review

“It Ends,” a microbudget marvel by 20-something writer-director Alexander Ullom, has a straightforward premise that expands in your imagination.

Four school pals — go-getter James (Phinehas Yoon), drop-out Tyler (Mitchell Cole), anxious Fisher (Noah Toth) and creative Day (Akira Jackson) — pile into a Jeep just after college graduation. The car turns onto a dark road that, to the youngsters’ growing unease, appears to stretch on forever through an infinite forest. There’s no safe place to pull over, no signs pointing toward escape, no assurance that their lives have a destination. Stop moving and a horde of desperate, violent strangers sprint from the woods to try to steal their car. Keep going … for how long? Is this hell, purgatory or just a cosmic punchline?

“It Ends” premiered at SXSW in the spring of 2025, over a year before audiences stormed Kane Parsons’ “Backrooms,” yet the two breakout filmmakers share a suspicion that our seemingly ordinary existence hides something very, very wrong. The scale of the peril is hard to comprehend and harder to articulate; they’re more curious to explore the crisis than find a fix. What matters is that humanity feels lost.

Everyone in the car already seems to sense it even before this particular ride goes awry. Yoon’s dour James has impressively (and depressingly) mapped out his next few money-making decades down to his eventual diminished sperm count. To him, the future “seems like it sucks ass.” Weary Tyler has resigned himself to blue-collar work. Fisher and Day can’t even secure jobs, stuck literally and metaphorically frittering away their youth in the back seat.

The first act has a visceral, terrifying sequence with panicky close-ups of extras sprinting pell-mell toward the car. (The credits list as many background actors as crew members.) Matthew Robert Cooper’s unnerving ambient score bleeds into the relentless dink-dink-dink of the Jeep’s strobing hazard lights.

For several minutes afterward, the images are so disorienting that we can’t even make out where anyone in the car is sitting. Then cinematographers Evan Draper and Jazleana Jones along with Ullom, who also edits, take a steadier hand with evocative montages that emphasize the passage of time.

With rare exception, the camera stays tethered to the vehicle. The blur outside becomes enveloping and unfathomable; the universe inside the car evolves as the friends invent tension-defusing rituals to keep from screaming at one another. The mood toggles between cozily habituated and heavy. How long have they been driving now?

Early on, I kept a running tally of the hours until that began to feel naive. The days blend together with no time stamps, although Ullom occasionally reveals how many miles the car has gone. I did some back-of-my-notepad math and realized you can drive massive distances faster than I would have guessed. Then I pictured myself in their seats. Excruciating.

Evading plot holes, “It Ends” paves over the obvious biological needs. The foursome discover they no longer need to eat or drink. Likewise, the car no longer needs gas. The characters check off every idea you want them to try in the small space of the car, plus other brilliant brainstorms. Bursting through the confinements of movie logic, “It Ends” untrains audiences out of their certainty that every crisis has a solution. Does it even matter what they do?

Dread runs through “It Ends,” yet I’m hesitant to frame it as a horror movie. Scares fall by the wayside when it shifts into a more philosophical gear, vibrating with questions about how to live a meaningful life: Should these victims accept their fate or keep struggling? At least one will leave the car, never to be seen again as Ullom shrewdly refuses to reveal whether that choice was right. I think the filmmaker has an answer for himself, but he’d rather ask how we feel about it. Keep an open mind. Your opinion may change more than once.

This car setting taps into our cultural belief that speeding ahead is progress, an opinion shared by films as varied as “The Fast and the Furious,” “Mad Max: Fury Road,” “Two-Lane Blacktop,” and “Thelma & Louise.” Like actual religion, to continue on versus stopping becomes a question of faith. Some find comfort deciding on an answer, any answer. Others are driven by the spiritual quest itself.

The cast of unknowns is fantastic. It’s a major feat to shoulder a movie sitting still. Yoon’s prickly, unlikable James is the character many will align with, to their chagrin. Cole’s Tyler acts practically while collapsing into a black hole of cynicism. You’ve met a dozen guys like him who all claim “So what?” is the only sensible reaction. The jokers Toth and Jackson, bless them, keep things endearing and funny.

I’m bored of studios and indie financiers forcing filmmakers to stick to so-called bankable names. From “Heated Rivalry” to “Obsession,” this has been a phenomenal year for discovering fresh faces. Hopefully Hollywood won’t misunderstand the lesson in those projects’ success. It’s not to add Connor Storrie and Inde Navarrette to that stifling shortlist — it’s how much more talent there is waiting for a shot. (And it’s worth mentioning that Yoon and Cole also direct their own movies.)

Some of Ullom’s richest themes need only a casual mention, like Fisher muttering that he has fewer photos of his family on his phone than stupid memes. The friends are passingly concerned that they’ve outsourced too much of their mental stimulation to the internet. Now that they don’t have Wi-Fi, will they run out of topics to discuss? In these murmurs, Ullom wonders how much modern technology has led us astray. Obeying GPS has trapped them on this road in the first place, and may have done the same to those wretches in the woods, each so individually fixated on carjacking the Jeep that it never occurs to them to team up. A material goal devolves people into savages. At least Ullom has a slight optimism that society can turn things around.

Climbing into my car after “It Ends” felt like a sick joke. Was I really steering straight back to work? When was the last time I pulled over for an ice cream? But I kept on driving until I made it to my desk to start this review. That’s how excited I was to share the news of Ullom’s staggering debut. It’s a thrill to see his generation of filmmakers take the wheel.

It would be great if “The Hangover” screenwriters-turned-directors Jon Lucas and Scott Moore would leave moms well enough alone. After the one-two punch of 2016’s “Bad Moms” and 2017’s “A Bad Moms Christmas” (both bad comedies), they’ve returned with “Spa Weekend,” which isn’t about bad moms but good moms who could stand to be a little bad.

If you’re not sure how much misbehavior a few friends can get up to at a luxury resort spa, you haven’t met Isla Fisher’s Mel. Yes, “Spa Weekend” is a plate of reheated “Wedding Crashers” nachos, because no one stirs up cheerful chaos like the spirited Fisher. Her Mel brings a delightfully vulgar joie de vivre into the over-scheduled lives of her lifelong friends: workaholic lawyer Jane (Leslie Mann), bitter divorceé Coco (Michelle Buteau) and people-pleasing pushover Sophie (Anna Faris).

“Spa Weekend” is built around the same fearsome foursome ethos as shows like “Sex and the City” and “Girls,” with several different character types and lots of available friction between them. More recently, golden-years comedies like “Book Club,” “80 for Brady” and way too many movies starring the late Diane Keaton have sent friend groups on journeys that have them reevaluating relationships and life goals. Romantic, criminal and naughty hijinks ensue and bonds are tested — and ultimately reinforced. Roll the blooper reel.

Mel might be a disaster with her loud mouth and impolite antics, but her over-the-top meddling does her buddies some good. She helps uptight Jane hook up with a hunky yoga instructor (Adam Demos), gets Sophie fired from her toxic job and lures Coco’s ex-husband Roger (Dominic Ona-Ariki) to the resort for a little reconciliation. Her friends are furious, but while they might not get what they want (relaxation), they get what they need (liberation). All it took was some coke and strippers (Lucas and Moore have a bizarre fixation on moms and male strippers).

You know what? Fine. It’s true that working moms often put themselves last and “Spa Weekend” is an argument for them to come first. It’s a film about embracing the craziest friends because they bring excitement to an otherwise boring and overscheduled life. All of these things are true. They’re just executed here with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. In case we didn’t get it, these themes and lessons are spoken out loud by Jane in big declarative speeches.

One of the most distracting things about “Spa Weekend” is its uncanny geography. It’s set in Los Angeles but the cafés and shops are obviously not local and the worst, most dated stock L.A. traffic footage can’t cover that up.

They drive what seems to be about 45 minutes to the resort, through wooded forests on windy roads, and arrive in a tropical location overlooking miles of white sandy beach. At one point, Jane claims they’re 100 miles away from home. Ain’t no way this is Encinitas. Nothing about it makes sense until the credits roll and you learn the film was shot entirely in Queensland, Australia. But if one’s thinking about the geography that much, it means the story isn’t all that compelling.

Call it nitpicking but it’s indicative of how much care and craft — or how little — goes into a movie like this, aimed at female audiences. Much like the “Bad Moms” movies, “Spa Weekend” isn’t insightful, isn’t interesting and isn’t funny. It’s condescending and hacky and the humor always aims for the lowest common denominator. Please don’t expect me to laugh at the goats from goat yoga rampaging through a hotel lobby or a high-speed golf cart chase. Guess what? Mel has brought a suitcase full of dildos.

Worse than tired gags, we don’t get a sense of who these women really are in relationship to themselves or other women. We only know them through the prism of men: Jane lusts after Yoga Dude, Coco rages at Roger, Sophie is bullied by her boss. We know nothing about them outside of their superficial signifiers.

That’s why Fisher’s Mel feels so radical. She might be a grifter and a liar (a vastly underexplored subplot) but she has fully decentered men — so hard that no rule of polite society can hold her. If that’s a disaster, sign me up. But please don’t let Lucas and Moore make more comedies for women. They can stick to the frat houses and bachelor parties they’re used to.

Most documentaries urge you to not turn away from the horrors they chronicle, but few make that request as explicitly as “American Doctor.”

Near the start of her despondent film, director Poh Si Teng spends time with Mark Perlmutter, a North Carolina surgeon who, like Teng’s other subjects, volunteers in Gaza, treating the many who have been severely injured in the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Furious at the attacks on innocent Palestinian children, Perlmutter shows Teng photos of dead bodies. She says she may need to blur them for the movie. Perlmutter becomes indignant: “You’re not doing them a service by not showing them,” he says. “You have the responsibility, as I do, to tell the truth.”

Teng does reveal those stark faces and much more — not just the terrible human toll of Israel’s shelling of the Palestinian territories but also the strain on the doctors fighting to save lives while spreading the word about the atrocities they’ve witnessed.

Perlmutter, who is Jewish, is one of three American physicians at the center of Teng’s documentary. The other two are Thaer Ahmad, a Palestinian, and Feroze Sidhwa, who is Zoroastrian. Each of them resides in the U.S. but is drawn to lending a hand at Gazan hospitals — that is, when they’re actually allowed entry into the region. (Because of Ahmad’s Palestinian heritage, he’s been barred by the Israeli government.) As part of their humanitarian efforts, Perlmutter and his colleagues go on Western media, such as CNN, to decry the conditions of the Palestinian people. They are often met with resistance, if not outright hostility. The casualties keep piling up, and nobody outside the walls of the hospital seems to care.

Teng, who produced the 2019 Oscar-nominated documentary short “St. Louis Superman,” a portrait of a local Black activist, once again ponders how much any one person can do to bring about change. She gracefully balances between a three-pronged character study and a larger examination of the unending war. We come to admire Ahmad, Perlmutter and Sidhwa, but Teng provides just enough shading so that subtle cultural tensions between the men start to emerge.

That strain is particularly evident during the bighearted but strident Perlmutter’s impolitic media appearances, in which he brandishes impassioned criticism of Zionism that angers the Palestinian Ahmad. “We’ll be guilty by association and we’ll just get crushed for it,” he worries. It’s a documentary with a paucity of inspirational moments. Teng and her subjects are embedded in a world of tough choices and grim conditions.

With Ahmad largely sidelined in the U.S., though still advocating for the Palestinian people, Sidhwa ultimately becomes “American Doctor’s” most striking figure. Armed with an eloquent, righteous fury, he speaks to journalists with a stirring moral authority. Teng mostly avoids on-camera interviews with her subjects, preferring to watch them interacting with patients or in the operating room. In the process, we come to know Sidhwa, who projects a calm confidence, even when he’s nearly killed by a missile.

But his self-assurance is intriguingly undercut during an unguarded exchange in which he acknowledges that no prospective romantic partner has been comfortable with his desire to keep returning to Gaza. “I think I’m just probably a hard person to get along with,” he admits, laughing. “I wish I could blame the fact that no woman can put up with me on the Israel-Palestine conflict, but I don’t think that’s the issue.”

There are myriad ways to document the violence in Gaza, and it’s telling that Teng includes only a very brief news clip of President Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, the phantom figures hovering far above the film’s unfolding tragedy, even though they are among its chief architects. Instead, “American Doctor” focuses on the micro, giving voice to the doctors and caregivers who traditionally have been spared during armed conflicts, as laid out by the Geneva Conventions. In defiance of such norms, though, Israel’s government seems to be targeting hospitals, creating psychic wounds alongside mass casualties.

A closing text card indicates that more than 1,700 healthcare workers have died in Gaza, laying culpability at the feet of Israel and the United States. But it’s a testament to the physicians featured in “American Doctor” that none of them would suggest that this is the greatest crime occurring in the region. We observe them lamenting how powerless they feel: Their medical skills can do some good, but not nearly enough. And when they reluctantly return to America, they agonize over their guilt at not being able to do more — and what of Gaza will remain when they eventually get back.

On Friday night at the SoFi Stadium, there was nothing random about the songs that played just before Karol G took the stage for the first of three evenings at the venue. We can safely assume that the Colombian superstar selected the cuts herself — the perfect tropicoqueta mix to set up the mood.

First, a shadowy “Bésame Mucho”; Elvis Crespo’s merengue smash “Suavemente”; the Afro-Cuban nugget “El Manisero”; and two life-affirming hits by the Queen of Salsa herself, Celia Cruz: “La Vida Es Un Carnaval” and “La Negra Tiene Tumbao.”

These carefully curated gems share a common element: They managed to transcend the stylistic contours of their respective genres and become something bigger — the kind of irresistible, it-takes-a-village anthems that will lure everyone to the dance floor, even if they don’t understand the lyrics.

And that is exactly what Karol G — la bichota, the South American Cleopatra, the woman with the billion-dollar smile — has been doing for global pop since the release of “Tusa,” her imperial duet with Nicki Minaj, back in 2019.

(Jill Connelly / For De Los)

Karol is currently the 42nd-most-streamed artist on Spotify, and her albums “Mañana Será Bonito” (2023) and “Tropicoqueta” (2025) helped reinvent the sound of contemporary Latin. She emerged from the reggaeton thunderstorm that hijacked the planet, but then guided it smoothly into a different aesthetic territory, far away from the movement’s misogynistic toxicity. Her ongoing collaboration with producer Ovy On The Drums — they’re the same age, 35, both from Medellín — was transformative, combining clanging, tribal beats with liquid textures and a refined, champagne-like lightness.

Part of the massive “Viajando Por El Mundo Tropitour,” Friday’s performance confirmed the singer’s stature as one of the most vital and charismatic Latin artists of the 21st century. More than a conventional concert, it felt like a stark, delirious fantasia, a relentless cinematic mosaic of decadent dance numbers and hyper-popped fragmentation presented in five acts, unified by a tropical visual motif: lush vegetation; a blue lagoon where cleansing erotic rituals take place; plumes of purifying fire to expiate the aftertaste of all those failed romances.

(Jill Connelly / For De Los)

Beginning with the wicked reggaeton beat of “Latina Foreva” — an existential jam about curves and pleasure, the freedom of the flesh — Karol ignited a deafening roar of adoration from the full-capacity crowd. For a moment, I got a taste of what Beatlemania must have sounded like in the 1960s.

As the cameras followed her closely, projecting every playful grimace and flirtatious wink onto the giant video screens, the complexity of her artistic persona became increasingly transparent: an indomitable woman who is deeply connected with primal joy and sensuality, but also vulnerable enough to get her heart broken on the way to the red carpet (and still embrace the experience). In the world of Karol G, what doesn’t kill you makes for an international hit.

Admittedly, it was the aggressive, in-your-face numbers that worked best. Karol sounds even better when surrounded by half-naked dancers — “Gatúbela” and “Ojos Ferrari” were highlights in that respect — and the choreography evoked the sweaty rapture of a full-blown Roman orgy.

(Jill Connelly / For De Los)

But she’s also smart enough to alternate the futurism of neo-reggaeton (the cutting-edge territory where her work with producers like Ovy On The Drums and Tainy has given us some astonishing records) with an affectionate nod to the past glories of Afro-Caribbean lore: the 20th century cultural bubble where Colombian families listened to the “14 Cañonazos Bailables” compilations during the Christmas season.

On the title track of “Tropicoqueta,” she draws an imaginary line that connects her current sexual emancipation to the frisky downbeats of 1950s mambo and the early 2000s movement that jazzed up the Afro-Caribbean classics with a digital bounce. On Friday, she salsified “Provenza” and added the riff of Willie Colón’s “La Murga” as an intro to “Tusa.” Her visual recreation of the “Tropicoqueta” album cover onstage was one of the show’s wittiest moments.

At one point after the success of “Mañana Será Bonito,” Karol must have realized that her newly acquired diva status gave her the chance to voice some valuable thoughts on the merits of Latin American culture.

In between songs, Karol spoke with compassion about the recent earthquakes affecting Colombia and Venezuela — the latter of which is where her poised opening act, Elena Rose, also hails from — but her pan-Latino ideology seeped into the music as well. Her face was covered in tears after she performed “Ese Hombre Es Malo” backed by female mariachi players. At the end of the show, a stunning reading of “Si Antes Te Hubiera Conocido” revealed the instinctive ease with which she can navigate the sweet, syncopated phrasing of Dominican merengue.

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Elena Rose opens for Karol G at SoFi.  (Jill Connelly/For De Los)

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Inglewood, CA., Aug. 14, 2026. – Opener Elena Rose performs during the first of Karol G’s three nights headlining the SoFi Stadium for her Viajando Por El Mundo Tropitour. (Jill Connelly / For De Los)  (Jill Connelly/For De Los)

A few tracks from her recently released sixth studio album,”No Me Arrepiento De Sentir Tanto,” displayed a more introspective side. On the dreamy ballad “Después de Ti,” she was joined on guitar by Greg Gonzalez of Cigarettes After Sex, reenacting their performance together from April, when Karol headlined Coachella.

The deafening volume at SoFi was the only aspect of the show that got in the way. The sound stage felt bludgeoned into submission throughout, as the intense distortion of bass, percussion and guitars made the instrument separation within the mix almost inaudible.

That said, the overall experience transcended the sonic elements, as Karol is clearly using the Tropitour as a good reason to celebrate her extraordinary achievements with the fans (she even hugged a security guard).

Somewhere in the venue, a young Latina girl must have been dazzled by this extravagant spectacle and perhaps dreamed of one day following in the footsteps of Carolina Giraldo Navarro: a gifted singer and composer, a woman intelligent enough to cherish the emotional value of dancing the night away.

And that is one solid role model to have.

For all their vaunted power, superheroes are at the mercy of the people who write them, draw them, play them on the screen, and by extension the producers and executives who decide what should go where and for how much. Sort of powerless, really.

Sometimes this combination of forces works out well for the hero, and sometimes not so much. The Green Lantern, a secondary figure in the DC Comics pantheon, had the ill luck to be trapped in a 2011 Ryan Reynolds film even its director didn’t like. Fifteen years later, he has had the very good fortune to be played by Kyle Chandler, and additionally to star in a television series — “Lanterns,” premiering Sunday on HBO — rather than a theatrical feature, with its investment in noisy set pieces and earth-shaking battles royale.

I’ve often championed the supposedly humbler medium as the best place to tell these stories, with the time to investigate character, in all its shadings and ambiguities, and a haven for concepts too quirky or niche or … conceptual for conservative big-budget theatrical IP exploitation. And here again, I have been proved right.

Creators Damon Lindelof (“Lost,” “Watchmen” and, best of all, “Mrs. Davis”), comic book writer Tom King and Chris Mundy, who wrote for “Criminal Minds,” “Ozark” and “Bloodline” (in which Chandler starred), have expressly looked to television for inspiration — specifically to “True Detective” (on which Mundy worked), with its uncomfortable partnerships, and “Slow Horses” (for its disreputable hero, I guess), with “Slow Horses” director James Hawes helming the first two episodes. (I detect a hint of “Fargo” as well, for its Midwestern plainscape, dark comedy and bigger-than-life yet somehow ordinary characters.)

“I’m a regular person, like you,” Hal Jordan (Chandler) says in a 1996 TV interview that opens the series; indeed, he’s only super powerful by reason of the gear that comes with the job, a human “beat cop” working as part of the Green Lantern Corps, an extraterrestrial galactic peacekeeping organization — the special ring and the lantern-shaped gizmo that charges it. It gives him the ability to fly and to manifest objects at will, most often a protective green bubble, but also a bottle opener and a $10 bill. (There’s a uniform, but for the most part, he leaves it in the closet.)

Watching that interview is young John Stewart (then a Lantern-obsessed child). We’ll meet him again in 2016, played by Aaron Pierre (“The Underground Railroad”), when most of the action takes place, as a former Marine sniper and art student — human talents that will prove useful — assigned to Hal as a “trainee,” ostensibly to provide backup if something happens to him. Hal, after two seemingly successful decades in the job, is unused to the company and suspicious of the arrangement. (“The big blue bosses may think you’re hot s— but you’re just a f—ing substitute teacher.”) He sets John tests that might kill him, if he is not actually trying to kill him. But he’s also the more genial of the two.

Through an agent whose identity the producers are counting as a spoiler — I’m sure I don’t know why — Hal receives a message that there’s hail in Rushville, Neb. (i.e., aliens!), at which point he jets off from the taco stand where he’s happily been signing autographs and posing for selfies, leaving John to fly there on his own, in the usual way, while the Stooges’ “No Fun” plays on the soundtrack.

They arrive, separately, in the aftermath of a high school football game that has left dead bodies on the field. (Hal suspects some sort of alien rumble.) Here we meet Kelly Macdonald, suppressing her Scottish accent as tough but tender Sheriff Kerry, asserting her jurisdictional rights. Hal finds her “something incredible.” (John: “I think she hates your guts.” Hal: “Yeah, but it’s the way she hates them.”) Kerry is married to lawyer Billy Macon (Jason Ritter), whose father, William (Garret Dillahunt), is a local bigwig, with a cowboy militia and a wife, Zoe (Poorna Jagannathan), who possibly not coincidentally meets John in a bar.

At 60, Chandler is arguably more attractive than ever, with the sort of seasoning that served James Garner so well as Jim Rockford, TV’s greatest detective. Five seasons of “Friday Night Lights” have cemented him in the popular consciousness as a preternaturally decent guy, which allows us to excuse Hal’s less creditable moments, or at least to see things through his eyes. Pierre, 32, who competes in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, has the body of a superhero; he plays John wound tight, humorless, grimly ambitious — he grew up letting his father shoot apples off his head to prove his fearlessness, the primary requirement for a Green Lantern — though the character warms up across the course of the season (which also takes place in 2026). The actors are at their best in their scenes together, which the writers make happen even when it seems impossible. (Spoilers, or I’d explain.)

Combining detective work and science fiction is nothing new — see “Sugar,” currently; “The X-Files,” classically. (And there’s an interrogation scene I’m pretty sure nods knowingly to “Blade Runner.”) “Lanterns” isn’t totally free of cliches, which is practically impossible for sci-fi and crime stories anyway, so many have been told over the years, and to some degree that’s just what we come for. But the series is fresh enough in its details and execution, and strong enough in its writing, and so well performed, that it feels quite original.

I watched “Lanterns” without any particular knowledge of the character, who has been around since 1940, and in this particular version since 1959. (I did a little reading afterward.) Happily, the show is not up to its cowl in DC cross-references and crossovers. There are fleeting mentions of Gotham and Metropolis (where Superman works) and Nathan Fillion reprises his bad-hair Green Lantern from the 2025 “Superman” movie (a long story), but “Lanterns” comes equipped with everything you need to know. Bringing in extra mythology wouldn’t make the confusing parts any less confusing, and would just confuse the parts that aren’t confusing at all. Most every character, whichever side they’re on — and it’s not always easy to tell, given that the aliens look exactly like the humans — comes with layers.

Did I ever fully understand what these factions were after, or even what exactly the factions were? Nope. Did it matter? Nope.

For every actor, musician, writer and artist who has become a wealthy and enduring celebrity, exponentially more of them have enjoyed a brief, shining moment, never to be heard of again. What separates those who last from those who fade away? Is it luck, talent, drive, destiny? All of the above?

It’s an intriguing question that may have no definitive answer, but one that director Kent Jones (2018’s acclaimed “Diane”) and Oscar-nominated screenwriter Samy Burch (“May December”) lovingly and lyrically consider in the often first-rate “Late Fame.” The film is based on an 1895 novella by Arthur Schnitzler (also author of the book that became “Eyes Wide Shut”), which went unpublished until 2014.

A quietly captivating Willem Dafoe plays Ed Saxberger, a New York post office veteran of 37 years in a seemingly satisfying if decidedly low-key existence. For him, it’s work, then maybe a game of pool with his blue-collar buddies at a local bar (though he’s six years sober) and a solo return to his Greenwich Village walk-up.

That is, until one night, he’s approached outside his apartment building by a somewhat affected but seemingly earnest young man who goes by his last name, Meyers (Edmund Donovan). With his elevated speech, tony air and throwback attire, he’s like someone from another era; you could see him as one of Jay Gatsby’s pals or a bon vivant who drops by on “Downton Abbey.”

Meyers proceeds to tell an astonished Ed that he’s a huge fan of his long-forgotten 1979 poetry collection entitled “Way Past Go,” the postal worker’s fleeting brush with literary success. “They just slap you across the face with their style and with their relevancy,” extols Meyers of the poems. “They’re timeless.”

Really, what writer, no matter how detached from their past, could resist that kind of sweet talk?

A meet-up with Meyers’ “artistic community,” a circle of so-called intellectuals known as the Enthusiasm Society, leads Ed to humbly dip a toe back into his vanished creative side. He’s not unaware that Meyers’ mostly 20-something male friends have — like many — romanticized the gritty abandon of lower Manhattan’s bygone literary scene and perhaps Ed’s tenuous place in it. They might be poseurs tossing around references to Ginsberg and Bukowski, but the welcome mat the group offers Ed is enticing and inspiring.

Still, a visit to Meyers’ sleek apartment, admittedly paid for by his parents, confirms for Ed the kind of youthful privilege at play here, so unlike the scrappier downtown bohemia of his own artistic heyday.

The wild card in the Society is Gloria (Greta Lee, dazzlingly good), an impish sprite who’s hard to pin down. Is she really a working stage actor? Ed gets swept up in her performative antics and elusive, larger-than-life allure. (She’s older than her fellow Society members but decades younger than Ed.) When they develop a teasing flirtation, it’s one of the less credible turns here, given how authentic Ed is — and how dubious she appears (though some truth on that front will later unfold).

This tilt toward Gloria causes the film to lose its way a bit, pulling focus from the more potentially vital mentor-disciple dynamic between Ed and the anxious, navel-gazing Meyers. Plus, Donovan is excellent here, so less of him is, well, less.

That said, there’s a bravura second-act scene that finds Gloria performing an impassioned version of the 1929 Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill torch song “Surabaya Johnny” for an appreciative cabaret audience, one that includes a rapt Ed. It verifies Gloria’s singing talent and proves a perfect match for her showy, cagey persona: the love child of Marlene Dietrich and Sally Bowles.

If the story has a through line, it concerns the planning and execution of an evening of live readings from the Society’s works, with a new poem from Ed as its centerpiece. A few of the obstacles layered in — Ed’s struggle to write and some show-night personality conflicts — feel a tad obligatory. But the event itself has its high points, including the piece Ed finally reads.

In addition, an awkward meeting between Ed and a smooth literary agent (Jake Lacy), along with a mini-subplot involving phone calls from Ed’s frustrated sister about their dying brother, come off slightly wedged in. Not much payoff there.

No matter. There’s wisdom and depth to the film’s themes of growing old, dashed dreams and the magic of rediscovery, plus a deliciously ironic final twist. Jones manages his superb cast with aplomb and cinematographer Wyatt Garfield evocatively captures lower Manhattan’s wintry, burnished glow.

Wrestling with the realities of drug addiction is an endeavor rife with pitfalls for any filmmaker hoping to avoid easy judgment. To judge from the earliest, straight-on view in “Union County” of Will Poulter’s Cody — a weary-looking, tight-lipped young Ohio man absorbing the rules of a treatment program as explained by a courtroom judge — the sense is that we’re in for a ride-along hinged to honesty and the unfettered character work of a fine actor.

That empathy is welcome from first-time writer-director Adam Meeks, and he supports his approach with a gentle aura of verisimilitude, a mostly locked-down camera and, in the snippets of other testimonials, a suggestion that we’re in genuine spaces, not movie locations. Eventually, as the film tracks Cody’s progress through this rural stretch of central Ohio, it becomes clear we’re in a fictionalized story surrounded by real recovery participants and counselors, a backdrop of sincerity that allows a well-intentioned performance to breathe on its own.

That unaffected authenticity helps gird us for the quietly complicated tale “Union County” has to tell. Cody, who is living in his car when we meet him, isn’t alone as he starts this journey. Also in that courtroom that first day is his brother Jack (Noah Centineo), a more visibly restless and outgoing soul compared to Cody’s protective reticence. Jack, who is further along in the program and seems to bring Cody out of his shell, also helps him land a job at a lumber mill where he works. Tagging along to a campfire hang, Cody allows himself to talk to Anna (Elise Kibler) and we notice a potential spark.

But with that connection to Jack, initially forged as foster siblings but later as opioid buddies, comes risk. There’s a sister, too, played by Emily Meade, and her stone-faced appearance during a backslide in Cody’s recovery is a sign that with his past comes a lot he hasn’t faced yet. But as we learn more about Cody, Jack and the hard road ahead, “Union County” doesn’t pitch its treatment as a cure-all, nor engineer candidness into dramatic gold. Rather, Meeks merely asks us to clock the humanity in our every minute of observing Cody, to recognize what struggling looks like whether we “know” someone going through it or not.

Necessary to that approach, which brings to mind the watchful grace of last year’s stellar memory drama “Familiar Touch,” is the wonderful Poulter’s lived-in presence as someone trying to not even have a presence. Meeks knows when and where to give his lead character distance, respecting that opacity. In group sessions, where Cody typically doesn’t say much, the others speak for what Cody might be going through, Greek chorus-style. The effect is of watching someone float around the outside of a safe space. There’s tension in wondering if he’ll notice when it’s time to slip inside.

Social realist dramas aren’t new and they include award-winning landmarks by Ken Loach and Chloé Zhao. But they’re having a moment and “Union County” underscores why some work as well as they do. The right mix of true and imagined can give the simplest of humane narratives — in this case, the possibility of renewal in an epidemic of hurt — a fresher chance to touch us.

“The Wrong Girls” is the right comedy if you want to unplug your brain and laugh. The first punchline doesn’t even have words. It’s just two stoner roommates, Frankie (Kristen Stewart) and Molly (Alia Shawkat), ripping a mega-hit and coughing at each other. Finally, they speak in unison: “Jinx.”

Frankie, a Stanford dropout, engineered the living room’s impressive “bong-a-tron.” Molly, a wannabe chef, bakes brownies spiked with pot and blue cheese. (We’re assured they‘re delicious.) These screw-ups share everything: a taste in thrift store cat paintings, a chillaxed attitude toward overdue bills and a comfy inertia that’s kept them both stunted, frustrating Molly’s boyfriend Josh (a likable Zack Fox). In turn, possessive Frankie thinks Josh is a buzzkill.

Soon, the insular twosome will share a mind, too, thanks to a telepathic drug they ingest like idiots, not that they have any gray matter to spare. That’s not entirely fair. The friends aren’t dumb; they’ve just been baked for so long that acting dumb is a habit. (Don’t worry, writer-director Dylan Meyer won’t force them to sober up.)

The plot is confidently stupid. A criminal courier (LaKeith Stanfield) mistakes Frankie for her more successful doppelganger Francis (also played by Stewart), saddling her with a briefcase that a trio of dangerous Danes are determined to steal back. Thus, our heroes must peel themselves off from the couch and go on the run with their resentful felines Dio and GG bouncing along in backpacks.

Voiced by Seth Rogen and Kumail Nanjiani, the pets have opinions their owners don’t want to hear. “I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who gave us fleas,” GG sneers. I like those comics and live with two annoying Maine Coons. Nevertheless, these cats are too chatty.

Meyer is a screenwriter-turned-filmmaker who met Stewart on the set of the underseen 2015 comic thriller “American Ultra.” In the years since, she has also become Stewart’s wife. That’s important only because “Wrong Girls” has the pinpoint silliness of soulmates who spend a lot of time goofing around at home. Meyer wrote the script a decade ago about her friendship with producer Maggie McLean, but no doubt she knows better than anyone how much the smart and sensible-projecting Stewart delights in acting the fool.

The jokes are as flawlessly tailored to Stewart as Chanel couture, be they zany schemes, spacey freak-outs or the sly middle finger Stewart flashes with her 818-tattooed knuckles while her character suffers a jerk (Tony Hale). And they custom-fit Shawkat’s mellower Molly, who trots behind in Frankie’s wake of destruction. The sci-fi twist in the script turns their relationship into a send-up of co-dependence. Their insular bond can’t last forever — can it?

Meyer subverts a couple tropes, embraces others. Comedy capers like this usually deflate in the third act when their pleasures get punctured by unfunny gunfire. The movie sees that trap coming and dodges it by the skin of its teeth. Nimbly, it manages to be both a pacifist film and a subversive one with no faith in the system as it stands. Characters deliver jabs at “Jeff Bozos” and the Epstein class while slyly revealing you shouldn’t trust their takes, either. Frankie invents a new nonsensical insult, calling Molly’s boyfriend Josh “such a customer.” Sure, whatever that means!

“The Wrong Girls” shares its own hive mind with David Wain’s also-good “Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass,” released earlier this summer. Both are star-studded, hyper-L.A. chase comedies that treat their central contrivances as nothing more than scaffolding for the scenes that actually count. Who cares what happens to the Danes’ precious briefcase? We just want to see Frankie and Molly melt down upon learning that their favorite all-you-can-eat lunch spot is closing due to uncertainty in the buffet sector (a eulogy for the real-life Souplantation, whose absence remains deeply felt).

Even within the tenuous reality of the movie, Frankie and Molly aren’t focused on saving their own necks, especially after their clairvoyant powers kick in and the friends realize they can communicate with closed mouths. As lab-coated figures played by Kate McKinnon and Geena Davis attempt to deliver exposition, the pals drown them out chit-chatting about drivel. The stars know it takes skill to act dumb. Christina Applegate described it best: About her portrayal of hair metal bimbo Kelly Bundy in “Married … with Children,” Applegate said, “In her own mind, she’s a genius.”

The film is just wonky enough to wonder if some beats got chopped out of it, like a go-nowhere running joke about how Hale’s front door won’t close or an aside about how Stewart’s Frankie once Jerry-rigged an escape parachute, which cinematographer Todd Banhazl seems to be reminding us of when he lingers on a shot of an awkward shindig’s helium décor. Banhazl does pull off one of the few inventive psychedelic sequences I’ve seen in a while. (To see another, go stream the giddy new campus comedy “Pizza Movie.”)

Or maybe “The Wrong Girls” is simply making an artistic statement about the joy of sloppiness. Here, to be chaotic and colorful is a badge of honor. Just compare the girls’ cluttered digs with their pursuers’ sterile white suits. In that same spirit of excess, there’s an extra scene in the end credits that goes over like a lead balloon. No one in my theater chuckled. But I respected it anyway for insisting on these jokers’ right to remain an unapologetic mess.

END OF OAK STREET

(12A) 99mins

★★★☆☆

SINCE the explosive success of Stranger Things, the style of Spielberg’s Eighties sci-fi films is trendy – and this film leans into that nostalgia.

You know — the American small town where kids play out on the street and strange goings-on happen while the parents are too busy to notice.

That is certainly the feel of this action-horror movie, which combines ET with Jurassic Park.

It follows the Platt family, who are living in American suburbia in the Eighties — a more innocent time when neighbours had street barbecues and teens spent hours on their Walkmans.

Dad Greg (Ewan McGregor) and mum Denise (Anne Hathaway) appear to be a perfect union, but behind closed doors they are discussing divorce.

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Their kids, Audrey (Maisy Stella) and Brian (Christian Convery) are concerned, but the foursome paper over the cracks by eating pizza and chatting about their naughty dog, Starbuck.

Soon though, their home life is thrown into disarray when a mysterious cosmic event rips through the neighbourhood and surrounds it with time before the Big Bang.

This brings tropical temperatures, terrifying water levels and lashings of really hungry dinosaurs that couldn’t care less if you own a gun.

The family have to stick together to work out how they can transport themselves out of this seemingly broken time machine — while avoiding being chomped on by a T-Rex.

There are a few jumpy moments early on and, like many “mysterious goings-on” films, it’s scarier when you don’t see the enemy.

But the build-up is intriguing and there are some nice, nostalgic Eighties moments thrown in for the millennials to enjoy.

Sadly, it’s a lacklustre performance from McGregor in a bad wig, who looks like he would rather become dino-feed than be in this film, as he has zero chemistry with the rest of the family.

While Hathaway is more watchable, she appears so distractingly young, she could swap roles with the actress playing her daughter.

Director David Robert Mitchell does a decent job showing his commitment to the genre and gives a few nods to Spielberg’s camera techniques for film geeks.

But, while perfectly entertaining, the story gets a ­little overcomplicated and the characters are not engaging enough for it to join the ranks of a truly great monster movie.

LADY

(15) 95mins

★★★★☆

KOOKY characters in film can quickly become tiresome, but not so in this bizarre and brilliant mockumentary about a flamboyant lady of the manor.

Lady Isabella (Fleabag’s Sian Clifford) rattles around with her housekeeper in the vast Ravenhyde Hall, until she becomes the subject of a documentary, allegedly for Netflix, calling herself “aristocracy’s answer to the Kardashians”.

Going at high octane all the time, she is in truth achingly lonely – one companion is a raven called Ricky.

This changes with the arrival of a camera crew led by director Sam (Laurie Kynaston), a trendy filmmaker.

But he is soon put in his place by the hilarious Isabella, who ignores his directions, calls “cut” regularly and even tries to seduce him with some milk when he is lactose intolerant.

The madcap satire soon turns into a study filled with em­pathy and intriguing, unconventional relationships.

Clifford gives a cracking performance, never pushing into caricature, and Kynaston is the perfect juxtaposition as the seemingly sane but hugely insecure director.

Surreal, sweet and seriously funny.

TONY

(15) 106mins

★★☆☆☆

IT’S not easy to make movies about real-life figures who have a cult following, which puts pressure on this story of how celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain became a culinary icon.

So instead of getting into the film about Bourdain becoming the great man the world knew, it’s more of a coming-of-age story that could be about anyone.

Tony (Dominic Sessa) has flunked school and travels to Provincetown, Massachusetts, to chase Nancy (Emilia Jones), a crush he barely knows.

Skint and with nowhere to live, he soon finds himself washing dishes in the ­restaurant of a local chef (Antonio Banderas) and sleeping in his hammock.

Working alongside him is drug-loving ladies’ man Sal (Leo Woodall), who regularly vomits in a bin on shift. Tony apparently becomes inspired.

Tony spends a really long time staring at things in a daze and not saying much.

When he does speak, it’s pretty infuriating.

With no real direction, this becomes more of a buddy movie than an insight into how the now sadly deceased great man became such a hit around the world.

The importance of parental support goes meta in Julia Hart’s “Don’t Say Good Luck.” The YA musical drama, which premieres Friday, pays homage to musical theater, unconditional maternal love and the family-hour TV, er, Netflix movie. In a landscape littered with teenage dysfunction, “Don’t Say Good Luck” is a moving argument for aspirational television.

And with a star whose famous father serves as producer, it‘s an admonition to the term “nepo baby.”

We meet normal kid Sophie Birenbaum (Sunny Sandler) as she anxiously prepares for a day that will include auditioning for her high school’s production of “Waitress.” While her father, Ted (Max Greenfield, marvelously transformed by a beard), wrangles her rambunctious younger twin brothers, her mother, Elizabeth (Melanie Lynskey), assures her that she is talented and beautiful and will do just great. These sentiments are echoed by Sophie’s best friend, Carolyn (Scarlett Estevez), who joins her at the audition where the director is the super-cool Ms. Parker (“Brooklyn Nine-Nine’s” Stephanie Beatriz) and even theater department queen bee Mallory (Elyse Bell), who everyone knows is going to get the lead, is pretty nice.

It’s a high school experience that’s about as far from “Euphoria” or even “Glee” as one can get while still being situated on Earth. Still, all is not perfect in Sophie’s world. When Elizabeth learns that her cancer has returned, Sophie overhears her parents’ subsequent conversation via a butt-dial from her father’s phone. Her first impulse is to flee the audition; instead her emotional turmoil fuels a powerful performance that (spoiler alert?) lands her the lead role.

Determined to downplay the seriousness of her illness, Elizabeth insists that life continue on as normal — she and Ted own a local deli, which offers some nice bagel versus wrap shade and a Jon Lovitz cameo. Though Sophie is worried, she believes her mother who says she will beat cancer again. So she throws herself into the stomach-churning rigor of being the star of the show, which includes a painful separation from her bestie, a crush on her co-star and a struggle to find the confidence to let her obvious talent shine.

“Don’t Say Good Luck” is, obviously, a showcase for Sandler, whose parents, Adam and Jackie Sandler, serve as producers (which may have had something to do with the extraordinary supporting cast, which also includes Bebe Neuwirth and Steve Buscemi as Elizabeth’s parents). Adam Sandler and his Happy Madison Productions have a long and lucrative partnership with Netflix, which recently debuted “Happy Gilmore 2” and announced “Grown Ups 3” as part of their deal. One could see this as yet another case of nepo-baby triumph — streaming is currently littered with the progeny of famous parents — or simply a living example of the film’s theme. Like the Birenbaum parents, the Sandlers want to help their daughter shine in her chosen career and that she certainly does.

Adam Sandler serves as a producer, which may have had something to do with the extraordinary supporting cast, which also includes Steve Buscemi as Sophie’s grandfather.

(Netflix)

Though Sophie is the only older daughter ever to escape the task of caring for her younger brothers (or doing any chores at all), Sandler makes her completely believable as a nice, self-conscious kid who just needs a push to trust her talent. If the tone of the film is 1970s-family-comedy aspirational (particularly in the mother-daughter scenes), that shouldn’t be construed as a low level of difficulty.

Indeed, it is almost revolutionary to see emotionally resonant teenage characters who aren’t mired in abuse, addiction or some kind of horror; leveraging dysfunction has become shorthand for “drama.” “Don’t Say Good Luck” is based on the real-life experience of co-writer Laura Hankin (collaborating here with Hart and Jordan Horowitz), and though the stakes are emotionally high, portraying a loving family doing their best to get through a devastating situation with minimal meltdowns is its own act of bravery.

It certainly helps that this family is firmly anchored by Lynskey, who proves, yet again, that she can do anything. Her Elizabeth is neither martyr nor saint, just a woman who wants to live as she’s always lived for as long as she can. Lynskey lifts what could have been a sappy (or even worse, guilt-inducing) cancer-mom tale into a quietly transcendent contemplation of motherhood. (A scene in which she flips through the calendar trying to figure out when to let the kids know what’s really going on drove the breath from this mother’s body.)

Does “Don’t Say Good Luck” skirt around the grim realities of cancer as cavalierly as it paints a Pinterest mood-board vision of high school? Absolutely. But that doesn’t mean the message and the feelings (yes, you absolutely will cry) are not just as authentic. Love is the root of much pain, but it’s also what conquers it in the end.

Melanie Lynskey as Elizabeth, Max Greenfield as Ted and Jon Lovitz as Lenny in “Don’t Say Good Luck.”

(Netflix)

In a striking demonstration of support, hundreds of fired up Californians rallied in Santa Monica to speak out against the Trump administration’s attempt to wrest local control over the state’s beloved coastline.

The Golden State’s top environmental leaders, along with prominent elected officials, environmentalists, business coalitions, community activists, Indigenous groups and everyday citizens, packed a public hearing Monday before the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s Office of Coastal Management, which has been tasked with conducting an unprecedented investigation that could ultimately strip California of its power to say no to federal projects.

Experts see the investigation — framed as a performance review of the state’s coastal management practices — as a thinly veiled attempt by Trump officials to open California’s coast to more offshore oil drilling, more rocket launches and possibly even floating nuclear reactors. If the federal government succeeds, many worry it could set the stage for similar actions in other coastal states.

“I’m scared, not because we haven’t built something worth protecting — we have. I’m scared because this meeting is performance theater. In some ways, the decision seems already made,” said Maureen Ellenberger, a resident of Santa Barbara who said she is haunted by the possibility of another oil spill. “But I’m speaking today anyway, so there’s a record. So years from now… everyone will know we fought, that we did not consent.”

Kate Huckelbridge, executive director of the California Coastal Commission, speaks during a NOAA hearing as Larry Goldzband, executive director of the San Francisco Bay Conservation and Development Commission, awaits his turn to make comments.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

Citing California’s “environmental extremism,” Trump officials are attempting to decertify the state’s authority under the federal Coastal Zone Management Act, or CZMA. The act grants coastal states the right to review and object to any project in federal waters that clashes with state policy.

For the last five decades, the CZMA has been celebrated as a bipartisan co-management framework between coastal states and the federal government — and in California, the process had been relatively smooth through every presidential administration until Trump’s.

Tensions escalated in May when U.S. Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick declared that “California has repeatedly and unfoundedly obstructed spaceport development in bad faith” and announced that he was ordering a fresh evaluation of the state’s CZMA compliance using a “new approach.” He specifically instructed NOAA, which is under his purview, to take offshore oil production, pipeline maintenance, spaceport infrastructure, desalination projects and undersea cables into consideration, citing national priorities and economic interests.

Performance reviews under the CZMA are not uncommon (most states are subject to a routine review every five to 10 years) but what’s unusual in this case is the callout to specific industries, as well as the politically charged nature of how the review was announced (state officials learned they were under review through a social media post from the U.S. Department of Commerce.)

What was also unusual was the fact California had also just undergone a routine review during the Biden administration.

A draft of that review, which was completed in 2024, but not finalized because of the change in administration, gave top marks to the three California agencies charged with implementing the CZMA — the California Coastal Commission, the California State Coastal Conservancy and the San Francisco Bay Conservation and Development Commission. The review found no issues.

Joelle Gore, left, chief of the stewardship division at the NOAA Office for Coastal Management and Keelin Kuipers, right, acting director at NOAA’s Office for Coastal Management, listen to more than four hours of public comments.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

The new Lutnick-ordered review began in earnest on Monday with the only hearing that people can attend in-person during the 45-day-public comment period. (Two virtual hearings will be held Tuesday and Wednesday, and NOAA is required to review all written comments that are submitted from members of the public through Aug. 22.)

More than 15,000 people have written comments so far, and for more than four hours Monday, surfers, fishers, marine scientists, community activists, business owners, real estate brokers and Californians from a wide swath of interest groups — many traveling from Marin, San Jose, Mendocino and other parts of the state — lined up to speak before NOAA’s acting director for coastal management.

Nobody in attendance spoke in favor of the federal review. As people in the crowd held up signs declaring “NO FEDERAL TAKEOVER” and “NO SELLOUTS FOR BIG OIL,” speakers expressed their love for the California coast and urged federal officials to take note of the state’s thriving marine economy.

The crowd erupted in whoops and applause after each person spoke their three minutes of public comments. A number of speakers, some moved to tears, expressed afterward that they had never been more proud to be a Californian.

“It was just example after example after example of how the state’s coastal management program is working — it was really putting into the record those facts and also just so many personal stories,” said Jennifer Savage, a longtime policy advocate for Surfrider Foundation who drove more than 670 miles from Humboldt to testify at the hearing. “It showed more than anything that being able to go to the beach is such a unifying shared joy in California.”

The State’s top environmental leaders also took turns speaking about how the CZMA has long facilitated open dialogue and collaboration between the state and federal government.

“We sincerely hope that this review is not merely a pretense for removing California’s ability to hold public hearings on offshore oil and gas projects,” said Kate Huckelbridge, executive director of the Coastal Commission. “California has received very little information about why this new federal review is being undertaken. Still, we welcome a fair and transparent evaluation. Our record speaks for itself.”

Wade Crowfoot, California Secretary for Natural Resources, provides public comment during a NOAA hearing.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

Out of the more than 3,700 federal actions that have come before the Coastal Commission for review since the 1970s, the commission has aligned with the federal actions 96% of the time, Huckelbridge said.

Current and former coastal officials also spoke about their experiences with past reviews and questioned the unusual timing of this evaluation and how it doesn’t follow standard procedure.

“I have personally participated in several periodic reviews, and what has happened in this review is unprecedented and, quite frankly, bizarre. There is absolutely no basis for reopening the periodic review conducted in 2024,” said Jack Ainsworth, who had worked at the coastal commission for 34 years and led it for seven of those years. “I would also note that California is recognized as the gold standard for integrated coastal management in the United States and around the world.”

At a NOAA hearing Monday, the crowd applauded after each speaker expressed their love for the California coast and urged federal officials to keep things the way they are.

(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)

What happens after this week’s hearings will be uncharted territory, but experts say that if the review does end up taking issue with California’s coastal management program, the state should be given the opportunity to respond to any proposed changes. The process laid out in the law appears to include multiple steps and opportunities for discussion, they said.

At a rally outside the meeting room Monday, more than a hundred environmentalists gathered alongside congressmembers, county supervisors, Indigenous leaders, environmental justice groups and business coalitions to further amplify the many voices that represent California.

Toni Cordero, a board member of Sacred Places Institute for Indigenous Peoples, Surfrider Foundation, and Environmental Defense Center, speaks at a rally before a NOAA hearing Monday.

(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times)

“The Creator put us here to coexist and to collaborate in caring for our mother ocean and for all her relatives, all of her inhabitants and all those who call this coast home,” said Toni Cordero, a former tribal chair of the Coastal Band of the Chumash Nation who also served as a deputy state attorney general for more than 25 years. “We must remember them. It is their homelands, their well-being and their futures that are also at stake under the guise of ensuring compliance with the Coastal Zone Management Act.”

The crowd waved signs and cheered again as Wade Crowfoot, California’s Secretary for Natural Resources, stepped up to speak.

“It has been clear from Governor Newsom to Attorney General Bonta to our legislators to our congressional delegation: California’s coast is not for sale, and a hostile takeover of our coast by the federal government… won’t be tolerated,” Crowfoot declared.

“So rest assured,” he said. “We stand in strong solidarity with everyone here today — whether you’re a tribal government, a local government, a conservation organization or just somebody that likes to get out and be on a beach that’s safe and healthy, we are making our voices heard.”

Brad Pitt has revealed that he’s back on the sauce.

During a vulnerable interview published in Esquire on Monday, Pitt said he’d started drinking again, in moderation. “I was sober for seven years,” he said. “And then I got back off the wagon.”

The be-all and end-all of movie stars, Pitt had a messy, highly publicized (and litigated) divorce from fellow crème de la crème star Angelina Jolie that stretched from 2016 to 2024. Jolie filed to end the power couple’s two-year marriage after an alleged alcohol-fueled incident on a private plane. The fallout has been consequential for both stars, and served as the catalyst for Pitt seeking help through Alcoholics Anonymous.

Now, maybe after a seven-year itch, Pitt is trying to rework his relationship with alcohol, this time “in a more restrained manner.”

“I got overconfident a couple times, went, ‘Yep, nope, not good for me. Not in big quantities,’” he told Esquire.

When it comes to wine, Pitt says, “Well  . . .  I can have a few. But I can’t have a lot. I have to be professional about it.”

The “Heart of the Beast” star has been candid about his sober-curious journey in recent years and publicly thanked actor (and sponsor to the stars) Bradley Cooper for helping him get sober. “I got sober because of this guy,” he said during a 2020 acceptance speech at the National Board of Review’s annual awards gala. “And every day has been happier since.”

And last June, the Oscar winner sat down with Dax Shepard for an episode of “Armchair Expert” and opened up about the positive experience he’d had in the 12-step program. “I am a stubborn f—, but when I’ve stepped in s—, I’m pretty good at taking responsibility for it and owning up to it,” he told Shepard. “And now it’s a quest to … make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

In the Esquire story, Pitt admitted that, during the darkest period of grappling with what he referred to as “family stuff,” he could see how suicide might feel like relief — but that his survival instinct kicked in. He discussed feeling immense grief and how that grief can leave a gaping hole. Rather than climbing out of it, Pitt said he thought of it as “going through it.”

“And trying and trying and trying and trying to the point of exhaustion and then trying again,” he told the magazine. “I don’t want to ignore the place where you run up against the wall. But I just one day woke up, and it just felt a little sunnier and the air felt a little sweeter. Just microdoses of it.”

Whether you care or not about your own college reunion, we all keep getting invited to the one for the comedy troupe Broken Lizard, whose movies are always the same thing: frat guys who never grew out of the same jokes, taunts and pranks. That isn’t to say “Super Troopers 3” doesn’t also exhibit genuine appreciation for a tight bond nurtured over time, but you need to have been there (that is, enjoyed one or two of these) to revel in tapping that aggressively overpumped keg of R-rated comedy nostalgia.

The gang’s longevity, well into late middle age, is indeed impressive, even if it’s relegated to reviving their most beloved incarnation, a quintet of adolescent-minded Vermont highway patrolmen who torment citizens, razz each other and routinely examine their stunted life choices when confronted with the noxious personality of the most extreme among them, Farva (Kevin Heffernan).

The boorish, puerile Farva — imagine an “Animal House” character its writers would have discarded as too crude — is the catalyst this time around by falling in love. His shock engagement to Sarita (Hannah Simone), the brainy, beautiful sister of de facto trooper leader Thorny (director Jay Chandrasekhar), pits brother against family and bro against bro, even if Farva doesn’t register his colleague’s disgust. Thorny will do anything to keep Farva from marrying into his family, which is admittedly one of the easier campaigns for an audience to get behind.

That’s not a sentiment against true love; it’s more a nod to strained credibility and a feeling of general exhaustion. “Super Troopers 3” hardly feels like some long-awaited third go-round in a franchise spanning 25 years. Rather, it plays like the 84th episode of a time-killing cable series that people forgot was still on the air. Whatever raw charm existed in the original underdog sleeper hit from 2001 (and found some purchase in the agreeably goofy 2018 sequel) has been hardened here into a piece of machine-stamped plastic, likely in the shape of a male organ sporting a traditional sherwani, considering the incessant swirl of infantile body humor and offensive-adjacent Indian culture gags on offer.

Besides the main storyline and a dull, time-padding smuggling operation to uncover, there’s little to do for the rest of the Broken Lizard team: Paul Soter, Eric Stolhanske and Steve Emme. Inexplicably, EV cars and food-ordering apps become running gags. Marisa Coughlan is back as a cop’s wife, and the joke must be that she never gets to be funny.

There’s good news in Brian Cox returning as their cranky superior, except it looks like two days of work, tops. The best new face is Nat Faxon as the station’s insecure captain. He gets more easy, unforced laughs than anyone, especially when it comes to a bout of “scromiting.” It still isn’t enough.

“Enough” is a good retort, though, for “Super Troopers 3” overall, except for the dispiriting promise before the closing credits that more mediocrity might be coming. But fans might want to savor this one, because according to Vermont law, highway patrol mandatory retirement age is 57, the age the youngest Broken Lizard member hits this month. Sorry, guys — can we have those badges back?

The kid in the candy shop is Eli Roth with a gore budget and in the “Hostel” director’s latest bloody romp, “Ice Cream Man,” there’s a decidedly childlike giddiness from behind the camera to accompany the sicko suburban carnage depicted onscreen. Where others might view a “Village of the Damned” scenario as dread-inducing, Roth hears the bell for recess.

That doesn’t necessarily translate to a successful film. Little things like style, narrative command and character still matter, and Roth, who wrote “Ice Cream Man” with Noah Belson and even gives himself a role, is decidedly more of a smart-ass vaudevillian than a skilled filmmaker. (“Thanksgiving” was better as an impish sideshow teased as a trailer in “Grindhouse” than as a standalone feature years later.) And while that same belief in the lasting entertainment value of jokey splat-itude gives “Ice Cream Man” its occasional well-churned moments, it eventually undercuts Roth’s own semi-worthy bid to rattle us as the best horror movies can.

With its sunny elevator-music-scored opening of cheery park scenes and leafy residential neighborhoods, “Ice Cream Man” sets itself up, not unappealingly, like a Norman Rockwell painting asking to be vandalized. Next comes the arrival of a tinkling blue ice cream truck manned by an eerily silent, smiling, wraith-like purveyor (Ari Millen) with a John Waters mustache. He hands out his goodies free of charge, and the town’s children converge excitedly, then head home with colorfully smeared faces and a peculiarly quiet demeanor — except for easily bullied Jared (Charlie Zeltzer), who’s lactose intolerant and nobody’s friend anyway, after losing the ballgame for his team.

But when his ice cream-eating schoolmates begin slaughtering their parents overnight, seemingly fueled by the wafting sound of the truck jingle and old-timey black-and-white animations invading their phones, Jared seems like the lucky one. At school the next day, the cold-eyed stares of dairy-slopped grade-schoolers befuddles the teachers (“Is this some sort of zombie pajama day challenge?” is one of the better reaction lines) as well as unsuspecting Jared, along with two other unaltered classmates, Mia (Kiori Waldman) and Tommy (Shiloh O’Reilly). Then the ice cream man returns to refuel his targeted customers, who try to convert our well-cast, engaging trio of young double-scoop holdouts. Things get sticky.

A daytime massacre, built around gleefully homicidal children in full kill mode against adults, contains visuals designed to forever alter how you see tetherball, rope-skipping and cat’s cradle (plus a quasi-amusing shout-out to “The Birds”). It’s clear Roth was aiming for a blood-and-guts tour de force, which this both is and isn’t. Even after Jared and the gang escape the slayground to a church where they get the ice cream man’s backstory from a cowardly priest (Benjamin Byron Davis), genuine scares aren’t really in play here, just taboo snickers.

Then again, the carefully calibrated blend of dark humor, weirdness and sheer terror that made last year’s “Weapons” a rapturous nightmare about creepy children isn’t what Roth is after (or cares to do). He’s got a super-soaker “Goonies”-meets-early-Peter Jackson mindset and a list of clever kills to execute. Time’s a wastin’.

So a pinch of surprising depth proves to be the most unwieldy move when Roth unveils a resonantly nasty surprise for his story’s endgame. The impact is muted because it instantly clarifies how needlessly trivial everything before it was. Maybe someday, Roth will temper his empty-calories instincts and make more of a meal out of his twisted ideas.

Hi, and welcome to another edition of Dodgers Dugout. My name is Houston Mitchell. It’s too hot. I’m convinced that the Earth has been torn from its orbit and is hurtling toward the sun.

Trade deadline review

The Dodgers made some acquisitions at the deadline, the big one being Tarik Skubal. Let’s take a look:

Acquired Skubal from the Tigers for minor leaguers Zyhir Hope, River Ryan and Brady Smith

Andrew Friedman recently told reporters, “There just aren’t that many star-level players in the game. Any time one is available, we’re always going to participate in those conversations.”

Participate he did, as the Dodgers got the top player available. Skubal won the last two AL Cy Young Awards when he went 18-4 with a 2.39 ERA in 2024 and 13-6 with a 2.21 ERA last season, leading the league in ERA both seasons. He also led in strikeouts in 2024 with 228. Last season he struck out 241. You can see all of his stats here.

Skubal was taken by Detroit out of Seattle University in the ninth round of the 2018 draft. He reached the majors in the COVID-shortened 2020 season, going 1-4 with a 5.63 ERA in eight starts. He has gotten better each season since until this season, where he is 7-6 with an ERA of “only” 2.81.

Skubal was born in Hayward, Calif., on Nov. 20, 1996. He was a freshman All-American for Seattle in 2015, then missed most of the 2016 and all of the 2017 season after having Tommy John surgery. He pitched again in 2018 and was drafted by Detroit.

After winning his second Cy Young last season, he set the arbitration record by getting $32 million for 2026 (the Tigers had countered with $19 million). On May 4 this season, he had surgery to remove loose bodies in his pitching elbow (the same surgery Edwin Díaz had). He came back on June 13 and since then he has gone 4-4 with a 2.88 ERA in 59.1 innings, giving up 43 hits and walking 10 while striking out 77. The Dodgers will be on the hook for about $10 million of his salary this season.

Was this a good trade? Well, for now, yes, as the Dodgers are a better team with Skubal than without him. Long term, it depends on a lot of things. Will he be a key factor if they win the title again? He’s a free agent after this season, will the Dodgers re-sign him? Will the three prospects the Dodgers gave up turn out to be good to great major leaguers?

In 1987, Detroit was battling for the AL East and pulled off a deadline deal, acquiring Doyle Alexander from the Atlanta Braves. Alexander went 9-0 with a 1.53 ERA for the Tigers, who won the division thanks in large part to that. So, a great trade, right?

Well, Alexander retired two years later, and the prospect the Tigers sent to the Braves turned out to be pretty good: John Smoltz.

Hope, 21, is an outfielder who has hit at every level of the minor leagues. He is hitting .291/.368/.525 at double-A this season. He is considered by all sources to be one of the top 100 prospects in baseball, ranked 63rd by Baseball America, 27th by MLB and 18th by Baseball Prospectus.

Ryan, who turns 28 this month, pitched for the Dodgers in 2024, with a 1.33 ERA in four starts. He has been hampered by injuries ever since. He had arm surgery in August 2024 that sidelined him for the 2025 season. He made eight starts for triple-A Oklahoma City this season, with a 4.46 ERA. He has great stuff, but his age and injury history indicates he might never get a real chance to show it.

Smith, 21, was drafted in the third round in 2023. He missed the 2024 season because of injuries. He made only nine starts with a 6.00 ERA last season and in 21 starts in Class A ball this season, he was 0-7 with a 4.36 ERA, striking out 113 in 74.1 innings.

Acquired Ben Rortvedt from the New York Mets for Chayce McDermott

Rortvedt is a familiar name to Dodgers fans, as he filled in admirably when needed for Will Smith last season and took the backup catcher job from Dalton Rushing. He hit only .224/.309/.327, but he seemed to always get key hits, or laid down a bunt when needed. And the pitching staff loved him. It was as if he had been a Dodgers catcher for years. Look at the team ERA by catcher last season:

Rortvedt, 2.89 (140.1 innings)
Rushing, 3.87 (325.1)
Smith, 4.00 (865.1)
Chuckie Robinson, 5.14 (seven)
Austin Barnes, 5.16 (103)

Doesn’t it seem like Barnes has been off the team for a few seasons already?

McDermott has a career 12.00 ERA in 15 major league innings.

Acquired Hunter Feduccia and Jacob Kmatz from the Tampa Bay Rays for Jack Suwinski and $250,000 in international bonus pool money

The Dodgers acquired another old friend by getting Feduccia, who is also a catcher. He played in eight games for the Dodgers in 2024 and 2025 before he was traded to Tampa Bay for Rortvedt and pitcher Paul Gervase. Feduccia is one of those Dodger prospects who never panned out, as he is hitting .207/.297/.290 in 104 major league games. But, he knows the Dodger pitching staff and the Dodgers are better with Rortvedt/Feduccia than with Robinson/Eliezer Alfonzo.

The reason the Dodgers acquired two catchers is because of some bad news. Rushing has a torn UCL in his right elbow and more than likely won’t be able to play catcher again this season, though he may be able to serve as a right-handed pinch-hitter. With Rushing out, and Will Smith still sidelined by his neck injury, the Dodgers turned toward defense. Neither Rortvedt nor Feduccia have proven to be starting catchers, but they have been solid backups. The question is, who will get the most playing time the rest of the way? They both bat left-handed.

Acquired pitcher Kris Bubic from the Kansas City Royals for Carlos Duran

This reminds me of the trade for Danny Duffy at the 2021 deadline. Duffy was a good pitcher who was injured, but the Dodgers hoped he would return in time to help down the stretch during the 2021 season. He didn’t return. They signed him in the offseason hoping he would return from injury to help during the season. He didn’t return. He then retired.

Bubic was on the 60-day IL for the Royals, and is on that IL for the Dodgers. He was an All-Star last season for the Royals, finishing the season 8-7 with a 2.55 ERA in 20 starts (116 innings). He was 3-2 with a 4.11 ERA in nine starts this season before going on the IL because of shoulder soreness. The Dodgers hope he can return before the end of the month.

But let’s not hold our breath awaiting that, OK?

Duran, 25, had a 3.38 ERA in 42.2 innings at triple-A Oklahoma City.

Acquired reliever Seth Halvorsen from the Colorado Rockies for Nick Frasso and Landyn Vidourek

This trade happened on July 20, but we will include it. Halvorsen was, wait for it, on the 15-day IL for the Rockies because of shoulder inflammation. He is currently off the IL and has pitched 5.1 scoreless innings at Oklahoma City. He reaches 100 on the radar gun and has a 4.31 career ERA in 71 innings in the majors.

Frasso, 27, was selected in the fourth round by Toronto in the 2020 draft, was sent to the Dodgers for Mitch White in 2022 and never reached the majors with L.A. He had shoulder surgery before the 2024 season and sat out the season.

Vidourek, 22, an outfielder, was chosen by the Dodgers in the third round of the 2025 draft. He has power but strikes out a lot, fanning 141 times in 317 at-bats in the minors, where he is hitting .205/.357/.369.

So, there you have it. Your new Dodgers. The Dodgers are a better team today than they were before the deadline. It guarantees nothing though. They got Yu Darvish and Max Scherzer in previous years and did not win the title.

The Dodgers rotation, if everyone is healthy:

Yoshinobu Yamamoto
Skubal
Shohei Ohtani
Blake Snell
Tyler Glasnow

Next in line: Justin Wrobleski, Roki Sasaki, Eric Lauer, Emmet Sheehan.

Here’s what the other NL contenders did. I won’t comment, because this newsletter is long enough already and there’s still another item after this one, but if you click on each player’s name, you will be taken to their stat page at baseball-reference.com.

Arizona Diamondbacks

Acquired Lars Nootbaar from the St. Louis Cardinals for Daniel Eagen, Sandro Santana and a player to be named later.

Atlanta Braves

Acquired Tyler Uberstine from the Boston Red Sox for Eli White.
Acquired Duncan Davitt from the Chicago White Sox for Joey Bart.
Acquired Brent Suter from the Angels for Nacho Alvarez Jr.
Acquired Tyler Mahle from the San Francisco Giants for Anthony Molina.
Acquired Lane Thomas and Bailey Falter from the Kansas City Royals for Carter Holton and Lucas Braun.

Chicago Cubs

Acquired Kevin Gausman from the the Toronto Blue Jays for Brett Bateman and Ty Southisene.
Acquired Clay Holmes and Tyrone Taylor from the New York Mets for Jefferson Rojas.
Acquired Ryan Zeferjahn from the Angels for Moises Ballesteros and Mason McGwire.
Acquired Braxton Garrett from the Miami Marlins for Jonathon Long and Jace Beck.
Acquired Aaron Civale and cash from the Athletics for Aiden Moffett.
Acquired David Peterson from the New York Mets for Cole Mathis.

Miami Marlins

Acquired Brandan Bidois, Hyun Seung Lee, and Brian Sanchez from the Pittsburgh Pirates for Lake Bachar.
Acquired Victor Vodnik from the Colorado Rockies for Connor Norby and Aiden May.
Acquired Jonathon Long and Jace Beck from the Chicago Cubs for Braxton Garrett.
Acquired Brayden Taylor, Adrian Santana and Jacob Kisting from the Tampa Bay Rays for Liam Hicks.

Milwaukee Brewers

Acquired Antonio Senzatela from the Colorado Rockies for Mark Manfredi and Juan Martinez.
Acquired Dustin May and JoJo Romero from the St. Louis Cardinals for Alexander Frias and Josiah Ragsdale.
Acquired Bo Naylor and Codi Heuer from the Cleveland Guardians for Blake Perkins and Craig Yoho.
Acquired Braden Shewmake from the Houston Astros for cash considerations.

Philadelphia Phillies

Acquired Luis Arraez and Caleb Kilian from the San Francisco Giants for Ramon Marquez and Marty Gair.
Acquired Colby Thomas from the Athletics for Seth Johnson.
Acquired Manuel Colon and cash considerations from the Kansas City Royals for Nolan Hoffman.
Acquired Brooks Raley from the New York Mets for Luke Gabrysh and John Spikerman.

San Diego Padres

Acquired Robbie Ray from Giants for Miguel Mendez and Joniel Hernandez.
Acquired Hunter Stratton from Pirates for Andrew Moore.
Acquired Casey Mize and Gage Workman from Tigers for Kash Mayfield and Jackson Wolf.

For full reports on all the trades across the majors, I suggest visiting mlbtraderumors.com.

What, me worry?

So, the Dodgers have lost six in a row and were swept in two consecutive series. Time to worry or panic?

To find the last time the Dodgers lost six in a row and were swept in consecutive series, you have to go all the way back to … July 2025. The Dodgers woke up on July 4 leading the NL West by nine games. They then proceeded to get swept twice:

lost to Houston, 18-1
lost to Houston, 6-4
lost to Houston, 5-1
lost to Milwaukee, 9-1
lost to Milwaukee, 3-1
lost to Milwaukee, 3-2

The then lost their first game against the Giants, 8-7. After that, they were in first place by only four games.

Then they won two in a row and lost three more in a row. They went 5-13 over one stretch that month and went 10-14 in July. They lost five in a row to start September. They ended up winning the division by three games, but did not get a first-round bye.

My memory fails me, what happened in the postseason last season?

If the Dodgers get a couple of major injuries and lose like 15 in a row, then we can begin to panic. But they are going to make the postseason, and anything can happen in the postseason. They could be swept in the first round, they could win it all again. It’s all part of the ride.

Up next

Friday: Dodgers (Roki Sasaki, 5-5, 4.64 ERA) at Arizona (Merrill Kelly, 8-9, 5.04 ERA), 6:40 p.m., SportsNet LA, AM 570, KTNQ 1020

Saturday: Dodgers (Yoshinobu Yamamoto, 11-7, 2.76 ERA) at Arizona (Brandon Pfaadt, 6-1, 3.66 ERA), 5:10 p.m., SportsNet LA, AM 570, KTNQ 1020

Sunday: Dodgers (*Justin Wrobleski, 11-3, 3.31 ERA) at Arizona (*Eduardo Rodriguez, 10-4, 2.71 ERA), 1:10 p.m., SportsNet LA, AM 570, KTNQ 1020

All times Pacific

*-left-handed

In case you missed it

Shohei Ohtani, Pete Crow-Armstrong put on a show as NL MVP talk heats up: ‘He’s a great player’

‘Dodgers do all the right things.’ Tarik Skubal dismisses the ‘ruining baseball’ critics

Two of Rob Reiner’s children pay tribute to their late parents with Dodgers ceremonial first pitches

Dodgers add catchers Ben Rortvedt and Hunter Feduccia, pitcher Kris Bubic at trade deadline

Dodgers Debate: The Dodgers will stop at nothing to win

Inside the aggressive push Andrew Friedman and Dodgers made to acquire Tarik Skubal

Shaikin: ‘L.A. is America’s team.’ But the Brewers should have been Tarik Skubal’s team

Plaschke: Tarik Skubal trade brings Dodgers hate, envy … and another championship

And finally

Vin Scully is interviewed by Roy Firestone. Watch and listen here.

Until next time …

Have a comment or something you’d like to see in a future Dodgers newsletter? Email me at houston.mitchell@latimes.com. To get this newsletter in your inbox, click here.

“Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma” is a witty, gory slasher-romance that feels so personal to writer-director Jane Schoenbrun that they’ve essentially sliced out their soul and smeared it on the screen.

“Hacks’” Hannah Einbinder plays a rising director named Kris, a Sundance darling and Schoenbrun avatar of sorts who wants to convince a long-forgotten scream queen named Billy Presley (Gillian Anderson) to star in her next movie. It’s a resurrection of the fictitious “Camp Miasma” franchise, a hack-’em-up about hormonal camp counselors slaughtered by a gender-bending, spear-wielding killer called Little Death, who has an air-conditioning vent for a face. (The reason why sort of makes sense when you see his lair.) Billy played the final girl in the 1983 original film, then disappeared. And so Kris heads out to Billy’s snowbound hideaway — which just so happens to be where the movie was shot.

Young Billy (a riveting Amanda Fix) imprinted on Kris in a way she can’t articulate. Smoking weed with the real woman will hopefully help. Anderson’s Billy steps out of the shadows with a full face of femme fatale makeup and a syrupy Dolly Parton drawl, promptly serving Kris enough fried chicken to feed a bobsled team. Has Anderson ever had more fun onscreen? Her performance presents as camp, but her dynamic range of loud cackles and quiet glances is fabulous.

Acting in a film within a film, Fix’s version of teenage Billy is so nervous it seems impossible she’ll become Anderson’s diva. You can practically hear the girl’s heart beating so loud that it breaks your own. The two Billys almost snatch the movie from under its lead. But then toward the climax, Einbinder has a powerful close-up that puts the film back in her pocket. (Metaphorically, that is — by then, her character isn’t wearing any pants.)

Kris’ breakout movie was a high-concept inversion of “Psycho” told through the shower curtain’s POV. Yet she’s well aware that the studio hired her to rescue the “Camp Miasma” franchise not for her genius but because she’s queer and the internet has deemed Little Death “problematic.” The satirical scenes of Kris’ agent (Sarah Sherman) getting annoyed that her client can’t pitch a four-quadrant movie are hilarious while also ringing of truth.

Likewise, Schoenbrun specializes in zeitgeisty fables about 21st century isolation. Their own debut, the 2021 micro-budget internet thriller “We’re All Going to the World’s Fair,” was simultaneously mesmerizing and tedious, a mental breakdown that burrowed so deeply inside its own world that several COVID-era high schoolers I know felt like it had been made just for them.

A strange thing about Schoenbrun is that even when I haven’t liked their work, I’ve left the theater certain that I just watched what will be someone else’s favorite film of all time. (The affectless disassociation of 2024’s “I Saw the TV Glow” drove me bonkers.) Yet “Camp Miasma” finds Schoenbrun bravely opening up and getting vulnerable. It’s not just a lament about loneliness; it’s a challenge to change your perspective and maybe your life.

I suspect Schoenbrun could deliver a five-hour TED Talk on the pop cultural kitsch of “Friday the 13th’s” Jason Voorhees. They’re so fluent in how Hollywood squeezes the fun out of a franchise that they can convey “Camp Miasma’s” descent into schlock in a sprightly opening montage that sees Little Death become a trading card, a bobblehead, an 8-bit video game, an anti-drug spokesman and a novelty rapper. Over 13 sequels, the character’s trail of nubile corpses stretches from Manhattan to Mars to Quibi.

Kris pops in a disc of “Camp Miasma’s” tawdry 2008 reboot, which cinematographer Eric Yue makes look as flat as the discounted DVD. As that movie’s disposable bimbo strips off her top, the score cranks up a porno-chic song and Kris scribbles the word “desire” in her notebook in all caps. But the contrast between that sham seduction footage and a 35mm reel of the original “Camp Miasma” is like night and day — or rather, trash and art. Kris and Billy watch that one together in an intimate sleepover, sinking into the murky texture of a scene in which the virginal actor allowed a jerk to take off her clothes.

Schoenbrun loves the movie-ness of movies. You can see their devotion in outdoor backdrops that are deliriously false, in sight gags that reference Cronenberg and Carpenter or in production design that includes the perfect nostalgic ’90s video store carpet. Inside Billy’s private movie theater, the projector beams down on the back of Anderson’s head like that infamous Nicole Kidman AMC promo. Maybe I’m loopy, but I’d even swear the entrance to Billy’s screening room has a handmade mural of the Roku City screensaver. Watch for clues when the storyline we’re watching becomes its own nested narrative.

Horror fans waiting for jump scares will be thwarted. At least there are several sequences of macabre murder-comedy with blood geysers shooting up to the sky and a tracking shot through a killing spree that’s a riot. The soundtrack sets a more accurate tone right away with a gentle cover of R.E.M.’s “Nightswimming” that segues into Alex G’s dreamy synths. Yet Schoenbrun’s needle drops also seem to have been chosen to make the audience chuckle. A massacre set to the Counting Crows’ piano-and-accordion ballad “A Long December” is bizarre. (The only excuse I can think of is that Little Death hibernates at the bottom of a frozen lake?)

It feels like a magic trick when the film finally reveals where it’s going. “Teenage Sex and Death” is about climbing out of your head, admitting what you want and allowing yourself to enjoy it. Sexually, yes — that’s right in the title — and creatively, too, as Schoenbrun wants us to keep loving movies that make us squirm.

Lately, it’s been hard to talk about difficult art, with culture warriors deeming entire filmographies unworthy of enjoyment. People have gotten so used to preemptively apologizing for what they like that their mea culpas feel as reflexive as a sneeze. But Schoenbrun sticks up for the right to forgive a movie’s flaws. Here, when Kris anxiously whispers that a scene in the first “Camp Miasma” is transphobic, Billy gives her a shush.

We’ve all got our kinks, including ones for canceled flicks. (I still adore “Revenge of the Nerds” despite its god-awful rape joke.) Kris can intellectualize her “Camp Miasma” fandom all she wants. But Billy counters that the appeal of “Camp Miasma” is simple: “It’s flesh and fluids,” she says. And since she’s still living in it, we believe her.

Every now and then a rom-com comes along with an absolutely ludicrous premise that we just sort of accept because it creates the unique conditions for watching a pair of budding movie stars fall in love. This year’s entrant is “One Night Only,” written by Travis Braun, directed by Will Gluck and set in a pretty familiar if spit-shiny New York City. The catch is that America, for some reason, has outlawed premarital sex, with the exception of one night a year, when singles can get their freak on. It’s like “The Purge” but for sex, so the Sex Purge.

Braun’s script was on the Black List, a collection of the best unproduced screenplays in Hollywood, which tends to reward hooky, high-concept projects, often to mixed results. That is most definitely the case with “One Night Only,” a film that exists on the vapors of a bizarre plot and the appeal of hot actors.

You probably have a lot of questions, and “One Night Only” is only going to satisfy some of them. How does the government police the premarital sex? With bio-sensors, of course, as explained by a drunken tech bro (Nicholas Braun) in an exclusive lounge. Singles receive small tattoos that turn from red to green during the 12 hours that premarital sex is permitted, body modifications that measure things like oxytocin and dopamine and whether one sensor is in close proximity to another. Sexual acts that are solo, distanced or parallel are permitted, yet many questions still remain about the kinds of hookups that can be had during the mandated ban.

The why of it all is much less satisfactory. An upbeat news report explains that rates of teen pregnancy are down, which is a very 1980s justification. The whole gambit feels dated and underexplored, both conceptually and politically — so you’re saying single straight people are an oppressed sexual minority? Maybe that idea should have been unpacked a little bit more.

On the night of the Sex Purge, the streets are flooded with attractive, thin, largely heterosexual couples making out all over the place. Perish the thought of being single and vulnerable, as they say on “Love Island,” on such a night, which is how we find our two winsome protagonists, Owen (Callum Turner) and Allie (“A Complete Unknown’s” Monica Barbaro). Owen’s a pizza maker whose girlfriend (Maya Hawke) wants to explore someone else; advertising jingle singer Allie has been ditched by her best friend (King Princess) for a prince.

These two strangers are both despondent and desperate. When they bump into each other on the street, a meet-cute turns into a meet-puke, and so the story follows an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers track, as they spend one crazy night continually running into each other on their increasingly urgent sex quest. The script does a good job of throwing up plausible obstacles and sticky situations for these two to navigate: price-gouged condoms, police raids, catfishing, injuries, parental ambushes, etc.

Turner and Barbaro have charm up the wazoo, and Gluck does a fair amount of key-jangling to distract from the nagging issues of the premise itself. There are repeated gags about Allie’s job singing covers of popular songs reworked for pharmaceutical companies and almost too many celebrity cameos. Every time a celeb’s face pops up it’s essentially an “ooh, shiny thing!” moment so that we stop thinking about the intricacies of the world where Sex Purge happens. Allie’s hopeless romanticism isn’t well-established, and there’s a whole complicated climax (no pun intended) involving the Empire State Building that could have been a lot smoother and more intuitive.

Allie’s most impressive feat is making it 12 hours in New York City in spike heels and a sequined micro-mini, but rom-coms are the stuff of fantasy anyway. Yet “One Night Only” doesn’t present us with fun escapism but, rather, a misguided, underbaked and very straight-guy fantasy of what something like this might look like, which is essentially … lots of people kissing in public? It’s tame and weirdly conservative.

Turner and Barbaro give it their best, but not even their charisma can reliably bolster the inherent structural flaws of this concept and its execution. “One Night Only” feels purged of a brain.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

LOVE ME TENDER

(15) 134mins

★★★★☆

BREAK-UPS can be horribly complicated, especially when there are children involved.

This emotionally intelligent, exquisitely acted film shows the depths of despair warring couples can go to over a custody battle.

We meet Clémence (Vicky Krieps), a former lawyer, who has separated from her husband, Laurent (Antoine Reinartz). The split is amicable, and they are raising their young son, Paul, who lives with his dad.

But unbeknown to her ex, Clémence, who has quit her job to write, is now exploring her sexuality and having relationships with multiple women.

An awkward evening drink with Laurent reveals how he is clearly still in love with Clémence, while she makes it clear her desires lie in women.

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This suddenly changes everything between the pair, with Laurent claiming Paul doesn’t want to see her during her next visit.

The scenes are not overplayed with emotion, but are slowly devastating as Clémence struggles with the sudden change in a family arrangement that was so comfortable before.

Soon, authorities are brought in, and horrific claims are made against Clémence’s character.

She is only able to see Paul at supervised visits in a soulless social service office.

All this unfolds in a slow exhale on screen rather than an explosion, with Clémence juggling heartbreak and frustration with various relationships, her ill father and her career.

Adapted from Constance Debré’s 2020 novel, director Anna Cazenave Cambet allows this distressing story to show the huge problems that parents’ egos can cause for their child’s future.

Krieps is sensational in the role, allowing her face to portray so many emotions and carrying huge emotional strain.

While Clémence is the focal point of the audience’s sympathy, she, too, can be self-absorbed and a little cruel to lovers.

This shows she is human rather than just a victim. The story never gets bogged down in courtroom battles, but rather lingers on little moments Clémence feels as her time with her precious son slips away.

Running over two hours, these are perhaps overused, and the pace is unapologetically slow in many scenes.

But with stand-out acting from Krieps, it makes this film feel voyeuristic, as it is so natural, and while in emotional agony, we all still just carry on.

HUNT FOR THE WILDERPEOPLE

(12A) 101mins

★★★★★

IN celebration of its tenth anniversary, this charming offbeat comedy is being re-released in cinemas for a new generation to enjoy.

And, the bonus, of course, it also brings the recently deceased and hugely talented Sam Neill back to the big screen.

Set in the sweeping countryside of New Zealand, it is the story of “Uncle Hec” (Neill), a grumpy foster father who is delivered a troublesome child, Ricky (Julian Dennison), by the welfare services.

The pair soon spark a full-on search when they set off on a bizarre outback adventure.

Dennison’s performance is both comedy and tragedy, going from an offensive teen obsessed with being “gangster” to an abandoned child looking for emotional security.

And Neill manages to step away from caricature to make Hec layered and empathetic.

But there’s a refreshing lack of cliché and sentimentality, too. The characters don’t simply transform into different people just because they have experienced getting lost in the wilderness together.

Directed by Taika Waititi, it’s still the best buddy movie since Up in 2009.

NIMRODS

(15) 116mins

★★☆☆☆

THIS overly complicated coming-of-age film is somewhat based on punk-pop band Green Day.

Yet, while it features the US rockers, is full of their songs and has a storyline that revolves around getting to their gig, it lacks the ­confidence to be about them entirely, which is a shame.

School dropout Tommy (Mason Thames) is a huge fan and receives a phone call from his pranking older brother, inviting his garage grunge band to open for Green Day.

So he and his pals hit the road in a stolen taxi with barely a penny to their name, believing they are going to perform at a huge gig, with no prior experience, record agent or links to anyone in the industry. Just one prank phone call.

Inspired by the real band’s early days touring in vans before the release of breakout album Dookie in 1994, this film takes place in modern times but could easily be set in the Nineties.

And it probably should have been. With the great soundtrack and nostalgic footage of the real band at the end, it leaves you craving a documentary on Billie Joe Armstrong and co.

In cinemas from Tuesday.

A chapbook by Henry Opeyemi 

Publisher: Felis Catus Press

“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”

T.S. Eliot

Henry Opeyemi is an oracle, and this chapbook is a miracle of sorts; it is a prayer of consolation, a hymn, a psalm, a song that gives birth to awakening after awakening, enlightenment after enlightenment. It starts with conscientising and ends by raising a phoenix-like awareness of boyhood and its challenges on the African continent. Where Rumi, Khalil Gibran, Weldon Kees, Mzi Mahola, and Ken Saro-Wiwa walked, where Rethabile Masilo walks, now Henry Opeyemi walks alongside these giants. There was Derek Walcott, Langston Hughes, those constellations feeding galaxies, and now there is Henry Opeyemi.

Perhaps all poets have an innate sense of clairvoyance. They can recognise the pains of the land, the masculine and feminine pains of the vessel of an African body, the psychological torment, the mental despair, the stigmatized struggle, the social alienation, the estrangement from the land of our ancestors, and the unbearable loneliness that every waking moment a poet experiences, lives with, suffers from, and the devastation of the internal landscape of the wounded children of Africa. Yes, yes, yes. Henry Opeyemi has turned blood into ink, and the veins are enriched with shelter.

These poems, each one “peeling itself into joy” (from the poem, Wanderers on pg.5).

This manuscript cleanses like the sea. Writing is a spiritual act, a spiritual dance. It is meditative and comes with instructions. It is sacred. When the hand of God moves through the pen, the poet must obey, and Henry Opeyemi has obeyed. The title of this chapbook speaks about black vulnerability, black stigma, the rallying cry of injustice and inequality, systemic racism, the undertow of the vision of poverty-stricken, disenfranchised and marginalised Africa. Henry Opeyemi writes about miracles in the same breath that he confronts suicide ideation, and when he writes, as he does in his dedication, “of the land of his youth”, he is addressing the social ills of the day, he is speaking to every man, woman, youth and child on the African continent. 

The dedication is a searing polemic, a testimony to a time that came before, and that sadly, heartwrenchingly still exists. The bittersweet river of the sands of time through the hourglass, the tapestry of exile, the memory of the silent witness, the memory of the historian and recorder and poet, the novel dispensation that we are living and co-existing in with the pains of a wandering soul, and history, have not erased anything. We, as African poets, living on the African continent beset with problems of despair and conflict, a continent ravaged by “hungry bowls” as the poet writes, we are the angry souls, the grief, heartbreak and emptiness of our rages.

There is beauty in the poetic sense and sensibility of Henry Opeyemi, and a sense of isolation. Every poet from this continent writes about what we have faced, endured, survived (colonialism, liberation, independence, civil war), and the terrible price we have had to pay, the debts of love of our mothers, the considerable debts of love of the maternal figures in our lives. There is the moral distress, the psychiatric distress, and cry of the poet, the language of moral decay in these verses, and the injury, the sickness, the mental tension, the utter mental turmoil and devastation, and the moral distress of the decay of the mind, of the psychological framework, of the alienation, the social ineptitude and isolation, the rejection from the church, from the community, from society who has labeled the citizens and inhabitants of African descent as interlopers, from the immediate and maternal and paternal family of the individual, of the poet.

Henry Opeyemi is the poetic version of Moses Molelekwa, and in his verses abound “genes and spirits”, ancestral kingdoms and bloodlines.

Every African writer, every African novelist and African poet who lives on the continent and finds themselves elsewhere in the world, writes about stigma, whether they acknowledge this consciously or subconsciously. It is written on the blueprint of our consciousness. Henry Opeyemi (remember this name) writes about the wounded child, the boy, the youth’s fractured sense of self and the youth’s spoiled identity, marginalised identity, wanting to seek validation and approval from the powers that be, from the same gender parent, from adult supervision, from their contemporaries, from leaders, from mentors. Every poet is a wanderer, a directionless nomad, a seeker, a believer if he has found the certainty of faith, of religious instructions and meditative practices. When I write, I write as an African, who lives on the African continent first and foremost; secondly, I write as a woman.

On these pages, a particular tenderness is personified in the writing. The wound is sacred and as omnipresent as the omega, and the grief our mothers have carried is a sacred kind of grief that their cells carried when they were in the womb of the maternal grandmother. The mother-figure is the portal, the origin of humanity. It is where the tension and spark of history coincide with the psychological repair, release and repair of life. 

The poet serves grief, heartbreak, their loneliness on a silver platter to humanity, like a beacon, an anchor, a lighthouse in the storm, like the being of light, like daybreak, like an oyster it is consumed, eaten, studied, investigated, and it is this noble endeavour, the practice of writing poetry about grief, heartbreak, and loneliness, that serves us, our collective humanity, exile and history, that is a remainder of colonialism that will last the test of time, that will serve as proof of evidence that we existed, that we were here, that this was our collective emotional pain on the face of the African continent.

The grief of Africa is, unfortunately, not bloodless. Even her tears are, in fact, tears of blood, of war, of strife, of conflict, of genocide. Poetry is our only method of self-defence. It is the survival, coping and defence mechanism of the novelist, the journalist, the filmmaker, the editor, most of all, the poet. It always has been since the onset of slavery and colonialism and independence. Henry Opeyemi does what poets have done before and after colonialism, he discusses emancipation, personal freedom, personal growth, missionary education, liberation, self-improvement, his youth, his Africa, he addresses the ritual of bone, blood, bowl, the question of God and religion, yes, how immortal religion defies and defines us, guides and interrogates us, he mentions the roles of Big Pharma, and the use of pharmaceuticals in society, are they of help or hindrance? He speaks about the mother-figure, the abandonment of Eve, the resurrection of Lady Macbeth on these pages. The mosque becomes an education, the mind of the young intellectual like a feverish young tree, eager for verdant-green growth, branches like limbs, eager to be acknowledged in a garden of other poets, all vying for attention and literary prizes, or, or, humility, imaginative grace, which is, to all intents and purposes more powerful than attention and literary prizes. 

Creative writing, the practice of writing poetry, is an intellectual pursuit. It is the cultural endeavour of the modern-day philosopher, and all poets are wanderers for an eternity of time.

Sidenote: Henry Opeyemi, welcome to the African Renaissance. May you mentor other poets, you, young poet, young leader, young intellectual. Africa is in good hands. Be, go forth, onwards and upwards; be as all princes from this continent who write poetry; be King of the World. Take the empire back. Build your own empires of gold from the dust of the colonial masters, from the powers that be.

Bravado, insecurity, deceit. These are the bitter ingredients that seasoned the chef Anthony Bourdain inside the pressure cooker of the restaurant industry. Set over one formative summer in 1975, Matt Johnson’s affectionately sleazy biopic “Tony” is a portrait of the culinary adventurer (who died by suicide in 2018 at the age of 61) as a snotty 19-year-old Vassar student who doesn’t know an oyster knife from his ego. “I was — to be frank — a spoiled, miserable, narcissistic, self-destructive and thoughtless young lout, badly in need of a good ass-kicking,” Bourdain confessed in his 2000 bestseller “Kitchen Confidential,” a scorching memoir that elevated him from obscurity to damaged saint. “Tony” opens with that quote and proves it with scenes of boozing, puking and petty crime. Miraculously, it’s the most heartwarming comedy of the year.

Teenage Tony (a feral Dominic Sessa of “The Holdovers”) claims he’s already writing the next great American book, a navel-gazing bildungsroman — his word, not mine — in the key of Kerouac. Really, he’s just a middle-class kid from New Jersey who doesn’t expect to work for a living. Stalking his high school crush Nancy (a grounded Emilia Jones) to Provincetown, Mass., he begrudgingly supports himself with a dishwashing gig at the Flagship, a humble seafood joint. The kid is ashamed of blue-collar labor. That his rowdy co-workers think he sucks at it is worse. This taste of humiliation would change his destiny.

Under the tutelage of the Flagship’s idiosyncratic unnamed chef (Antonio Banderas), Tony will discover the importance of punctuality. A devilish shellfish-shucker (Leo Woodall, an intoxicating scamp) will also introduce him to cocaine. That first bump hits Tony with such a rush that the soundtrack explodes with boogielicious disco.

Sessa was born to prowl around wild-eyed in retro polyester. He relishes the fast and funny dialogue, flinging around fancy words that don’t mean a thing. At low emotional tide, Sessa’s Tony can also be watchful and quiet. He makes us hear the character’s silent inner schemes as loudly as when he’s actually blabbering.

Director Johnson (“BlackBerry” and the maniacally brilliant “Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie”) and his co-screenwriters Matthew Miller, Todd Bartels and Lou Howe have blended every hard-knock lesson that Bourdain learned across decades of job-hopping into one month of blood and sweat. Spiritually, it’s fantastic. Factually, it’s baloney, although “Tony” does restore the restaurant’s actual name — the Flagship — from Bourdain’s Dreadnaught, the pseudonym he gave it before he ever imagined future fans following him around the world. Mild spoiler alert: Readers of “Kitchen Confidential” will also know it’s dedicated to Nancy, who became his first wife.

The kitchen scenes are a combo platter of boot camp, frat house hazing ritual and kung fu movie. As Bourdain would later explain, he thrived in a setting where actions have instant consequences: a sore back, a sliced hand, a good meal. Burn the sandwich, toast it again; scrub every plate and punch out with pride. You can’t help but grin at Sessa’s hoot when his scrawny Tony finally manages to muscle a raw potato through a french-fry slicer. And at the end of a shift, he and his dysfunctional workplace family gather to share bowls of squid stew and taste the results of their work. Back in New Jersey, dinnertime with his biological family feels as cold and stale as their meal of frozen peas and store-bought white bread.

Banderas’ chef is the kind of mentor you’d expect to find on a mountaintop mediation retreat, starting over a half-dozen scenes coldly waking up the sleeping whippersnapper with a cold bucket of morning seawater to the face. As Banderas plays him, he’s a bearish marvel of a man with the kind of earthy soul that would have had Ernest Hemingway chugging salty dogs on his barstool all night. There’s a shot of Banderas biting into a tomato that’s pure bliss for him and us.

Whereas Tony talks a big game, squeezing Japanese words like boketto — the art of doing nothing — into conversation, Banderas shows us how to simply do it. (Likewise, a centerpiece montage makes penning a coming-of-age book look way lamer than than just living a full life.) Watching Banderas’ chef stare at the Atlantic, it may occur to you that a cook can no longer afford a waterfront shack on the sand. The film is too breezy to say so directly, but its emphasis on the value of honest work wants you to think it.

Watching Banderas spend a day simmering his own handcrafted ketchup simply to store it in repurposed Heinz bottles says everything about the guy’s devotion to food and his indifference toward marketing. It’s a little grating to see boorish Tony offer him business tips. It helps that some of his advice isn’t great.

“Tony” stays planted in its own immediate present, rarely hinting at the veers Bourdain’s biography will take. “Kitchen Confidential” won’t be published for another 25 years; his globe-trotting celebrity comes after that. Johnson keeps the tone so zingy and loose that you don’t have to know Bourdain at all to enjoy the movie. The ending even tacks on a let’s-save-our-hangout rally that could be Velcroed onto any ’80s comedy.

The script allows itself just two beats to squeeze out a knowing tear. The first comes when Tony describes his approach to writing: “I try to imagine interesting places I’ll probably never go, people I’ll never get to meet,” he says, unaware how much his horizons will one day expand. The second trickier and clumsier aside happens when Banderas’ chef tells Tony the tragedy of 17th century French cook François Vatel, who literally fell on his sword before serving a banquet to Louis XIV. Lore has it that Vatel didn’t have enough fish. The teenager doesn’t understand. “He killed himself? Why?” Tony repeatedly asks. That question will never have a satisfying answer.

Like a lazy Susan, today’s youth seem to be coming full circle to young Tony’s dilemma. He’s got one foot on the so-called safe path — college, white-collar isolation — and the other on a career that’s already covering him in well-earned scars. As employees are feeling insecure and replaceable, there are rumblings that the current crop of kids is gravitating back toward physical jobs and finding, as Tony did, that one can find fulfillment working with your hands. The stress of the kitchen didn’t make Tony a better man overnight. But it was the grit that grew a pearl.

Camp Bestival 2026 review – Britain’s happiest family festival proves there’s still nothing quite like it

What do you get if you cross two mini ice-cream cones with Ursula and King Triton from the Little Mermaid?

The wacky and immersive world of Camp Bestival of course!

Britain’s happiest family festival once again put on a show for not just the ages, but all ages.

For one glorious weekend each summer, the stunning grounds of Lulworth Castle in Dorset are transformed into what can only be described as a giant playground.

The brainchild of renowned music specialist Rob da Bank and creative director Josie da Bank, and founded in 2008, Camp Bestival is known as the UK’s ultimate family festival, having won Best Family Festival at the UK Festival Awards six times.

Created with a vision of reinventing family time, it has gone from strength to strength, and from personal experience as a multi-time Bestivaler, 2026 delivered one of its strongest editions yet.

While Camp Bestival has never been centred on drawing the crowds solely for big name headline acts, you’d be hard pushed to get a better line up than rave DJ Fatboy Slim, De La Soul, the Cuban Brothers, Billy Ocean, Leftfield and chart-topping Bastille, just to name a few.

For sure, these acts would pull in massive crowds at any venue round the country, but the magic for 30,000 festival goers in any year is what you will find away from the main stages.

Have you ever danced to a country band in a Pig’s Big Ballroom, or raved with your kids to a grammatically correct rap MC Grammar? No, then what are you waiting for?

For our family, two big kids (me and my wife Katie) and our two small humans, aged five and two, like so many others, running around sun soaked fields, listening to music, climbing giant robot sculptures (them not us!), riding a ferris wheel or letting loose on swinging chairs at the fun fare; this was a real chance to connect.

Let’s be honest, life can seem pretty tough these days. The news cycle can be overwhelming at times, then chuck in work, school, bills, exams, kids!

But as soon as you enter into this kaleidoscope of countryside colour, where bubble machines float across fields packed with picnics, children chasing giant puppets through woodland trails, and every pathway revealing another adventure waiting to be discovered, your worries can be a distant memory.

Unlike many festivals where the music is everything, Camp Bestival’s magic lies in the moments in between.

As we gathered for the annual trolley competition – the type you either haul to the beach or the park with your camping chairs in, or your exhausted children back to your tent after a day of festival fun – we were given a glimpse into how special this place can be.

The aforementioned mini ice-cream cones were two toddlers dressed up in exquisitely made papier mache inventions, alongside parents dressed as ice cream sellers and their vehicle imaginatively turned into a mobile ice cream stall.

Dozens of families queue patiently every year to show off their creative talents, but this particular entry had an added meaning.

As people clapped and cheered their flawless construction, the mum-of-two not only announced that she was pregnant – nine months and a week in fact! – but that she had just got the all clear from cancer and the festival was the family celebration of how far they had come.

I’ve always been impressed with how, unlike many large-scale events, at Camp Bestival there is an overwhelming sense that everyone was looking out for one another, but the cheers and applause that rang out in that moment was something magical.

And what more could you want from a weekend away with your loves ones?

Scenes where parents dance with toddlers on their shoulders to TV pranksters Dick & Dom, chats with Traitors star Joe Marler and the odd appearance from kids’ favourite Bluey – even on stage with Bastille – and teenagers queuing patiently for activities alongside parents and grandparents.

This is a place where children truly get to enjoy the rare freedom of exploring a safe, welcoming environment where imagination is not only encouraged, but pretty much mandatory, at every turn.

Festival founders Rob and Josie have spent years perfecting an event that understands exactly what families need.

Every year the festival revelers such as us also get a chance to play dress up and this year’s theme played homage to the Sunday headline act, Brighton boy Norman Cook, aka DJ Fatboy Slim,.

The 2026 At the Seaside Fancy Dress Competition was a full-blown celebration of British seaside spirit: swimmers, mermaids, jellyfish, lobsters, sailors, and a Baywatch themed lifeguard flashmob.

Yes, there are headline acts capable of filling arenas, but there are also puppet shows, storytelling sessions, outdoor adventures, comedy, wellbeing activities and enough arts and crafts to keep even the busiest little minds occupied for hours.

There are hundreds of free activities for families to explore from theatre, circus skills, science explorations, sports and immersive theatre through to amazing live acts and DJs, family raves, comedy, award-winning street food, and flamboyant evening cabaret – all shared with families simply there to have the best time.

Tucked away in a haven of calm amidst the festival buzz, Slomo Wellbeing offered a three-day programme of free wellbeing session designed for all ages.

Headliners Jasmine Hemsley, Joe Wicks, Zita West, Trish Whelan, Rosie Underwood, Jonni Pollard, Carla DiMattina and Mama Shrooms lead a wellbeing programme featuring soundbaths, meditation, breath work, mindful movement, dance, yoga and food workshops, alongside a range of one-on-one treatments and, of course, Slomo Wellbeing’s hugely-popular saunas, ice baths and hot tubs.

Reflecting on Camp Bestival, presented by Debenhams 2026, festival curator Rob da Bank says: “What a ridiculously fun and sun kissed weekend we’ve had, bringing families together in proper Camp Bestival style.

“It always blows us away to see 30,000 revellers get stuck into so many activities, dancing to the beats and bands, getting arty and active with their families across our amazing site.

“There’s nothing Josie and I love more than to see all generations enjoying time together. We can’t wait for 2027 and are thrilled to announce that Early Bird Weekend Tickets go on sale this Friday! See you in Lulworth next year, campers!”

Returning for a second year as a headline partner, Dan Finley CEO of Debenhams Group added: “After such a fantastic debut with Camp Bestival last year, we couldn’t be more thrilled to return as headline partner for 2026.

“The energy, engagement, and connection we saw across families and festival-goers was incredible, it brought the heart of Debenhams to life in a vibrant way.

“We’re looking forward to building on that momentum, deepening our relationships, and delivering another unforgettable experience together.”

In an increasingly crowded festival market, Camp Bestival remains exactly what it has always aspired to be: a joyful celebration of music, adventure and family life, leaving thousands already counting down the days until next summer.

Thank you Camp Bestival. We can’t wait to come back!

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With memories made and next year’s adventure already calling, eager fans can already snap up 2027 Early Bird Weekend Tickets from 10am on Friday 7th August 2026.

Camp Bestival by Debenhams will take place from Thursday 29th July – Sunday 1st August 2027.

Early Bird Weekend Tickets go on sale 10am on Friday 7th August.

For more information and to buy tickets visit campbestival.net.

2027 Early Bird Prices:

Adult Weekend Camping: £225

Teen Weekend Camping: £157.50

Child 10-12 Weekend Camping: £130.50

Child 5-9 Weekend Camping: £110.50

Child 2-4 Weekend Camping: FREE (but ticket required)

Babes In Arms Weekend Camping: FREE (but ticket required)

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?