review

THE ODYSSEY

(15) 173mins

★★★★★

NO need for theme parks this summer, this is a film that will leave you feeling as though you have ­ridden the highest rollercoaster.

Sir Christopher Nolan’s epic is an all-action, mythical nightmare to behold.

It’s a monumental piece of work, which rarely even feels like a film — more a spectacle to be watched in awe and amazement.

The Ancient Greek poem of the same title, written thousands of years ago, has been retold countless times over the centuries. But never to this scale.

The story is of Odysseus (Matt Damon) and his quest to return to his homeland.

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He is the King of Ithaca and the mastermind behind the Trojan Horse trick that ended the war.

His long journey back to his kingdom is to reunite with his wife, Penelope (Anne Hathaway), and son, Telemachus (Tom Holland).

They have been waiting for his return for 20 years, and Penelope has many more than 100 suitors ready to take up residency in the royal palace.

They spend their evenings eating the food and drinking the wine of their hostess, while plotting what they will do when she marries them.

One is Antinous (Robert Pattinson), a snarly, devious man who can barely hide his contempt for the family but longs for their power.

Stories run alongside this one, showing Odysseus lost on the island of Ogygia, eating lotus flowers with only the nymph Calypso (Charlize Theron) for company.

She tries to get his memories from him, and he retells the journey he took to get washed up there.

It includes battles, terrifying gods, curses, hauntings, a witch (Samantha Morton) who loves to feed her prey and Zendaya as Athena.

Each tale feels like a film in itself and alongside adrenalin-spiking action, there is a lot of heart.

The basis of the story is love, protection and the attempt to right wrongs.

Damon is spectacular in a role that must have pushed him to his limits physically. While being part of huge battle sequences, he is able to show a range of emotions on his face.

The standout performance has to be Pattinson, who as the hateful Antinous, ­manages to curl his lip to perfection.

Don’t let the nearly three-hour run time put you off.

Like any great ride, the moment it is over, you want it to start all over again.

A CLOSE SHAVE

(U) 30mins

★★★★★

IT’S been more than three decades since Nick Park made us all fall for a cheese-loving bachelor and his silent inventor dog.

And to mark the 50th anniversary of Aardman, the world-famous Bristol-based stop-motion and clay animation studios behind Wallace and Gromit, the films have been given national cinema release for a whole new generation to enjoy.

In this tale, from 1995, Wallace (Peter Sallis) and Gromit are running a high-tech window-cleaning service, which introduces them to wool shop owner Wendolene Ramsbottom (Anne Reid) and her evil-genius dog, Preston.

Thanks to his new canine enemy, Gromit is jailed for crimes he didn’t commit. With the help of his clumsy buddy – who is infatuated with Wendolene – he works to clear his name. Film fans will love the parody of prison movies, and there’s an impressive, climactic cheese scene.

Having won the Oscar for Best Animated Short Film and introducing the character of Shaun the Sheep – who went on to have his own TV spin-off series – this really is a delight to watch again. Brilliantly funny, with enough jeopardy and action to keep you hooked.

HEARTSTOPPER FOREVER

(15) 114mins

★★☆☆☆

AFTER three series of the incredibly successful coming-of-age Netflix drama, the story of the much-loved schoolboy couple, Nick and Charlie, is coming to an end.

This feature-film finale shows Nick (Kit Connor) and Charlie (Joe Locke) are still very much in love.

In fact, they’re obsessively infatuated. At every party they stare at each other across the dance floor. They take selfies every few minutes and all their friends fawn over how they’re the best couple ever.

But Charlie is off to university soon and newly crowned head boy Nick has another year at school. So this throws their relationship into a very mediocre level of disarray.

They go back and forth over what they’re going to do, with high levels of self-inflicted angst and many moments that feel excruciatingly cringey.

Meanwhile, their tight-knit friendship group seem to chat exclusively about their own complicated sexualities.

Written by Alice Oseman and produced by Brett Thomas, the fondness for this couple feels like it can’t forgive the incredibly lame storyline that offers little to no jeopardy.

One for the superfans.

On Netflix.

“Remake” has a tragic tale to tell and director Ross McElwee wastes no time revealing its grieving heart. Near the start of this funereal documentary, the filmmaker addresses his subject directly: “It’s been seven years since you died,” he says to his late son Adrian through voice-over, “and I still miss you every day.”

Across McElwee’s 50-year career, he has worked intimately without a crew to make sense of his own life by diligently recording it. In the process, he turned his friends and loved ones into the unlikely stars of his acclaimed independent documentaries.

With “Remake,” he looks back at that footage, concentrating on the images he shot of Adrian since his birth in 1989. Adrian died on Christmas Eve 2016 of a drug overdose and McElwee clearly remains shattered. For a documentarian who specializes in personal movies, “Remake” feels especially revealing — both in terms of the glimpses we get of this father-son relationship and of unsolved mysteries that linger just outside the frame.

The film’s title ostensibly refers to a surprising phone call McElwee received about 20 years ago, when he was approached by Steve Carr, the director of broad comedies like “Paul Blart: Mall Cop,” who was eager to adapt McElwee’s 1986 documentary “Sherman’s March” into a movie. That landmark picture features McElwee, then in his mid-30s, as he tries to chronicle the exploits of Union Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman, who laid siege to the South during the Civil War. Except, in the midst of that project, McElwee’s focus shifts, delightfully, to his disastrous love life and the fascinating women he meets in his travels, becoming a deeply humane examination of modern courtship.

Carr doesn’t seem like an obvious choice to oversee a narrative remake, but McElwee decides to sell him the rights anyway. Soon in “Remake,” though, it becomes apparent that this is just one chapter of the story — and hardly the most essential. McElwee’s last film, 2011’s “Photographic Memory,” dealt with his increasingly frayed connection to Adrian, who was already fighting substance-abuse issues. “Remake” retraces Adrian’s childhood while filling in the details of the director’s life after “Photographic Memory,” including brain surgery and the dissolution of his 24-year marriage.

But Adrian is never far from his thoughts or absent from the screen: this smiling, happy boy slowly transforming into an edgy, troubled young man whose sweetness still occasionally shines through.

The passage of time is central to McElwee’s work, but he’s rarely scrutinized the topic as aggressively as he does here. It’s not simply that we watch Adrian age or revisit some of McElwee’s “Sherman’s March” subjects. (“Sherman’s March” is now screening in a new 4K restoration at the Laemmle Royal with “Remake.”) It’s also in the way that McElwee’s formerly wry narration now sounds far more resigned, his voice grown froggy and hushed as he nears 80. McElwee has often pondered the downside of essentially treating himself like a human camera, observing the world rather than fully engaging in it. But in “Remake,” he openly questions his artistic approach and, fittingly, he lets his son be his loudest critic.

As a boy, Adrian is enchanted by McElwee’s filming. In childhood, he paints an abstract picture of God in which the Almighty eerily resembles a movie camera. But although Adrian soon picks up a camera as well, increasingly interested in being a filmmaker himself, he resents how his father intrudes on their time together by constantly shooting their conversations. McElwee’s scenes of them at the Venice Film Festival for the “Photographic Memory” premiere are especially fraught, Adrian’s prickly reaction to a movie about his drug abuse creating tension between the two men at the subsequent press conference.

In “Remake,” McElwee laments that he didn’t do enough to help him navigate addiction and the mental-health issues that exacerbated it. (Adrian was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.) Was McElwee too consumed with his own career to be there for his son? The question haunts “Remake” — he includes an indelible sequence from “Sherman’s March” in which his longtime friend Charleen upbraids him for always having the camera out. “This isn’t art,” she hollers. “This is life!” Did McElwee never come to appreciate the difference?

A eulogy that also serves as an apology, a reckoning and a confession, “Remake” is filled with moments that are crushing because of how understated they are, none more brutal than when McElwee visits Adrian near the end of his life, when he’d moved to Colorado to get a fresh start. “He seemed to be doing OK,” McElwee recalls thinking. “But I always leave knowing I’m probably not seeing the whole picture.”

Even now, poring through his footage, desperately looking for clues, McElwee pines for that larger view — the one that might somehow bring the boy back to his inconsolable father.

TV station ownership groups may finally get their wish to own more outlets.

Federal Communications Commission Chairman Brendan Carr announced Wednesday that the agency will vote next month to end the rule that allows companies to own no more than two TV stations in a single market. The cap also limits the national coverage of any station owner to 39% limit of the U.S.

Carr said the agency will consider a “case by case” review on station merger and acquisition deals that would result in exceeding the current limits. The commission, which has two Republicans and one Democrat, will vote on Aug. 6.

“Previously, the cap operated as a blanket prohibition on any and all deals that would combine stations in [excess] of the 39% limit — regardless of whether it was a good deal or bad deal for the country,” Carr wrote on the right-wing website Breitbart. “Our new proposal would allow the FCC to approve deals that exceed the 39% cap, but only if doing so would promote the public interest.”

TV station owners and its lobbying group the National Assn. of Broadcasters have been clamoring for a change in the rule, citing the changes in technology that have occurred since the ownership limit. The 39% threshold was set in 2004 when streaming video was still a nascent business.

The station groups say the ability of tech companies such as Google and Netflix to reach every consumer in the U.S. puts them at a disadvantage. At the same time, streaming now accounts for more than 40% of all viewing, according to Nielsen, pulling consumers away from traditional TV. TV stations are also seeing their share of carriage fees from cable and satellite companies shrink due to cord-cutting.

The station groups also argue that declining viewership and revenue make it more challenging to support multiple local TV.news operations in a single market.

But proposed changes to the cap limits have been met with push back from consumer groups and state government officials. They have said station consolidation will result in journalist layoffs and fewer voices for the communities they serve.

Earlier this year, a group of attorneys general filed suit to block Nexstar Media Group’s proposed $6.2-billion acquisition of Tegna, arguing it violates a 112-year-old U.S. antitrust law by knocking out a major competitor. The deal would give Irving, Texas-based Nexstar control of 265 television stations across the country, up from 164. And, in dozens of markets, including San Diego and Sacramento, Nexstar would own multiple TV network affiliates.

U.S. District Court Chief Judge Troy L. Nunley issued a preliminary injunction in April that forbids Nexstar — which owns KTLA-TV Channel 5 in Los Angeles — and Tegna, from combining operations. Nexstar is appealing.

Carr’s proposal would largely put the FCC in charge of picking winners and losers on a case-by-case basis.

When faced with a merger proposal, Carr said the commission would consider such issues as commitment to local journalism and “viewpoint diversity.”

Carr has made his name by threatening to pull the over-the-air broadcast licenses of TV stations that irritate President Trump with their coverage and commentary.

In April, the FCC called for an early review of the licenses for Disney’s eight broadcast TV stations, a day after Trump demanded that ABC fire late-night host Jimmy Kimmel over a joke about First Lady Melania Trump.

Carr also questioned whether ABC’s daytime show “The View,” where negative Trump commentary is rampant, should qualify as a bona fide news program that is exempt from giving equal time to qualified candidates.

Carr’s Breitbart column also reiterated his view that large media companies such as Disney and NBCUniversal parent Comcast hold too much sway over their affiliates.

“New York and Hollywood interests have steamrolled those local TV stations and the broader media market in recent years in ways that run directly counter to the regulatory framework that Congress and the FCC put in place,” he wrote. “Their national programs naturally reflect the values of the New York and Hollywood executives that produce them. This power imbalance has contributed to a steady decline in locally produced news — and with it, a weakening of the public’s trust in the media.”

How owning more stations would give groups leverage in their dealings with networks is unclear. The networks control the rights to the NFL — the No. 1 TV ratings attraction for broadcast television by a mile. Stations pay the networks compensation for those games, which they use when negotiating the carriage fees they receive from cable and satellite companies.

Times staff writer Meg James contributed to this report.

Tell me, Christopher Nolan, when did it first rosy-fingered dawn on you that your favorite type of protagonist — a tormented sinner-hero — was a specialty of the ancient Greeks? Millennia before Matthew McConaughey’s astronaut sobbed over abandoning his family and Cillian Murphy’s Robert Oppenheimer gasped that he had become the destroyer of worlds, the Greeks spun cautionary legends about Odysseus, the Trojan War tactician who outsmarted his own plan to sail smoothly home.

Nolan refuses to tremble before the canon. Grabbing mighty scissors, he cuts and rejiggers Homer and a bit of Virgil to transform these classical texts into his type of tale: one fixated on memory, self-identity, destructive genius and the slippage of time. As ever, it’s light on sex, heavy on wine-dark angst.

Once you endure its opening stretch — an expositional barrage with the pace of an obnoxious cop show — “The Odyssey” ascends as a monument to movie craft with shuddering ships, rough-hewn landscapes and practical monsters who snatch and grab men at random from above like giant skill cranes. Unlike in most mythological tales, the white Corinthian columns have been swapped out for brutal stone architecture. The Parthenon won’t be built for another 800 years; likewise, Athenian democracy is centuries away.

Nolan has anchored his “Odyssey” at the fall of the Bronze Age, a once-great era toppled by wealth-hoarding, diminished trade and climate catastrophes. Fearful of invading marauders, humankind has turned distrustful and stingy, ignoring Zeus’ command to show generosity toward the poor and foreign-born, a cornerstone of faith that would later be repurposed in the New Testament.

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This Odysseus (Matt Damon) is both witness to and wrecking ball of the collapse. Not only does he steal, slaughter and pillage while expecting to be treated with kindness, but he’s also brainstormed the atomic bomb of his day: the Trojan horse, a deceitful invention planted into the sandy beaches of Troy that marks the decline of civilization like the Statue of Liberty in “Planet of the Apes.” Inside this claustrophobic wooden beast, Odysseus and his wild and bloodthirsty Greeks are crammed cheek-to-sandal so tightly that you can’t imagine how they’ll spring into action without first getting a massage. Outside and looking up at it, the pony seems to sneer.

“The Odyssey” is a saga with half a dozen detours and one destination, Ithaca, Odysseus’ kingdom. While he’s been fighting in Troy, his palace has been overrun by men who want to marry his faithful wife, Penelope (Anne Hathaway), and murder his helpless son, Telemachus (Tom Holland). Robert Pattinson’s oily suitor woos Penelope like a “Bachelorette” contestant: “It’s time to live again,” he urges her, certain that Penelope’s vengeful husband won’t come back. Forget that rose, dude, and run away.

Anne Hathaway and Tom Holland in the movie “The Odyssey.”

(Melinda Sue Gordon / Universal Pictures)

After 20 years away — 10 at war, 10 adrift — Odysseus is anxious to reclaim his kingdom. Or is he? Nolan floats a convincing psychological reason why this Odysseus subconsciously believes his duplicitous actions during the war deserve permanent exile from civilization. Although, as is the case with too much of Nolan’s storytelling, he wrongly thinks it’s more interesting to withhold Odysseus’ traumatic hang-up until the ending. The Greeks never tried to confuse the audience in the pursuit of suspense. They delivered their plots arrow-straight to make the dread sting.

Saddled with a silly black beard that eventually goes gray, Damon’s Odysseus is stubborn, overconfident and sacrilegious, but doesn’t bear that much resemblance to the conniving, hypocritical egotist of lore who fretted over his wife’s fidelity while seducing not one, but two, enchantresses, Calypso and Circe. Today’s viewers might demonize Odysseus’ erotic exploits; instead, they’ve been Damon-ized into something innately goodhearted.

The chasteness of Nolan’s version bugs me as it’s insulting he doesn’t trust audiences to grapple with this hero’s moral complexity — and I’m gut-sick that he’s probably right. Plus, it leaves Charlize Theron’s Calypso nothing to do but limply listen to (and medicate) Odysseus like a bored therapist reaching for the lithium. I was hoping for more zest from a blond wearing actual fishnets that could catch sardines.

At least Samantha Morton’s body-horror spin on the witch Circe is terrific. To punish his men for barging into her hut, she digs her fingers inside their skin like clay, remolding them into the swine she claims they are. Her outrage is one of the best ideas in the movie. Likewise, Lupita Nyong’o’s Helen is regal and formidable, but it’s a mistake to double-cast her as Helen’s twin sister, Clytemnestra. The whole reason thousands of men fought a war over the most beautiful woman alive is that there’s only one of them — unless undermining that excuse is the point. (In an aside, we’re told that Benny Safdie’s aloof Agamemnon, hiding under a try-hard scary helmet decorated with a golden spine, really waged it to break up Troy’s trade routes.)

Unlike in Homer or even “Clash of the Titans,” which showed the gods as toga-clad twits toying with mortal lives like action figures, they have little, if anything, to do in this plot. In Homer’s original verse, Athena is as fussy as a stage mother, showing up every few pages disguised as someone mortal to bless both Odysseus and Telemachus with live-action Photoshop filters that make them extra handsome. Here, Holland’s Telemachus gambles Athena is hiding inside half the people he meets until his father chides, “Don’t look for gods in men, you’ll just be disappointed.”

Instead, Nolan balances religion on the spear tip of doubt. The angry sea god Poseidon is reduced to rumors; mighty Zeus withheld to a few well-timed thunderclaps. Even Athena, if that genuinely is whom Zendaya is playing, isn’t that helpful, mostly staring at Odysseus in mute dismay. It’s possible to get to the end of “The Odyssey” and conclude that Nolan doesn’t believe in gods at all. To him, men must be proactive in their own demise. (I’m half-convinced, the way I don’t really swear by the zodiac but nevertheless stopped dating Libras.)

Composer Ludwig Göransson scores the breath-holding assault on Troy to drums that pound faster and faster on our nerves, as does our alarm that Odysseus’ troops aren’t the good guys. Occasionally, Göransson adds a lovely monotone layer of woodwinds or a keening chorus that sounds like the oldest song on Earth.

Conversely, during the talky Ithaca sequences, when the movie is rightly paranoid of losing our attention, the more modern heist-thriller music is flat-out obnoxious, especially in a scene where Odysseus lays out his ruse to infiltrate his house to John Leguizamo’s trusty goatherd, the most lovable man ever introduced throwing a puppy off a cliff. (No, really — it’s the movie’s only outright joke.)

Hoyte van Hoytema’s Imax-framed cinematography is assertive and present, rocking with the stormy waves and peering into the torch-lit darkness where the color palate is as starkly orange and black as an ancient Greek urn. Working with the special effects team, Van Hoytema cloaks the non-digital wizardry of the Cyclops and six-headed Scylla behind naturalistic camera movements and shadows so that, rather than drawing too much attention to themselves, the creatures just feel real. As gray and wrinkled as the bottom of a mummy’s foot, the Cyclops’ face is wonderfully askew, like he was stepped on by someone even bigger than him.

Nolan’s “Odyssey” engraves marvelous images onto the ancient oral poem. One of the most haunting shots is Odysseus sprinting out of Hades chased by an army of the dead who regret following him into battle. In turn, Nolan has sacrificed Odysseus himself to serve his own needs, scrapping the character’s prickly personality to Trojan-horse a message about how empires collapse.

Aghast at the ways of men, he’s dug his own Circe-like fingers into Homer to manipulate the tale into a moralistic “Oppenheimer” prequel. Even Odysseus seems to suspect as much. “Our mistakes will again be forgotten,” Odysseus predicts as the land he loves sails into the Dark Ages while he steers the helm. He’s done unforgivable wrongs. But in that moment, he’s right.

Croatia’s World Cup was seconds away from being over and Portugal was seconds away from the round of 16 when Ivan Perisic sent a long, desperate cross into the penalty area. The ball bounced off bodies like a pinball before magically, unbelievably, caroming into the net.

Gooooooallllllll!!!!

Fate had given Croatia a reprieve.

But as pandemonium broke out in the stands and on the pitch, Norwegian referee Espen Eskas stood in the middle of the celebration in Toronto, hand to his ear, listening to a voice half a continent away in Dallas.

The voice recommended a review, via the video assistant referee, or VAR.

So Eskas trotted over to a TV monitor, watched a video replay over and over again, and more than 2½ minutes after the goal was recorded, he took it off the board. Perisic’s cross had brushed the hair of teammate Igor Matanovic, leaving Mario Pasalic in an offside position when the ball reached him near the far post. The contact was imperceptible to the naked eye, but a space-age sensor in the ball had confirmed it.

A VAR review led a referee to overturn a Croatia goal during its 2-1 World Cup loss to Portugal in Toronto, eliminating Croatia from the tournament.

(Dan Mullan / Getty Images)

Croatia’s World Cup was over, another victim of VAR, which has had an outsized influence on this summer’s tournament.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When VAR was introduced to soccer nine years ago, its mission was clear: to alert the head referee to potential clear and obvious errors or serious missed incidents. At least that’s what Major League Soccer, one of the first leagues to use the system, wrote in the news release introducing it.

“It was really to stop the headlines,” said Mark Geiger, who helped implement VAR as an MLS referee. “These super-egregious errors in a game that impact the outcome. The mantra for VAR was always minimum interference but maximum benefit.”

Under the VAR system, officials sitting before a bank of monitors in a centralized control room review match footage in real time and advise the on-field referee of potential errors. If the video assistant referees believe a mistake has been made, they communicate that through an earpiece the match referee is wearing. If the match official agrees, they will stop play, signal a review by motioning their hands in the shape of a rectangular TV screen, then watch the play themselves on a pitch-side monitor before either confirming or reversing the original decision.

It is comparable to the Automated Ball-Strike review added this year in Major League Baseball, tennis’ Hawk-Eye line-calling system and long-standing centralized instant replay review in the National Football League and National Basketball Assn., systems that have both corrected errors and stoked debate.

But VAR has morphed into something far greater. In this World Cup, there have been more than 100 VAR interventions, encompassing both confirmed on-field calls and overturned decisions, through the end of the round of 16, according to Antonio Vuksanovic, a publication relations and communications professional at Sofascore, a Croatian technology company and sports statistics website.

“When it comes to actual overturned decisions, we’re looking at roughly 0.5 per match, which is higher than the last World Cup and higher than what we saw across the most recently completed club season,” Vuksanovic said.

Even though the officials have gotten most of those calls right, many of the infractions reviewed have been so imperceptible yet so consequential, it has raised a question: if human error on the part of players and coaches is part of the sport, is allowing a game to be decided by electronic evidence of a touch detectable only through NASA-level technology violating the spirit of the game?

Iran’s Shoja Khalilzadeh shoots past Egypt’s Mostafa Shobeir, but the goal was overturned after VAR review during a World Cup match in Seattle on June 26.

(Maddy Grassy / Associated Press)

Christina Unkel, a former FIFA referee, state referee administrator in Florida and a rules of the game analyst for multiple TV networks, believes it does.

“Football is an art. And that’s why we love it,” she said. “It truly isn’t the referee’s fault. We’re not the ones seeking more advanced technology. We don’t want to look like robots out there. But the stakeholders are like ‘more, more, more.’

“When you do pursue black and white — objectivity is what they’re trying to get to, and I get it; they want to eliminate as much subjectivity as possible — what everyone is hating is this perfection thing.”

FIFA, the major stakeholder in the World Cup, declined multiple requests to answer questions about the officiating, but it has clearly doubled down on the technology for this tournament, introducing the semi-automated offside system which uses player-tracking cameras, computer-generated offside lines and, in some cases, data from a measuring instrument inside the match ball, to identify everyone’s position on the pitch when the ball is played.

“The whole genesis of VAR was not to fix every mistake or to make the referees perfect,” said Geiger, the first American to officiate a World Cup knockout game and now general manager of the Professional Referees Organization (PRO), which oversees referees for MLS and the NWSL. “Is the referee correct? That’s not the right question. They should be asking themselves, ‘is the referee clearly and obviously wrong?’”

Geiger, however, remains a huge proponent of the system and was careful not to criticize how it’s been used in this World Cup.

Belgium’s Youri Tielemans on a penalty kick that sails by Senegal goalkeeper Mory Diaw during a World Cup round of 32 match in Seattle on July 1. The game-deciding penalty kick was awarded after VAR review.

(Manu Fernandez / Associated Press)

Still, the frequent use of VAR and other technologies has clearly robbed the World Cup of much as its drama, with spontaneous celebrations of game-winning goals turning to grief moments later when the referee steps away from the monitor and takes away a score.

Reviews not only ended Croatia’s tournament, but they showed Shoja Khalilzadeh was a toe offside when he scored the goal that would have sent Iran to the knockout stages, one of three goals Iran had disallowed by VAR in the tournament; it gave Belgium a late penalty, based on light contact, that Youri Tielemans converted to end Senegal’s World Cup; and it cost Egypt a goal for a perceived foul that took place nearly 100 yards away from the ball in its 3-2 loss to Argentina.

“What happened to us wasn’t fair,” Egypt coach Hossam Hassan said.

Unkel agreed with that sentiment too.

“Everyone hates it,” she said. “According to VAR, that’s correct to take that goal away. That’s not the spirit of the game. But it’s the correct decision by law.”

What Unkel would prefer — and she believes a majority of officials are on her side — is for referees to have discretion to ignore or even overrule VAR if common sense and their understanding of the game suggest they should, just as judges have discretion to use common sense in applying the law.

“A lot of our game, the majority of it, is very subjective,” she said. “When we’re all sitting there saying, ‘No, that doesn’t gain an unfair advantage,’ then that’s when we have to start reconsidering things back to the spirit of the law. That’s the catchall loophole for saying, ‘Do we want this to be part of our game?’

“And I think everyone’s universally saying there a lot of different kinds of decisions we do not want part of our game. Toenail offsides, hair follicle arguments.”

Without the use of video replays, its unlikely any of those calls would have been made and the World Cup quarterfinals would probably look quite different.

England players react as referee Alireza Faghani shows a red card to England’s Jarell Quansah during a World Cup match against Mexico on July 5.

(Natacha Pisarenko / Ap Photo/natacha Pisarenko)

England coach Thomas Tuchel, upset about a penalty call on captain Harry Kane and a red card given to defender Jarell Quansah, both following video reviews in his team’s round-of-16 win over Mexico, said rulings were being overturned in the tournament “in a very questionable way.”

“The referees can send any team out in any moment,” he added. “It’s just not good enough. It’s just erratic. It’s just unreliable.”

An apparent misuse of the technology also led to the most controversial incident in the tournament. In the second half of an elimination game between the U.S. and Bosnia-Herzegovina, American Folarin Balogun stomped on the ankle of Bosnia’s Tarik Muharemovic, something Brazilian referee Raphael Claus initially decided did not merit even a caution. But after VAR official Juan Soto of Venezuela urged him to watch a replay, Claus flashed a red card at Balogun, expelling him from the game and banning him from the next match in the round of 16.

Claus had watched the replay in slow motion, allowing him to see what wasn’t apparent at game speed. FIFA later intervened by lifting Balogun’s one-game suspension, igniting ever greater controversy because it was just the second time that has happened in a World Cup.

U.S. forward Folarin Balogun steps on Bosnia-Herzegovina defender Tarik Muharemovic’s foot and received a red card after VAR review during the World Cup.

(Robert Gauthier/Los Angeles Times)

The heavy use of VAR has also interrupted the flow of games by halting matches that weren’t meant to be halted, leaving everyone standing on the field while the referee goes off to watch TV, sometimes for minutes at a time.

“When calls are reviewed and when goals are reviewed, sometimes it could take away from the momentum,” U.S. defender Chris Richards said. “Look under anything with a microscope, you could probably find something. But ultimately it was meant to be helpful for the game.”

And it has been. Because if officials have become over-reliant on VAR to review decisions that were not, or could not, be seen in real time, at least they’re getting those decisions right.

“I wish we had it in the 2002 World Cup,” said Bruce Arena, who coached the U.S. in that tournament. “We might have made it to the semifinals.”

In the quarterfinals of that tournament, with Germany leading 1-0 in the 40th minute, an obvious handball by Germany’s Torsten Frings kept out a shot from American Gregg Berhalter. If VAR had been available, Scottish referee Hugh Dallas could have corrected the missed call, awarding a penalty and giving Frings a red card, expelling him for the final 40 minutes.

“Look at every sport now in the world,” said Arena, coach of the San José Earthquakes. “They have some version of VAR. Why not make decisions correct?”

“There are still plenty of opportunities for the referees to control the game and make mistakes and not make mistakes,” he continued in reference to the human element. “It’s not like every moment is evaluated. But key moments are.”

As for interrupting the flow of play, Arena says the three-minute hydration breaks FIFA has introduced each half — ostensibly for player welfare, but in practice to give the TV networks additional commercial breaks — have been more disruptive.

“You don’t want VAR to officiate the game completely,” Arena said. “You have to pick your spots. For the most part, I think VAR is good.”

India slumped to a nine-wicket defeat in the fourth T20 against England, following a 2-0 series whitewash in Ireland.

India’s cricket board will review the T20 team’s performance after a dismal run that saw the world champions lose successive series in Ireland and England, a top official said.

India slumped to a nine-wicket defeat in the fourth T20 against England on Thursday, handing the hosts an unassailable 3-0 lead with one match remaining after the opener was washed out.

The loss was India’s fifth straight defeat, following a 2-0 series whitewash in Ireland last month.

The Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) will meet to discuss the reasons for the team’s performance after the England tour ends on July 19, secretary Devajit Saikia said on Friday.

“The BCCI is currently observing the performance of the Indian T20 team which has not been up to the mark in the ongoing series against England,” Saikia, who is in Edinburgh for the annual conference of the International Cricket Council, told the news agency AFP in a phone interview.

“We will have a review meeting with the core members of the team to discuss what went wrong in England.”

India, who lifted the T20 World Cup in March, have endured a dramatic dip in form. On Thursday, they managed 158-7 in Bristol, a target England chased down with nine wickets and more than six overs to spare.

The defeat came days after India were dismissed for just 76 in Nottingham, suffering their heaviest T20 loss by a margin of 125 runs.

Saikia described the slump as a temporary setback.

“This is not something abnormal and can happen in international cricket. We consider it as a purely bad phase,” he said.

India, coached by Gautam Gambhir, has been without pace spearhead Jasprit Bumrah and all-rounder Hardik Pandya because of workload and injury-management concerns.

Teenage batting sensation Vaibhav Sooryavanshi, handed his long-awaited debut aged 15, has struggled to make an impact, with scores of 14, 13 and 15 in his three innings.

The teams meet in the fifth and final T20 in Southampton on Saturday before a three-match ODI series.

Heard about that fresh new wave of horror dominating the box office and charming even the snootiest of critics?

“Evil Dead Burn” — less an inferno than a partly scorched reheating — isn’t that. Director Sam Raimi’s original 1981 “The Evil Dead,” filmed in the Tennessee woods by a bunch of hyperactive dreamers, has since morphed into a monolithic franchise that mainly serves to keep the lights on. Some foundational elements remain: wobbly camera sprints through the forest, demons with a smiling love of bodily destruction. But the house feels dormant.

Sébastien Vaniček, a French filmmaker of vigor if not vibrancy, is the fourth director to pick up the series, now on its sixth installment. It’s hard to know from his palette what thrills him, or if he sees colors at all, given the film’s muddy, deadening grayscape. (A softly falling snow, almost mocking of the action to come, is a nice touch.) Vaniček knows where his movie needs to end up — a sloppy showdown in a home with a lot of power tools lying around — but sometimes he lingers, adding transient curiosity to a serviceable story.

A tense family coalesces around the memorial of its eldest son, cut down in the prime of what seems like an argument-leaden life. Mainly, we focus on Alice (Souheila Yacoub), his bruised foreign-born widow, a black sheep among them who doesn’t have any words to offer at the service. Already, they all hate each other, but what they don’t know is that younger failson Joseph (Hunter Doohan), a wannabe writer, has been busy going through his grandfather’s notes concerning the Book of the Dead, unwittingly summoning vicious spirits to a fractious dynamic.

These people shouldn’t be around each other, but whereas a mightier movie like “Hereditary” would simmer that grief into a boiling pot of bad behavior, “Evil Dead Burn” has something more obvious and darkly funny in mind. The spirits (we call them Deadites in this universe) slip into a human host, we see a telltale contraction of the irises, and it’s off to the races.

The gore comes like a tide, shockingly for a mainstream studio wide release. Vaniček is clearly inspired by the extremity that has marked so much horror from France over the last two decades, in notorious exports such as “High Tension” and “Martyrs.” But it’s also show-offy and ill-considered: When a family dog receives a furious fork-stabbing, it’s hard to know who the film is for. Elsewhere, heads are exploded by guns, cleaved and gashed, though not so irretrievably that a possessed couple can’t enjoy a long lip-lock (“You haven’t kissed me like that in years,” a partner says, her mouth bloodied).

As it goes on, “Evil Dead Burn” itself feels possessed by a kind of narrative impatience: Can’t we just get to the good stuff? Raimi was capable of shapelier storytelling than this. These reboots in his name — on which, it should be said, he is a producer — somewhat demean his legacy by reducing “Evil Dead” to a viscera delivery device. I can’t say the audience I saw it with was particularly juiced.

But a loopy grandma (Maude Davey), stricken with dementia, gets her licks in via a brutally deployed fountain pen that is notably not used for writing. There’s a hint in that. This movie is not for those who want anything beyond a steak served blue.

Budget conscious Brits are swapping Center Parcs for European park breaks that are considerably cheaper. But is it worth the faff of travelling abroad? We gave it a try

I remember the exact moment we realised we weren’t a Center Parcs family anymore. The kids were having one last run round the playground before we stuffed everything in the car to come home after an idyllic weekend away and my husband nipped off to buy drinks.

He returned ashen-faced: “I just paid five quid for two Fruit Shoots.”

It turns out we have a line and that was it. Despite half a dozen fun-packed stays, those Fruit Shoots were the moment we knew we couldn’t justify Center Parcs prices anymore.

If my hours spent browsing parenting groups online are anything to go by, we’re not alone. Initially we branched out, exploring Haven and Parkdean resorts around the UK. But as an avid bargain hunter I’d seen plenty of chat everywhere from Mumsnet to Reddit about the savings to be made on European holiday camp breaks. After ChatGPTing the practicalities of driving in France, we swapped Center Parcs for Eurocamp this May bank holiday and it was so amazing we’re already plotting a return visit.

Eurocamp has built a reputation for the ultimate activity-led park holidays, with 400 options across 11 countries. We booked into Domaine des Ormes, set in 400 acres of lush French countryside, complete with a forest, lakes, golf course and a medieval castle at its heart. It has a variety of different types of accommodation for all budgets ranging from traditional camping to modern lodges, a luxury hotel and even floating cabins and treehouses. We went for a lodge and were pleasantly surprised when we unlocked our home from home.

Inside the lodge

The lodge had everything we needed for a five night stay and several perks that brought joy to our 10- and 12-year-old children, notably a bedroom each for when family time got a bit much and free (and largely reliable) wifi for all, perfect for some down time.

The main living space included a well-stocked kitchen with a full size fridge freezer, L-shaped sofa and dining table. The inside felt slightly smaller than Center Parcs lodges we’ve stayed in and there was no TV but neither of these things bothered us, thanks in part to the biggest difference we found with the swap.

In a nod to the consistently better weather on the continent, our lodge was very much optimised for outdoor living. It had a huge covered decking area with another, even larger, L-shaped sofa, alongside a second outdoor dining table and chairs. With temperatures soaring to up to 30 degrees during our stay we spent most of our time outside, either eating meals or on the sofa.

It was the perfect place to relax as a family, playing card games, with wine for the grown ups and iced drinks for the kids (it’d be rude not to), or enjoying outdoor movie nights courtesy of Netflix on a tablet balanced on the coffee table. Bliss.

Things to do

Domaine des Ormes’ jewel in the crown is a huge aquapark with slides, lazy river, wave pool and indoor and outdoor swimming options aplenty. If you’re looking for an alternative to the iconic Center Parcs Subtropical Swimming Paradise this is it in spades. Available at no extra cost, we spent hours there every day. The kids loved using the zip line over the pool, launching themselves across the water before jumping in at speed.

Zip lines were a recurring theme of the resort, with holidaymakers of all ages queuing up to soar over the lake. It only cost 6 Euros a person for two goes across the zipline – much cheaper than any Center Parcs activity we’d ever done – and it was another huge hit with the kids who, it turns out given half a chance, are real daredevils (see also a 20ft high climbing frame in one of the outdoor playgrounds which my son made his mission to scale through the week, while I stood at the bottom with my heart in my mouth).

There were plenty of other things to do, including kids clubs, archery, horse riding and even a circus (10 Euro per adult, 9 per child) but we found the mix of pool, down time and eating out was plenty to keep everyone occupied without racking up much extra cost.

Eating and drinking

Domaine des Ormes had two restaurants and two bars on-site as well as a well-stocked convenience store. Our top pick was Chez Madeline, which had stone baked pizzas, juicy rotisserie chicken and a 10 Euro kids menu with portions big enough that we took leftovers home.

Having a car meant we could also explore so we nipped to the local Carrefour supermarket in Dol-de-Bretagne to fill the fridge with cheese, smoked meat, fruit and salad. We also discovered the best steak frites any of us had ever had on the way home, in another holiday highlight.

Final verdict

I’m so glad we took the plunge. Driving in France was nowhere near as stressful as we’d feared. Minimal language barriers were easily overcome and with about half the families at Eurocamp English the kids had plenty of new friends to play with.

The highlights were the small moments: my 12-year-old being able to walk to the resort shop to buy breakfast croissants for us to eat together on the deck as the sun rose and excitedly haggling to buy some hair clips from the market that came to the resort one sunny afternoon; my son’s confidence growing every day he got higher up that climbing frame.

Domaine des Ormes was large enough to keep everyone busy and entertained but still compact enough that we could have a little bubble of time as a family together. Overall it was well worth the effort stepping outside of our comfort zone.

How do Eurocamp prices compare with Center Parcs?

There are still some savings for anyone booking at Domaine des Ormes this summer, although some of the most popular accommodation types are sold out. Currently, a four night stay for a two bedroom lodge through Eurocamp starting on Monday, July 20 is £975. A similar two-room lodge at our nearest Center Parcs – Woburn Forest just outside of Milton Keynes – would be £1,449 for the same time.

There are even chunkier savings available if you’re planning ahead. For October half term Eurocamp is £289.64 for four nights, compared to £1,699 for Center Parcs. Meanwhile, May half term 2027 is £786 for Eurocamp and £1,599 for Center Parcs.

While, of course, you have to factor in travel costs for a trip to France, for us the cheaper activities and idyllic surroundings make it worth the effort.

Book it

Narin stayed at the Domaine des Ormes Eurocamp. Currently, a four night stay for a two bedroom lodge through Eurocamp starting on Monday, July 20 is £975. For the October half term, Eurocamp is £289.64 for four nights.

The cost of taking a car on Le Shuttle starts at £69, and £89 for Brittany Ferries.

It’s the 250th birthday of the United States of America and how better to celebrate than with a big-screen hagiography of America’s first president, George Washington? “Young Washington” arrives in theaters just in time for the Fourth of July with a chiseled, hot young actor in the lead role and the sheen of a prestige HBO drama, though the result isn’t really big-screen spectacle or appointment television. It feels more like something to be watched on the AV rig in a middle school social studies class. At least there won’t be a quiz at the end.

But there could be, because the plot of “Young Washington” plays out with all the thrill of a textbook chapter. It takes place mostly around 1753-55, at the advent of the French and Indian War. We open in medias res when the 23-year-old Col. Washington (William Franklyn-Miller) lurches from a dysentery-riddled nap directly into battle in the Pennsylvania woods, his battalion on the back foot, surrounded by gore and gunpowder. Another officer describes how dire the situation is while George ponders saving his men and asks, “What could be worth the risk?” Washington steels his gaze and we cut to black. You can almost hear the eagles scream, guitars riff and engines rev.

“Young Washington” is produced and distributed by Angel Studios, the faith-based movie studio that churns out films based on true stories that either feature freak accidents, strange illnesses or, more recently, unique stories from the past in which faith in God is a factor. Apparently, our nation’s founding also falls under this umbrella.

The film is directed by Jon Erwin, one of the in-house Angel Studios mainstays, who also helmed “Jesus Revolution,” “I Still Believe” and “I Can Only Imagine.” Erwin gives the whole project a kind of gritty, visceral approach — very “Game of Thrones” in red coats. It’s violent, muddy, the contrast is high and too many drone shots soar over the forest treetops.

Though it opens with a bang, this 1755 battle framing device gives way to the George origin story, starting with his father’s death 12 years earlier, when the 11-year-old George is bereft that he’ll have to sacrifice his education in order to become a tenant farmer and provide for his family including his mother, Mary (Mary-Louise Parker, doing a bizarre accent).

His older half-brother Lawrence (John Foss) takes him under his wing and teaches him, and the young George grows into a smart, bright, ambitious young man, whose dreams of becoming a British officer are dashed because he doesn’t have formal education, a fortuitous marriage or his own land. But he’s bootstrapped himself into intelligence and with savvy networking and know-how, he becomes indispensable to the British, volunteering as a major to survey land and negotiate treaties with the Native tribes and French army. It’s all a bunch of politicking and petty disputes until it escalates into all-out war thanks to an ill-advised ambush.

Sir Ben Kingsley, Kelsey Grammar (who starred in “Jesus Revolution”) and Andy Serkis play the British officers who begrudgingly, at times, believe in George and his capabilities, though a lot of the film is about a young man getting rebuffed by snobbish British officers.

He’s the kind of character who always makes the noble choice, does and says what’s right, and sees everyone as equals (including enslaved African men and Native American allies). He inspires his brother and others that the world can change and takes inspiration from his mother, who encourages him to continue his path and do it as God’s servant.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t make for a character that’s in any way complex or interesting at all. Franklyn-Miller is certainly pretty, serving as a fine face for this story, but the screenplay (by Erwin, Diederik Hoogstraten and Tom Provost) flattens his character into a basic cookie-cutter hero. Audiences, including the middle school social studies students, deserve better and more nuanced stories about this country and the values it was built upon.

“Young Washington” is propaganda in the form of a history lesson wrapped in a summer blockbuster. If only it were even slightly entertaining — maybe they’ll tackle that in the inevitable sequel.

Early in “Romería,” the film’s main character, Marina, is asked by some children if she’s ever seen the Santa Compaña, a collection of ghosts who, in Spanish legend, supposedly wander in a pack across the landscape. Humoring the kids, Marina says she hasn’t. That’s good, one of the girls responds. “They’re spirits that can’t die.”

As it happens, Marina is actually on a journey of sorts to connect with the dead — and so is Spanish writer-director Carla Simón, whose third feature is an autobiographical tale about her own quest to make peace with her late parents. Slender but flecked with magical touches, “Romería” is so gentle it never quite qualifies as haunting. Nonetheless, Simón stirs up the ineffable sadness that comes with wanting answers to the mysteries of your family — and then, like it or not, receiving them.

Newcomer Llúcia Garcia plays Marina, an 18-year-old aspiring filmmaker. It’s July 2004, and she’s traveled to the picturesque port city of Vigo to obtain government paperwork that will make her eligible for a university scholarship. She never knew her father Alfonso, who died in 1987. For some reason, there are no records indicating that she was his daughter. Hence the trip to Vigo to see her paternal grandparents for the first time so she can authenticate her ancestry.

Simón, whose previous features “Summer 1993” and “Alcarràs” also grappled with family matters, follows along with Marina on the way to this anxious meeting. Marina’s mother died only a few years after Alfonso, making Marina an orphan. But the mom’s parting gift, a diary, provides opaque glimpses into her life with Alfonso in the mid-1980s. Before Marina arrives at her grandparents’ home, though, she must run a gauntlet of uncles, aunts and cousins, their reactions to her existence varying from warm to wary. Repeatedly, Marina is told she looks just like her mom, but the comment occasionally contains a trace of bitterness. Many of these new faces view her as an unwelcome reminder of a past they’d prefer to forget. When they see Marina, it’s like they’re looking at a ghost.

The strongest component of Garcia’s doe-like performance is the way it captures someone in the midst of shedding her adolescence, gingerly trying on adulthood. Over the course of a few days, this bashful teen, always armed with her camcorder and far less free-spirited than her cousins, will be beset by her father’s feuding family. Silently observing the passive-aggressive maelstrom, Marina will receive an intense immersion in what her life might have been like if he’d lived.

But she quickly realizes that their memories of the man are far from perfect. No one can decide exactly where Alfonso lived in Vigo. And, more troublingly, Marina’s belief that he died in 1987 is contradicted by relatives, who insist that it was five years later. If Marina has that information wrong, what else does she not know?

“Romería” is hardly the first film in which an impressionable soul goes on the hunt for the parents she never had. Likewise, viewers will not be startled when Marina eventually discovers painful secrets about her mom and dad that cause her to reconsider those phantom figures.

Simón, who undertook a similar odyssey at the same age, never allows this delicate story to succumb to self-indulgence or an inflated sense of its own importance. Instead, her film is suffused with a rich, casual immediacy. Simón and her star bracingly recall the electricity of youth as Marina prepares for life as an artist. The movie, in part, is about how she finds her voice.

Simón’s films favor naturalism and “Romería” leaves ample room for Spain’s seaside beauty and glorious sunshine. The calming locales both complement and contradict the plot’s revelations, which are hardly bombshells but do speak to how well-to-do families labor to shove inconvenient skeletons into the closet. If anything, Marina will be more shocked by her grandparents (José Ángel Egido and Marina Troncoso), whose fiercely icy demeanor suggests this teenager should consider herself lucky not to have grown up around them.

Because “Romería” is a coming-of-age story, Marina will be tempted by cute boys; she’ll also begin to display a rebellious streak. As the picture rolls along, Garcia shows a more assertive side, relishing her character’s emergence from her shell. But this modest saga saves its biggest surprise for its final reels, when the narrative folds in on itself beguilingly, allowing Marina to relate to her mom and dad in ways she never had before. Maybe we can never truly know our parents, but if we’re lucky, we can gain the maturity to one day see them in ourselves.

Advertised as “from the world of ‘Legally Blonde,’” the new Prime Video series “Elle” revisits that film’s heroine, Elle Woods (Lexi Minetree), as a 16-year-old high school student, suddenly transported from Beverly Hills to Seattle after her plastic surgeon father (Tom Everett Scott) botches a nose job and has to lie low.

Set in 1995, six years before the events of the first “Legally Blonde” film, with Seattle still living through the long tail of first-wave grunge — Kurt Cobain, Eddie Vedder and Chris Cornell are mentioned almost in a single breath — it shares with the big-screen mothership only its indomitable protagonist, who loves pink and her Chihuahua, Bruiser. (The dog gets its own origin story: It was “rescued” from the Spellings, as in Aaron, who found that its “earth tones” didn’t match “their new color palette.”)

There’s a passing reference to the lawyer Elle might (and does) become, and surely some things I missed, but if you’ve never seen “Legally Blonde,” you will not be at any particular disadvantage. (Possibly you will be at a disadvantage if you have seen it.) Bruiser aside, nothing that happens here affects what happens there. Don’t think twice, or even once, about canon. This is something else entirely.

What that is is a high school comedy, which is to say it’s full of familiar characters swept up in teenage drama. And because this is an eight-episode series and not a two-hour movie, relationships will shift more than once. Indeed, they will not be done shifting by the season’s end; a second is clearly in the producers’ sights.

The series is a fish out of water story as Elle moves from Beverly Hills to Seattle. From left, Kimberly (Chandler Kinney), Liz (Gabrielle Policano), Elle (Lexi Minetree), Miles (Jacob Moskovitz) and Dustin (Zac Looker).

(Kimberley French / Prime Video)

Floating into her new school on a bubble of positivity that will stubbornly refuse to burst, Elle is a spot of color in a sea of black and plaid. (There’s a joke that all the cliques — “jocks, D&D nerds, stoners, kids with parents with Microsoft money, kids with parents with Boeing money” — dress exactly alike.) Her surface mistaken for her substance, she’s mocked by Kimberley (Chandler Kinney), the Mean Queen Bee in a reversal of the usual dynamic; it’s the supposedly deep, authentic characters looking down on the privileged, seemingly shallow one. (Not understanding that Bikini Kill is a band, Elle will offer, “Bikini Kill? I know bikinis … that kill.”) Introducing herself to the skeptical Liz (Gabrielle Policano), who makes music and works in a record store, she says, “I like iced coffee, the month of July and when people dress kind of tennis-y, even when they don’t play tennis.”

At the same time, Elle will quickly bond with Shannon (Danielle Chand), the school’s self-appointed one-woman welcoming committee, and Miles (Jacob Moskovitz), a central-casting nice guy who literally collides with her, as is traditional. (His jacket is blue denim to set him apart.) Socially aware quasi-outsider Dustin (Zac Looker) will take a second longer to sway. Inevitably, all will fall before her goodness, her school spirit and her No Doubt karaoke, though her good intentions will have unintended consequences as well, and she’ll have things to learn — it’s a fish out of water story in which the water will change the fish, and the fish the water. In a late-season plotline, in order to give them something to think about than one another, they’ll become a Scooby Gang (with explicit references to “The Breakfast Club”), investigating adult shenanigans. Well, we love a Scooby Gang.

Chief among the grown-ups is Elle’s equally blond mother, Eva (June Diane Raphael), who will become involved in the mayoral campaign of (the late) James Van Der Beek’s Dean Wilson. At school, there are prickly Principal Anderson (Matt Oberg) and Donna (Amy Pietz, nice to see her), his good-hearted secretary, a champion of needy teens and, it will be revealed, Liz’s mother. It feels wrong to saddle the lovable Scott, as Elle’s father, Wyatt, with a fugitive-from-malpractice plot, such as it is — they had to get the family out of Beverly Hills somehow — and just as his character is lying low, so does he disappear, sadly, a little into the scenery. He does get a nice line about meeting someone named Mike McCready, the Pearl Jam guitarist, in a coffee shop and maybe getting together to play, and a chance to lead partygoers in Oasis’ “Wonderwall.”

Minetree is an apt choice to play a younger Reese Witherspoon (an executive producer), with a dash of “Clueless” Alicia Silverstone stirred in, and the younger cast is likable across the board. Written by Laura Kittrell, “Elle” is lightweight, often obvious and oddly, refreshingly innocent — Elle is waiting for “a perfect first kiss from a perfect guy” — both for the genre and the setting. (As Robyn Hitchcock sang of Seattle in “Viva! Sea-Tac,” “They’ve got the best computers and coffee and smack.”) In a way, it feels like a show made for those who already want what it’s selling, but that’s not me, and I had a perfectly fine time.

The best weapon in the “Jackass’” arsenal isn’t the taser, the beehive or the booby-trapped latrine. It’s the explosion of relief when a prank ends, often in humiliation, always with hoots and claps. The first film, 2002’s “Jackass: The Movie” was slow to discover that carnage without camaraderie is painful; several injuries limped off-screen in horrified silence. Laughter heals, except for the brain hemorrhage that Johnny Knoxville suffered in 2022’s “Jackass Forever” when, dissatisfied by the clobbering he took from a bull, requested a second ramming that knocked him out cold.

Hence “Jackass: Best and Last,” the goon squad’s alleged final film, is underwhelmingly tame. Shot quickly by stalwart director Jeff Tremaine this spring, half of it is a clip reel of past hits, like the time fan favorite Steve-O slingshotted into the sky in a port-a-potty. The rest is scraps of hastily assembled chaos, the most elaborate of which is a puppet show in which veterans Ehren McGhehey, Dave England and Jason “Wee Man” Acuña dangle helplessly from strings, trying to recite cue cards while being pummeled by tropical fruit. “A pineapple!” Wee Man moans.

I’m no sadist. They’ve suffered plenty for our amusement. Still, it’s a shame that for the first time in two and a half decades of cringe comedy, the guffaws feel forced.

Acknowledging the Jackasses’ age, if not maturity, are a couple skits about prostate and rectal checkups. (The gnarliest involves clear pants, colonoscopy prep liquid and a game of Twister.) Modern technology enters the arena with a nimble-fingered robot. If the team had invested any actual energy into brainstorming this entry, they’d have played paintball with a sniper drone. At least for the sake of torch-passing, someone should have thought of something for the newish members introduced in “Jackass Forever” to do besides stand around and applaud.

These fresher faces — Jasper Dolphin, Rachel Wolfson, Zach Holmes — prove brave and resilient when allowed to participate. Only one of them, Sean “Poopies” McInerney, a surf bro so gullible that I’m not sure he’s capable of informed legal consent, fits into “Best and Last” like a well-worn punching bag. (When Poopies yelps that “my mind is getting to me” while wearing a shock collar around a sensitive area, people snort because, as sweet as he seems, the only thing rattling inside his cranium is a moth.) Early on, Poopies gets swollen lip injections that, someone claims, will last the whole movie. You expect his trophy wife pout to be a running sight gag. But his disfigurement never even gets another closeup.

“Jackass” started with a bang. In January of 1998, Knoxville, then a 26-year-old aspiring actor, strapped on a cheap bulletproof vest padded with a stack of “Hustler” magazines and fired a gun point-blank into his chest. His dumb derring-do went viral on VHS tapes, earning him an MTV show and five feature films. Watching that Rosetta Stone-cold stupid footage here, you’re struck not only by his audacity, but by the scene’s excruciating comic pacing. As there’s only one bullet in the pistol, empty chambers click multiple times before the bullet finally fires. Logically, you know Knoxville will live long enough for his hair to turn fright-wig white. Yet the lizard brain making you gawk is shrieking.

Do not attempt any of the stunts you’re about to see, the prefatory caution blares. Absolutely. The thing is, no one else could. “Best and Last’s” flashbacks are a walloping reminder that Knoxville is inimitable: a telegenic and extroverted entertainer with a charisma he wields like a skunk aims its stink. Upset him at your own risk. Like Buster Keaton before him, Knoxville has an uncanny awareness of how his death-defying escapades appear on camera. Even in that near-suicidal early segment, note how Knoxville stays on his feet, enduring agony with a magician’s “Ta-da!” He might have given himself a bruise the size of a baseball but he’s focused on the audience’s delight.

Over the years, the visuals dramatically improve, from snuff film aesthetics to confidently silly splendor. “Jackass Number Two,” released in 2006, expended major energy on a musical homage to Old Hollywood that nodded to Keaton and bathing beauty Esther Williams who, in MGM’s “Million Dollar Mermaid,” plunged 50 feet into a pool and broke her neck. By 2010’s “Jackass 3D,” which riffed on classic cartoons with Knoxville strapping himself onto an Acme-style red rocket, one could admit they went to see a Jackass movie for the cinematography with even more sincerity than if Knoxville claimed he bought “Hustler” for its life-saving properties.

The new movie doesn’t have any artistic ambition. The charitable excuse for its reliance on old material is that the gang wanted one more film that summed up their entire legacy — from the impact of seeing them age to the opportunity to include departed colleagues Ryan Dunn, who died in 2011, and Bam Margera, fired in 2020. The other explanation is it’s a cash grab made for pennies. Still, Steve-O strives for memorable moments, gathering the gang in a generic office building corridor to watch him take off his pants and pop out a ping-pong ball. There’s a lot of nudity but the setting feels half-assed.

“Best and Last’s” intro splat-tacular, typically a highlight of each film, hinges on the posse standing still on a moving floor. But the monochrome staging — white walls, white ground — looks almost like CGI, the antithesis of their appeal, and it takes us a minute to understand what’s actually going on. Worst, it lacks both suspense and surprise, that no-they-aren’t–oh-god-they-are drama that once elevated the franchise to the peak of pure cinema.

There is — and I mean this — existentialism in witnessing a person embrace shame and terror. Actors have won Oscars without achieving the transcendence of, say, misery glutton McGhehey in “Jackass Forever,” bound to a chair and coated in salmon and honey, realizing that his friends have released a bear into the room. Meryl Streep could never do that (and wouldn’t have to). McGhehey’s sole path to stardom is that he did.

Not everything in a “Jackass” movie needs to be that sublime. One of my few genuine howls in “Best and Last” came in a three-second rehash of someone stepping on a rake; another was the percussion Chris Pontius makes with his swinging nethers before attempting a naked Fosbury flop. There’s a great accidental gag in a cut bit from the original MTV pilot when a deputy pulls up to arrest Knoxville and forgets to put her car in park. Yet the snippet I keep thinking about is a throwaway beat in a new skit when McGhehey willingly gets into the wrong chair again and, once freed, attacks Knoxville who coolly knees him in the nuts. Everyone chuckles.

Once, in anthropology class, my professor lectured on an insular island tribe that cackled whenever someone got hurt. Schadenfreude was the community’s way to vent tension. I thought of that village throughout “Best and Last,” especially during Knoxville’s nonchalant disarmament of his pal. Team Jackass has stayed united even while at each other’s throats. In bad times, they’ve borne each other’s struggles with sobriety and mental health. In good, they’ve seen the inequality of success that’s left Knoxville in a better financial position to retire than the rest.

While “Best and Last” is a whiff, I can forgive this band of bozos’ urge to make it. No one seems happy to still be zapping themselves with electrodes. They just want to rally together for the final time to choke out one last laugh.

In the last decade or so, Angelina Jolie has been on screen less frequently. So when she is — and not in forgettable tentpoles like “Eternals” — it’s worth paying attention. There seems to be a thoughtful intentionality to the roles she now chooses, almost as if this astoundingly famous woman wants to tell us something vital about herself, offering clues into her understandably guarded personal life.

Take 2015’s “By the Sea,” which she wrote and directed. Coincidentally or not, that pained study of marital dissolution, co-starring Jolie’s then-husband Brad Pitt, intersected with the couple’s real-life breakup — not to mention Jolie’s grief over the death of her mother, Marcheline Bertrand. Two years ago, Jolie portrayed a version of the elusive, emotionally closed-off opera singer Maria Callas in “Maria.” The conception of the role, marked by a dim view of stardom’s suffocating alienation, was something Jolie clearly understood. Moviegoers should be careful not to read too much autobiography into an actor’s creative choices, but Jolie makes such speculation tantalizing, adding additional layers of drama to her films.

The intermittently affecting “Couture” feels similarly close to her heart, depicting a filmmaker whose life is interrupted by a cancer diagnosis — a reality Jolie knows all too well. In 2013, she underwent a preventive double mastectomy over concerns of her likelihood to develop breast or ovarian cancer. (Bertrand died of cancer in 2007.) Knowledge of Jolie’s circumstance will inform a viewer’s reaction to her wounded, resilient performance, but our inherent sympathies can only take French writer-director Alice Winocour’s ensemble piece so far.

Jolie plays Maxine, an American indie director hired to create a flashy opening film for Paris Fashion Week. Newly arrived in the City of Light, she has only a few days to put together the short, assisted by her trusted cinematographer Anton (Louis Garrel). As we deduce from the phone calls Maxine makes back home, she’s also going through an acrimonious divorce and has trouble connecting with her blasé teenage daughter. At least this Paris paycheck gig will bolster her finances — and get her ready for the feature film she’s been wanting to make for years.

Just then, though, Maxine’s future gets a rewrite. A French doctor (Vincent London) tells her she has breast cancer and needs a double mastectomy immediately. Maybe she can finish the Fashion Week film, but her passion project must wait. An artist and mother who has spent her adulthood in constant motion will have to learn what it means to stop everything and be still.

The film’s title would appear to be a reference to the story’s setting, but in French, “coutures” can also mean “stitches,” and indeed Winocour sews together three thematically linked story strands. As Maxine wrestles with her cancer diagnosis, an inexperienced South Sudanese model named Ada (Anyier Anei) works Fashion Week so she can send money home to her family. (Ada has no interest in modeling, hoping instead to become a pharmacist.) Meanwhile a makeup artist, Angèle (Ella Rumpf), longs to be an author, although she cannot get anyone interested in her writing. Each one becomes a part of the fabric of Fashion Week, but their disparate problems are a far cry from the glitzy event’s self-importance.

Winocour has often made films about women balancing their public-facing life with their private selves In 2019’s “Proxima,” Eva Green played an astronaut missing her young daughter. In 2022’s “Paris Memories,” Virginie Efira starred as an interpreter recovering from the shock of surviving a terrorist attack. Winocour shows us the intimate, vulnerable spaces within her characters that those on the outside don’t have access to.

“Couture’s” three principals rarely interact with one another, but those meaningful exchanges argue that, amid the mad clatter of the everyday, a brief, unguarded moment with a stranger can be supremely restorative. Unfortunately, the juggling of storylines ends up being more schematic than insightful. Angèle’s narrative never catches fire and while Anei is striking as Ada, that section of the film feels slightly patronizing, reducing this immigrant tale to yet another strained salute to perseverance.

This leaves Jolie as the movie’s magnetic center, with Maxine drifting through despair as she ponders what to do. Her doctor insists that the surgery cannot wait, but putting her ambitions on hold means losing a part of herself — a different kind of death sentence than the one she’s now facing.

The character is underwritten but Jolie picks up much of the slack through her silently shattered expression. As she’s gotten older, the Oscar winner has become more comfortable doing less in her performances, allowing for a fragile serenity that is belied by the anguish and anxiety roiling underneath. It’s not just our recognition of the real-life parallels that make Jolie so touching in “Couture” — it’s that ineffable star power she’s possessed for so long. In a story about a potential tragedy, what’s saddest is that Winocour’s film cannot match its lead’s effortless command.

For a long time, the lifestyles and foibles of the modest bourgeoisie were a mainstay of art-house cinema, with urbane, upscale audiences happy to turn out to see versions of their own lives depicted on the screen. But more recently, as ideas about what middle age looks like have shifted, along with the changing demographics of viewers, these films have largely disappeared. Which is what makes the seriocomic “The Invite” feel both fresh and something of a throwback — a movie for those who worry about losing their edge.

Directed by Olivia Wilde, “The Invite” was a clear standout when it premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January and now arrives in theaters as one of the best dramas of the year so far. It feels daring for how it wants to actually examine the emotional costs of contemporary grown-up life, bringing wincing laughs of recognition.

The film begins with married couple Angela and Joe, played by Wilde and Seth Rogen, checking back in at their home in San Francisco at the end of the day. He has been at the teaching job he resents and she has been frantically preparing for the dinner party she may not have told him about. Their daughter is away at a sleepover for the evening and it seems they no longer fully know how to relate to each other. As they bicker and jab, their quiet dissatisfaction with their lives stops being so quiet.

Angela has invited over their neighbors from the apartment upstairs, who they do not know well and who often have loud sex. That couple, Piña and Hawk, played by Penélope Cruz and Edward Norton, seems more assured, self-possessed and adventurous, the kind of people you can absent-mindedly invent stories about, assuming their lives are much cooler than your own.

Things go in ways both expected and unexpected, the two couples warily feeling each other out as they wait to spring their own private agendas. Over the course of the evening, things will be alternately tense, flirty, vulnerable and revelatory as surprisingly little food is eaten. (Other substances get ingested instead.)

An adaptation of Cesc Gay’s 2020 Spanish film “Sentimental,” the screenplay is credited to Rashida Jones and Will McCormack. In an unusual step, the script was further workshopped and developed with the cast during rehearsals. Rogen came up with some of the biggest laugh lines and Norton wrote the deeply earnest monologue he delivers late in the film. (The popular Belgian psychotherapist Esther Perel is also credited as a consultant.)

This American version expands upon the characters more than Gay’s original film while consistently returning to the disappointment of Angela and Joe’s lives in terms both big and small. Neither of them are the people they once thought they might become. Whether two people who are each unhappy can make it as a couple becomes the overriding theme of the film.

This is Wilde’s third movie as a director and it is, by far, her most cohesive and accomplished, both contained and expansive. Her debut, 2019’s charming end-of-high-school tale “Booksmart,” had a throw-everything-at-the-wall quality, as if she wanted to get out every idea and try every trick in case she never got another chance to direct. Wilde’s follow-up, the 2022 psychodrama “Don’t Worry Darling,” became mired in behind-the-scenes gossip and tabloid speculation that overshadowed what was intended as a stylized portrait of female rage and discontent.

Her latest fulfills and exceeds the promise of those earlier movies. Shot on 35mm film by cinematographer Adam Newport-Berra, the action of “The Invite” is almost entirely confined to Angela and Joe’s apartment, which thanks to a recent renovation has plenty of rooms to explore. All four players are exceptional in their roles, playing smartly off their screen personas while exploring the nuances of the characters and their intersecting dynamics.

Wilde’s Angela is expressive and antic; Rogen’s Joe is sullen and snarky. Cruz is alluring and watchful, while Norton turns out to be the film’s secret weapon. He has a low-key comic energy and helps guide the story through a few of its trickier emotional turns. At one point he simply rises from behind a couch and it plays like a punchline.

Skip the next two paragraphs if you want to hold onto the film’s purest pleasures. Those noises from upstairs have been Piña and Hawk hosting group sex parties and they are now cruising Angela and Joe for some extramarital couples’ fun. Here, the movie pivots from passive-aggressive party conversation into farce, as Angela and Joe try to process the idea anyone else might find them desirable, as they have long since given up on seeing themselves in that way.

Wilde in particular lights up during this section, Angela’s mind racing at possibilities she never considered for herself while fumbling over the practicalities of protocols and just how this would work. Before pushing the film into its final forlorn section, the excitement that something sexy might happen charges the actors. It is very likely that streams of Sade’s seductive “By Your Side” will skyrocket.

But the focus stays very much on the struggles of married life. One of the biggest strengths of “The Invite” is the way it keeps evolving as the night progresses so it never feels claustrophobic or repetitive. There is a sense of visual invention and imagination to the film that continues all the way through, such as a moment when Wilde crouches down to check on a doomed soufflé in the oven and addresses the camera directly, looking up as if talking to Rogen. The viewer is frequently placed in an adjacent POV to the different characters, as if you are there in the room too.

The film has a propulsive rhythm to it, a relentlessness, even as Wilde and editors Yorgos Mavropsaridis and Anthony Boys know when to ease off the throttle and take it easy for a bit. The film breathes in a dynamic way, the last few beats taking a startling turn toward a somber wistfulness. The ending is just enigmatic enough to have audiences talking it through as they make their way out of the theater.

The end credits include a handwritten dedication, “For Diane,” a nod to Diane Keaton. The live-wire wit and idiosyncratic verve that she embodied in “Reds” and “Something’s Gotta Give” are very much on display here. Early in the story, Norton dryly notes, “We love a contentious environment.” Thanks to Wilde’s confident direction and the ensemble’s unpredictable performances, audiences will too.

Kara Zor-El (Milly Alcock) can swill an entire sorority’s supply of booze. As a Kryptonian, her hangovers are instantly cured by a yellow sun. And so director Craig Gillespie’s “Supergirl” follows a trail of empty beer bottles to find Superman’s lonely younger cousin marking her birthday on a solo interstellar bender, pounding shots alongside her dog, Krypto.

Unlike sweet-natured Kal-El (David Corenswet), a.k.a. Clark Kent, who escaped Krypton as a baby, this traumatized 20-something bore witness to their home planet’s long and painful extinction. Playing grief like the sandblasted absence of emotion, Alcock’s Supergirl isn’t in the mood for Metropolis do-gooding. She prefers slumming it at extraterrestrial honky-tonks with suitors who look like armadillo-plated slugs. She’s most visibly depressed when she tries to convince herself she’s having fun.

Who doesn’t want to go on a “Star Wars” cantina crawl? The opening stretch of “Supergirl” is great — Alcock even passes out on a toilet with aplomb. Briefly we hope that Gillespie and screenwriter Ana Nogueira are shaking up the superhero format like a bottle of gas-station champagne. I’d love to see Alcock’s heroine in a grotty, silly “Animal House”-style comedy, out-drinking a galaxy of alien squids. But the limits of Hollywood’s imagination squeeze Supergirl to stop partying and start doing some regular old rescuing. Sigh. Someone’s gotta save franchise movies from themselves.

As usual, there’s a tyke in trouble: 13-year-old Ruthye (Eve Ridley), a fellow orphan with a ramrod disposition and a tidy brunet braid that gives away that her character is modeled on Hailee Steinfeld’s vengeful teenager in “True Grit.” Ruthye wants to hunt and kill the creep who murdered her family. Unlike Supergirl, the child thinks it’s healthier to exorcise — not imbibe — one’s heartache. The duo visit an Epstein-island-like planet of kidnapped breeding women where, in one of the script’s subtler sick horrors, the locals imply that pubescent Ruthye is more valuable than aged 23-year-old Supergirl. (Although some of the caged extras appear to be as ancient as 30.) It’s yet another swiped idea, this one from “Mad Max: Fury Road,” for a minor story beat that’s unnecessary. Still, Alcock reacts with exactly the right note of disdain: “Cool,” she croaks. ‘Nuff said.

They’ve come to this cesspool to find the villainous Krem, an unrecognizably vile Matthias Schoenaerts with a mug that’s been pierced all over like he face-planted into a pile of thumbtacks. His biker-scumbag-times-infinity prosthetic design is fantastic, but what makes it genius is that the makeup team allowed a couple of metal studs to fall off Krem’s forehead before his first close-up. You know, for that lived-in barbarian sex trafficker look.

As Ruthye, Ridley’s crisp British elocution is the cleanest thing in the movie, which is shot by Rob Hardy in shades of mustard smog and latrine brown. Neither Supergirl as a babysitter nor Gillespie as a storyteller let the kid carry her share of the action, but I suspect Ridley has the talent for it. She seizes her small opportunities to impress in the film’s second half. Spitting on a baddie, her righteous loogie stings like a moral disinfectant.

Meanwhile, Jason Momoa swaggers into the fray from the cover of an ’80s hard-rock album with Kiss’ makeup, Manowar’s muscles and Meatloaf’s motorcycle. His character, a blue-skinned bounty hunter, only tangentially slots into the plot. Really, Momoa’s massive presence is here to prove that James Gunn was serious when he announced he was hard-resetting DC Comics’ film canon up to 2023’s “Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom.” Momoa as Aquaman is dead. Long live Momoa as Whoever This Guy Is.

Gillespie likes to champion difficult women, from Tonya Harding in “I, Tonya” to the Dalmatian-skinning Disney villain of “Cruella.” Yet as his budgets have mounted, so has the pressure to make his problematic ladies popular with a mass audience. “Supergirl” feels anxious to entertain. The jokes all have the same sense of snarky humor, no matter what species is cracking them. One scene even has a comic slow clap that, in my theater, didn’t get a reaction. The camera and cutting pace refuse to relax. Major set-piece action shots are impossible to follow. You can’t squint past the distracting lens flares.

Alcock’s wildling Supergirl is the one reason to see the film. As in her too-brief role on the “Game of Thrones” prequel “House of the Dragon” and her rollicking cameo at the end of 2025’s “Superman,” the Australian actor is a striking combination of grounded conviction and otherworldly essence, the ideal one-two for a character who plays anti-gravity fetch with her dog. Floating weightless in the stars, her hair unbrushed and bathrobe-like jacket shrugged on, she makes the impossible look casual. (Supergirl’s iconic red-and-blue minidress is so not her style.)

Alas, Krypto the pup is sidelined early on with a whimper, both from him and us. Maybe he’ll get more screen time when the digital animators figure out how to make him look more realistic. (Between the mutt’s anime eyes and that gawky-phony deer in “Disclosure Day,” are CGI creatures getting worse?)

Grief tethers Supergirl to Ruthye, even though they disagree on how to handle it, and it also seems to repel her from Corenswet’s dopey, innocent Clark Kent. There’s rich irony in the personality contrast between the cousins. Her Kryptonian parents raised her to help humanity; his parents intended their son to rule it. But due to twists of fate, she’s the miserable, maladjusted one. The movie has no time to mine the psychology underneath their clash, let alone summon a sniffle for the other pitiful characters who die during this escapade. Perhaps it’s holding that tension back for a sequel, but I’d rather invest in the characters now.

A flashback to Supergirl’s first touchdown on Earth has the awkwardness of a study-abroad student realizing she doesn’t like her host country at all. Despite our planet seeming to have enforced its monoculture on outer space — an extraterrestrial dive bar band even does “The Girl From Ipanema” — Supergirl appreciates little of it besides some product-placement dog treats and, in a forced touch, the pop music on her headphones as well as crammed into the soundtrack next to Claudia Sarne’s gravelly score. I’ll accept this degenerate Supergirl sporting a retro Blondie shirt, but not her willingly choosing to listen to mopey contemporary Earth jams like Rilo Kiley and a twee cover of Jimmy Eat World over, say, Kryptonian death metal.

Still, the production design has imaginatively askew takes on the mundane: gridded jail cells, plodding space buses, clumsy oxygen suits that shimmy on with a satisfying squeak. When Supergirl makes a pit stop at a celestial convenience store, she samples a snack that I’m forced to call poop-corn. If “Supergirl” sells enough of it, hopefully Alcock can rampage again in a more confident sequel that truly cuts loose.

In Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s knotty roller coaster of a feature debut “Leviticus,” about a demon tormenting a pair of queer teenage boys, the fear is more insidious than the external threat of a violent bigot or shunning parent.

In an abandoned mill in their blighted industrial town, quiet new kid Naim (Joe Bird) and brash hunk Ryan (Stacy Clausen) allow a friendly, mischievous connection to turn into something more. But when Naim later secretly observes his new crush fiercely locking lips with another classmate, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), son of a leader in the tight-knit church that Naim’s single mom (Mia Wasikowska) just joined, hurt gets the better of Naim’s instincts and he secretly informs on the pair.

The church’s punishment, however, delivered in front of the congregants, is an eerie ritual performed by a gaunt, severe visitor (Nicholas Hope). Called a “deliverance healer,” his fire-and-brimstone method — making incarnate the title’s Biblical book, regularly used to justify anti-LGBTQ viewpoints — leave Ryan and Hunter writhing in agony. Afterward, Naim, sensing he might have unwittingly set into motion something awful, notices bizarre behavior in the stricken-looking Ryan. When they try to furtively rekindle their passion, it becomes violently clear they are not alone. Or even, it seems, themselves.

The feeling that nowhere is safe is a durable horror concept, the backbone behind such classics as “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “It Follows.” In “Leviticus,” which is expertly paced by editor Nick Fenton, it comes with a flair for open-space unease and unexpected claustrophobia that puts director Chiarella in a long line of savvy Australian mood-setters like Peter Weir and Fred Schepisi. These filmmakers knew how to fold tactile dread into a worthy narrative, rather than treat genre as if it were a kit with instructions.

But most urgently and bleakly, Chiarella is giving religious-based conversion therapy its devilish due as a warping of the soul designed to sow distrust in one’s own desires. He’s careful, however, not to tell a tale that would speak to homophobes. As distressing as their circumstance is, Naim and Ryan are unmistakably positioned as heroic lovers, not victims-to-be. Chiarella takes time between bouts of danger to show affection and intimacy that, in defiance of teen-slasher formula, isn’t immediately penalized with sadism. But their fraught relationship will decidedly keep you nervous, so score one for multilayered storytelling.

Points, too, for the solid casting, from the leads’ tricky pivoting from openness to caginess, to the criminally underseen Wasikowska, who navigates maternal complexities of worry and compassion that confound easy pigeonholing. If anything, the movie could have used more of her, although it’s better overall that “Leviticus” prioritizes Naim and Ryan as queer protagonists caught in a chilling loop of escape and reunion. We already know what’s out there, ready to do harm. This movie’s nail-biting, sorrowful power comes from what internalized destruction looks like.

The blush of first love inside the glow of new friendship is where “Girls Like Girls” works its easygoing charms, but also an affecting sadness. You’d never mistake multihyphenate pop star Hayley Kiyoko’s directorial debut for a groundbreaking queer romance, but sometimes the best summer vibes require only a breezy intoxicant, something made of all the funny feelings, a few of the deeper ones and a lot of heart.

That also describes Kiyoko’s shepherding of her hit 2015 track “Girls Like Girls,” a hooky LGBTQ+ anthem that went from viral music video (which she co-directed) to bestselling YA novel and finally this feature adaptation, written with Chloe Okuno and Stefanie Scott (the original video’s star). “Girls Like Girls” may be conventionally imagined, but there’s an admirable focus on unadorned warmth in Kiyoko’s storytelling: She likes her girls and cares enough to want us to like them, too.

We’re dropped in picturesque rural Oregon, where we find bike-riding new kid in town Coley (appealing newcomer Maya da Costa), who happens upon an energetic crowd of peers at a local diner, then gets asked to join them for a lake excursion (“We don’t bite”) by confident and friendly Sonya (Myra Molloy). When Coley, a shy, watchful sort, gets thrown in the water by obnoxious Trenton (Levon Hawke), she tries to leave, but not before Sonya softens the blow by insisting on a “proper hang” and the exchange of AOL usernames. (Because, oh, yeah, it’s 2006, giving us a refreshingly nostalgic break from the tyranny of smartphones.)

Anyway, SonyeahXOXO and RollieColey87 take quickly to their obvious spark, initially sublimating that deeper attraction through scenes of laughter, teasing, the rush from shoplifted alcohol, bed-sharing and lots of deep gazing. But they also lean into a connection marked by honesty and vulnerability, particularly Coley’s grief over losing her mom and not feeling connected to her widowed dad (Zach Braff). With Sonja Tyspin’s cinematography imbuing an innocent, sensual curiosity, Kiyoko sweetly conveys the awkward thrill of fledgling emotions. One scene in particular, in which Coley explores Sonya’s room, touching everything, hums with the strange excitement of being a specially invited new confidante.

But the day after the pair’s unspoken attraction becomes physical — a scene deftly stretched to “Kiss already!” limits — a confusing tension enters the chat, triggering a tailspin of self-doubt in Coley. A lesser film might have pivoted toward assuring us of a happy makeup, but “Girls Like Girls,” which stays centered in Coley’s POV, understands that at the crux of her pain is an untended self-acceptance that must be addressed first. Da Costa realizes that journey with unforced naturalism, as if the camera just happened to be there to capture it. (Molloy betrays a more studied star wattage, but she’s nevertheless a solid other half.)

Mostly, “Girls Like Girls” wins us over with a singular type of first-film assuredness: a familiar story presented as the most personal reveal ever. If you can’t remember what it was like to try to tiptoe while swooning, your heart barely able to stay in your chest, you were never a teenager.

June 19 (UPI) — Korea Hydro & Nuclear Power, or KHNP, said Thursday that its CEO Kim Hoe-chun has traveled to the Czech Republic to review progress on the construction of two nuclear reactors in the European country.

The state-backed utility noted that Kim took part in a meeting of the Dukovany Steering Committee in Prague alongside South Korea’s Minister of Trade, Industry and Resources Kim Jung-kwan and Czech Deputy Prime Minister Karel Havlicek.

Kim’s visit is timed with the first anniversary of the signing of an $18 billion contract to build two 1,000-megawatt reactors in Dukovany, located around 120 miles southeast of the Czech capital.

Groundbreaking is targeted for 2029, with commercial completion expected by 2037. The South Korean consortium includes such industrial partners as Daewoo E&C and Doosan Enerbility.

The two sides also discussed ways to strengthen bilateral nuclear cooperation, while companies from the two countries signed an engineering support agreement related to the project, according to KHNP.

Kim also toured the manufacturing facilities of Doosan Skoda Power in Plzen, situated roughly 55 miles west of Prague. The Czech turbine manufacturer owned by the Doosan Group is expected to play a key role in the Dukovany program.

“The Dukovany project is a monumental endeavor that symbolizes the strategic partnership between South Korea and the Czech Republic,” Kim said in a statement.

“We will work closely with the Czech government, the project owner, local communities, and Czech companies to make this project a model for the safest and most successful nuclear power plant construction in the world,” he added.

There’s something delightful about plays about grand divas in crisis.

The prima donna in extremis in Pearl Cleage’s “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous,” which is having its Los Angeles premiere at the Geffen Playhouse, has an air of Bette Davis extravagance to her. When Anna Campbell (Charlayne Woodard) struts around her elegant hotel suite in Atlanta, she can’t resist delivering one of Davis’ signature lines: “What a dump!”

She’s not at all dissatisfied with the accommodations. She’s just frustrated that the weather isn’t cooperating with her upcoming outdoor performance and agitated that this might be a bad omen for her big American comeback.

More than 30 years ago, Anna and her manager and trusted companion, Betsy Samson (a formidable Denise Burse), fled to Europe on the heels of a highbrow scandal. Anna made waves when she performed “Naked Wilson,” a protest piece that had her delivering male monologues from August Wilson’s plays while standing stark naked before a divided audience.

The idea was to call attention to the way women have been de-centered in the male canon, but some felt it was sacrilege to subject Wilson’s work to a feminist stunt. Acting opportunities dried up, and Anna high-tailed it to Amsterdam, where her histrionic grandeur was put to good use in European classics.

Charlayne Woodard in “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

Woodard brings Anna to life with a smokey voice, a statuesque presence and an arch demeanor. When her arms are in flamboyant motion, she leaves the impression of a seductive windmill that might slice you to bits if you come too close.

The sumptuous production, directed by LaTanya Richardson Jackson with solidarity for Cleage’s characters, provides a marvelous showcase for Woodward to slink around on Beowulf Boritt’s glamorous five-star set in costume designer Emilio Sosa’s inspired Pucci-esque outfits. Her Anna doesn’t do much but give attitude. Ah, but what delicious attitude she gives!

Cleage’s play, it must be said, is hamstrung with exposition. More time is devoted to setting up the dramatic situation than to activating it. Author of “Blues for an Alabama Sky,” a 1995 abortion drama still ahead of its time, Cleage is telling a backstage story that’s clearly close to home. She’s also spinning an intergenerational tale of Black women groping past their initial distrust to a deeper understanding of what they have in common.

The intentions are noble and the themes are handled with admirable complexity, but the writing is sluggish. The plot is like an old car whose engine just refuses to start on a cold winter morning.

Anna has returned to Atlanta to headline a festival that is rebooting her “Naked Wilson” piece. She’s worried about disrobing at her age, but it turns out that she’s only being honored for her work. A much younger and far less experienced performer has been cast in the part that made her a cause célèbre.

Denise Burse, from left, Deborah Joy Winans, Charlayne Woodard and Olivia Washington in “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

Precious Watson (Olivia Washington), who goes by Pete, has not only never performed in a Wilson play but she’s never even seen one on stage. She’s a stripper whose only real dramatic experience has come from the adult entertainment industry. (Don’t call her a porn star, not because she’s ashamed of the films she made but because she’s too modest about her screen credits.)

Anna, her hauteur hardening like a protective shell, is aghast. She’s also fearful about her future. She’s run out of money, and this festival was to have launched her return to the U.S.

Betty, whose fate is tied to Anna’s, has been dangling the prospect of a national tour. But when Kate Hughes (an appealingly grounded Deborah Joy Winans), the producer of the festival, hears of this idea, she thinks it’s completely unrealistic.

“I love Anna,” she tells Betty. “ I’m honoring Anna, but there just isn’t an audience for the kind of presentation you’re talking about.”

Time marches on, and one era’s sensational renegade becomes a footnote in the next. But Anna can’t believe that all she holds sacred — study, discipline, seriousness, commitment — is of little value in the social media world.

Deborah Joy Winans, left, and Denise Burse in “Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

Pete (whom Washington plays with impressive self-possession) doesn’t seem at all bothered about what she doesn’t know. Anna keeps prefacing her remarks with the words “no offense,” but Pete can’t help being offended by her pointed disdain. Their standoff energizes the play, but this jolt of momentum comes a little too late.

“Angry, Raucous, and Shamelessly Gorgeous” is not just the title. It’s also a plot summary. The gorgeous part is the richness of Cleage’s characters, radiantly realized by all four actors under Jackson’s warm direction.

Cleage gives the women plenty of substance, though her novelistic mode — more telling than showing — deprives her drama of style. The elegant staging tries to compensate, but the performers have to rely a little too heavily on their own charms to make up the difference in a play that swerves unexpectedly at the end into a cutesy fairy tale.

For whatever reason, I never reviewed the first season of “Sugar,” which I’d stopped watching before its late-season big reveal — the detective (Colin Farrell as John Sugar) is an alien. Had that happened earlier in the story I might have hung on, but strictly as a production, I’d found its brand of neo-noir to be mannered, gimmicky, obvious, overdirected (by Fernando Meirelles, the Brazilian director of the fine “City of Men”) and, as you may have surmised, off-putting.

This is by way of announcing that the second season arrives Friday on Apple TV and that I like it very much. The stylistic eccentricities have been dialed back, including the use of old Hollywood film clips to reflect the action and possibly the thoughts of its main character, a cinephile from space, who is both practicing and enacting the work of a private detective. He reads American Cinematographer; he takes the Paramount studio tour, then takes it again.

One might navigate the new season without having watched the first, though at least reading an online synopsis. Sam Catlin (“Preacher”) has taken over as showrunner from series creator Mark Protosevich; the tone is lighter, the plot less perverse. Under new director of photography Marshall Adams, the camerawork, formerly too quirky by half — a mishmash of lenses and film stocks and canted angles — has settled down, as has the editing, enhancing the story by letting it breathe and staying out of the way of Farrell’s singular performance — the series’ distinguishing feature and warm heart.

For all his influences, Det. Sugar is the one character who can’t easily be traced back to an earlier model. As detectives go, he’s unusually sweet, optimistic, diplomatic, willing to give a villain a way out, closer to the Man Who Fell to Earth than to Sam Spade. He loves animals, and they love him.

Farrell, who also narrates in a soft voice, often wears a look of shy incomprehension, as if a beat behind in translating the world around him, a stranger in a strange land.

Using his mild telekinetic powers, Det. John Sugar (Colin Farrell) makes a tennis ball float in the air, to the delight of some dogs in “Sugar.”

(Apple TV)

As aliens go, he is also something of a lightweight, demonstrating some mild telekinetic abilities (making a tennis ball float to entertain a pack of dogs, stirring the ice cubes in his drink) and the ability to speak any language, which underscores his empathetic nature. He makes friends with cab drivers, tour guides and security guards; as an “immigrant,” he appreciates immigrants. He’ll do the dishes for a woman too grief-stricken to attend to them, explain to a man who hates his own name that it’s a reference to Bogart’s character in “Casablanca” and a sign of his mother’s love. He can drink as much alcohol as he likes — his metabolism keeps him from getting drunk — which makes him indefatigable company in a bar, but he is horribly allergic to cinnamon. Remember that, if you’re ever forced to defend yourself from an ET.

Where classic noir detectives tend to be middle-class sorts a job or two ahead of losing their office, Sugar has a lot of money, whether saved up from earlier high-priced cases — his Season 1 client is a rich old man ripped from “The Big Sleep” — or piped down from space. He wears expensive suits, lives in a bungalow in a high-end Los Angeles hotel but also buys a house in the Hollywood Hills because its view allows him to spy on a dodgy character from Season 1; and drives a Nassau Blue 1966 convertible Corvette that he blithely parks in bad neighborhoods with the top down. When the car actually is stolen in this season’s opening episode, it brings him into contact with Val (Sasha Calle, Supergirl in “The Flash” movie), a spunky, punky petty criminal who negotiates its return and whom Sugar makes his assistant; I wouldn’t say Calle is underused, but I would have liked to see more of her.

Sugar came to Earth as part of a group of “thousands,” mixing among humans incognito just to observe them, for benign alien reasons, like Starship Enterprise on its five-year mission. (We get a flashback to Sugar’s first days on Earth, before he acquired the suits and the car and settled on a profession.) At the end of Season 1, their cover being blown, and humans being famously weird when it comes to extraterrestrials — you’ve seen the movies — they return home en masse, except for Sugar. He’s still working a missing persons case of his own, looking for his sister, hopefully alive, somewhere on the planet. And he’s becoming more of an Earthman — the dangers of assimilation are a specific Season 1 plot point. On top of that, like a lot of people, he just loves L.A.

Laura Donnelly as flirtatious Charlotte in “Sugar.”

(Jason LaVeris / Apple TV)

And then there’s Charlotte (Laura Donnelly), whom he meets in the bar of his hotel; it doesn’t take a degree in postwar genre fiction to recognize that there may be something fishy, perhaps “fatale,” about her. But like Sugar, we’re content to put that question off as long as possible, in the hopes that maybe this relationship will be as uncomplicated as we’d like it to be, and a tonic for Sugar’s loneliness. (He no longer has his dog, even.) He regularly gets on the subspace shortwave looking for any others of his kind left on Earth.

The new season will get around to that question, though the alien and earthly plot lines are kept on separate tracks. Most of the time “Sugar” functions as a straightforward compelling detective story, as the protagonist hunts for Ji Moon (Raymond Lee), the missing junkie brother of Danny Moon (Jin Ha), a talented young Korean American prizefighter on the first rung of the ladder to success. (Sugar is working pro bono, not needing the money but very much needing something to do.) It brings him into the orbit of drug dealers and crooked police officers and through an array of Southland locations, including the Beverly Center — finally, a good use for that place — Koreatown, the Vista Theater and the Huntington Gardens.

While there’s nothing particularly novel about that plot, it pulls you along, and the series as a whole is orchestrated to make one care about the characters and worry over their fates. Vivid minor characters — there are pro turns from Shea Whigham, Laura San Giacomo and Mireille Enos — make the story live. All in all, a good meal that leaves no bitter aftertaste.

TOY STORY 5

(PG) 102 minutes

★★★★☆

IT’S more than 30 years since the first Toy Story film changed the way we look at the contents of an old toy box.

And it might seem that after four films — and a pretty dire Buzz Lightyear spin-off in 2022 — that the story of toys could have been packed up and put in the loft for ever.

But, no. There’s always room for another play.

And Woody, Buzz and their motley crew realise there’s a new enemy sucking the imagination out of their beloved children’s minds: Technology.

The film focuses on good old rootin’-tootin’ Cowgirl Jessie (voiced by Joan Cusack), who is favoured by her owner, Bonnie.

DULCIE PEARCE

Disclosure Day is punctured with plot holes and one-dimensional characters

DULCIE PEARCE

There’s plenty in silly, fun Masters Of The Universe to entertain the family

The kid loves nothing more than playing games where Jessie and Buzz Lightyear get hitched.

Sadly, the neighbourhood kids don’t want to join in with Bonnie. In fact, they laugh at her suggestions.

When Jessie goes on a mission to persuade them otherwise, she watches as they all sit staring at devices, like little zombies.

“That’s not playing!” she exclaims. “They’re not even looking up.”

In a misguided act of kindness, Bonnie’s parents buy her a Lilypad (Greta Lee) — a kid-friendly tablet that she can use to “connect” with other children. And, as you can imagine, this does the opposite.

Bonnie becomes addicted to the screen, while shunning her toys, losing her imagination and getting cyber-bullied by the girls in her class.

So, it becomes Jessie and the crew’s job to get her away from the screen and the misery it brings. Which, as any parent will know, is a near impossible task.

There is also another story running alongside it involving a shipment of new Buzz Lightyears trying to find their way to a star.

At the same time, Woody has to be brought into the pack as he’s living on the outside with the rebellious Bo Peep.

The brilliant dynamic between competitive pals Woody and Buzz is hugely missed here — as is Randy Newman’s superb theme tune, You’ve Got A Friend In Me.

This time, Taylor Swift’s original song, I Knew It, I Knew You, is played at the credits.

And Jessie’s relentless energy also becomes a little grating.

However, it’s great to see the gang back together on the big screen, and this outing has enough entertainment and imagination to make sure you won’t check your phone throughout.

EFFI O BLAENAU

(15) 90mins

★★★★★

THIS hard-hitting drama is adapted from Gary Owen’s one-woman play Iphigenia In Splott, which transforms his doomed Greek tragedy character into a working-class woman.

Effi (Leisa Gwenllian) has a bleak life, spending her days drinking vodka from a mug with her mates and eating Pot Noodles in a grim house in the Welsh valleys.

Her joy comes from club nights in Llandudno, where she meets handsome soldier Lee (Tom Rhys Harries) and the pair have a passionate one-night stand.

After he ghosts her, Effi discovers she’s pregnant.

But in the poorly maintained hospital in the poverty-stricken area, an NHS maternity care horror story then changes her life forever.

This Welsh-language film is a breathtaking work by director Marc Evans.

It strikes the perfect balance of grit and heart to make the subject matter compelling.

Gwenllian’s performance as the unpredictable and broken Effi is a masterclass in how to make an initially unlikeable character be- come someone you want to throw your arms around and care for.

FAMILIAR TOUCH

(12) 90mins

★★★☆☆

IN her debut feature film, director Sarah Friedland brings to life a moving story about a woman with dementia who is placed in a retirement community.

We meet clever, stylish Ruth (Kathleen Chalfant) as she’s making a delicious meal with immaculate precision. Yet at one point, she pops a piece of toast on to the dish-drying rack.

Her son then arrives – whose name she needs a reminder of – and she wonders about his profession and acts as though they may be on a date.

But he is there to take her to an assisted-living home.

Ruth has significant short-term memory loss, though she can still reel off the recipes with precision.

She enters with little protest, apart from telling the carer, in front of her son, that she never wanted children.

Chalfant’s performance is brilliant and has none of the clichés of the elderly.

Ruth is still a sassy, flirty woman who really knows her own mind even though it is betraying her.

This gentle film has a slow pace and the long, silent scenes often ask a lot of the audience – and there’s no rush in unravelling the story.

But its subtle characterisation makes it compelling and somehow uplifting.

TOY STORY 5

(PG) 102 minutes

★★★★☆

IT’S been over 30 years since Disney’s Pixar changed the way we all look at the contents of an old toy box forever, with the creation of 1995’s Toy Story.

And it might seem that after four films – and a pretty dire Buzz Lightyear spin-off in 2022 – that the story of toys might have been packed up and put in the loft forever.

But, no. There’s always room for another play.

And Woody, Buzz and their motley crew realise there’s a new enemy sucking the imagination out of their beloved children’s minds: technology.

This film focuses on rootin’-tootin’ Cowgirl Jessie (Joan Cusack), who is favoured by her owner, Bonnie.

DULCIE PEARCE

Disclosure Day is punctured with plot holes and one-dimensional characters

DULCIE PEARCE

There’s plenty in silly, fun Masters Of The Universe to entertain the family

The kid loves nothing more than playing games where Jessie and Buzz Lightyear get hitched.

Sadly, the neighbourhood kids don’t want to join in with Bonnie. In fact, they laugh at her suggestions.

And when Jessie goes on a mission to persuade them otherwise, she watches as they all sit staring at devices, like little zombies.

“That’s not playing!” she exclaims. “They’re not even looking up.” In a misguided act of kindness, Bonnie’s parents buy her a Lilypad (Greta Lee) – a kid-friendly tablet that she can ‘connect’ with other children on.

And, as you can imagine, this does the opposite – making Bonnie addicted to the screen – while shunning her toys, losing her imagination and becoming gently cyber-bullied by the girls in her class.

So, it becomes Jessie and the crew’s job to get her away from the screen and the misery it brings. Which, as any parent will know, is a near impossible task.

There is also another story running alongside it involving a shipment of new Buzz Lightyears trying to find their way to a star.

Also, Woody has to be brought into the pack as he’s still living on the outside with the rebellious Bo Peep.

These multiple storylines make Toy Story 5 disjointed in places, and while plenty of fresh ideas are shown, it keeps repeating the idea of kids growing out of playing with toys.

The brilliant dynamic between the competitive pals Woody and Buzz is missed – as is Randy Newman’s superb theme tune You’ve Got a Friend in Me (this time Taylor Swift’s original song “I Knew It, I Knew You” is played at the credits).

And Jessie’s relentless energy becomes a little grating.

However, it’s great to see the gang back on the big screen – and it has enough entertainment, imagination and heart to make sure you won’t check your phone throughout.

Toy Story 5 is out on Friday.