review

The two sides disagree sharply over what the changes to the law would mean in practice.

Dan Dunmoyer, president and chief executive of the California Building Industry Assn., a trade group supporting the measure, said the state is the slowest in the nation when it comes to reaching a conclusion about whether projects can be built. Per Dunmoyer, it’s one of the top two reasons housing here is so pricey.

Supporters point to accumulating interest on loans, shelling out for litigation and rising costs for materials.

Dunmoyer believes the measure would make the review process faster and easier. He estimated it will reduce the cost of building single family homes by $75,000 a pop.

“We think … it will allow us to provide more housing of all types, not just for sale, but for rent and legally defined affordable housing, even homeless shelters, more quickly than under the current environmental review process,” he said, “and we think that’s beneficial to Californians who very much want a place to call home.”

Proponents of the measure characterize the effort as procedural: It will firm up timelines, but projects still will be reviewed. But those fighting it, as well as some legal experts, say the 41-page proposal essentially guts CEQA for projects that qualify.

Aruna Prabhala, a senior attorney at the Center for Biological Diversity, a conservation group opposing the measure, said it would eliminate the need to analyze a project’s specific impacts, such as how it affects people living nearby. Instead, the process would become a “checklist” to see if the project complies with existing environmental laws.

The measure also states it “should be interpreted and implemented to afford the fullest possible weight to the interest of, and the approval and realization of, essential projects.” Prabhala and others believe it flips the purpose of CEQA to approve projects, rather than protect the environment.

“So much of what’s in the initiative mirrors what we’re seeing from the federal level and the Trump administration from rolling back environmental review, from really limiting public participation,” she said. “For not only failing to enforce protections for our air and water quality, but making it that much harder for agencies to do that.”

The One About Matthew Perry is a new documentary exploring the life of the late Friends star, who played Chandler Bing on the beloved sitcom, three years on from his tragic death

Famously the Friends theme tune features the lyric “I’ll be there for you”.

And in real life actor Matthew Perry had both family and friends looking out for him along the way for most of his 54 years. Best known as Chandler Bing, he was regularly the stand out comic actor in the sitcom, both with physical gags and his comic timing of lines.

But often away from the cameras and the fame, there were problems in his life and we see and hear about those in abundance in the new Netflix series. I didn’t expect to react strongly to The One About Matthew Perry, but his sister Mia Perry Bowick is a captivating and unflinching interviewee.

Ahead of watching the documentary, I couldn’t really understand why she had agreed to take part and what good could come from it. But she does an incredible job by balancing her words to pay tribute to a brother she loved dearly, at the same time as also explaining the difficulties and pain of him struggling and battling with addiction.

I felt I understood the issues around addiction and Matthew Perry much more after watching and had huge sympathy for him and Mia. Here was an incredibly intelligent and talented man trying to manage a career as an A-list star as he fights desperately to not drink or turn to drugs when he feels depressed.

Those that worked with him point to his comic timing, his willingness to help with script tweaks or tiny scene changes to make projects even better. But for all his successes he never seemed to be able to be completely happy.

Despite having lots of friends and women falling at his feet, he would sometimes feel alone, perhaps thinking back to a time he would be put on planes on his own as a child flying between him mum in Canada and his dad in Los Angeles after they had separated

In one archive interview he says: “The beliefs that I had were I was too needy, I wasn’t enough, and I didn’t matter. And my whole life was about trying to have those three things not be true.”

Mia elaborates and says: “He would talk about that feeling of kind of a sense of emptiness or loneliness that he couldn’t quite fill.”

His closest friends and girlfriends discuss a recurring theme of poor Matthew losing the battle over and over again with relapses, and then his death. At one stage Mia says tearfully: “I know that a lot of parts of him did not think it was possible for him to live a sober life.” Going back further Mia recalls the good times, when Matthew first landed the Friends job, and when she was being cuddled on set by his cast mates like Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox as a young girl.

Her brother could be ridiculously generous and bought her a Corvette car when she was 15 and regularly treated friends and girlfriends to expensive gifts too. He also wasn’t against putting his hand in his pocket to try to help solve his own problems as Mia highlights he spent $7million on rehab to try to get clean and stay sober.

But another scene that lives long in the memory is when Mia describes visiting him in rehab in 2001 and being unable to control her despair at the situation, running and hiding in a cupboard in tears until her brother came to get her.

“This was my big brother, my idolised big brother. He was the most special person on the planet. Just seeing him suffering, I was really scared for him.”

As she grew older she matured and found she was having to help him even more, rushing to hospital to his aid in 2018 just six weeks after she had given birth. He came out of a coma that time and was released from hospital against the odds after three months, but the hopes that this would be rock bottom only lasted a few years.

At times this series if a tough watch because it does not sugarcoat what happened and the issues around addiction. But this decision should be applauded. It is a million miles away from so many of the other “celebrity documentaries” released these days which gloss over the difficult moments over simplify what really happened.

Explaining her reasoning for taking part, Mia said: As his sister, he shaped who I am today, the person I strive to be, and the work to which I’ve devoted my life. Matthew had a beautiful heart and a generous spirit, and even in his darkest moments, he could still make you laugh and feel loved. I hope this series gives everyone who loved him, whether personally or from afar, a deeper appreciation for who he truly was, and the legacy he leaves behind.”

Mia, you were there for him, and along with director Mary Robertson you have done Matthew proud with this documentary.

VERDICT: A challenging and heartbreaking series *****

* The One About Matthew Perry premieres globally on Netflix on October 27.

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The brilliant Korean filmmaker Lee Chang-dong is a suffering protagonist’s best friend, exploring the buried pain in people like no other filmmaker. But he’s never been so delicately novelistic, and so accessibly human, as with his latest movie, “Possible Love,” even when Lee is spinning the enigmatic vibes he’s known for.

A marriage story weighty enough to bear two fascinatingly complex couples, it explores a web of isolation and desire knotted with the divisions and woes of society today: class, labor, media. The film fairly vibrates with ominous tension even in scenes in which seemingly nothing happens. (Which, admittedly, is a Lee staple if you remember his last film, 2018’s eerie psychological thriller “Burning.”) Astonishingly acted, intricately written, with nary a shot out of place and never insulting to its audience, “Possible Love” is a masterpiece of everyday struggle — essentially, who bears it and who doesn’t — and easily among the year’s best films.

At the funeral for a colleague who committed suicide in the wake of a disastrous labor strike, out-of-work Ho-seok (Sul Kyung-gu, of Lee’s “Peppermint Candy”) would rather brood in the car alone and let his patient, grasping-for-connection wife Mi-ok (Jeon Do-yeon, a Cannes prize-winner for her turn in Lee’s “Secret Sunshine”) be around others. With these blue collar parents’ grade-school-age son a tangibly quiet presence, a seemingly impassable unhappiness oozes from the opening scenes. The appearance inside the funeral home, however, of a documentary crew interviewing laid-off workers spurs Mi-ok to engage with the outgoing director, Ye-ji (Cho Yeo-jeong), whose reserved, well-to-do husband Sang-woo (Zo In-sung) is in tow. When Mi-ok agrees to participate in Ye-ji’s film, a friendship forms.

Is it friendship, though, or a mutually useful rapport? The women couldn’t be more unalike in terms of background and status. Mi-ok has to tell Ye-ji that her expensive clothes don’t jibe with someone championing labor issues. But they have a breezy, even jokey openness, fed by the stories Mi-ok tells on camera as well as soju-fueled double dates with their spouses. They also have in common husbands who are remote, albeit for vastly different reasons. Hedge-fund-rich Sang-woo has an air of cool privilege, while the gloomy, taciturn Ho-seok harbors unprocessed trauma about what happened during the strike, the details of which are judiciously doled out to us in flashbacks. (Lee drew the background for his scenario from a real-life labor protest met by a government crackdown that shocked the country.)

But underneath what seems promising, the beginnings of empathy and maybe healing, there’s something performative and calculated in this fast bond. There are Ye-ji’s filmic needs — “I’m trying to love these people,” she says privately to Sang-woo after he calls her behavior with them “Method acting” — and Mi-ok’s swirl of intentions, hoping to save her husband with not ignoring the allure of her new pal’s quietly confident and wealthy man. Right at the moment when more cracks materialize, Ye-ji invites this broken family for a shared weekend at Sang-woo’s vacation mansion.

You may be forgiven for anticipating a potboiler climax when a lush hideaway with a private beach is concerned, and what occurs there is indeed juicy. But that’s only because Lee, in his finest screenplay to date, has laid out precisely where his vectors of hardship, exploitation, pent-up anguish and hidden desire are going to converge. Just add more alcohol and more reminders of these couples’ experiential chasm, and Lee’s command of irony in a simmering atmosphere is in a league all its own.

The documentary angle, of course, is this great director probing the ethics in his own vocation as an intrusive force, one that shapes lives, emotions and, in this case, the weight of a genuine tragedy. In much the way he finessed a truth about art facing evil in “Poetry,” the camera here is both predatory and a tool for catharsis. In one scene, the confluence is literally breathtaking.

Best-of lists were made for performances like Jeon’s. With tear-swollen eyes and an anxious intelligence that imbues Mi-ok’s mission of repair with heartbreaking energy, she is this movie’s restless soul of want: a wife, lover, worker and mother trapped between the balm of recollecting better times and worry for the future. Alongside Sul’s deftly handled, physical characterization of a proud man swallowed by hurt he could never imagine, “Possible Love” stands as one of the more sensitively wrought depictions of a wounded marriage you’ll ever see.

And when it’s over, it somehow doesn’t feel over. Maybe no scene better embodies Lee’s exquisite communion with his characters than his last one, which supplies them with a hint of grace. “Possible Love” hovers over the moment’s sublimity like the moonlight and I haven’t stopped thinking about its elemental beauty since.

Move over, “Alice in Wonderland” and “The Wizard of Oz” — you too, “Spirited Away” and “The Chronicles of Narnia.” There’s a new eye-popping portal fantasy in town and its name is “Wildwood.”

This is a thoroughly involving and captivating stop-motion adventure from Laika, the animation studio that made such other beautiful handmade works as “Coraline” and “Kubo and the Two Strings.” But it’s clear from the level of artistry on display here that the company, led by producer-director Travis Knight, has steadily advanced in technology, innovation and ambition. (We’re talking 233 handcrafted puppets and 132 practical sets.) That’s saying a lot given Laika’s previous top-tier output. In addition, Laika worked alongside New Zealand’s Wētā FX to create the movie’s stunning digital environments and visual effects. That magical ivy is something else.

The wondrous story was adapted by frequent Laika collaborator Chris Butler from the epic 2011 novel written by Colin Meloy (frontman for indie rock band the Decemberists, whose original music is featured here) and illustrated by Carson Ellis. The tale kicks off as intrepid young Portland, Ore., teen Prue (voiced by Peyton Elizabeth Lee) defies her worrywart parents and, in their absence, takes her baby brother, Mac, out for a bike ride around her city’s singularly quirky downtown. (Not for nothing, Knight is a Portland native and Laika is based just outside the city.)

But things quickly turn pitch dark as a murder of crows (take that collective noun how you will) swoops down and, quite terrifyingly, à la Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds,” abducts little Mac. This leads a desperate Prue and, soon, her nerdy but plucky classmate Curtis (Jacob Tremblay), into the forbidden “Impassable Wilderness” at the edge of town to rescue Mac. From there on it’s a roller coaster of magnificently rendered battles, chases, near-misses and escapes as Prue and Curtis — separately and together — navigate the enchanted, astonishing woods and its wildly assorted communities of rulers, warriors and underlings.

As Prue and Curtis struggle to unravel the twisty lore of the obstacle-laden forest in their search for Mac, their outsider presence inadvertently sets off a long-festering showdown for control of the forest between its warring factions. On the one hand, it’s Alexandra, the sinister, dangerously obsessed Dowager Governess (Carey Mulligan) and her marauding band of military-style coyotes (Tom Waits, Charlie Day and others) versus a wayward posse of bandits (led by Mahershala Ali’s formidable Brendan). Then there’s the Avian Principality, a bird-led kingdom also against Alexandra’s mounting power, including a stunningly majestic eagle known as the General (Angela Bassett) and the wise old Owl Rex (Richard E. Grant).

Vying for dominance as well are the haughty, self-serving bureaucrats of the area’s bustling capital of South Wood (Jemaine Clement, Marc Evan Jackson), who pull their political strings from the relative safety of the grand Pittock Mansion. Other characters Prue and the increasingly brave Curtis encounter along the way include the wry and resourceful rat Septima (Awkwafina), the courageous bandit Niamh (Amandla Stenberg), elderly mystic Iphigenia (Tantoo Cardinal) and the realm’s harried postmaster (Len Cariou). The talking animals feel right at home alongside the human figures and the voice work is excellent all around.

Needless to say, there’s a lot going on in Butler’s busy, occasionally dizzying script, though compressing the approximately 550-page source material was surely no easy task. (As it is, “Wildwood” runs more than two hours, long for an animated film, though it rarely lags.) Still, the narrative has its share of “just go with it” moments and explanations. Bits of connective tissue can sometimes feel missing amid the action and the story’s lessons, particularly for Prue, don’t always land as strongly or affectingly as they could.

It should also be said that there’s some fairly outsize violence along the way, particularly during the combat scenes, plus other potentially disturbing bits of mayhem that may be too extreme for younger children. Parents take note: The film more than rightly earns its PG-13 rating.

Nonetheless, for most audiences, especially animation-loving teens and adults, this should prove a spectacularly immersive ride, vibrantly shot by the great Caleb Deschanel (“The Right Stuff,” “The Natural”) and crafted by a reported 49 animators who brought the film to life one dazzling, painstaking frame at a time.

A bittersweet homecoming — emphasis on the bitter — propels Polish filmmaker Paweł Pawlikowski’s spare, precise drama “Fatherland,” which takes an episode from the life of Nobel Prize-winning German author Thomas Mann and, with the help of some poetic license, creates a story full of simmering anger and sorrow. Only rarely do the dignified characters allow their emotions to come storming out. When they do, though, the sound seems to reverberate, the tumult of the past ringing in our ears.

Like Pawlikowski’s previous two features, “Ida” and “Cold War,” “Fatherland” is a period piece shot in black and white in a boxy 4:3 aspect ratio so that the frame resembles an old photograph, although his images contain no hint of nostalgia. It’s 1949, and the 70-something Mann (Hanns Zischler) has returned to Germany for the first time since fleeing to America 16 years prior. Accompanying him is Erika (Sandra Hüller), his daughter and fellow writer, who begrudgingly serves as interpreter, personal assistant and driver. In addition, she’ll offer her brutally honest thoughts on the flowery speeches he will deliver while being honored for his artistry.

Quickly, they discover that while the war may be over, the bombed-out buildings remain, as do the lingering resentments within Germany, which is controlled by the United States in the west and the Soviets in the east. Thomas, an outspoken critic of Nazism, leading to his exile, believes that his public appearances can unite the country he loves. The cynical Erika knows better, convinced he’s a PR tool for a nation hoping to refurbish its tarnished reputation.

Drawing inspiration from “The Magician,” Colm Tóibín’s fictionalized 2021 Mann biography, Pawlikowski uses this trip as a jumping-off point, introducing real-life individuals who were not present and inventing a new central dynamic. (In truth, Thomas traveled with his wife, not his daughter.) But those creative liberties merely accentuate Pawlikowski’s narrative and thematic aims, which, as in “Ida” and “Cold War” include pairing an intimate story with the larger rumblings of postwar Europe. Thomas and Erika arrive in a Germany torn apart and the ruptures within their family are nearly as tumultuous.

The film is haunted by the specter of Klaus (August Diehl), Erika’s brother, who is actually the first person we see onscreen. In a masterful unbroken shot, Klaus is on the phone from France with his sister, expressing his bottomless anguish. “I don’t believe in anything anymore,” Klaus, who is also a writer, declares. “I can’t remember the last time I felt something.” He’s talking about the fractured Germany, but his depression speaks to something closer to home too. Concerned, Erika encourages Klaus to join them. He declines, but his absence — and a shocking later revelation — informs so much of their journey, personalizing the sense of disrepair Thomas and Erika experience.

Working with his usual cinematographer Łukasz Żal, Pawlikowski prefers a static camera, leaving plenty of headroom above the characters so that they feel entombed by their surroundings. The effect is especially disconcerting as this father and daughter navigate glad-handers and former Nazi collaborators in West Germany who are anxious to bury the past. But Thomas and Erika are no fools, coolly telling off smiling Hitler sympathizers during a tony reception. There has been no more satisfying slap in cinema this year than the one Erika lands on a smug German actor, leading to a wicked punchline that shouldn’t be spoiled.

Such moments of barbed humor are infrequent in “Fatherland,” but Pawlikowski wields them like grenades, shattering the stifling niceties enveloping Thomas and Erika. The Germany of “Fatherland” is one of contradictions, with Erika uncovering letters sent to Thomas’ hotel that savagely accuse him of betraying his country, despite state officials eager to embrace him as a symbol of the nation’s creative and cultural excellence. In contrast to the gorgeous monochrome visuals, this is a land that stinks of complicity and delusion — of opportunists desperate to scramble onto the right side of history. Pawlikowski has said that he keeps returning to the past in his films because addressing our modern ills directly would be too daunting. But whether in Frankfurt or, later, Weimar — where Soviet officials are as keen to canonize Thomas — this father and daughter aren’t simply driving through Germany but taking a tour across fascism’s long shadow, which still darkens the world.

Both leads are exceptional, with Zischler articulating the great writer’s arrogance and willful denial of the inconvenient truths he wants to ignore. As for Hüller, this is another superb performance in a series of them in recent years. Where Thomas is aloof and proud, Erika is prickly and sardonic, excellent tools for protecting a surprisingly fragile heart. Their journey to Germany will heal neither the nation nor the divisions within this family. You can’t go home again and in the case of the characters in “Fatherland,” maybe you shouldn’t try.

CLAYFACE

(18) 108mins

★★★★☆

YOU don’t need to be a DC Universe superfan to have heard of many of Batman’s nemeses.

The Joker, The Penguin and Catwoman have each been cultural references for decades.

But even the most ardent Detective Comics devotee may not have heard of Clayface, who first popped up in 1940 drawings.

In 1992, a two-part Batman TV series introduced Matt Hagen, a disfigured actor dependent on an experimental cream that restored his appearance — but this turned him into a shape-shifting monster.

Now, 34 years later, this brilliantly terrifying origin story shows us exactly why Clayface is who he is.

DULCIE PEARCE

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DULCIE PEARCE

One Night Only has huge plot holes & a flat ending that become a turn-off

Handsome actor Matt Hagen (Tom Rhys Harries) has risen from Gotham’s streets to become one of the world’s most sought-after stars.

We meet him at the height of his career — working non-stop, featured on the cover of every glossy magazine, and even nominated for an Oscar.

On top of that, he seems like a decent bloke who looks out for his mates and treats everyone with respect.

But soon, a sexy run-in at a nightclub leads to him having his face horrifically disfigured by a Gotham gangland boss, who puts out a smear campaign on his character.

With his career collapsing and his reputation in tatters, Matt turns to experimental scientist Dr Caitlyn Corr (Naomi Ackie), who is practising with various AI treatments to put right such disfigurements.

While she explains her research is in its early, undeveloped stages, Matt feels he has nothing to lose — and so they give it a try, naturally.

It restores said good looks, but it also begins to affect Matt other ways, giving him mind and face-altering abilities. Quite the combination for someone hell-bent on revenge for those who betrayed him.

This thrilling horror has experience at the helm, with Speak No Evil’s James Watkins directing and The Haunting Of Hill House’s Mike Flanagan writing the screenplay, along with Hossein Amini.

With a bevy of British talent playing Americans in the supporting cast — including Eddie Marsan as a dodgy lawyer and Max Minghella as a good cop trying his best in a corrupt city — this is a high-quality psychological thriller that often feels grittier than anything DC has done before.

Not to mention it’s also a superb introduction to a new DC character, who makes a great nemesis.

GHOSTS: THE POSSESSION OF BUTTON HOUSE

(PG) 97mins  

★★★★☆

IT’S three years since BBC sitcom Ghosts shut the dusty doors on Button House and its crazy residents after five series of the show, which originated with the comedy troupe that created Horrible Histories.

This film sees series director Simon Hynd bringing back the spirited company of characters including disgraced Tory MP Julian (Simon Farnaby), Edwardian matriarch Fanny (Martha Howe-Douglas) and World War Two captain James (Ben Willbond).

The gang bicker and reminisce about the former living residents, Alison (Charlotte Ritchie) and Mike (Kiell Smith-Bynoe), who they miss dreadfully. So bored are the friendly ghosts that they learned a takeaway menu that was pushed through the door.

But soon a new crew enters their home – kids who want to play Ouija.

This kicks off an outer-and-inner-body adventure for the ghosts, who seek out Alison and Mike to help them keep their abode.

There’s gentle thrills and some rubbish local-cop car chases. Watch for funny cameos from great British comedians and nods to coming-of-age shows like Stranger Things.

Fun for the whole family.

ALI G: WHO IZ I?

(15) 89mins

★★★☆☆

ON hearing that Ali G creator Sacha Baron Cohen was revisiting the character to make a film, I did a sharp intake of breath.

It feels like a dangerous climate for a white actor to play a character who claims to be black.

But the film addresses this early, with Slough-born Ali discussing cultural appropriation in the only way he can.

He reflects that many of his haters claimed he wasn’t black, and decides to head to America with his eight-months pregnant girlfriend, Julie (Morgana Robinson), to get back in the spotlight.

This brings together a fascinating, hilarious cast of characters who, like the successful original comedy show, are not in on the gag.

Having given them a good kicking in his Borat films, Baron Cohen again makes the endlessly ridiculous and terrifying right-wing Americans his targets, as well as the ultra-woke liberals.

And while I laughed out loud many times, some jokes felt tired. But the stunt at the end works brilliantly, and this formerly much-loved character just about gets away with it.

It’s in cinemas this weekend only.

NEW YORK — “860,” the title of Billy Crystal’s tremendously moving new Broadway show at the Imperial Theatre, refers to the address of his house in the Pacific Palisades that was destroyed in last year’s fire.

Crystal re-creates the events of Jan. 7, 2025, as the wildfire that began in the Santa Monica Mountains started making its way down toward his home at 860 Chautauqua Blvd. Video clips of the escalating emergency are shown as a cardigan-clad Crystal, standing in a facsimile of his home office (the conjuring work of scenic designer Scott Pask), re-creates the horror of having to decide what to take with him as the evacuation orders come in.

The photos, awards and other memorabilia aren’t just souvenirs of his storied career. They are pieces of the life he built with his wife, Janice, and their two daughters as well as a record of the friendships that made Hollywood feel like a welcoming community for a wide-eyed Long Island kid.

“860,” impeccably directed by Scott Ellis, occurs in a series of flashbacks. Crystal brings us back to what it was like as he and his wife made their way across a jam-packed Sunset Boulevard in separate cars to the safety of their daughter’s house as smoke and flying embers turned their small-town paradise overlooking the Pacific Ocean into an apocalyptic war zone.

A baseball superfan, Crystal gives us the play-by-play as though he were calling a World Series game that had taken an unimaginable turn. Hana S. Kim and Kylee Loera’s video design turns us into eyewitnesses of that terrible day.

I was in Los Angeles when the Palisades and Eaton fires broke out, but I was far enough away not to feel the immediacy of the threat. Crystal had me in full fight-or-flight mode, as if I were in the car behind him going 5 mph along the only route out of danger.

Billy Crystal in “860” at the Imperial Theatre on Broadway.

(Avery Brunkus)

Making a show about a recent public trauma isn’t easy to pull off, but Crystal has managed it as perhaps only he could. “860” is a meditation on loss, but it’s also a theatrical memoir of his multifarious career as a comic, actor, filmmaker and celebrated Oscar host. He returns to his days on “Soap,” the controversial nighttime parody of a daytime soap opera created by Susan Harris that featured Crystal in the role of Jodie Dallas, one of TV’s first openly gay characters.

Crystal was living in an apartment in then-smog-filled Hancock Park with his wife and daughters when he was filming the show’s third season. The couple wanted to move to an area that had better air quality for their children, and someone asked if he knew about the Pacific Palisades.

“It was a small town, good schools, beautiful afternoon breezes from the nearby ocean, one main street with some shops, a deli named Mort’s that had lean corned beef and a lot of people who didn’t put mayonnaise on pastrami,” Crystal recounts.

The house they came to see wasn’t for them, but a for-sale sign at 860 Chautauqua caught their eye. The real estate agent told them that the owners “were very motivated to sell because they were very motivated not to be together anymore.”

It was December 1979 when, with a 30-year mortgage in hand, they moved into the house. Two women who grew up at 860 (“Imagine the twins from ‘The Shining’ — but they’re 55”) paid a welcome call to say how pleased they were that their former home was back in the hands of show people.

The original owners were vaudevillians who had a mind-reading act and were passionately into the occult. They socialized with the comic luminaries of their day, including humorist Will Rogers, who would regularly stop by on his horse. Behind a secret wall, Crystal found a hidden room with a cork board that had clippings that suggested maybe it wasn’t such an accident that the house became his.

Crystal, the emcee of all emcees (as his performance at this year’s Hollywood Bowl Opening Night once again proved), tells the story of his home with buoyant humor and charm, turning loss into living memory. To set up the meaning of what was destroyed, he takes us back to his roots, starting with his graduation in 1970 from NYU, where he took a film production class with a young Martin Scorsese, who would critique his work in a manner that Crystal, the Al Hirschfeld of celebrity impersonators, hilariously captures.

Crystal’s comic timing was honed in the clubs doing stand-up. Jack Rollins, the producing titan who managed Mike Nichols, Elaine May and Woody Allen, imparted some wisdom after watching Crystal’s act. Crystal thought he killed it that night, but Rollins told him that he failed to “leave a tip,” meaning reveal something about himself in his jokes.

Opening for Blood, Sweat & Tears in Scranton, Pa., a huge opportunity, Crystal faced a hostile audience. But he won the crowd over and thought maybe he could really make this stand-up comedy thing work. But then he was sent back out onstage after lead singer David Clayton-Thomas decided he didn’t want to perform and had to win the jeering music fans over again — and then a third time. While driving home on the New Jersey Turnpike to his wife and baby that night, he felt his future in front of him, having found not only his calling but also his voice.

Crystal’s luckiest break may have been in not being drafted during the Vietnam War, but a close second was being invited to do his Howard Cosell-Muhammad Ali routine at a televised gala for the boxing legend. Crystal not only crushed it but he made a lifelong friend in Ali, who was already his personal hero.

Bonds forged in comedy, like the one he had with Robin Williams, deepened into a lasting brotherhood. Norman Lear cast Crystal as Rob Reiner’s best friend on “All in the Family,” and life imitated art. Their successful collaborations — crystallized in the fake orgasm scene at Katz’s Delicatessen in “When Harry Met Sally” — were an outgrowth of their telepathic comic rapport.

In reviewing his famous life, Crystal reanimates parts of our own. And it’s this shared history that helps us understand what he lost when his house went up in flames. The magnitude of the devastation is made personal for all of us.

But just when you think things can’t get any worse, something completely unthinkable happens. For Crystal, this occurred at the end of 2025, his annus horribilis, when Reiner and wife Michelle were found stabbed to death at their Brentwood home.

Some things are too painful for words, and Crystal knows that sense cannot be made from senselessness. But he’s already told us so much about this unique friendship that nothing more needs to be said.

Crystal doesn’t wallow in grief or self-pity. He bears the weight of his losses with his wit and generous spirit to help us carry the weight of our own. (When he walked into a store to buy a new wardrobe after the fire, he reports, the salesclerk looked at him and said, “Let me guess … Ozempic?”)

No one gets out of this world without becoming a master of the art of losing, to invoke the poet Elizabeth Bishop. But laughter can sustain us through our losses, and Crystal thinks it’s no accident that one of the few things that was salvaged from the ashes of his home was a stone from his garden with the word “laughter” engraved on it.

I found Crystal’s previous solo show “700 Sundays” to be a touch mawkish, so I wasn’t expecting to be so powerfully moved by “860.” But this is just a brilliantly conceived and executed piece, and I hope it yields Crystal another Tony Award.

But even more, I hope the production finds its way home to where it belongs, Los Angeles. We could really use the fortifying laughter.

A day after the Tennessee Titans released defensive tackle Jordan Elliott after an alleged incident involving a gun at the team’s practice facility, coach Robert Saleh defended the veteran player as “a good man” who “had a terrible lapse in judgment that I recognize as a call for help more than a criminal act.”

The Titans announced Elliott’s dismissal on Tuesday but provided no details on the incident that prompted it. The NFL confirmed Wednesday that it was looking into the matter.

“The league’s firearm policy prohibits any personnel from bringing a firearm to club facilities, stadiums, and team hotels and on team planes or buses,” NFL spokesperson Brian McCarthy said in an email. “The club promptly notified the league of the matter which is under review.”

Details have since emerged that Elliott got into an altercation with offensive lineman JC Latham at practice last Thursday, then went out to his car in the players’ parking lot to get his gun, according to reports by multiple media outlets. Latham told reporters Wednesday that the incident between him and Elliott just happened in the “heat of the moment” and “we’d actually never had an argument leading up to it.”

“It’s no bad blood,” Latham said. “Nothing personal on my end.”

Defensive lineman John Franklin-Myers reportedly helped Elliott regain his composure before anything happened involving the gun. Latham said he was still on the practice field and not with Elliott when Franklin-Myers intervened.

“The D-line room is really close,” Saleh told reporters Wednesday, “and for JFM to go out there and just kind of help Jordan with whatever he was dealing with at that moment I thought was really admirable on JFM’s part.”

Elliott played five seasons with the Cleveland Browns and two with the San Francisco 49ers before signing a two-year, $8-million deal with the Titans this past offseason. Saleh, who was the 49ers’ defensive coordinator last season, told reporters Wednesday that the Titans and the league provided Elliott “with clinicians he needed to speak to help him in that moment.”

“He’s never committed a crime in his entire life, and he pulled a gun in the parking lot,” Saleh said. “And the first question that I think everyone forgets to ask is why would a great man, a great father, a man who shows up on time every day, works his ass off every day, contributes the way he’s supposed to contribute, is well-liked in the locker room — why did he go off the rails and grab a gun?

“To me, those are small signs of a cry for help, in terms of obviously there’s something greater happening,” he continued. “And I thought the team and the NFL did an outstanding job with regards to pausing and asking those questions and checking every single box with regards to getting him the help that he needs.”

Saleh added: “I will stand on the table for Jordan’s character. Unfortunately, rules are rules with regard to guns on property, and sometimes it’s far greater than the knee-jerk reaction of kicking somebody when they’re down. My message to 31 other teams would be: If you need a hell of a run-stopping D-tackle that can help you on a playoff run, give me a call. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about him.”

Young adult stories come in every imaginable flavor, and flavor combination, and several are present in “Phony,” premiering Tuesday on Hulu. Based on the four episodes (of eight) out for review, I am all in with this show, but as Doris Day so memorably sang, the future’s not ours to see.

Created and directed in part by Nick Paley (“Marcel the Shell With Shoes On”), it’s a mystery driven by an uncanny event, with the beating heart of a high school dramedy, in the sense that what is dramatic about adolescence is at the same time comical. (Given time.) Temperamentally, it’s closer to “Freaks & Geeks” or “Dazed and Confused” than, say, “Stranger Things,” but I also wrote “Robert Altman” in my notes.

To begin, we are in some mountainous slice of small-town Pacific Northwest, where the Canadian tax breaks call American producers across the 49th parallel and the landscape presses in from all sides. (A reference to Lewis & Clark College suggests the story is set in Oregon, but I can’t remember any other clues; also, it isn’t important.) It’s an ordinary world wrapped in mystery and sometimes mist, but it’s the ordinariness that gives the show its power as much as, or more than, the mysteriousness.

Sonny Cooke (Sam Nivola, from the third season of “White Lotus”) attends Delby High, where his mother, Ellen (Connie Britton), is the principal. This would be a nightmare for many teens, but for Sonny and Ellen, it’s more of a dream, as the two are unusually (which is not to say perversely) close. (There is no father in the picture, nor is one even mentioned.) He operates in the corridors as a kind of unofficial lieutenant to his mother, bringing cheer and care to his fellow students, spreading sunshine all over the place. This is a little strange, but he is not accounted a weirdo.

He has a nice girlfriend, Chloe (Mahaela Park), with whom he has just “decided to be official”; Ellen clucks at this — she’s a little protective. Sonny and Chloe call each other “Bobo,” and in a nice, authentic touch we see he has written that nickname in ballpoint pen on the white sidewall of his sneaker. As we open, Sonny and Chloe are planning to have sex for the first time; there is some comedy written around this. He’s the less mature, more nervous party. (He also has a tendency to fall over and bump into things.) His best friend, Vogel (Maliq Johnson), an injured basketball player, is miffed that he had to hear about this from Chloe and not Sonny, but not seriously and only for a moment.

Best friends Vogel (Maliq Johnson), left, and Sonny (Sam Nivola), who is trying to make sense of his feelings about his mom.

(David Astorga / Disney)

Driving to meet Chloe for their Big Night, after a rare argument with his mother, Sonny swerves to avoid a downed tree and drives into Bucket Pond, where an official sign commemorates the many deaths that have occurred there. When he wakes from a coma a week later, he doesn’t recognize Ellen, and you won’t quite either. However it’s been accomplished, by makeup (or an absence of makeup), prosthetics, digital manipulation, hypnosis or some combination of the above — and by acting, of course — this alteration of Connie Britton, a face we know well, is just enough off to be incredibly creepy. (What have you done with Connie Britton? we want to ask.) There is nothing more frightening than when the familiar starts acting strange, in movies or in life. Sonny’s symptoms mirror an actual condition, Capgras syndrome, which no one here mentions, though to be fair, he hasn’t told anyone who might offer that diagnosis, and is too freaked out to look it up himself. Only Sonny and the viewer notice the difference, which suggests that he may be wrong, or, alternatively, that everyone else is.

Completing a not-quite Scooby Gang are Mallory (Grace Brennan), returning to public school after three years of homeschooling, and her cousin Weldon (Colter Lee), a deadpan original turn on the nerd. Sonny and Mallory shared a kiss once, on a class camping trip, but for … reasons, they meet again on tentative terms. Despite or perhaps because of her offbeat upbringing (religious parents), Mallory is the embodiment of the cool girl who doesn’t need to demonstrate how cool she is, and perhaps doesn’t even know or, more to the point, care. In a series thoroughly well cast (by Jessica Kelly and Lisa Parasyn), Lee and Brennan, especially, stand out as originals, their performances drawn from life, or some private corner of their imagination.

Weldon, who is ready to credit Sonny’s story — he believes, for example, that Avril Lavigne died and was replaced by “someone named Melissa, who has a clubfoot” — connects him with Sharla (Meera Syal), a private investigator he knows from an online forum. “She’s into alternative knowledge. So cryptids, One World Order, face peelers…”

“I know what it’s like to be called crazy,” says Sharla, “but all you really need is one person to believe you.”

“Or two people,” adds Weldon.

“Yep, two people. Two weird people.”

Much of what makes “Phony” special happens alongside the main plot, or doesn’t involve any plot at all — it’s pure atmosphere, bits of background business and chatter in the school halls, and at a party in the woods that occupies much of Episode 4. (Nice use of long lenses by cinematographer Andy Rydzewski.) Party scenes are a yardstick by which I measure the authenticity of a teenage movie — are these characters acting their age, or have they been designed to?

With only four episodes available for review, and nothing revealed, it’s impossible to say where the show is going — is it science fiction, or fantasy, or some super-complicated conspiracy, though why such a thing would be constructed around these people is beyond me. There’s a chance it’ll be brilliant, a chance it’ll be less than brilliant, and a greater than zero chance it’ll be dumb, but given the résumés of the co-showrunners Paley and Anthony King — whose credits include “Search Party,” “The Afterparty” and “Broad City” — I expect it to be interesting. Everything so far is so well done, I don’t mind how it ends; I don’t want it to end at all.

In the mindbending documentary “You Can See Everything,” comedian Nathan Fielder and professed inventor Elizabeth Holmes sit in her beach house staring at each other like gunslingers. Fielder is the creator of the TV series “The Rehearsal” and “Nathan for You” who constructs discombobulating sham realities that include bogus businesses such as Dumb Starbucks. Holmes is the former billionaire CEO of Theranos who pretended she’d built a revolutionary blood testing machine to squeeze investors for a few dollars more.

Each is an expert in the con. But Fielder is deadpan and cold where Holmes is earnest and warm — and he’s been nominated for Emmys while, in May of 2023 when the film begins, she’s about to serve an 11-year sentence in federal prison. As the camera cuts between close-ups of his narrowed eyes and her big, blue ones, Fielder tries to suss whether he can trust the famous fibber to be honest with him. The showdown is riveting.

“You’re being real right now?” Fielder asks, dubious.

Holmes beams. “I’m always being real,” she swears with a smile.

Her charm hits Fielder in the gut. His face stays neutral yet you can see his own confidence bleed out across the screen.

Co-directed by Fielder and Lance Oppenheim (“Primetime”), “You Can See Everything” is the closest Fielder has come to making a traditional documentary. A thrillingly cringe-tastic interviewer, he blurts out blunt questions like a bungee jumper leaping off a bridge, including asking Holmes’ romantic and business partner Billy Evans, the heir to a San Diego boutique hotel chain, whether it’s possible a woman convicted of fraud might be with him for his money.

At nearly three hours long, “You Can See Everything” won’t bore you for a minute. The hook is right there in the title, Fielder’s challenge to the audience: Here’s how Holmes held up to his scrutiny — do we think she’s telling the truth? But be alert. Fielder remains a trickster. One shot in particular proves you can see everything while being blind to what you’re actually watching.

In the first half of the movie, Holmes and Evans, the father of her two young children, give the small crew complete access to their lives during her last weeks of freedom, including inviting Fielder to sleep in their guest bedroom. It’s an act of “radical transparency,” Evans says. As evidence, there’s a fully nude shot of Evans in the shower, testifying to the intimacy the subjects claim they’re granting the team and the confidence they have that the documentary will make them look great. (Evans also boasts that he’s “excellent” in the sack.)

Holmes maintains both her innocence and her eerie smile, a rictus of empathy. She constantly nods, subliminally snake-charming the listener into a sense of agreement. That assessment might be fair or it might be her reputation making you over-analyze her tics. Doubling down, she even insists she’s never told a lie in her life — a claim that momentarily leaves Fielder at a loss for words.

Yet at times, Holmes really does appear to be sincere. Once she surrenders herself to the Bryan Federal Prison Camp in Texas (where, in an unmentioned coincidence, Epstein collaborator Ghislane Maxwell is also incarcerated), the tone shifts into film noir as Fielder struggles to reconcile Elizabeth Holmes’ dual identities. Is she the sweet-natured scientist, the only version of her he’s ever met, or a femme fatale who may still be running a scam?

“It’s personal,” Fielder says of his fixation. How frustrating that he of all people — the dark prince of pranks — may be Holmes’ latest patsy. Composer Ari Balouzian borrows bits of Bernard Herrmann’s violin score from “Vertigo” while cinematographer David Bolen makes the audience hold its breath by framing an image of Fielder and Holmes like they might kiss.

When the movie’s style gets weird, that’s when Fielder is most in his wheelhouse. Stop reading now if you want to preserve the surprise. Micro-analyzing his encounters with Holmes, he reenacts them with an actor, Amanda Seyfried, whose emotional intensity blows into the film like a gust of fresh air. Seyfried, of course, won an Emmy and a Golden Globe for playing Holmes in the 2022 miniseries “The Dropout.” The twists to come, however, feel as much like last year’s naughty hit “The Housemaid,” the domestic thriller in which Seyfried played a shady wife with a marriage made of lies.

Evans initially seems to think they’re participating in a project closer to Netflix’s glossy portrait of Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. The couple doesn’t know much about humor, pop culture or Fielder himself. Fumbling to figure out what makes him tick, Evans attempts to neg the provocateur as someone who lacks the passion to think differently. (Evans may also be the person who used Holmes’ social media account to write a flattering post calling JD Vance “Lisan al-Gaib,” revealing he’s entirely missed the point of “Dune.”)

But thinking differently is Fielder’s awkward superpower. Sooner or later, all of his projects circle around to his concern that he’s simply wired to be unpleasant. His interactions with Holmes are pure cringe comedy, like when she starts to cry perhaps a bit on cue and he stiffly sputters, “Do you want, like, a tissue?” For the record, he brings her one.

As a viewer, the biggest strike against Holmes is this documentary’s very existence. Whether or not you think she’s guilty of fraud, she is about to be separated from her infant and toddler until they’re in grade school. Who on Earth would genuinely want Fielder, the human equivalent of a skunk, to crash their last moments with their loved ones as he does his darnedest to stink up the place?

Fielder is most comfortable as the film’s villain, shooting himself lurking in the couple’s house like “Halloween’s” Michael Myers. At times, his presence does feel monstrous. In one scene, he needles Evans about whether he thinks his soulmate has ever lied to him while Holmes is on the phone in the next room, tearing up as she asks how often she’ll be able to bathe in prison.

The film doesn’t drill into the technical details of Theranos beyond one dizzying scene where Fielder tries to pin Holmes down on exactly what she meant when she said her machine can run hundreds of different tests. She means it just as I would if I bragged I can benchpress a beer keg — that is, once I strength-train beyond my piddly 5 lb dumbbells.

Instead, it tilts into becoming a caper flick as Seyfried’s commitment to understanding her character’s motivation inspires the actor to invite herself along. The drama they uncover is psychological, as befits an era where Silicon Valley CEOs are closer to cult leaders than engineers, making their cash from being televangelists for their IPOs. And both are attuned to the moments when Evans lets his aggravation slip. One scene is a doozy.

Ultimately, suspicion reigns. “You Can See Everything” is an absorbing study of public presentation and private doubts, a documentary that asks more questions than it answers. I hope Fielder will smile and nod approvingly at me if I say I left the film distrusting him, too, especially Seyfried’s re-staging of a long monologue Holmes delivered in prison where recording devices aren’t allowed. Can we believe that Holmes really did say, “I’m tired of having other people speak for me,” or was that laugh line written by the master manipulator himself? I’m now as paranoid as he is — and what a pleasure.

For over five decades, there have existed two types of movie lover: those who have been at least a little corrupted by Ken Russell’s 1971 iconoclasterpiece “The Devils” and those who haven’t seen it. With the release of a newly restored director’s cut, which premiered in Cannes this year to a reception that begs to be described as orgiastic, ejaculatory, lubricious or orgasmic — take your pick — the unjustly deprived inhabitants of the latter category get to be inducted into the former.

Some are going to hate it. Some may affect a “can’t see what all the fuss is about” attitude — that is their right, as it is mine to simply not believe them. But some, witnessing what critic Judith Crist once referred to as a “grand fiesta for sadists and perverts” will find that abandoning themselves to its wantonly grotesque, profane imagery will feel like the giddiest liberation. From what, exactly? The tyranny of tastefulness? The despotism of decency? Whatever it is, blasphemy loves company, so welcome, sickos!

Several honey-roastings beyond hammy and a hundred rows of tents beyond camp, “The Devils” tells the story of a real event: the 1634 heresy trial and execution of Urbain Grandier (Oliver Reed), a libertine Catholic priest, who fell afoul of the religious and political establishments when defending the independence of the Protestant-friendly fortified city of Loudon in western France. The torrid tale involves an order of Ursuline nuns led by hunchbacked Sister Jeanne (Vanessa Redgrave) who accuse Grandier of witchcraft, which provides wily Cardinal Richelieu (Christopher Logue) and peevish Louis XIII (Graham Armitage) with the pretext for suppressing dissent.

Aldous Huxley’s 1952 nonfiction account “The Devils of Loudon,” and John Whiting’s 1960 play “The Devils” both formed the source material for Russell’s screenplay, in the sense that he clearly read them, then flung them, along with the Latin bible, the Kama Sutra, a bit of Looney Tunes, a dose of swinging ’60s psychedelia and some of the more stomach-turning passages from the Marquis de Sade onto the pyre of his own unholy, lapsed-Catholic imagination.

The resulting film became infamous almost as soon as it was released and has never been readily available in the U.S, at least not in its full form. The 2026 cut (technically the first release from Clockwork, a distribution arm of the newly merged megacorp Skydance, which is hilarious) reinstates several minutes, including the full “Rape of Christ” sequence, in which a bevy of uninhibited and un-habited nuns writhe atop a statue of the crucified Christ, as well as the scene where Redgrave’s deranged, scoliotic Sister Jeanne apparently begins to masturbate on Grandier’s charred femur bone.

Both of these sequences have long been the Holy Grail for aficionados, but they are not the most impressive thing about this new version: That would be the immaculate re-conception of its visual splendor, which makes the movie dazzlingly sharp and new. The edges of Derek Jarman’s severe, anachronistically abstract sets are crisp and white again, the blood so very bloody and Oliver Reed’s eyes, which in the older, muddier versions look gray-brown, are suddenly so vivid they remind you that the hottest flames — hotter than the screaming orange conflagration that eventually consumes him — actually burn blue.

Hotness defines Reed’s Grandier beyond just his eyes and the smoky baritone in which he delivers his proclamations, prohibitions and occasional jokes. “Do you love the church?” asks Baron de Laubardemont (Dudley Sutton) as mad-eyed hipster Witchfinder Father Barre (Michael Gothard) drives another wedge between his mangled legs. “Not today,” grunts Grandier.

It’s hard to imagine any other actor being convincingly witty under torture and at other times quite silly (as when he fends off an attack using a stuffed crocodile that he happens to have just thrown out of a nearby window) while still radiating such charismatic cocksmanship that the local womenfolk invent sins just to confess to him. The mere mention of his name can send an entire hysteria of nuns into roiling spasms of sexual frenzy.

Vanessa Redgrave, center, in the restored “Ken Russell’s The Devils.”

(Warner Bros. Clockwork)

But to glimpse Reed here, at his most beautiful, is to think: yup, plausible. And yet his towering performance is characterized by restraint, even more so as the ghastly climax arrives, and we realize that all of Reed’s brutish sensuality, all of Russell’s sensationalism and all of “The Devils’” chicanery, buffoonery and primping, preening vanity have been in service of a furious message that is as deadly serious as its presentation is garish.

That message — a howl of righteous anger at state corruption and the perversion of religion to serve the nefarious agendas of cruel, power-mad men — is what makes “The Devils” sacrilegious yet not apostate. It does not scorn God or faith, but the misuse of both by petty manipulators. Sure, Russell has a little dirty fun in doing so — OK, a lot of dirty fun. However, charges of “The Devils” therefore being an inherently sexist piece of work also don’t really stand up, and not only because of Redgrave’s fearlessly creepy, giggly performance of outré erotic obsession.

In fact, there’s a whole feminine tragedy written in one single monologue: “Most of the nuns here are noblewomen who have embraced monastic life because there was not enough money at home to provide them with dowries,” crows Jeanne crookedly, “Or they were unmarriageable because ugly and a burden to the family.” Remembering that the naked nuns are not cloistered because of some vocational dedication to Christ but because of their troublesome uselessness to the patriarchal order, they become that much more sympathetic. These women are just doing what they must to survive another day as the most expendable members of a grossly unequal society; who among us should begrudge them an orgasm or two while they’re at it?

The debauchery is the point. Just as Grandier’s ultimate sacrifice is only made meaningful by his history of repeated, lascivious indulgence in the fleshier sins, so can “The Devils” be an unapologetically maximalist exhibition of carnal depravity that is also quite profoundly moral. And that its morality involves speaking truth to power and resisting authoritarian control makes it shockingly relevant right now. Writing in the Los Angeles Times in 1971, critic Charles Champlin ended his elegant pan with the observation that “you weep not for the evils and the ignorance of the past, but the cleverness and the sickness of the day.” To that, as to many of the negative responses, especially in our peculiarly sickly times, it is possible simply to respond, “Yes, isn’t that great?”

Imagining the movie lying dormant all these years just waiting for the right moment to be reborn, it becomes irresistible to conflate that small section of the public who have been avidly anticipating its return with Sister Jeanne, clamoring for the elusive object of her lust through a barred window. And to once more conflate Grandier — the repentant sinner immolated on the pyre of mass delusion, political machination and religious intolerance only to be rehabilitated as a charismatic martyr for liberty — with “The Devils” itself, as it finally rises from the bone-ash of its contemporary reception to shock, titillate, corrupt and invigorate anew. What you choose to do with its charred femur is between you and your God.

REVIEW: The recruited comedian has bragged that he hasn’t told one lie during his time in the game but surely he’ll come unstuck soon?

James Acaster is playing Celebrity Traitors in a brand new way, having been recruited to the dark side very much against his will. But against all expectation, he’s acing it.

The comedian, who told host Claudia Winkleman that he had no desire to be a Traitor at the start of the show, was picked to be one anyway, by Maya Jama and short-lived eejit Richard E Grant.

And while it was almost annoying when he simply refused to join in with Maya’s murderous glee as they pulled the plug on Bella Ramsey, I’ve come around to the idea so much that I’m finding his gameplay quite admirable.

Somehow James is managing to succeed as a Traitor while playing as a Faithful. Yes, it’s quite weird, but against the odds he’s making it work. And watching him try to justify every little thing he does – presumably so he can sleep at night and also so he can point this out to everyone afterwards – is fascinating.

In tonight’s episode he told King Kenny, the latest Faithful to make it through the turret’s revolving door: “I’m basically playing the game as a Faithful – I haven’t told a single lie yet, but I’m protecting Maya.”

He seemed almost happy, presumeably on the back of the previous night’s murder having gone so well. Because while Ross Kemp would have been FURIOUS to get murdered, and Romesh Ranganathan might have been a bit miffed too, Rob Beckett just laughed at them.

Afterwards James said he wished ALL the murders could be done face to face, because it had helped to ease his conscience when he saw that Rob, at least, was very much remembering it was all just a game.

Because he’s more Faithful than Traitor James has had no qualms about voting out two fellow baddies so far – Richard E Grant and Hannah Fry. So Kenny is right to be worried about being double crossed by him or Maya Jama, but for now James is genuinely delighted to have the fellow avid Faithful on board. “I’m feeling much more relaxed now that Kenny’s on the case,” he said. “You know when you get someone who comes in at work who you know will actually do all the jobs – and you can just hold a broom and look like you’re doing something.” Yup, James is going to hide behind Kenny for all he’s worth.

Meanwhile Maya is having a tough time of it because the Traitors are dropping like flies. I mean yes, she does keep voting for them too. But still, she must be feeling a bit lonely.

Now the Faithful are all pumped up again and Bash (Sebastian Croft) keeps mentioning James Acaster as a potential Trator so it might not be long before he’s forced to defend himself.

I wish someone would just ask him: “Are you a Traitor?” because if he can’t lie, it’ll be Richard E Grant all over again. Roll on tomorrow’s episode…

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