review

If we are lucky enough to survive into our 20s, and have attained some degree of adult consciousness, we all will have lived a coming-of-age story. It’s a powerful, relatable basis for fiction or memoir or some combination of the two. Poignant. Piquant. It might be hilarious or depressing or, probably, both at once. Stories of first times, of big feelings imperfectly grasped, of life coming into focus for better or worse. Engaging with them as a reader or viewer, we look back on who we were, who we wanted to be, who we wish we hadn’t been. I get a little misty remembering my own clumsy progress through that flower-filled minefield. Remind me never to tell you about it sometime.

Television likes a coming-of-age story, and has logged some great ones — “My So-Called Life,” “Never Have I Ever,” “Freaks and Geeks,” “Everybody Hates Chris” — along with … some other ones. Premiering Wednesday are two series focusing on characters in their late teens; while stylistically, and one would say morally, miles apart, they nevertheless cover some of the same ground. There are things you can’t avoid growing up, wherever your life is set.

A rich-kids drama with a side of serial murder set in 1981 Los Angeles, FX‘s “The Shards” plants itself at the intersection of Bret Easton Ellis, whose 2023 “autofictional” novel it’s based on, and co-creator Ryan Murphy, in one of his bloodier moods, amplifying each other’s taste for the sensational and surfaces. Set on a lake in Canada, Prime Video’s “Sterling Point,” from Megan Park (“My Old Ass”), unrolls like a leisurely indie film; there will not be blood.

Kaia Gerber, from left, Igby Rigney, Hayes Warner, Homer Gere and Graham Campbell in FX’s “The Shards.”

(FX)

Igby Rigney plays Ellis in “The Shards,” narrating from the future. Bret shares with his authorial namesake an avocation and a love for Joan Didion (“Like all aspiring writers of my generation, I wanted to write like Didion. With restraint, economy and total control. If i could write like that, I could be like that. Or so I thought.”), as well as a manuscript titled “Less Than Zero,” though here it’s a screen treatment rather than the 1985 novel that made the author famous at 21. (One character will call it “brilliant.”)

As did Real Bret, TV Bret attends the private Buckley School in Sherman Oaks, where he is one in a small clique of rich, beautiful cool kids: Susan Reynolds (Kaia Gerber, daughter of Cindy Crawford and Rande Gerber) and Debbie Schaffer (Hayes Warner) in contrasting shades of Veronica and Betty; and Susan’s jock boyfriend, Thom (Graham Campbell). Debbie is Bret’s girlfriend, though he is also actively, if secretly gay, and has a kind of thing for Susan. They are shallow, if sad, nostalgic for their own untrammeled youth; they still have a little innocence left to lose. Because Bret is kind to marginal characters, beneath the notice of his friends, from whom he mentally distances himself by virtue of observing them (he’s Nick Carraway in Wayfarers), he reads as slightly more sympathetic, if no less tedious, and possibly more problematic. “I told myself I was only going to chronicle the decadence,” says narrator Bret, “an excuse I’d return to many times in my career.”

Into this shakily ordered universe comes handsome, charismatic, mysterious new kid Robert Mallory (Homer Gere, son of Richard, with Carey Lowell), whom Bret remembers seeing at a screening of “The Shining” a year before, though Robert denies having been there. Soon he has cast a spell over Bret’s friends, stirring in Bret twin feelings of obsession and competition: “I smelled him before I saw him — it was cedar and sandalwood as if he had just walked through a forest of citrus,” but also, “He was up to something and it was up to me to find out exactly what that was.”

Around the same time that Robert arrives, a serial killer, eventually dubbed the Trawler, comes to town. (Happily, we see only the elaborately staged, possibly satanic results of their work, not the process.) Who this person is, and what less than random reasons might explain the murders, remains a mystery at least through the nine out of 10 episodes available to review. But Bret points a finger so often at Robert that, by the mathematics of television drama, one can only believe him innocent. Still, no idea.

It’s a world from which adults are almost entirely missing, and when they are not, they are disappointing, or trouble. Significantly, there are Wes Bentley as Debbie’s skeezy movie producer father and Evan Rachel Wood as Debbie’s mother, a narcotized failed actor straight out of “Valley of the Dolls.” Jordan Roth plays Bentley’s somewhat sinister, sometimes helpful right hand kitted out post-glam Bowie style.

To be perfectly honest, if one set out to create a show I would be constitutionally disposed not to care for, this is it, though I allow that this is also exactly a show some people would be born to love. It’s often absurd and always melodramatic — not in itself a criticism — but if you’re in the market for a slick miniseries about cocaine-sniffing kids (and adults), murder, animal mutilation, sex and sports cars in New Wave L.A., with cameos from Hamburger Hamlet and Orange Julius and an excellent selection of period songs on the soundtrack, you can’t do better than this.

Ella Rubin, left, and Bo Bragason in Prime Video’s “Sterling Point.”

(Sabrina Lantos / Prime Video)

“Sterling Point,” on the other hand, is just my cup of Canadian Maple Syrup Soda. (It’s a thing.)

Ella Rubin plays Annie Jacobson, and like the kids in “The Shards,” we meet her suspended between her junior and senior years of high school, facing a summer she had planned to fill with more school. “You’re 17,” says her knuckleheaded, yet strangely perceptive twin brother Connor (Keen Ruffalo, son of Mark), “you act like you’re 30,” suggesting instead a period of “just going bug wild.”

Then a letter from a lawyer arrives, and it transpires that their maternal grandfather, whom they never knew, has left them, among other things, an island in Ontario’s Muskoka Lakes district. (Their mother died when the twins were 2.) Annie leaves their father (Jay Duplass) a misdirecting Post-It note — she knows he’s been lying to her about her grandfather — and scurries off to pierce the heart of this mystery, which comes from an incomplete instruction to “find her.” (She’s a rich girl. Scurrying from New York to rural Canada doesn’t require a second thought.)

Arriving by seaplane, Annie meets Ellis (Jacob Whiteduck-Lavoie), a townie working for Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s marina owner, Joe, who carries himself like a man with a secret. Ellis, a sweet guy not averse to skimming a little off the top when dealing with moneyed customers — it’s a summer getaway for the rich — takes an immediate shine to Annie. This will be complicated by the coincidental appearance of Rory (Daniel Quinn-Toye), a former piano prodigy Annie knows from New York, who’s in residence with his mother (Missi Pyle, ever a treat to see), who always seems just a little bit drunk and thinks nothing of pouring one out for the kids. (Adult presence is minimal.) There are posh parties, through which some of the young characters pass, though no one is doing cocaine or getting murdered. (There is pot and underage drinking.)

The crew is filled out by Oona (Bo Bragason), a sort of seafaring vagabond who lives on a boat with her 12-year-old sister Maple (Mabel Strachan), and Ramona (Amélie Hoeferle, terrific) an angry local returning after some time away, and possibly presenting the answer to a riddle.

What makes “Sterling Point” work so beautifully is its rare, real, unhurried sense of of time; it stretches out the way days do when you’re young, a sense heightened by the fact that Annie speaks twice as fast and as much as anyone else in the series. (It’s that New York energy.) Though there are some low-key melodramatic plot points, the show feels diaristic. It isn’t that the stakes are low, or that conflict is nonexistent, but that the drama is driven by issues of connection, identity, love and longing. (As in “The Shards,” there’s a scene in which someone who likes someone discovers them liking someone else — but who hasn’t been there.)

The series emanates a sense of urgency without cooking up abnormally dramatic situations. There is a lot of conversation, which, indeed, is what takes up a large portion of teenage life. One couldn’t exactly call “Sterling Point” unglamorous, since this is an attractive green and blue world — all that water makes the show refreshing to watch in a heat wave — and the cast is good-looking, in interesting ways, chosen, I would guess, not for perfection but for soulfulness. Who wouldn’t want to live here?

After three years, “Ted Lasso” has returned to the pitch. Did it need to? The third season finale, which seemed until now to be a series finale, brought most every character’s arc to a satisfying, credible conclusion — the less satisfying ones were just as credible — while pointing to a future you were free to imagine, or think nothing more about. Or you could write fan fiction. (People do.) I loved the show, but its absence has not been a painful one.

Anyway, it’s back, beginning Wednesday on Apple TV, and I am glad enough. Strictly speaking, it’s a new adventure, as one Indiana Jones movie might follow another, with Jason Sudeikis’ title character returning to Richmond to manage a new women’s soccer team, a project raised way back at the end of Season 3, and which now has “been three years in the making.”

Where are we now? Star player Jamie Tartt has departed the show all the way to Barcelona; kit man turned coach turned competition turned kit man Nate Shelley is nowhere to be seen. But as much may be said of the whole of AFC Richmond, apart from Roy Kent (Brett Goldstein), who took over as manager when Ted returned to Kansas City, Mo., to spend more time with son Henry (Grant Feely, replacing Gus Turner), and Coach Beard (Brendan Hunt), who has turned into an uncommunicative mass of hair. This is not at all that team’s story, though certain fans within (and perhaps without) the world of the series might prefer that it was.

Four episodes out of 10 have been made available for review. The first is something of a hurdle, bogged down in contrivances to get Ted back to Richmond from Kansas City, where he has been “trying to help [Henry] become the best version of himself.” The question is whether Ted, working part time as the assistant manager of a supermarket, is living the best version of himself. The answer, as everyone but Ted recognizes, is no. Naturally, he spreads sunshine all over the place, being who he is, but this is not the future you would have written for him, nor one suggested by the third season finale, where we saw him coaching Henry’s soccer team. But it gives him a place to come back from.

Hannah Waddingham, left, and Juno Temple in “Ted Lasso.”

And so club owner Rebecca Welton (Hannah Waddingham), director of operations Leslie Higgins (Jeremy Swift) and queen of all marketing Keeley Jones (Juno Temple) show up on Ted’s doorstep to propose that he manage the Lady Greyhounds, “to lay the foundations of the Richmond culture that you created with our men.” (He has not been checking his messages, apparently, necessitating this in-person, three-person visit.)

In addition to dragging the pieces into place, much of the opening episode seems meant to satisfy an impulse to show off Kansas City — Sudeikis grew up in that area. There are multiple excursions for barbecue, each resulting in stained clothes for Rebecca. There’s a trip to CPKC Stadium, “the first privately funded stadium in the world solely for pro women’s soccer,” to see the Kansas City Current play.

Finding the American Jazz Museum closed, Higgins (earlier established as a double bassist) wanders across 18th Street to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, where a friendly docent (Milan Carter) schools him on its history, including a long tribute to pitcher Satchel Paige, with oddly interpolated documentary footage. (Higgins ventures that their experience is “quite similar to how women in England weren’t allowed to play football for years,” an idea his Black host shoots down with a well-aimed, “Mmmmm.”)

“They didn’t do it for fame or fortune. They did it ‘cause to not play would have been unacceptable,” he’s told. Or, as former AFC Richmond striker Dani Rojas said of soccer: “Football is life.”

Things improve in the more natural second episode (and improve from there), which takes us finally back to Richmond. Ted’s only real objection to leaving Kansas City is almost too easily overcome by suggesting that Henry and his mother, Michelle (Andrea Anders), the ex- but not estranged wife, come with him. Having won over all doubters over the first three seasons, Ted needs someone new to charm, and that will be coach Alice Chilton (Tanya Reynolds), who had hoped for the manager’s job. She’s a little rain cloud of a person, dour and humorless, though perhaps rightly offended by being passed over. Reynolds, who’ll certainly emerge as the season’s star, makes a big impression by holding things in, acting almost entirely with her eyes, so that when she cracks a smile in spite of herself, it registers as huge.

Jude Mack as player Boots in “Ted Lasso.”

Among the players, our attention is directed to Boots (Jude Mack), whom we notice because of her short-cropped hair, and because she’s the goalkeeper, and has a quirk — though she’s a powerhouse, “none of the big clubs will touch her because she won’t wear gloves.” (She prefers to keep things tactile. “What’s the point of life if you’re not feeling it?” Boots asks in another of the show’s sampler sentiments.) Lizzie (Faye Marsay) stands out because she arrives to an open call with a cute child in tow and is older and more mature than the others, Gemma (Abbie Hern), by virtue of having unresolved old business with Alice, and having, like Ted, to be talked onto the team.

The underdog aspect of it all will be emphasized, of course — a new team, in a money-losing second division, with second-rate locker room accommodations, seasoned with sexism that may or may not reflect actual British attitudes toward women’s soccer. Feminist themes, always present vis-a-vis Rebecca and Keeley, not unreasonably take the foreground, with Rebecca overcorrecting the thought that she might not be one — a funny conversation with Harriet Walter as her mother comes out of this — and Tracey Ullman arriving in Episode 4 to be badass.

By the end of that episode, there will have been enough sweet, celebratory moments to have rewarded your investment. (I gauge this scientifically by how often I choke up.) Where the story is going in any substantial way, other than, you know, win games, maybe get Roy and Keeley back together, do something interesting with Henry and/or Michelle, it’s too soon to tell. I assume it’s going somewhere, but we’ll find that out together.

Who pissed off Ariana Grande? Well, who didn’t?

On her new album, “Petal,” the pop superstar opens the spigot on what she’s described as an “unfiltered rage” to blast any number of feckless exes, a prying public obsessed with her body and her personal life — and not least herself for allowing anyone the power to hurt her in the first place.

“Tell me who’s to blame — is it the people or myself?” she wonders against the icy synth stabs of the title track.

Her answer, delivered as a sneering little aside: “Yeah.”

“Petal” marks a dramatic shift from Grande’s previous LP, 2024’s “Eternal Sunshine,” a tender and melancholy electro-pop collection that laid out a kind of emotional philosophy of heartbreak. She recorded the new album with the same team — the hit-making writer-producers Ilya Salmanzadeh and Max Martin — but here they go for a murkier, more percussive sound to match Grande’s dark mood.

Tolling electric guitar accompanies her in “Freak” as she muses on “all of the life I’ve been denied,” while “Oh Well” puts a jittery U.K. garage beat under her sneering farewell to an unnamed antagonist: “Good luck on your way to hell.” In “Hate That I Made You Love Me,” which debuted at No. 1 on Billboard’s Hot 100 when Grande released it as “Petal’s” lead single, she sings, “I’ve held your projections when you’ve felt so insecure,” over a trudging groove that moves like a funeral march.

These downcast observations arrive at what would seem to be a professional high point for Grande, who recently wrapped her extended stay in the “Wicked”-verse and who’s in the middle of a tour that’s drawn adoring fans to arenas across the country.

But perhaps that’s the point: Almost every song on “Petal” can be interpreted two ways — as a story about a broken relationship between two people or as a tale about the toxic connection between an idol and her audience. (More than once did this record make me think about Taylor Swift’s “The Tortured Poets Department.”)

“My pain is music — do you hear me everywhere?” Grande asks in “Warning Signs (Interlude),” which climaxes with a pithy diagnosis of pop stardom in the parasocial age: “You don’t deserve me / You know you don’t, you never have / But I want you to feel me / I wish someone could hear me.”

Complaints about celebrity can be pretty tedious, of course; sometimes it feels as though famous pop singers have forgotten how to write about anything other than life in the social-media fishbowl.

Yet “Petal” gets some creative traction from how Grande chooses to use her voice; instead of belting, she rarely rises above a whisper, which gives a spooky, slightly creepy quality to her thoughts on being endlessly scrutinized. The airiness of her singing provides some comedy too in a hard-edged song such as “Like I Do,” where after noting that “all that s— talk keeps me well-fed,” she tells whoever needs to hear it, “No one f— you like I do.”

Having gotten all this off her chest, Grande finishes the album by allowing in some light: Over a zippy new wave arrangement, “Bad Thing (Bunny Hop)” ponders the renewing energy of a fresh romance — or maybe a rekindled old one — while the glistening “Nowhere, Nobody” has her taking deep breaths with a lover she’s convinced might finally give her what she needs.

“Convinced” is probably the wrong word.

“Hard to believe in a perfect ending,” she admits, “But that’s all right.”

In a book nerd battle that’s become so epic, even The Onion has satirized the saga, acclaimed author Susan Orlean has grabbed the mic, and Emily Wilson is admitting she has one regret in her review of “The Odyssey.”

Earlier this week, Joyce Carol Oates panned Wilson’s critique of Christopher Nolan’s big-screen adaptation, and now acclaimed author and journalist Susan Orlean has entered the chat.

“I loved The Odyssey (saw it twice) and love any piece of art that gets people talking and reading and thinking,” she posted on Threads on Thursday. “Emily Wilson is being a bit of a jerk.”

Choice words from Orlean, but she knows a thing or two about film adaptations: her 1998 book “The Orchid Thief” inspired Spike Jonze’s 2002 film “Adaptation” starring Nicolas Cage and Meryl Streep (who played Orlean), and her 1998 article “Life’s Swell” was brought to screen as “Blue Crush,” also in 2002.

“Why can’t things be the things they are and if they’re different from their source material that’s their new form and their own thing and I SAY THIS FROM EXPERIENCE,” she added in a separate post.

The ire stems from a biting 4,200-word takedown of “The Odyssey” penned by classicist Wilson, who translated Homer’s poem in 2017.

In early interviews discussing the film, Nolan referenced Wilson’s translation, which subsequently skyrocketed in sales. A representative for Audible told The Times on Wednesday that, year over year, purchases of Wilson’s “Odyssey” translation were up by more than 600% across Audible’s U.S., U.K. and Canadian marketplaces.

Wilson’s review, published in the London Review of Books, essentially dubbed Nolan’s film a dud for academics with taste and a blockbuster hit for virgins who like special effects that go “Boom!”

“Nolan’s Odyssey lacks many of the elements that make the poem great. It has nothing convincing to say about time, memory, history, war, or about the relationship between one warrior’s glorious return and the lives of his family, adversaries, comrades, friends and neighbours,” she wrote. “It lacks psychological, emotional, political and ethical depth. Its narrative structure is gimmicky. The writing is abysmal. None of the characters has convincing motivation for their actions or words. There are no sex scenes, and all the food looks horrible.”

Pulitzer Prize finalist Oates, like Orlean, is also team Nolan. “Her tone of dismissal & haughty superiority strike a sour note,” Oates said of Wilson’s review in a post on X. Oates added that rather than Wilson disagreeing with “interpretations of Homer in a collegial manner,” she benefited from Nolan’s film and then attacked it.

Wilson’s review went so viral it crashed the London Review of Books website for a few hours on Monday. On the heels of the missive’s publication, Wilson posted on Bluesky that an earlier draft of the essay was actually more cutting than the version that went live.

“Was I too mean? Or not mean enough? I went through my first draft and tried to take out the snark,” she wrote. “To quote the great poet: ‘Though much is taken, much remains… That which we are, we are.’”

She added in the same thread: “The oddest thing about the response to this essay is people who say it’s ‘personal’. You can disagree about some or all of it! I may well be wrong! But it’s not ‘personal’ to analyze a film or other work of art, even negatively. Criticism is more than ‘Hurray!’ or ‘Hiss!’”

One criticism Wilson admits she regrets in retrospect is her take on Nolan’s race-neutral casting. In the review she wrote that while the casting launched a culture war, it wasn’t actually progressive. She likened the characters portrayed by Zendaya, Lupita Nyong’o, Himesh Patel, Corey Antonio Hawkins and Travis Scott to “versions of the Black best friend, whose only role in the drama is to provide aid to the white protagonist.”

On Bluesky, she wrote, “In this piece, I regret the paragraph about the uses of the POC actors – who are all great, but IMO under-utilized (and why couldn‘t Himesh Patel be Odysseus instead?) I still think the film largely wastes its strong cast, but I framed it badly.”

The Federal Communications Commission has demanded for months that ABC prove its stations deserve to stay on the air — a proceeding with no precedent in the last half-century. This week, the network delivered a sharp retort, accusing the agency of waging a campaign of political retribution.

“The retaliation against ABC is a signal to every media company in the country: accommodate the Administration’s view of what news coverage should look like or pay the price,” Disney’s attorneys wrote in the 109-page filing.

ABC has enlisted prominent elected officials, community organizations and seasoned litigators for the 1st Amendment showdown that could ultimately reach the U.S. Supreme Court.

The Burbank entertainment giant’s combative stance comes after the FCC, led by Chairman Brendan Carr, took the rare step this spring of demanding that Disney defend the broadcast licenses of its eight ABC stations — including KABC-TV Channel 7 in Los Angeles — years before the permits were set to expire.

The government’s move represents a significant threat to Disney because the loss of licenses would hobble the ABC network by forcing its largest stations off the air. Other ABC stations at risk include those in San Francisco, Fresno, Houston, Philadelphia and New York.

The FCC is expected to make a determination next month. It could require ABC to defend the stations in a hearing or before the commission.

The FCC, in a statement, defended its inquiry and hinted that it may go further.

“For decades, Americans of all stripes have been subsidizing broadcast media to the tune of many billions of dollars by giving TV stations free use of a valuable, public resource — the airwaves,” an FCC spokesperson said in a statement.

“Broadcasters are required by law to operate in the public interest — not in the narrow or partisan interests of a political party,” the spokesperson said. “The FCC is going to hold broadcasters accountable to the full extent of the law, regardless of any disinformation campaign that some of them may choose to run.”

ABC accused the FCC of overreach.

“The FCC has spent the last 18 months searching for some pretext for revoking the stations’ licenses,” ABC wrote in the filing. “The Commission has found none, because the stations easily meet the standard for license renewal.”

Disney‘s attorneys cited the unusual nature of the proceedings, linking the FCC’s action to Trump’s dislike of certain ABC network programs. The FCC launched its review in late April — one day after the president lashed out at ABC after late-night comedian Jimmy Kimmel made a joke about Trump’s health and First Lady Melania Trump.

Until this spring, the FCC had not called for an early license review in more than 50 years.

“For the first time in history, the Federal Communications Commission has ordered an entire group of local television stations … to undergo simultaneous license renewal proceedings well before their current licenses expire,” Disney’s attorneys wrote.

The network asked the FCC to dismiss its review.

“This is as clearcut an example of retaliation as one could imagine,” ABC said in the filing. Damage has been done even if the FCC stops short of revoking the licenses, the network said.

“The mere investigation and the threat of finding a violation are sufficient: ‘the value of a sword of Damocles is that it hangs — not that it drops,’” ABC wrote.

The FCC has previously said the review grew out of an inquiry it launched early last year to scrutinize Disney’s internal diversity, equity and inclusion programs to see if they violated federal anti-discrimination laws — part of an expansive Trump-led campaign against DEI initiated as soon as he returned to the White House.

This year, the FCC opened a separate inquiry over whether ABC’s “The View” should keep an exemption granted to news programs so they are not obligated to provide equal airtime for opponents of various political candidates. The FCC had given “The View” the exemption in 2002.

Carr also has criticized ABC for not televising Trump’s live prime-time speech earlier this month to vent his grievances over past elections. Carr told reporters ABC’s decision could factor into the station license review.

By calling for the early review, the FCC allowed petitioners and ordinary residents to chime in on the stations’ operations and ABC network programming.

By Wednesday night’s deadline, the FCC had received more than 153,000 public comments. An estimated 96% of respondents wrote to support their local ABC station, the company said, including L.A. County Sheriff Robert Luna, L.A. Police Chief Jim McDonnell and Riverside County Sheriff Chad Bianco.

In his letter, Luna said KABC — which has operated in Los Angeles for more than 75 years — provides residents with “timely and accurate information that has … undoubtedly saved lives.”

Lawmakers, including House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries (D-N.Y.), former Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-San Francisco) and Reps. Ted Lieu (D-Torrance), Laura Friedman (D-Glendale), Maxine Waters (D-Los Angeles) and Ro Khanna (D-Fremont), have called on the FCC to drop the review, saying the agency has politicized its regulatory powers.

Disney has hired prominent attorneys Beth Wilkinson, Jennifer Tatel and Paul Clement, a former U.S. solicitor general with experience arguing before the Supreme Court. Disney’s chief legal officer, Horacio Gutierrez, is leading the team.

Several conservative groups have questioned whether ABC was fit to hold its licenses.

“ABC’s rights are important, but they are not preeminent,” Center for American Rights President Daniel Suhr wrote in his 66-page petition to the FCC to deny ABC’s local licenses, adding that the commission must instead focus on “the right of viewers of ABC stations.”

“Disney’s lawyers can wish upon a star, but they cannot make this record disappear,” Suhr said in a statement Thursday. “Disney does not own the public airwaves, and an FCC license is not a corporate entitlement. The FCC should reject Disney’s effort to avoid meaningful scrutiny, require full answers, and designate these applications for a hearing.”

The FCC doesn’t license networks, only the local stations that carry network programming.

In one public comment, an ABC critic named Lawrence Caswell agreed with Suhr’s contention: “ABC is just a grossly biased propaganda arm of the Democratic Party.”

Jeffrey C. Illes, a Chicago-area viewer who identified himself as a Republican, wrote in support of Disney’s WLS-TV station.

“I rely on their broadcast for accurate, timely, and trusted local news, breaking weather updates, and essential public safety information,” Illes wrote. “ABC 7 Chicago is a vital institution in our community.”

Stations typically file for a license renewal once every eight years. The commission then determines whether the station has “served the public interest” and has not run afoul of the “rules and regulations of the Commission.”

The commission’s lone Democrat, Anna M. Gomez, blasted the station license inquiry.

“The FCC has no authority to police the ideological balance of the airwaves, and no matter what this Commission does next, the record now makes clear that this was never a genuine search for the public interest,” Gomez said in a Thursday statement.

There are three commissioners: Gomez and two Republicans — Carr and Olivia Trusty, who joined the panel last year.

Congress restricts the FCC from any regulatory moves that trample on free speech rights for broadcasters.

A coalition of progressive groups, including the American Civil Liberties Union, urged Disney Chief Executive Josh D’Amaro to continue to defend 1st Amendment freedoms in the company’s battle with the FCC.

“When you’re standing up for yourself, you are standing up for all of us,” the group wrote. “All of our rights are in danger when the FCC is allowed to censor comedians, journalists, and critics.”

In a summer of Gen Z-driven blockbusters and ancient Greek juggernauts, the 38th entry in the Marvel universe can’t help smelling like your uncle’s sweaty Comic-Con ball cap. At least the core ensemble of “Spider-Man: Brand New Day” is still young, even after four “Spider-Man” movies together in nine years — unlike the mature super squad in last summer’s “The Fantastic Four: First Steps,” who boasted an average age of 42.

“Brand New Day” stars buzzy A-listers Tom Holland and Zendaya as Peter Parker and MJ Jones-Watson, sweethearts estranged after he was forced to save the multiverse by wiping all memories of his existence at the end of 2021’s “Spider-Man: Far From Home”. Adding drama to the couple’s onscreen breakup, the actors recently got married in real life. So kudos to the extras who steal scenes from them in the background, flailing like avant-garde dancers when a vicious mental parasite leaps from grandmothers to joggers to security guards on a quest to find something awful. Choreographed by Nathan Kim, the practical effect looks fantastic.

Fittingly for a film with body-snatching, director Destin Daniel Cretton (“Short Term 12,” “Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings”) has made a story about letting people in. New York City’s brain-barging antagonist (“Stranger Things’” Sadie Sink in a fun character reveal) disrespects personal boundaries. Meanwhile, Peter, scarred by the murder of his dear Aunt May (Marisa Tomei) in 2021’s “Spider-Man: Far From Home,” keeps to himself in fear of revealing his secret identity. Forced to skip college while his former high school friends MJ and Ned (a lovable Jacob Batalon) attend MIT, this Spider-Man endures the rise-and-grind routine of an anonymous gig worker. His phone app pings; he puts on his protective mask and heads out wearily to fight crime. It’s a living. Barely.

Peter’s only physical connection to humanity is via webs and fists. Otherwise, he’s restricted to impersonal helpers — a detective (Liza Colón-Zayas) willing to take his phone calls, an AI assistant (ew) and a network of facial recognition cameras (double ew). He’s so isolated that his closest friend is a frenemy: Jon Bernthal’s Punisher, an equally lonely brute.

Screenwriters Chris McKenna and Erik Sommers add too much padding with their need to include the Hulk (Mark Ruffalo), the new Black Widow (Florence Pugh) and the government’s increasingly radicalized Department of Damage Control before this December’s “Avengers: Doomsday.” Perversely for a film with a two-hour-and-25-minute running time, the climax still feels rushed.

Cretton must shoulder an overburdened franchise. His film is likable as heck but never quite achieves liftoff. The soundtrack’s needle drops of Tame Impala and Bad Bunny add swagger. Better, Cretton seizes small moments to put his stamp on this installment. Just as Zendaya’s aspirationally chill MJ insists she won’t work for some “soulless corporation,” he’s quietly made a humanist super-flick: A shot of agents in black SUVs separating a telekinetic family could come right from the news. Likewise, Cretton allows the Punisher his rage while silently noting that the vigilante’s gun-toting tactics usually make things worse.

Peter’s inner despair gets externalized when he invents a genetic inhibitor neck implant to tamp down his sensitivity. The arachnid hormones in his body are surging, causing his pupils to turn black and his temper to explode. His emotions — and that sticky goo in his wrists — are about to burst. On a related note, between this second spider-puberty and Holland’s supporting turn as a mother-henned Telemachus in Christopher Nolan’s “The Odyssey,” will Hollywood ever allow 30-year-old Holland to play a grown man? I suppose when he proves he can carry his own movie. For now, he keeps squandering his Marvel breaks on whiffs like “Cherry” and “Uncharted.”

At least he’s an earnest, open-faced hero — the best live-action Spider-Man of the bunch. Holland holds onto his buoyancy even as his character battles the blues. His Peter fends off despair by insisting that he’s fine. The bruises on his body disagree. So does the glowing inhibitor on his spine, which seems to ask if we’re too quick to prescribe medication for our problems.

Cretton is the rare former indie filmmaker who pushes himself to stage clever action sequences. The web-slinging scenes in “Brand New Day” are designed to let the audience ride Peter’s mood swings. When he’s up, we soar from girder to girder in a tight POV that allows us to barely make out the tips of his boots. When he’s unsteady, every leap is perilously close to a free fall.

During the best fight scene, Peter takes on a squadron of gravity-defying ninjas in a brawl that takes place as much in the air as on the ground. Brett Pawlak’s camera spins a cartwheel alongside a flying kick, then plunges into the eye of a tornado of bad guys trapped in a web. Overall, there’s too much use of hurled rubble. But I dug how Cretton gooses our spidey senses with dramatic sound effects. The thud of a hammering Hulksmash rattles our seats; later, a cocked rifle is so crisp we perk up like a dog hearing the mailman.

“Brand New Day” manages a few strong images: a dive-bombing pigeon, a cityscape at dusk, a close-up of headstrong MJ getting yanked through the sky, still determined not to let a stranger sweep her off her feet. And, of course, there’s that army of extras each making the most of their five seconds of fame. After order is restored just enough to prod us to a sequel, Cretton circles back to those civilians in an end credits montage of normal New Yorkers hanging out on stoops and playing chess in the park. These faces couldn’t matter less to the plot. But Cretton’s affection for people over pixels is his entire point.

Days after a classicist who translated Homer’s “The Odyssey” in 2017 eviscerated the Christopher Nolan film based on the poem, Joyce Carol Oates has entered the debate.

She’s Team Nolan.

The National Book Award-winning author is known for her (sometimes controversial) hot takes on social media, and on Wednesday, she stepped up to the plate in opposition of translator Emily Wilson’s brutal takedown of Nolan’s big-screen adaptation of “The Odyssey.” Nolan had previously said Wilson’s translation inspired him in making the film. But Wilson wrote that she would be ashamed to have written any part of the script.

“Her tone of dismissal & haughty superiority strike a sour note,” Oates said of Wilson’s review in a post on X. “Rather than disagreeing with interpretations of Homer in a collegial manner, this person, who has benefited enormously from Nolan’s film, speaks in the crude language of MAGA folks attacking someone with ideas that differ from hers.”

Wilson’s biting missive, published in the London Review of Books this week, went so viral that it reportedly crashed the outlet’s website for a few hours Monday. The British American classicist’s take on the film was especially notable because, last fall, Nolan quoted Wilson’s translation when telling Empire magazine why he was drawn to the story. “I think it’s the Emily Wilson translation that begins, ‘Tell me about a complicated man,’” he said.

Wilson’s version of “The Odyssey” subsequently spiked in sales. A representative for Audible told The Times on Wednesday that, year over year, purchases of Wilson’s “Odyssey” translation were up by more than 600% across Audible’s U.S., U.K. and Canadian marketplaces. Daily global title sales rose nearly sixfold during the week the movie premiered. And in the nine days following wide release, daily global sales averaged around 20 times more than the rate before the premiere, showing sustained demand for Wilson’s translation.

Oates, who penned the Pulitzer Prize-nominated “Blonde,” said that, within the world of translators, Wilson’s review “seems all the more surprising since all translations are, presumably, subjective & not equivalent to the original text.”

“One would expect a translator, of all people, beholden to a text, in service to a text, to be just a wee bit more thoughtful & respectful of others who are acting in good faith just as (she would claim) she is,” Oates wrote.

In separate posts on the social platform, Oates said she highly recommended Nolan’s adaption and that she wasn’t a fan of Wilson’s translation. “What I’d read of Emily Wilson’s translation was not for me,” she wrote, adding that she assumes it was “deliberately written to appeal to an audience comfortable with YA (young adult) directness & spareness of vocabulary — that is, with the intention of being marketable, adopted by high school classes.

“With a more poetic, elevated speech, you are naturally limiting your audience,” continued the author, who further noted that there was nothing wrong with a direct, commercial approach. “Why not profit from a classic work not protected by copyright?”

In the viral review by Wilson, who also translated Seneca and Euripides, as well as Homer’s “Iliad,” she likened Nolan’s nearly three-hour epic to Peter Jackson’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy and “Game of Thrones.”

Her sharpest critiques were aimed at Nolan’s rendering of Homer’s female characters, of which she said there were more than in his other films “thanks to the source material” but that, in contrast to the poem, none of them “had much to say.” Wilson said Nolan’s race-neutral casting was essentially a wash as “[m]ost of the non-white actors — Zendaya, Lupita Nyong’o, Himesh Patel, Corey Antonio Hawkins, Travis Scott — play versions of the Black best friend, whose only role in the drama is to provide aid to the white protagonist.”

And don’t get her started on the whole point of the poem — the cost of war — of which Wilson quipped, “We are not shown that war or killing are bad, only that good men sometimes feel bad about it — a very different point.”

“Furious,” which premieres Monday on Hulu, is technically a serial killer story, since there are multiple murders committed by a single character, but happily that is the least of it.

Broadly speaking, these kinds of stories — powered by a stop-them-before-they-kill-again clock, making their antagonists out to be finicky geniuses or horror movie monsters instead of opportunistic mediocrities — strike me as a low form of fiction. But “Furious” is as much relationship drama as procedural, animated by a quartet of excellent performances, with some things to say about abuse, exploitation and love along the way.

Although “Furious,” created by Elizabeth Meriwether (“New Girl,” “Dying for Sex”), acknowledges an inspirational debt to the 1987 Theresa Russell-Debra Winger film “Black Widow,” all it really preserves are a couple of names, the idea of a female serial killer and an emotional relationship with the woman hunting her. The killer is Catherine (Lola Petticrew), a petite young woman who goes about in a variety of wigs, under a variety of names, careful to mask in public. Her murdering is not a compulsion but a mission, like Jeanne Moreau in “The Bride Wore Black.”

Her nemesis is Alice Black (Emmy Rossum), a former police detective now answering phones for the FBI. She became persona non grata in the NYPD after identifying her detective boyfriend (Jake Lacy as Marshall) as the person who put her in the hospital, because, you know, cops. One day a request comes from former colleague Danny Kelly (Scoot McNairy) to assist him in investigating the homicide we see Catherine commit at the top of the series.

Various elements of the crime bring to mind an earlier killing; Alice believes they’re connected and might have something to do with sex trafficking or, eventually, a Jane Doe cold case. This brings her to the desk of Nora Washington (Quincy Tyler Bernstine), who also happens to be running the very FBI department Alice has been hoping to join. “You requested my squad,” says Nora. “Why do you want to work in the basement on sex crimes and crimes against children — do you hate yourself?” Maybe she does — she orchestrates internet dates where foreplay is a fistfight, and has some relevant trauma in her past.

Catherine (Lola Petticrew), a petite young woman whose murdering is not a compulsion but a mission.

(Sarah Shatz / Disney)

Sharing scenes with the other principal characters, intense or sensitive as the moment requires, Alice is the hub around whom the series revolves and hurtles forward. Danny, who found himself isolated in the department when he said he believed her, is her only friend. (“But here’s the crazy s—. You don’t … talk to me anymore, either.”) Nora, who has a hard edge and a drinking problem, has a few things to teach her, sometimes with a quote from Balzac (“Laws are spiderwebs through which the big flies pass and the little ones get caught”) and Beckett (the dead “make a noise like feathers”) or a tale from Greek mythology. (“I’m not a former cop. I went to a fancy school, and I’m very smart,” she says, very drunk.)

As to Catherine, she is a mix of a sly fox and a wounded bird. She may be manipulative and murderous, but as we’re given reasons to dislike her victims, a collection of rich white people — with one sad exception — and because Alice feels connected to her in some way, and because she’s had a terrible life, there is not a little of the protagonist in her antagonist. There are some sad ironies stitched into the plot, and an upsetting late twist, though the show doesn’t wallow in it. We understand that Catherine has her reasons, and in a strange way we want to see her carry out her mission. She may be a killer, but she isn’t the villain.

It’s not perfect. We are not surprised at least as much as we are. Some of the plot points strain credulity. There are some old-school jurisdictional clashes between the police and the FBI (as in every fourth episode of “The Closer”), and a heaping helping of professional jealousy within departments.

But the show stays fascinating less for the plot than for the performers. Rossum attacks her role as if playing a Greek tragedy. (The hair redoubles the impression.) McNairy, one of TV’s most likable actors, brings warmth. Petticrew evokes broken innocence. Bernstine finds new notes in a role that typically runs to cliche.

I also want to mention the great Hope Davis as the sister of a victim, the son of a well-connected mogul with something to hide, and especially Steve Way, as Alden (“Ramy”), a force for good in Catherine’s life, and for humor in the series; born with muscular dystrophy, he manages some excellent physical comedy in his motorized wheelchair. The direction (Brian Kirk helmed the first two episodes) is crisp and matter of fact, staying out of the way, which is all you can ask when the writing is good and the actors are too.

Twenty-five years after “Is This It,” the Strokes are as big as they’ve ever been — and not just among old heads eager to relive the wasted glamour of the early-2000s garage rock revival. Go to a Strokes gig these days — they’re playing arenas and headlining festivals like next month’s Just Like Heaven in Pasadena — and you’ll find teens and twentysomethings in the audience; open up Instagram and there’s frontman Julian Casablancas dispensing viral hot takes on the New York City subway. On Spotify, the band’s most-streamed song isn’t the Giuliani-era “Last Nite” but “The Adults Are Talking,” which came out at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic — a feat of cultural endurance unmatched by any of the Strokes’ Gen X or millennial peers.

So what better time to drop a new album full of arcane jokes, baffling vocal affects and light conspiracy theorizing?

The group’s first LP since 2020’s Grammy-winning “The New Abnormal,” “Reality Awaits” is easily the nuttiest entry in the Strokes’ catalog, with a spooky opening track, “Psycho S—,” in which Casablancas, his voice slathered in AutoTune, ushers the listener “past the hall of judging dead into the bed of nightly dread.” (Sexy!) “Falling Out of Love” is a lilting robo-country ballad about dancing alone under acid rain; “Liar’s Remorse” is a voice-and-guitar lament about submitting to artificial intelligence that Casablancas croons for some reason in a terrible Caribbean accent.

Then there’s “Lonely in the Future,” in which Casablancas name-drops John Legend and Josh Groban, appears to ding Harry Styles for cribbing the beat from the Strokes’ “Hard to Explain” and informs Anthony Fantano, the popular internet music critic, that he “would not recognize art in any age.”

Philosophically, “Reality Awaits” feels less like a Strokes album than like a Casablancas solo record or an effort by his other band, the Voidz, which he’s used for the last decade or so as a kind of finsta for his harder-edged sociopolitical musings. “Going Shopping,” the LP’s lead single, casts a condescending eye on anyone insufficiently troubled by what the singer views as the creeping tyranny of a super-rich ruling class: “The worse reality gets, the less you want to hear about it / Solidarity can be difficult when you got cool stuff to lose.” That “Going Shopping” is the album’s jauntiest cut — with a music video that restages Paul Simon’s “You Can Call Me Al,” no less — only sharpens the critique.

Yet every now and then the Strokes, who absolutely ripped at Coachella in April, lock into a groove with the springy precision that’s been the band’s signature since the beginning. “Dine N’ Dash,” “Going to Babble On,” “Lonely in the Future” — it’s pure pleasure to hear the guitars in these songs slashing away over a rhythm section as crisp and nimble as this one. For all they’ve absorbed from their forbears, the Strokes don’t sound like anybody else, even when they seem to be trying to, as in “The Fruits of Conquest,” which suggests early Maroon 5 having a go at the Rolling Stones’ “Miss You.” (Obviously, I mean this as a compliment.)

You can view the indelibility of the Strokes’ style as the reason the band makes so many wacky decisions on “Reality Awaits”; looked at differently, the band is taking advantage of its persistent success to spend a bit of creative capital. Either way, Casablancas doesn’t actually seem worried at all in “Going Shopping” when he voices some anxiety about how long he can continue to matter. “I’ve been thinking about what I want to say,” he sings, “But I’m an old man now — at least that’s what they tell me anyway.”

After a day spent walking around Alton Towers, I was happy to be spending the night in their iconic hotel on the resort – here’s my honest review of a stay for our family of four

A day at a theme park is knackering, especially with two kids in tow who can seemingly have the best day of their lives while also complaining every single second. Nothing is worse than getting to the end of a day out and facing the drive home exhausted.

So, if you’ve got a day at a theme park planned, you may be considering staying in one of the park’s onsite hotels. Arguably, Alton Towers has one of the best selections of accommodation out of any UK theme park. It has hotels, woodland lodges, treehouses, and stargazing pods, so there’s all sorts of places to stay, and you’re right on the park’s doorstep so you’ve got somewhere to rest after a long day.

Recently, I stayed with my two kids at the Alton Towers Hotel, a three-star property that’s one of the park’s three hotels. Themed around a fictional Victorian explorer, Sir Algenon, the hotel has a sort of steampunk, historic look, although my kids thought it was pirate-y more than anything, but either way, the detail that has gone into it is impressive.

Stepping into the hotel, there’s a huge atrium with a large ship-shaped stage, and checking in late afternoon there was already entertainment and live music in full-swing. We went back later and the entertainers were playing some fun games with the kids, and it had a really joyful, slightly chaotic atmosphere around the bar.

We stayed in a Moon Voyage room, which had a similar theme to the hotel with lamps that looked like Victorian gaslights, lots of gears and levers, and explorer-themed murals. The room was clean and the beds comfy, and I liked that the kids sleeping area with bunk beds was slightly sectioned off and had their own TV. It meant we could lie in bed and watch some grown up TV while they could watch a bit of CBBC before dinner.

For dinner, we headed to the Splash Landings Hotel to try Flambo’s Jambo, an all-you-can eat buffet that had a bit of everything from peri peri to tacos, roast dinners, and Chinese dishes. The atmosphere was fun, with a giant waterwheel and the sounds of some very lively entertainment going on in the background, and the food was OK, with the kids more excited about the ice cream machine than anything else.

While we slept well and the room was comfortable, I woke up early to find the bathroom door had locked itself from the outside. I had to run down to use the loo in the lobby and find hotel staff, still in my pyjama bottoms and my hair looking even more dishevelled than usual. It did get fixed within an hour, but obviously that kind of thing is a pain when you’re up early with kids.

Breakfast was included and is served buffet style at the Secret Garden Restaurant. It had quite a basic selection of hot food, plus some cereal, pastries, and pancakes, which the kids were happy with. Again, the food wasn’t amazing, but it kept us going on the way home.

If you’re visiting Alton Towers and have a long drive, a stay at the hotel or its other accommodation is worth considering. For us, driving there and back would mean five hours in the car as well as the long day exploring the park, so it was nice to crash overnight and split the journey up.

I’ll admit, the hotel is expensive, and some parts felt more worth the price than the others. Packages include one day at the theme park, 9-hole golf, and breakfast, and there are deals on such as free child entry to the waterpark if you book an adult ticket. The hotel does have an incredibly fun style and is well-maintained, and kids are enchanted by the style.

But other things felt like they needed a little work. The themed rooms feel a little basic, and while they have nice décor it felt a little like they were missing something. I would have liked to have some bottled water in the rooms for example, as there were no refill points in the hotel and at £3 a pop, it’s expensive to rehydrate after a day in the sun. But I think most visitors know to expect theme park prices when they stay somewhere like this, and really, it’s the location that’s the main draw when you’ve spent all day on your feet in the summer.

Rooms start from £106pp for an Explorer Room at the Alton Towers Hotel this summer. You can currently book and take advantage of their Kids Swim Free offer. Find out more and book at altontowers.com.

Have a story you want to share? Email us at webtravel@reachplc.com

There are many dedicated figures devoted to Chicano empowerment in America. But in the arts, playwright-director-impresario Luis Valdez — the migrant farmworkers’ son behind the defiantly consciousness-raising El Teatro Campesino and the historic hits “Zoot Suit” and “La Bamba” — holds a singular place, achieved with remarkable perseverance. It’s a trajectory that the immensely appealing, rollicking documentary “American Pachuco: The Legend of Luis Valdez” tracks with a vitality and purpose befitting its subject.

Anchored by Valdez himself, now in his 80s and filling the camera frame like a grandfatherly lion, the film supplements his vivid biographical details with rich archival footage and testimonials from family members, collaborators and peers. There’s also the bold but sneakily effective narrator choice in Edward James Olmos, reviving his snarling, star-making El Pachuco growl from “Zoot Suit” to remind us of one of Valdez’s essential contributions to the theatrical canon. (Olmos is also an interviewee, as is Cheech Marin, Taylor Hackford, Lou Diamond Philips and labor leader Dolores Huerta.)

Born in Delano, Calif., and drawn to literature and language as a way to combat racist assumptions about a Mexican American’s destiny, Valdez found his gifts sharpened by puppet shows, school plays and finally, the union movement in his hometown. Valdez saw that pointed, raw satire was not only necessary but a recruitment tool for the fight. We hear the underdog aesthetic term rasquachismo used to describe these early impromptu performances: essentially a colorful funkiness, “so funky that nothing can undermine you,” Valdez says. As if something earthier and stronger had been harvested in the fields with all those valuable grapes.

After the labor battles of the Vietnam War era, Valdez took El Teatro Campesino’s mission nationwide. Excerpts from a televised adaptation of his play “Los Vendidos (The Sellouts)” — about a shop selling automatons representing Chicano stereotypes — underscore the continuing tensions of assimilation, a trap disguised as acceptance. But the piece also reflected feelings Valdez had about his long-estranged brother Frank, an engineer whose alienating efforts to deny his own background and fit in formed a heavy undercurrent in Valdez’s life.

“Zoot Suit,” an ambitious, musicalized, slang-flavored staging of the violent injustice behind L.A.’s notorious 1943 Zoot Suit riots, became a smash in 1978 (its narrow-minded New York reception notwithstanding). The story of how the Ritchie Valens biopic “La Bamba” came to be — a delicate mix of legacy tending and savvy casting — is similarly rousing and illuminating, even if it seems like an omission not to dig into why, after such a big hit, more movies didn’t follow. (Although, since this is Hollywood, we can guess the reasons.)

There’s so much to chew on in David Alvarado’s portrait of life, art and activism that “American Pachuco” plays like a joyful challenge to those searching for their own voice or meaning. As engaging a chronicler of his own life as Valdez is, his lessons in how to be seen and heard — and how to stay that way — feel especially timely. In our demonizing present, the story of such a pioneering truth-teller speaks powerfully to the needs of our blended American future.

Singer-songwriter Anaïs Mitchell first wrote the numbers for “Hadestown,” a folk musical based on Greek mythology, in 2006. Twenty years later, the Tony-winning smash musical comes to the big screen in a version filmed on the West End in 2025, directed by Brett Sullivan. The production reunites the original Broadway cast — André De Shields, Patrick Page, Reeve Carney, Eva Noblezada and Amber Gray — six years after the show debuted and swept the Tonys in 2019.

There is a timelessness to Mitchell’s work, thanks in large part to the ancient source material, the myths of Orpheus, Eurydice, Hades and Persephone. Developed in partnership with Rachel Chavkin, who directed the Broadway show, the action is set around the 1930s in the American Deep South. The story expresses evergreen themes of love, sacrifice, oppression, addiction and devotion, juxtaposing the tragedy of the way things are against a hope of the way they could be.

There are moments when Mitchell’s songs feel eerily prescient: The show’s villain, Hades (Page), rules the underworld of Hadestown as a fascistic industrialist; his Act I closing number is titled “Why We Build the Wall.” Factory workers sing back to him, “We build the wall to keep us free,” a chorus that foretells the Trumpian rhetoric of 2016 and a reminder that these patterns of division and otherization are the eternal tools of the oppressor.

“Hadestown” is a love story first and foremost, set in a joyous juke joint, the band ringing the stage. The camera follows our narrator, Hermes, played by American theater legend De Shields, as he takes the stage, kissing the heads of his company.

But the show doesn’t start until the 79-year-old De Shields nattily flips his jacket open, to the approving roar of the audience. He introduces doomed Orpheus (Carney), “touched by the Gods themselves,” a born yearner with a gift for song. When Eurydice (Noblezada), a scrappy, skeptical slip of a girl, rolls into town, Orpheus instantly falls head over heels. They have nothing except each other, their love symbolized by a red flower that Orpheus offers.

Party girl Persephone (Gray) brings the summer fun, but her jealous lover Hades wants to keep her all to himself in his domain, trapping the world in a long winter. Orpheus promises to write a song to summon spring again, but a struggling Eurydice is seduced by Hades’ promises of security in Hadestown, and she descends with him, signing her life away to work in his factory. Orpheus tries to rescue his love, but his faith in her is tested on their return to the top — if he turns back to see if she’s there, she’ll be banished to Hadestown forever.

Real-life couple Carney and Noblezada married several months after this production; they met at Noblezada’s audition. Their chemistry makes the emotional devastation of this tragedy that much more real: Every main actor sheds a real tear over the course of the show. Carney’s unique tenor ranges from Jeff Buckley to Freddie Mercury; his rock background and skill with the guitar is required for Orpheus’ lyre-playing and lends to the folk roots of Mitchell’s songs.

Cinematographer Clayton Jacobsen captures unexpected camera angles that a theatergoer wouldn’t get (even one with decent seats), both from down below in the circular pit and above it. He sends the camera soaring over the heads of the audience into intimate medium shots. Sullivan makes the animated and often rowdy crowd an integral part of the cinematic experience, including an extended curtain call with De Shields toasting the audience, sending them out with the warmth with which he brought them in.

There is such a temporal quality to theater, a shared moment in time and space. This production feels like a fleeting moment — a reunion of friends and collaborators retelling a myth that is recounted over and over again. “It’s a sad song, but we sing it anyway,” Hermes reminds us, and it’s a sentiment worth repeating. There may be tragedy, but the summer will inevitably return.

“The Merry Wives of Windsor Cove,” a musical adaptation of Shakespeare’s “The Merry Wives of Windsor” at UC Irvine’s New Swan Shakespeare Festival, relocates the comedy to a Southern California beach town in the 1950s. The surf’s up, a chocolate-covered-banana stand is hopping and a washed-up Elvis-like rock star named Johnny Falstaff is trailing chaos.

Those merry wives aren’t actually all that merry about the state of their marriages. Margaret Page (Sonya Cooke) has lost all patience with her grinning, gadabout husband, George (Evan Lugo), who floats through life as though it were as lighthearted an affair as “Beach Blanket Bingo.” Margaret’s best friend, Alice Ford (Sarah Hentges), has more serious problems with her jealous husband, Frank (Abel Garcia), who suspects infidelity whenever she leaves the house.

When Falstaff (Wyn Moreno), motivated by avarice and a mania for cuckolding, comes a-wooing, sending identical letters to Margaret and Alice, the wives grow merrier as they set a trap for their shameless suitor, whose uncontrolled appetites make him an easy mark.

Margaret and Alice are the forerunners of Lucy and Ethel, and Shakespeare’s comedy, written expressly to entertain, gives us a sense of what an Elizabethan-era situation comedy might look like. The Falstaff of Shakespeare’s “The Merry Wives of Windsor” is not the complex figure of the “Henry IV” plays. (The late scholar Harold Bloom, a Falstaff fanboy, called this version of the character “pseudo-Falstaff, “ and considered “Merry Wives” to be, along with “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” Shakespeare’s “slightest” comedies.)

Sonya Cooke (Margaret Page) and Sarah Hentges (Alice Ford) in “The Merry Wives of Windsor Cove.”

(Jesus Lopez Vargas)

Revivals of “Merry Wives” are not all that frequent. I’ve seen Verdi’s “Falstaff,” which heavily relies on Shakespeare’s plot for the opera, more times than I’ve seen the play. But Margaret and Alice’s quick-witted machinations provide the basis for a merry outing at the theater.

When the possessive and paranoid Frank Ford runs into Margaret as she’s scurrying to meet his wife, Alice, he pointedly remarks, “I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.” To which she replies in savvy screwball fashion worthy of Carole Lombard: “Be sure of that — two other husbands.”

I have a soft spot for “The Merry Wives of Windsor.” The refreshing sight of the women teaming up against Falstaff never fails to amuse. And I appreciate the frank and forgiving light the play sheds on long-term marriage.

But swaths of the comedy are antiquated. And the language has a dashed off quality in places, suggesting there’s some truth to the legend that Shakespeare wrote the play at the request of Queen Elizabeth, who was said to be so charmed by Falstaff that she wanted a sequel depicting Sir John in love.

Falstaff isn’t exactly in love in Shakespeare’s comedy. And he definitely isn’t motivated by pure romance in this adaptation, written by New Swan founding artistic and producing director Eli Simon and Anna Fitzgerald, with music by Zachary Dietz. As in all things, Falstaff is led by his belly, a gargantuan metaphor for his gluttonous nature.

Megan January (Nym), Wyn Moreno (Johnny Falstaff) and Sam Schneider (Pistol) in “The Merry Wives of Windsor Cove.”

(Jesus Lopez Vargas)

The pastiche score, indebted to the pop charts of the 1950s, isn’t allowed to dominate. As modern musicals go, this is a low-key affair. The comedy is still the thing in this frolicsome outdoor production, which takes place in the charming ambiance of the festival’s portable, mini-Elizabethan venue.

The cast is principally composed of UC Irvine students, past and present, with a few guest artists in the mix. Under Simon’s direction, the presentation is smooth and professional, though the ensemble reflects different levels of experience.

My general note is particular to the genre: Comedy works best when exaggeration arises the way it does in nature, as a fact of personality rather than as a calculated theatrical effect.

Certain members of the cast push the humor a little too vociferously. How much funnier Shakespeare’s motley crew can be when we’re allowed to discover the variety of eccentricity and ludicrousness on display for ourselves.

Falstaff’s girth is worked into the comic mayhem, but the character should be more than a sight gag. Moreno tries to preserve a measure of dignity while wearing a jumpsuit from Elvis’ Las Vegas era. But the sight gag nature of the characterization is overworked.

Garcia’s Ford seems not just jealous but borderline apoplectic. (Garcia is more nuanced when Ford is operating in disguise to suss out Falstaff’s true intentions.) As Doctor Cayo, one of the risible suitors for Anne Page (Marilyn Alonzo), Heriberto Cruz Jr. delivers a flailing, full-body performance that practically holds the audience hostage for laughs.

Evan Lugo (George Page), top left, Sonya Cooke (Margaret Page), top right, Zane Caputo (Abraham Slender), from bottom left, Zach Trent (Skateboard Fenton) and Heriberto Cruz Jr. (Doctor Cayo) in “The Merry Wives of Windsor Cove.”

(Elijah Waller)

Robert Shallow (Greg Ungar) does what he can to promote Abraham Slender (Zane Caputo, appropriately zoned out), his socially inept nephew, as a prospective husband for Anne. But neither gentleman is what anyone would call efficacious. In truth, both performers seem more at home as members of the Banana Splits Band, the quirky onstage combo that ushers in the show’s retro beat.

In a nicely balanced performance, Alejandra Villanueva’s Mistress Quickly, the play’s go-between and overseer of mischief, embodies the free and easy spirit of Simon’s production. Lugo’s George has a simple affability that’s infectious. And Alonzo’s Anne and Zach Trent’s Skateboard Fenton, the young lovers swerving around parental obstacles, are a delightful throwback to those gaga California kids from the age of “Gidget.”

Cooke’s Margaret and Hentges’ Alice remain, as they should, defiantly in charge. The adaptation delves more into their marital melancholy, but I felt I understood them better in Shakespeare’s original, which recognizes the power of suggestion and interpretive restraint.

Yet “The Merry Wives of Windsor Cove” succeeds in extending a warm communal embrace to its audience, which is the ultimate aim of this mischievous and kind-hearted comedy.

Two Sacramento judges Friday ordered changes in the wording of ballot measures that would move California to an open primary system, change car insurance rate structures and charge lobbyists to fund campaigns for secretary of state candidates.

The changes resolved disputes over what is supposed to be neutral wording of the titles and summaries of the measures as well as the text of arguments to be published in the voter’s manual for the June 8 election. Monday is the deadline for getting the final versions to the printer.

On Proposition 14, the open primary measure, Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger and other supporters said they beat back an effort by union officials and lawmakers to undermine the proposal that would allow Californians to vote in state primaries regardless of candidates’ or voters’ party affiliations.

The measure also would advance the top two vote-getters in each contest instead of the winner from each party. It would not apply to presidential elections.

Legislators grudgingly put the measure on the ballot as part of a budget deal last year. They had directed their attorneys not to fight the challenge by the California School Employees Assn., a major donor to many Democrats, to strip statements that the measure would encourage more voter participation and “reform” the election process.

The governor and state Sen. Abel Maldonado (R-Santa Maria) intervened to stave off the changes. Superior Court Judge Allen Sumner ruled Friday that voters should see the measure very much as it was originally written. Sumner made minor changes to the wording regarding potential costs related to an open primary and made clear that voters would not have to state a party preference.

“I’m glad this sneaky attempt to derail the open primary failed,” Maldonado said.

Leaders of the Democrat-controlled Legislature said their attempt at a settlement was merely intended to fix flawed ballot language in danger of being stricken by a higher court.

“We’re pleased with the process and the clarity it provided,” said Shannon Murphy, a spokeswoman for Assembly Speaker John Pérez (D-Los Angeles).

Sumner also resolved disputes over the wording of Proposition 17. Backers of the measure, which would allow insurers to offer a continuous-coverage discount to new customers, were fighting even the official description written by Atty. Gen. Jerry Brown’s office.

Supporters of the measure, which was proposed by and is being bankrolled by Mercury Insurance, wanted to strike the phrase added by Brown that the measure “will allow insurance companies to increase the cost of insurance to drivers who do not have a history of continuous insurance coverage.”

“All Proposition 17 does is allow people to take it with them when they move to a new insurance company and get the lower rate,” argued Richard Martland, an attorney for the supporters.

But Consumer Watchdog founder Harvey Rosenfield said the measure is a thinly disguised attempt by Mercury to be allowed to charge higher rates for those it doesn’t want to insure. Rosenfield’s attorney, Fredric Woocher, said the proposition is being misleadingly cast as an opportunity for drivers to retain their loyalty discounts even if they switch insurers.

“You can’t take it with you,” Woocher said. “You are taking away the one thing that makes persistency persistent. It would be like taking a good student discount and extending it to people who fail.”

Sumner declined to change the official wording of the ballot summary and rejected most calls to alter the arguments. Such “political speech” is protected by the 1st Amendment, the judge said. He revised only the wording on the possible effects for some military personnel and a potential maximum surcharge.

In the challenge to Proposition 15, which would change the financing for future secretary of state races, Superior Court Judge Patrick Marlette’s changes met with supporters’ approval, said campaign chairman Trent Lange.

The Howard Jarvis Taxpayers Assn., which opposes the measure, had filed a lawsuit arguing that the ballot summary and title were inaccurate. The group wanted the title changed from “California Fair Elections Act” to “Public Financing of Campaigns.”

The judge rejected the proposed change, though he did add a line indicating that the measure repeals the state’s existing ban on public funding of campaigns.

carol.williams@latimes.com

Times staff writers Evan Halper and Patrick McGreevy in Sacramento contributed to this report.

Andy Burnham has said he will review an early prisoner release policy, due to come into force this autumn, following anger that two killers of PC Andrew Harper could be freed early.

From September, thousands of offenders in England and Wales will be eligible to be released earlier under the Sentencing Act. Tens of thousands of inmates have been let out of prison to create more space in jails since 2024.

Burnham said: “I can’t say that I can change the policy completely, but I will look at it in detail before we go further forward.”

He acknowledged that there was “pressure on prisons places” and that a failure to invest in the prison system in the past had created “an unacceptable situation”.

His comments come after the mother of police officer Andrew Harper said the potential early release of two of her son’s killers felt like an “insult”.

Jessie Cole and Albert Bowers were sentenced to 13 years in custody for manslaughter but could be released early under the new Sentencing Act.

Henry Long was jailed for 16 years for PC Harper’s manslaughter but would not be eligible.

The overcrowding of the prison estate has been a problem for several years and successive governments have released prisoners early in a bid to free up space.

The Sentencing Act, which was passed by Sir Keir Starmer’s government earlier this year, was designed to ease pressure on prisons, and will see some offenders spend less time in prison before release.

Burnham said: “I want to assure myself that everything has been looked at before this policy proceeds, and I can give that assurance that every single part of this I will look into with the justice secretary.”

Concerning the case of PC Harper, he said: “I feel for the family it’s an appalling crime that was committed.”

He said the “main perpetrator” of his death would not be eligible for early release.

The Broad’s “Yoko Ono: Music of the Mind” is more mind than music. She opens your mind; you make the music. Look into an empty “Box of Smile” and maybe you will. “Give Peace a Chance” — of course.

She breaks, and she mends, and not just your mind. Something tells me the Broad won’t go along with Ono’s “Collecting Piece II” from 1963, which has the following instructions: “Break a contemporary museum into pieces with the means you have chosen. Collect the pieces and put it together with glue.”

That’s a smile piece, too, although Ono looks all business holding a crystalline hammer on the catalog cover photo. I still smile when I recall how her piece for an orchestra that asks the players to bang their heads against a stage wall utterly delighted an audience and musicians at a performance in New York. Only Ono remained deadpan.

There were more smiles Saturday evening when The Broad, in collaboration with REDCAT across the street, presented a program of two Ono performance pieces. It began with six members of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra playing Boccherini’s First Sextet. This happens to be the first work ever written for pairs of violins, violas and cellos, as an expression of freedom that, in 1776, felt revolutionary.

Perhaps that is why LACO chose the Italian composer to represent a contemporary revolutionary artist in the wake of our 250th July 4. The actual piece being performed was Ono’s “Sky Piece for Jesus Christ,” in which she instructs an orchestra, whatever size (although she tended to like something larger than a sextet), to begin by playing a work, say, by Mozart.

It doesn’t much matter what is chosen, because at the premiere in a 1965 Fluxus concert at Carnegie Recital Hall, Ono and a couple of colleagues crept on stage and began wrapping the musicians in gauze. After a few minutes, they could no longer play.

Amusing, yes, but this is also an act of silencing, maybe even passive-aggressive violence. You smile (and a player or two at REDCAT couldn’t suppress a smile), but you don’t feel so hot doing so.

Members of the L.A. Chamber Orchestra covered in gauze while performing Yoko Ono’s “Sky Piece to Jesus Christ” at REDCAT.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

There is, in fact, more to this “Sky Piece” than meets the smile. Ono meant Jesus Christ to stand for John Cage. Cage was a key inspiration for Ono’s art. When the Beatles broke up and Ono and John Lennon moved to New York in the late 1960s, they first wanted to be as far from the limelight as possible, Ono having been demonized in the popular press over supposedly breaking up the Beatles (she didn’t!!!!). Cage found them a small two-bedroom apartment next door to him and his partner, Merce Cunningham, in their modest West Village building (a significant fact curiously ignored in the otherwise illuminating new documentary “One to One: John and Yoko” about the couple’s new New York life there).

Ono and Cage had a long, meaningful but not always easy relationship. Cage, who wrote music to suppress his ego, had a problem with Ono’s exhibitionism. In 1962, he dedicated a piece to Ono titled “0’00” (4’33” No. 2),” an Ono-like composition with a single sentence of instruction: “In a situation provided with maximum amplification (no feedback) perform a disciplined action.”

Cage later added other qualifications. One insistence is that the action should fulfill an obligation to others. However much Ono’s “Sky Piece” comes across as a playful Cage rejoinder, Ono did, the year before in Kyoto, create what could be called a version of “0’00”,” although an actual silent piece.

This is her famous “Cut Piece,” which the performance artist known as MPA performed at REDCAT following “Sky Piece.” It was clearly the draw that caused the program to be sold out months in advance.

There are many meanings that have been inscribed to “Cut Piece,” in which Ono invited the audience to come on stage and, with a pair scissors, cut off a small piece of her dress. Along with questioning social and sexual taboos, feminism and acts of aggression, Ono also confronts her own issues with ego from a Buddhist perspective, just as Cage had.

“Cut Piece” has a central place in Ono’s work as do film clips of her performing it in the Broad exhibition. Ono sits without a trace of emotion as she is stripped bare. Attention is directed away from her to the cutters. But the action is nullified by the fact that Ono assumes the stoic posture of the Buddhist monks seen in the news at the time setting themselves aflame in protest of the Vietnam War.

War had, indeed, inspired Ono in her shocking, exhibitionist (however ego-denying) disciplined action. It’s fulfillment of an obligation to others is, like so much in Ono, a two-edged sword forcing us — be we active cutters or passive observers — into contemplation of violence.

MPA’s performance was extraordinary. She introduced “Cut Piece” by noting that in Ono’s six performances over a half-century, the last in 2003 in response to the Gulf War, anger had turned into something more gracious. It was her way of saying to a new generation, give peace a chance.

To begin her own performance, MPA announced that she has retained Ono’s intent to perform “Cut Piece” in time of war. She said take the square of clothing and honor it, let it mean something to you.

At the few performances I’ve seen of “Cut Piece,” there has typically been audience hesitation at first. Not this time. What looked like almost half the full house immediately walked on stage and lined up. In the age of Instagram, everyone’s 15 minutes of fame has turned into an eternity. The cut piece of fabric — a custom garment designed by Victor Barragá — becomes proof of not missing out.

Most cutters approached MPA self-consciously as if walking to a casket at a funeral, although a few acted more like performers themselves wanting to be seen. Through it all, some 40 minutes, MPA didn’t move a muscle. It was as if she had abstracted herself from scissors and spectators, projecting not so much courage as strength. She inspired silence.

An evening that had begun as silencing a smiling sextet ended in a sublime effort to open the mind beyond body and music to give peace a chance.

Freelance writer and editor Lucy Schiller bumped up against the issues of aging, eldercare and loneliness through her grandmothers. When the family pulled her maternal grandmother, Mary Ann, from assisted living during the pandemic, Schiller became her primary caregiver. Her paternal grandmother, Anita, was less fortunate; she contracted COVID-19 from a home healthcare aide and died in a hospital.

As she relates in “Aging Out,” the shock of Anita’s death was a factor in Schiller’s abrupt relocation from a central New York college town to Pittsburgh, where she knew no one. Schiller calls the move “a half-desperate plan to simply change the background scenery of my life for the millionth time.”

While grieving, scrambling to make a living, taking long walks with her dog and wrestling with her chosen solitude, Schiller embarks on a quest to understand the institutions and attitudes that shape old age in America. “What was the relationship between personal fear of oldness and the ways in which oldness was structured in society?” she asks.

The resulting book, a deliberately meandering account of her Steel City sojourn, weds memoir, travelogue, philosophical rumination and journalistic investigation. Schiller, an MFA graduate of the University of Iowa and now an assistant professor of nonfiction at Texas Tech University, is a fluid writer. But most of what she covers is well-trod ground.

It’s worth asking whom she envisions as her audience. Most older readers know this territory; younger ones have other, more pressing concerns, including how to afford life in the here-and-now.

Perhaps Schiller, a millennial in her 30s, hopes they will identify with her personal struggles. But her loneliness seems largely self-imposed, perhaps compounded by what she describes as “a severe strain” of obsessive-compulsive disorder. “It turns out, laughably, that an interest in privacy, and staying quiet about internal feelings, are hallmarks of this condition,” she writes, offering a partial explanation for her wariness of company.

Pondering the American way of aging, Schiller initially adopts a posture of ignorance and naivete so extreme that it seems like a pose. She puzzles out the distinctions among nursing homes, assisted living facilities and continuing care retirement communities, as well as home healthcare. And she underlines the fact that, when it comes to long-term care in the United States, only the relatively well-off have good choices. This isn’t exactly news.

Another Schiller inquiry involves the familiar complexities of Medicare. She notes that, as a public program for seniors, it is so inadequate that it requires private options, such as Medigap and Medicare Advantage, to paper over coverage gaps. Picking the best plan for one’s needs can be a daunting option, requiring trained help or careful study. Schiller attends an informational seminar by a broker for Medicare Advantage plans and decides, unhelpfully, that they are neither “a solution or a problem.”

Schiller’s reporting methods rely, to some extent, on serendipity. “I tended toward … a kind of diffuse sallying through the world, staying open to the coincidence, digression, and movement,” she writes. She calls the method “antinarrative.”

All that sallying takes her down some unexpected byways. She returns to a western Pennsylvania town called Harmony, where she once had “a horrible, endless date over crepes,” to investigate a strike over pay and working conditions at a troubled nursing home. That leads to a long discussion of the use of restraints on the elderly.

At one point, Schiller finds a company called Papa that employs younger “Pals” to assist older adults. With the backing of health insurance companies, the Pals provide companionship, transportation, housecleaning services and more. Schiller tries something similar as a volunteer for a health insurance company, reaching out to an elderly Black woman by phone. They stumble over time into an unlikely friendship.

One problem with all these efforts to mitigate old-age loneliness, Schiller notes, is that the loneliest generation is actually Gen Z. And the loneliness surveys themselves, she suggests, may be suspect.

Schiller delves, inevitably, into the history of AARP, an organization that even in its earliest days was entangled with the health insurance industry. And consumer advocate Ralph Nader, for whom she does some editing work, tips her to the story of activist Maggie Kuhn, founder of the Gray Panthers.

Kuhn, Schiller writes, understood “the tension between the social so-called nothingness of old age and its vibrant realities.” Which brings Schiller to the intersection of aging and disability, and to Programs for All-Inclusive Care for the Elderly (PACE), which provide community-based care as an alternative to nursing homes.

In the end, Schiller has a go at parsing her own motivations. “I had descended into the strange subterranean structures of aging, almost as a way to avoid the contemporary world … ,” she writes. “Age … was a helpful distancing tool: older people’s vulnerabilities, including those of my own grandparents, helped to distract me from my own present and future. … I still did not know how to seal over the gaping wound of the pandemic, how to move forward.”

For all her verbiage, she can find no easy fix, nor even a complicated one. “It was not possible for me to imagine a solution to the level of fragmentation, pain, and dysfunction I saw,” she writes, leaving readers without much justification for having followed her rambling, idiosyncratic quest.

Klein, a cultural reporter and critic in Philadelphia, has been a three-time finalist for the National Book Critics Circle’s Nona Balakian Citation for Excellence in Reviewing.

Colson Whitehead’s latest foray into the bent world of “reluctant fence” Ray Carney — “Cool Machine,” the third and final installment of his Harlem Trilogy — is an American epic disguised as a heist novel. It’s a dizzyingly brilliant measure of the versatility and depth of the acclaimed author’s literary talent.

After writing two books dealing with monstrous historical trauma and institutional abuse — “The Underground Railroad” and “The Nickel Boys,” for which he won two successive Pulitzers — Whitehead pivots to an entirely new genre, subverting it, toying with it, making it wholly his own. And while the Harlem novels, too, have a great deal to say about serious subjects such as systemic racism, corruption, and crimes and misdemeanors of various proportions, they often lean on humor to get the message across.

In fact, it’s easy to envision the author at his laptop, as exhilarated as his prose, cracking himself up over how he bends language, employs slang, and forges descriptions like this one about a bar where Carney and a partner in crime conspire over how to fence a stolen diamond necklace: “He met Flinch Wilson at the Marlin, a narrow dive on 110th and Broadway with a decor inspired by an old leather shoe that lived in a drainage pipe.” Or this about a rival who has it out for Carney and his cohorts: “Buzz struck him as a plumber, one who comes back when you aren’t home to strangle your parakeet if you stiff him on the bill.”

“Cool Machine” is set in the 1980s, and Carney is still in the picture. It’s the Reagan era, and predatory capitalism rules, as does Mayor Giuliani, who’s waged war on the mafia and the homeless. What Whitehead dubs the “churn” roils the city and his protagonist. It’s that “churn” that beckons Carney to break his promise to himself and once again divert from his legit furniture store business. The excuse this time is that his wife Elizabeth wants to open her own travel agency, and can’t get a bank loan. Despite the couple’s closeness, for all these years her husband has managed to conceal that he’s a part-time crook. He desires respectability, but savors the buzz, the camaraderie — the honor among thieves. Carney falls in with criminal mastermind Uncle Rich and signs on to his outrageous plan to break into the Waldorf Astoria; the goal is to liberate Jesse Owens’ Olympic gold medal from those who forced him to cash it in.

The intricacy with which Whitehead details the planning and execution of this caper marks him as a top-tier researcher — he’s drawn on many primary sources to ground this work of fiction in historical fact. (There’s also his obsessive use of Pinterest.) The scenes set in the bowels of Grand Central, where there’s a secret train track leading to the Waldorf, are thrilling enough to read for their action, but the atmospheric descriptions are equally delectable: “Track 23’s next departure pulled into the station. One commuter joined Carney and Uncle Rich on the platform, a deflated man in a pinstripe suit with shiny elbows, then another businessman who sagged on one side, as if his briefcase was filled with lead weights.” One of the marvels of this novel is how effortlessly such sentences land, despite being honed to perfection. It would be a spoiler to say anything further about whether the thieves’ mission impossible yields their reward.

Part two of the novel shifts downtown, into the heart of the ’80s East Village art scene. A preoccupation of Whitehead’s — Jean-Michel Basquiat — is the inspiration for a fictional graffiti artist whose omnipresent scrawls capture the pretensions of the burgeoning wheelers and dealers, who, like uptown crooks, are relentless strivers, albeit with sleeker facades. Their snobbery is juxtaposed with Carney’s friend and colleague Pepper’s unsettling bluntness and eyeball to eyeball stare. He’s on the trail of a psychopath-for-hire dubbed “the Melancholy Hitman,” while battling stomach issues that have him downing Pepto-Bismol and coughing up blood in random bathrooms. In this section, Carney plays a supporting role to Pepper’s lead; “Escape from New York” is the enveloping soundtrack.

In the novel’s final act, Carney reemerges from straight life and Pepper from retirement in Delaware to rescue Carney’s nephew, Robert, who’s on the mob’s hit list for a murder he witnessed. Political corruption is rampant, and the revelation of who’s on the take has rattled a lot of cages. Robert is unwittingly entrapped, and has absconded with something mob bigwig Lombardi wants revenge for. Carney dons his best furniture salesman hat to make the pitch of a lifetime, a deal that could save Robert’s life, or take Carney’s. As Carney drives to the meet-up, he reflects on New York’s evolution: “Crime transformed the city by degrees. He thought of what John [his son] told him about rap music, where it came from. Rap was part of the New York environment now, barging from boom boxes and windows. They created something new from the spoils, the theft of turntables from record shops, the rip-off of a musical line or riff from another song — a crooked art.”

For those who enjoy knowing how an author’s inspiration arrives, it’s amusing to note that in the case of the trilogy that kicked off in 2021 with “Harlem Shuffle,” Whitehead told the New Yorker: “I was staring off into space and thinking about how much I like heist films and how much fun it would be to write a heist.” That sounds simple enough, but “Harlem Shuffle” turned out to be years in the making. The idea initially came to him around the same time he was writing “The Underground Railroad,” which was published in 2016. It wasn’t until after the release of that book, and then “Nickel Boys,” that Whitehead decided to lighten the mood by composing a crime novel set in New York City in the 1960s. And while he usually avoids staying on the same topic or voice from book to book, in the midst of writing “Harlem Shuffle,” Whitehead found he was still imagining further escapades for his main character, this time in the 1970s, with the city on the verge of bankruptcy, and incendiary conflagrations between the NYPD and the Black Liberation Army trending. As he envisioned what would become “Crook Manifesto,” Whitehead thought: “Why not make it three?”

Carney is part poet. Part crook. Part salesman. Part philosopher. To my knowledge, Carney’s creator is neither crook nor salesman, but Whitehead can lay claim to those other two mantles. His vocabulary appears boundless, as does his apparent love for the city he grew up in, where he still lives. “Cool Machine” is a modern masterpiece and an ode to New York, no matter that rats skitter and cockroaches scamper underfoot. When Carney has the chance to move anywhere in the world he wants, he ponders the appeal of fresh air. “Fresh was nice,” he reflects, “but so was other stuff. Noise, dirt, and struggle.” After escaping Manhattan, he wonders, “Where do you go? There’s no place else. It was like going on the lam from yourself.”

Whether or not New York is your jam, or a place you have escaped from or to, Whitehead’s Harlem Trilogy is destined to live on as an American classic. Never mind the rats and cockroaches — it’s the churn.

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

On paper, Lauren Meyering’s debut feature “Horsegirls” sounds like it was made in a 2000s indie movie lab: It features a quirky heroine with a unique hobby, a loved one with a devastating illness and the formation of an unlikely community that rallies around our protagonist and her dream. But surprise — the events of “Horsegirls” are inspired by a true story, one close to Meyering, who based the film on her family friends Mackenzie and Sandra Breeden. Sometimes real life can be the realest indie movie of all.

“Horsegirls” might read on paper as too sickly sweet, but Meyering’s thoughtful direction and star Lillian Carrier’s performance keep it from tipping too far in that direction. Carrier stars as Margarita, a young woman with autism who lives with her cancer-stricken mother, Sandy (Gretchen Mol). The pair are inseparable, with Margarita accompanying her mother to chemotherapy treatments and their own special celebration rituals involving karaoke and sharing combo platters.

Sandy desperately wants Margarita to get a job but her first steps toward independence come when she spies a hobby horse rehearsal and becomes fixated on joining. If you’re unfamiliar with hobby horsing, it’s a sport originating from Finland that’s growing in popularity. It involves a choreographed routine involving elements of gymnastics and traditional dressage performed while using a “hobby horse” — a stuffed horse head on a stick.

For Margarita, who loves horses but isn’t allowed to interact with them due to her mother’s safety fears, it seems the perfect solution, and she persists despite the clique-ish mean girl behavior from some of the younger participants. The coach (Jerod Haynes) sees her determination and encourages her participation, so she gets a job at a Halloween store to pay for it but keeps it a secret from Sandy. As it turns out, both mother and daughter are keeping secrets from each other.

While the plot unfolds in a fairly predictable manner, it’s the character of Margarita who keeps us on our toes. Carrier, who also has autism, brings an inherent authenticity to the role as well as a sense of good humor that draws people to Margarita, a character who always says what’s on her mind, whether or not it’s polite or appropriate. But her refreshing honesty is what people respond to, and both she and Sandy know she’s going to need people in the not-so-distant future.

Meyering carefully threads the themes of parental concern and young adult independence throughout her screenplay. The anxieties are universal — any parent wants to feel assured that their child is going to be OK when they’re gone; any child wants to prove that they’re capable and free to do what they want. Characters like Margarita’s store manager Hank (Iqbal Theba) prove that strangers can “get” Margarita just as she is, without her mother’s interference or interpretation, even if it takes some time for Sandy to understand that.

Meyering and cinematographer Natalie Kingston create a naturalistic and often dark look, though “Horsegirls” is beautifully shot. The distinctive photography sets it apart cinematically from other films in this genre — just like Margarita herself, who visually stands out from the other girls.

This is a simple story executed with singular panache, and while “Horsegirls” follows expected narrative beats, it’s in the moments of surprise that it works best, often thanks to Carrier and her straightforward line deliveries, which help the tone pop. The film is a reminder that conformity is never compulsory, and that putting yourself out there is the only way to find out who’s ready to catch you.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

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.

DULCIE PEARCE

500 Miles is a sentimental slog of a film and you’ll feel every painful step

DULCIE PEARCE

Woody and Buzz are back to take on kids’ biggest enemy yet in Toy Story 5

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.