clever, status-conscious snot raised to believe that her sole purpose is to be a rich man’s wife. With no hobbies or career and no interest in motherhood, her only creative outlets are squandering money and machinating the success of her milquetoast husband, middlebrow academic George (Tom Bateman), who has such a flimsy hold on his bride that his last name might as well be attached to hers with Scotch tape. (It’s Tesman and it’s pointedly rarely used.) Hedda doesn’t love George. In fact, she seems to think he’s a whiny little worm. But she’s dead-set on securing him a promotion to afford her expensive tastes.

If Hedda had been born a man, she’d be leading armies into battle like her late father, General Gabler, who spawned her out of wedlock. Instead, she takes out her aggression on civilians. Using her charm offensive, Hedda goads naive spouses to cheat, recovering alcoholics to drink and depressives to wander off into the darkness with a revolver. Some of her havoc is calculated, most of it is out of pique that others are living braver, more fulfilling lives. All of it feels like a cat tipping over water glasses just to see them shatter. Like the nasty seductress of “Dangerous Liaisons,” she’s a warning that frustrated women aren’t merely a hazard to themselves — they’re a menace to the society that made them.

Inspired by her antihero, DaCosta manipulates Ibsen to suit her own goals. She’s updated the play’s setting to 1950s England, a similar-in-spirit era in which well-bred women were kept domesticated. (I can’t wait for someone to do a version among the tradwives of Utah.) From there, DaCosta has smartly tightened the narrative, which used to have a key scene at an off-stage bachelor party to which Hedda was pointedly not invited. “What a pity the fair lady can’t be there, invisible,” Ibsen’s Hedda grumbled at being left home while the men got to carouse.

In DaCosta’s version, the whole drama unfolds during a martini and cocaine-fueled rager at Hedda’s mansion, a party she’s throwing to impress George’s potential new boss, Professor Greenwood (Finbar Lynch), who she hears has a bohemian streak. At her own happening on her own turf, Hedda couldn’t be more visibly in command. She rallies the guests to hurl her former classmate, Thea (Imogen Poots), a wretchedly earnest drip, into a nearby lake and gets the whole room grooving to a dance band’s cover of “It’s Oh So Quiet,” the swinging hit that the Icelandic pop singer Björk would popularize a half-century later. It’s a great song pick with manic crescendos — You blow a fuse, zing boom! The devil cuts loose, zing boom! — that capture Hedda’s feverish mood shifts.

We know this evening will go wrong from the film’s opening shot of Hedda facing down two policemen who keep interrupting her explanation of the last 24 hours. “Where should I start?” she says with smothered exasperation. As we cut back to watch the night unfold, a shot of Hedda surveying the crowd from an upstairs landing feels like she’s looking at a game board — Clue, perhaps? — with a weapon stashed in every room. Which threat is most pressing? The pistols she keeps in a leather box, the precarious crystal chandelier or the lake’s deep waters outside?

Thompson is marvelous in the role. Even the way she chomps a cherry off a cocktail toothpick has menace. I first saw her as the lead in “Romeo and Juliet” at a 99-seat theater in Pasadena when she was barely 20 years old (there’s so much talent in our small stage scene), so it’s a nice reminder that the funny and soulful actor of the “Thor” and “Creed” franchises is also a hell of a good classical performer and a worthy star on her own.

She wears Hedda’s lovely mask with confidence — red lips, lush cheekbones, cool demeanor — and periodically allows it to slip. Editor Jacob Schulsinger often allows Hedda a tiny hesitation before she charges ahead ruining people’s lives, long enough to know that she’s considering the consequences. “Sometimes I can’t help myself, I just do things all of a sudden on a whim,” she admits to the nosy Judge Brack (Nicholas Pinnock), revealing a sliver of weakness. She’s almost (nearly) asking for help. Yet, the judge just wants to maneuver her into bed. How tedious.

DaCosta boldly layers race and sexuality on top of Ibsen’s tale. She’s gender-swapped Hedda’s ex-lover, Eilert, into a lesbian named Eileen (a swaggering Nina Hoss), a brilliant, openly norm-defying author who is George’s job-seeking competition (and the only person Hedda enjoys kissing). If earlier incarnations of Hedda didn’t dare defy social rules when she was white and straight, being Black and queer adds so much additional peril that the script barely needs to say out loud. The new tension is there in just a few whispers, as when Hedda overhears a guest murmur that their hostess is “duskier than I thought she would be.” Hedda doesn’t acknowledge the slight. That would mean admitting vulnerability. She simply starts destroying the speaker in the very next scene.

What’s wiser? Eileen’s determination to face down the boys and be accepted for her full self or Hedda sneaking around and steering everyone’s fates behind the scenes? They can’t team up — they’re doomed to tear each other to shreds. And as much glee as we get watching Hedda’s rampage, it aches to see these two formidable women reduce each other to hysterics (to use the medical diagnosis of the day).

From our 21st century perspective, they both have a right to be mad and they both might be mentally ill. DaCosta doesn’t offer a verdict, but she plunges us so deeply into Hedda’s headspace that we can hear how certain things set her off. Insults hit her with a knife-like hiss of air; fresh schemes get her charging around to Hildur Guðnadóttir’s tumultuous, percussive score.

Costume designer Lindsay Pugh has done incredible work outfitting the film’s central female roles. Hedda wears bullet-like strands of pearls that choke her neck and a jade-colored gown that seems to molder into a festering, jealous shade of green. When her rival, Poot’s Thea, arrives underdressed, Hedda forces her into a hideous frock with fussy bows and an ungainly skirt. Poots, her nose raw and red, her character kicked when she’s down, gamely looks a fright, trusting that moral fiber will expose Hedda’s ugly insecurities.

But Pugh’s stroke of genius is putting Eileen not in some sort of mannish suit but in a bombshell dress that highlights her curves like a primal goddess. It’s pure feminine power — just like the film itself — and when Eileen struts into a room of her all-male colleagues, that dress exposes how fast the tenor can shift from awe to jeers and how little wiggle room she or any woman has for error.