review

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Jeff Lorch)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Jeff Lorch)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Jeff Lorch)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Apple TV)

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

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

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

Laura Donnelly as flirtatious Charlotte in “Sugar.”

(Jason LaVeris / Apple TV)

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

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

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

TOY STORY 5

(PG) 102 minutes

★★★★☆

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

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

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

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

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

DULCIE PEARCE

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

DULCIE PEARCE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EFFI O BLAENAU

(15) 90mins

★★★★★

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FAMILIAR TOUCH

(12) 90mins

★★★☆☆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But its subtle characterisation makes it compelling and somehow uplifting.

TOY STORY 5

(PG) 102 minutes

★★★★☆

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

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

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

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

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

DULCIE PEARCE

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

DULCIE PEARCE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Jessie’s relentless energy becomes a little grating.

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

Toy Story 5 is out on Friday.

“The Listeners,” which premieres Friday on Starz, began unusually as a story written by Jordan Tannahill as the basis of Missy Mazzoli‘s 2022 opera, also called “The Listeners” (libretto by Royce Vavrek), which he turned into a 2021 novel, which became a 2024 BBC television series, also written by Tannahill. Starz has cut its original four episodes into five, which means that they end in odd places, but given its controlled, glacial pace, shorter might be better.

Tannahill’s inspiration is an unexplained phenomenon reported in the real world — though exactly how real it is is open to interpretation — generally called “the hum,” where people experience a low but persistent background noise inaudible to others. (It isn’t tinnitus, or any diagnosable medical condition.) One such sufferer is Claire (Rebecca Hall), a high school literature teacher with a husband, Paul (Prasanna Puwanarajah) and a teenage daughter, Ashley (Mia Tharia), with whom she gets along well. We begin on an up note, Claire and Ashley singing along to Richard and Linda Thompson’s “I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight” as they drive to school (she also has Nick Drake on her phone). And then the 1970s British folk rock gives way to a less pleasant auditory landscape, as the hum appears, bringing on headaches and nosebleeds and affecting her concentration and mood, her work and family.

Any condition can be isolating from those who don’t share it, and Claire gets some relief when she’s approached by a student, Kyle (Ollie West), who also hears it. They go investigating possible sources of the sound — wind turbines, a radio telescope — and wind up eventually at something like a support group for hum-hearers run by Omar (Amr Waked) and Jo (Gayle Rankin). There is some sketchiness in their past, including a changed identity, and they like to keep the group on a tight rein, but the breathing exercises and visualizations seem pretty standard, and more benign than, say Scientology, and the suggestion that one may tame an affliction by embracing it is pretty reasonable. Claire’s mistake here is not to get a signed parental permission slip, as it were, or enlist a chaperone, and her growing closeness with Kyle (not romantic, not sexual we are assured) will cause them trouble, cost Claire her job and mess up her marriage. She makes some insufficiently careful decisions, but those around her tend to overreact. This is very much a story about listening and not listening.

Directed by Janicza Bravo and photographed with great intention by Jody Lee Lipes, it has the studied look and tempo of a 20th-century art film. (It is always great to look at.) I was reminded of Antonioni’s “Red Desert” and Bergman’s “Persona,” psychological studies of women going to pieces, but also, thematically, of Spielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” with its characters driven to what looks like madness by private bulletins from the ether, pushing them away from family and toward others who are getting the same message. No aliens here — not a spoiler — though I might have liked that ending more than this, which in its own way seems to drop from space.

You can look for metaphors and social comment here — there are references to conspiracy theories and industrial noise pollution and such — but it seems to me to operate most effectively as a beautifully rendered mood piece and character study, and, certainly in the case of Hall, whose story this is, a platform for some exquisitely subtle acting.

In “The Little Sister,” a teenager tries to hide in plain sight. Although everyone comments on her beauty, 17-year-old Fatima prefers to tie her hair back in a ponytail, her bright eyes buried underneath a black ball cap, her body concealed in unflattering tracksuits. As played by first-timer Nadia Melliti, who won the actress award at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, Fatima is encased in a kind of armor, an outward manifestation of her hesitancy to share her sexual orientation with a world she knows will judge her. This graceful film chronicles the process by which Fatima gradually sheds that reserve.

Adapted from Fatima Daas’ 2020 novel “The Last One,” a work of autofiction detailing the French author’s own coming out, “The Little Sister” takes place over five seasons, observing Fatima as she completes grade school and begins attending university. An adept athlete with a tomboyish demeanor, Fatima disappears inside a friend group consisting of immature teen boys who treat her like one of the guys, including her in their raunchy sex talk. Fatima has a boyfriend, Adel (Ahmed Kheloufi), but the relationship feels vestigial, with him constantly complaining that she should dress more feminine. Just as upsetting to Adel: When he tells Fatima that he loves her, she doesn’t respond in kind.

This is the third feature from French actor and director Hafsia Herzi, who herself made an acting splash in 2007’s “The Secret of the Grain.” For “The Little Sister,” Herzi takes a cue from Daas’ book, mapping Fatima’s inner journey as a modest series of tentative steps forward and anxious steps back. Fatima has reason to be skittish. The youngest of three daughters in a loving French-Algerian Muslim family, she conceals any hint of her sexuality from her mother, father and sisters, anticipating their disapproval. Many queer coming-of-age movies position the character’s awakening as an act of defiance. For Fatima, a practicing Muslim who adores her parents, the stakes feel even higher. Melliti’s performance is one of silent suffering, illustrating Fatima’s deference to her family.

But as much as she smothers her desires, others can sense them. An altercation between her friends and a gay male classmate gets heated once the classmate accuses her of being closeted, which she vehemently (and violently) denies. Soon after, Fatima secretly joins a dating app, hoping to understand her queerness. Her first date, in which she uses a fake name, focuses on learning terminology such as scissoring, and she approaches each new encounter like a fact-finding mission. Melliti keeps the shy teenager’s reactions neutral, Fatima’s stoicism a strategy to prevent exposing her inexperience.

That’s when she meets Ji-Na (Park Ji-min, the free spirit of “Return to Seoul”), a physician’s assistant who practically glows in her presence, overwhelming Fatima’s cautious nature. Ji-Na and Fatima’s love story — its blossoming, its unraveling, its possible resuscitation — forms the heart of “The Little Sister,” which also received the Queer Palm at Cannes. Melliti and Park exude a frisky, lusty chemistry, but it’s a film as much about self-love, as Fatima seeks to become comfortable in her own skin. Ji-Na is open and confident while Fatima remains closed off, her shame about her sexuality deeply culturally ingrained. When our main character starts lowering her defenses, however, that’s when she’s hit by a jolt that sends her spiraling.

Herzi’s slender, unassuming drama contains few emotional crescendos or grand insights, although this is the rare French film to center on a Muslim lesbian as its protagonist. “The Little Sister” grows even more intriguing once the love affair runs aground, forcing Fatima to flounder in her heartache. Her odyssey will lead to threesomes and lonely nights, but also difficult questions regarding how her faith and family may leave her perpetually adrift.

“The Little Sister” leaves much unspoken, which is fitting for a protagonist who rarely expresses herself in clear terms. Even during a touching scene near the finale, as Fatima sits at the dinner table weeping, upset over the end of a relationship, she and her mother (Amina Ben Mohamed) engage in a nimble dance: Fatima doesn’t feel safe explaining precisely why she’s crying, while her supportive mom chooses her words carefully, perhaps knowing more about her daughter than she dares say aloud. But despite the character’s rocky path to sexual awakening, Herzi navigates toward a hopeful conclusion that doesn’t peddle phony uplift. Fatima still faces a community that won’t embrace her true self. But maybe, at last, she’s willing to be seen.

In “Rheology,” Shayok Misha Chowdhury, an experimental theater artist, and his mother, Bulbul Chakraborty, a theoretical physicist, bridge the language of their different disciplines to explore a subject dear to both of them: loss.

Chowdhury, author of the play “Public Obscenities,” a 2024 finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, and the director of the sensational off-Broadway production of Jordan Tannahill’s “Prince Faggot,” is as tenderly devoted to his mother as the young Marcel was to his own in Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.” The idea of his mother dying is insupportable to Chowdhury, but given that she’s in her 70s and he’s in his 40s, certain terrifying realities must be faced.

“Rheology,” which is receiving its West Coast premiere at REDCAT (in a brief run ending Saturday), is the piece they’ve created to prepare Chowdhury for that fateful day. This strikingly staged Bushwick Starr, HERE Arts Center and Ma-Yi Theater Company production is an interdisciplinary experiment that is as playful in its methodology as it is serious in its research aims.

Chakraborty, a professor at Brandeis University, starts off with a physics lesson. Her subject is sand, and she poses a simple question: Is the sand pouring through the hourglass sitting on the counter before her a liquid or a solid?

A charismatic teacher, she knows how to Socratically engage a room. Her welcoming manner draws out from the audience the different ways sand behaves both like a solid and like a liquid.

Shayok Misha Chowdhury, in rear, and Bulbul Chakraborty in “Rheology” at REDCAT.

(Roy and Edna Disney CalArts Theater [REDCAT])

Rheology, or the science of how a substance responds to external stress, is her chief interest. Her research, focused on soft condensed matter, has been seeking a comprehensive theory to explain the curious elasticity of such material. A photo of a sand dune, in which she’s seated alongside Chowdhury as a toddler, helps illustrate her point that sand can flow like a liquid yet retain its shape like a solid.

An onstage sandbox is more than just another visual accompaniment to her talk. It’s a source of both elemental mystery and childlike wonder. But elucidation is her motive. She enters the box with her bare feet, noting the way the sand flows around her toes yet supports her weight in observation of the rule that “every grain has to be in force balance.”

She writes equations on the board to explain these findings, equations that begin to glow as the production moves from the realm of pure science to the more slippery domain of art. The transition, like all aspects of this piece, is frolicsomely conducted.

While pouring sand from one container to another, Chakraborty appears to be overcome with dust. For a moment, it’s not clear if this is part of the show or a medical incident until Chowdhury, discreetly occupying a seat in the audience, asserts himself as the director. He asks his mother to run through the death scene with a different sequence of movements and introduces the accompaniment of George Crotty on cello to liberate her performance.

They are rehearsing not so much Chakraborty’s end but Chowdhury’s reaction. He assumes he will fall apart and vows to die himself out of heartbreak. Chakraborty wants him to carry on his work, just as she carried on her research as a mother with a young son who would wail uncontrollably when she would drop him off at daycare.

She recounts that his emotional outbursts were so extreme that it was painful leaving him behind. But she was assured that he was handling the separation. For proof, she was taken into a private teacher’s room, where through a one-way mirror she saw him compose himself shortly after her departure and start to play with the other children.

Mother and son enact a similar situation where, after a more permanent leave-taking, she can catch a glimpse of her son recovering himself sufficiently to survive her loss. Chowdhury, a queer artist who enjoys sampling performance modes, adopts the figure of the grieving Bollywood widow. The effect isn’t to lampoon but to confront his raw emotion and to test his capacity for resilience.

The experiment might sound sentimental, but Chakraborty, the production’s secret weapon, maintains a scientific restraint, albeit one suffused with maternal anguish. The way she listens to her son, takes in his feelings, gently suggests other possibilities of response and treats his experimental theater piece with the same dignity as her own research is incredibly moving to witness. Her performance won an Obie Award, and though she insists that she’s not an actor she demonstrates a sincerity and collaborative grace that many veteran performers would envy.

As it unfolds, “Rheology” can seem piecemeal, even haphazard. There’s an informality built into the production, but it’s somewhat deceptive because the mercurial staging is extremely precise. Chowdhury’s direction has visual panache. Kameron Neal’s video design transforms Krit Robinson’s part lab, part lecture hall set into something kaleidoscopic.

When mother and son sing songs from the famous cycle by Bengali writer-composer and Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore or hold a deathbed conversation in Bangla, the piece spins further across time and space. Empiricism gives way to surrealism. But the world, as any scientist probing into the atomic level can attest, contains more secrets than meets the eye.

Fragile matter is Chakraborty’s specialty, and her expertise is put to novel use in shoring up her son’s tender heart.

Anticipation. Rumors. Anxiously scanning the horizon, hoping that a brilliant force will leave the masses forever changed. Yes, a new Steven Spielberg movie about close encounters with extraterrestrials is landing — and misses the mark.

“Disclosure Day” is a story of truth and feared consequences. A personality-free cybersecurity expert, Daniel (Josh O’Connor), is on the run with evidence of little gray men arriving on our planet to a rude reception. The aliens are kind. Our species is barbaric. Wittily bruising us with that fact, Spielberg opens with a POV of a wrestler kicking the audience in the face. Welcome to Earth.

Elsewhere in America, a weathergirl named Margaret (Emily Blunt) breezes into her Kansas City studio, babbling up until the minute the news camera turns on, a bravura sequence that channels her restlessness, the station’s tempo and the film’s alarm that this ditz has just this morning been stricken with preternatural powers. (The cinematography and editing are by Janusz Kaminski and Sarah Broshar.) Locally, Margaret is known for announcing hailstorms with a sexy shimmy. Suddenly, she’s fluent in Russian, Korean and telepathy. Although she and her boyfriend, Jackson (Wyatt Russell), are a bad match, she’s giving everyone else life advice like an intergalactic Dear Abby.

When Margaret starts spouting alien-ese — spasms of gutteral clicks — on live TV, she and Jackson rush to the hospital for a brain scan followed by several suspicious men who claim to be with the FBI. Russell’s befuddled Jackson is as useless as a traffic cone but Blunt’s Margaret is a gas before the movie makes her go all glassy-eyed and solemn. Yet, the movie is less inspired by why she was chosen or how she feels about it than in dragging us back in time to the moment when it happened, which isn’t that interesting except for its resemblance to a Disney princess having a psychotic break. The CG animals and aliens look stiff, other than a nifty close-up of an eyeball. (Later, I did like how one alien appears to be wearing sportswear.)

Chasing both Daniel and Margaret around the Midwest is a deep-state company called Wardex that wants to steal back the proof in Daniel’s backpack, a heap of hard drives with footage of 70-plus years of extraterrestrial visitations. It’s a treat to see Spielberg enjoying staging this conspiratorial gossip in different film stocks, from the black-and-white noir of 1947 Roswell to the clinical security-camera look of today. Whatever Wardex does on a day-to-day basis is unclear (we just see video screens and lab equipment). But it acts all-powerful, seeming to know more about outer-space tech than its overseers at the Department of Defense.

The script is by David Koepp of the paranoid thriller “Black Bag” and Spielberg’s 2005 version of “War of the Worlds,” yet, this plot strand about private enterprise isn’t science fiction. Last year, in the unrelated UFO documentary “The Age of Disclosure,” current Secretary of State Marco Rubio admitted that companies have a stronger institutional memory of “exotic materials” than any presidential administration: “The people in government who know where it came from originally — they’re long gone and their successors have no idea that it was there at all.” To add nationalistic insult to injury, the head of Wardex isn’t even American. He’s a Brit played by Colin Firth.

If anything, “Disclosure Day” isn’t paranoid enough. Clutching a mysterious tool the shape of a mouse coffin, Firth’s villain tracks Daniel’s location by mentally transplanting himself into another person’s body, changing the color of their pupils to his own icy blue. His gadget also makes his targets super sweaty. This laborious alien tactic leads to a few fun scenes but frankly feels old-fashioned when the omnipresent surveillance that Spielberg himself warned about nearly 25 years ago in “Minority Report” is now here with recording devices constantly tracking our faces, voices and movements just so we don’t have to dial phones, fetch sandwiches or talk to human drivers. Although his movie urged us against this 24/7 spyware future, we have since embraced the convenience.

I bring this up because “Disclosure Day’s” driving question is how humanity will react to life-altering information. (Not that the plot has much momentum — too many scenes end with the belief that ducking 10 feet out of view makes you invisible, with an antagonist simply giving up.) Daniel insists on total honesty: “People have a right to know the truth,” he says. His girlfriend Jane (Eve Hewson) doubts 8 billion people can handle his alien revelations. A Catholic, she’s alarmed that extraterrestrial intelligence could replace the concept of God, naively claiming that “religion holds society together.” Since when?

There’s some wan comedy in an early scene where these new-ish lovers debate the ethics of secrecy while revealing the skeletons they’ve been hiding from each other. Both have pasts you wouldn’t put on a Tinder profile. The script is glancingly empathetic to Jane’s moral turmoil but like Daniel, the film has made up its mind before the movie started. Narratively and logistically, Daniel’s whistleblowing escape limps along with a lack of suspense. Wardex doesn’t even bother to preemptively discredit Daniel in the public’s eye, which, given the two sentences of backstory we know about his character, would be easy.

Nattering in the background are broadcasts about the impending threat of global war at the hands of the United States, Russia and North Korea. Given that scary possibility, the risk that Daniel’s reveal could tip over the world order doesn’t seem that bad. Honestly, I’m dubious of the film’s certainty that folks even have the bandwidth to care about such news, let alone agree on what they’re seeing. The serious journalism Margaret aspires to do is splintering under our distrust of who controls the megaphones. Last month’s infodump of an Armed Forces report listing 209 sightings of unidentified objects was announced with a presidential tweet that “the people can decide for themselves.” I didn’t bother to click. Did you?

Getting information about these space invaders out leaves no time for taking the marvel of their existence in. Decades after Spielberg unveiled his signature shot — a face amazed at wonders we can’t see — he seems wearied by his awareness that today’s moment of revelation would look like a person staring down at their phone. When lens flares continually beam right at the screen, the whole movie feels like enlightenment under duress.

Where are the aliens from and why are they here? Who knows. “Disclosure Day” speeds around frantically, talking constantly and explaining little. Back in 1977, Spielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” was a popcorn masterpiece of withheld information. Its quiet assurance that experts had a handle on flying saucers and a plan to meet them felt comforting. Here, Colman Domingo’s renegade intelligence operative also refuses to tell anyone anything, but all the unspoken beats just feel like plot holes. Mostly, his character builds what looks like a Hollywood set to reveal a truth he already suspects. That’s what Spielberg is doing too, but a film needs a sense of curiosity.

Instead, the wows come from good stagings of ordinary action: a car crash, a gripped crucifix, a hideout crowded with jostling, thrumming musical instruments. There’s a great train-track crossing sequence that’s also a vicious callback to Richard Dreyfuss’ epiphany in “Close Encounters.” Yet, I wanted to see more of the old Spielberg, the one who expressed awe in moments of silence rather than relentless motion.

That Spielberg has come full circle to his lifelong obsession with the sky had me convinced that this might be a secret sequel to “Close Encounters” beyond the droll joke that both Dreyfuss’ Roy and Blunt’s Margaret are shacked up with unsupportive blonds. They do share a universe; you’ll see a glimpse of what could pass for an outtake from Devils Tower, a.k.a. Mashed Potato Mountain, on one of Daniel’s hard drives. Still, I left underwhelmed. I didn’t need Dreyfuss to step off a spaceship gangplank and say, “I’m back.” I just needed “Disclosure Day” to have the same spark of intelligent life.

A site of big changes, the Music Center has become farewell central. Alongside the Gustavo Dudamel hullabaloo at Walt Disney Concert Hall, James Conlon has begun his final appearances in the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion as music director for two decades of Los Angeles Opera, with his own signature form of enchantment in Mozart’s “Magic Flute.”

The silent-movie panache of Barrie Kosky’s production, which opened Saturday night at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and runs through June 21, is on its way to becoming a perennial. This is the third revival since L.A. Opera first staged it in 2013 — all four times with Conlon in the pit. The production operates like an operatic graphic novel and live animated film charmingly all in one. The scene is a giant movie screen broken up in sections and upon which is projected witty, fantastical background animation, while the characters are the live singers, dressed as though silent film stars.

The orchestra plays Mozart’s score as though it were, as orchestras did in the old days, accompanying a silent movie but to radically different effect. Fulgurous cinematic spectacle may immerse your attention, but the opera’s essence is transferred from the stage to the pit. The singers, meanwhile, function to an unusual degree as choreographed characters in a cartoon, leaving little opportunity for body language, allowing, instead, individual expression almost exclusively to their voices.

In Mozart’s opera, Tamino, a prince in a fairyland of mystic temples and mystifying gods, relies on his supernatural flute that turn sorrow into joy to get him out of jams. The genius of Kosky’s singularly musical production is that it magically makes the orchestra itself a compendious magic flute. It more than ever becomes an agent of delight.

That is where Conlon comes in. He has, while leading L.A. Opera for 20 seasons (half the company’s existence), served as an advocate for the core operatic repertory — notably Mozart, Verdi and Wagner — much of it little heard in our late-blooming former operatic desert. He has also been an international champion of his “recovered voices” project, salvaging the neglected operas of composers in the first half of the 20th century who were silenced by Nazi Germany.

“The Magic Flute,” one of the world’s two or three most popular operas, needs no such patronage. Written at the end of Mozart’s life as a popular entertainment, its a singspiel, or sung play. As a proto-Broadway musical operatic genre of spoken word and musical numbers, it appeals on all levels. The fairy-tale libretto is child-friendly. Mozart’s score is tune heaven.

The troublesome Queen of the Night dazzles with high notes that shoot out like daggers. The main lovers, Tamino and Pamina, are lyrical wonders. The comical bird-catcher, Papageno, is everyone’s darling. The domineering Sarastro, an all-powerful priest, bellows spiritual profundities. But if you start digging under the surface, deeper than the symbolic Freemasonry and all, you may never find bottom.

The opera begins with three ceremonial chords in the orchestra that signal a brief, sober introduction quickly undercut by an exhilarating fast-forwarding overture. Those three chords can be made to mean many things. Often, they come across as commands by an orchestra to sit up straight and pay attention. They may be dignified or downright quirky and playfully no big deal, just a here-we-go.

Conlon handles them as a sweet, perfectly tuned, almost amorous invitation to pleasure, implying this will be a genial, gracious, laid-back “Flute.” Among his accomplishments in L.A. has been to make the opera’s orchestra capable of producing just such velvety, flowing Mozart, as well as terse, tight theater.

Here, Conlon offers a lesson in the kind of leadership generally lacking in modern society, by simultaneously staying out of the way yet being at the essential center of things. Depth here is not announced, but the care of phrasing implies that there is more to everything Mozart is saying than first meets the ear, that, under it all, the “Magic Flute” is not fantasy but a spiritual lesson in morality.

Many in the cast, this revival, are young singers, not yet well known and new to the company. Sydney Mancasola and Miles Mykkanen, as Pamina and Tamino, are likable, lyric lovers. Kyle Miller catches Papageno’s vulnerable charm. Aigul Khismatullina, Queen of the Night, impresses with the silvery pricks of her high notes, while Kwangchul Youn’s Sarastro, unsteady in middle register, takes on weight at the bottom of his bass. Zhengyi Bai’s lustful Monostatos, disguised in the production as a hammy vampire, almost steals the show a time or two. The Three Ladies and Three Spirits provide vocal allure.

One of the evening’s most theatrical moments, though, came after the music stopped when what sounded like a gun interrupted curtain calls. But as if rescued by a magic flute, an instant of fear turned to joy, glittery gold graffiti filling the Chandler and celebrating Conlon.

Call “Scary Movie” lazy, dumb and offensive. It would enthusiastically agree. The lowbrow horror parody thrives on shtick about weed, race and genitalia. The only thing that scares it is high expectations.

But amid the rampant stupidity of the first “Scary Movie,” released in 2000, original director Keenen Ivory Wayans discovered two major talents: Regina Hall and Anna Faris. As heroines Brenda and Cindy, respectively, Hall and Faris were daffy, dopey and committed. Alongside a cast of Playmates (Carmen Electra, Shannon Elizabeth) and family members (Wayans brothers Marlon and Shawn), they played stupid like Shakespeare. In two decades since, both gave up the Ghostface to do better things: Hall in “Girls Trip” and “One Battle After Another,” and Faris in “Smiley Face” and “The House Bunny.” (Frankly, Faris deserves to be doing more.) If a sixth “Scary Movie” is going to lure them back for what the ensemble openly frets is a rebooquel — as in a reboot-sequel, here pronounced “re-booty call” — it better be good.

Fine, good is a stretch. The latest “Scary Movie,” which simply recycles the title “Scary Movie,” is as lazy, dumb and offensive as the others. But Hall and Faris, now playing the dotty mothers of the next generation of victims, are hilarious, romping about like their Brenda and Cindy have clearly been knocked on the head too often. (Brenda, fans of the franchise know, has technically already died twice.) I laughed 10 times, which makes this “Scary Movie” the best of the bunch — a pallid compliment.

Directing duties have shuffled to Michael Tiddes, a longtime Wayans collaborator, who gets gutsy performances from three of this entry’s newbies: Olivia Rose Keegan and Savannah Lee Nassif as Cindy’s estranged daughters, a pill-popper and a Wednesday Addams clone, and Ruby Snowber, maximizing every second of her feature debut as a high school tramp.

The Wayans clan left the series early on due to a contract dispute with Harvey and Bob Weinstein. Now seven have returned. Four Wayans (Craig, Keenan Ivory, Marlon and Shawn) co-wrote the script with Rick Alvarez; three more (Kim, Damon Jr., and Gregg) act in the film alongside Marlon and Shawn, who revive their characters Shorty, a stoner with a shrill cackle, and Ray, whose only personality trait is being gay. In one of many homages to “Sinners,” Ray promises a church he’ll act straight. Then he mimes tucking his manhood between his legs and dancing like Buffalo Bill in “The Silence of the Lambs.”

Yes, Shorty and Ray were also murdered in the first movie. No, it doesn’t matter. “Scary Movie’s” one genuinely ingenious move is to resurrect actors without shame. Jon Abrahams’ bad boyfriend (stabbed), Lochlyn Munro’s lout (slit throat), and Electra’s eye candy (pierced through the breast implant) are back, too, as are a pair of erotically linked survivors, Cheri Oteri’s news anchor and Dave Sheridan’s moronic cop, whose spittle-flecked chin is the grossest thing in a film that has a mall Santa costumed like “Terrifier’s” Art the Clown gifting a child a set of severed testicles.

“The Silence of the Lambs” remains the only horror film to win best picture at the Academy Awards. This “Scary Movie” has no delusions of that. Yet in the years since the last installment, 2013’s “Scary Movie 5” — a sequel so awful that even its own director, Malcolm D. Lee, later admitted, “It’s not worth your time” — the horror genre at-large has become ambitious, with “Sinners,” “The Substance,” and “Get Out” earning Oscar nominations and “Weapons’” witchy Amy Madigan seizing the supporting actress prize.

This “Scary Movie” makes fun of all four of those newer hits, as well as the recent rebooquels of “Halloween,” which was earnest, and “Scream,” which couldn’t decide what tone to hit. Each send-up is funny for at least an entire minute, a lifetime when you’re watching Marlon’s Shorty mug for the camera. Either Shorty has the most screen time or he’s just so excruciating that it feels like it.

I cannot make the straight-faced argument that the worst “Scary Movies” were held back by their source material. Still, it’s true that when the series was at its nadir, so few vibrant horror films were being made that it was stuck lampooning the now-forgotten Jessica Chastain chiller “Mama.” Likewise, when this “Scary Movie” takes a jab at Nicolas Cage’s more-kooky-than-tedious “Longlegs,” the limp gag of the creepy Shorthand (Chris Elliot), underscores that the movie itself just isn’t that interesting.

“Scary Movie” inserts two political jokes that earn a solid gasp-giggle-groan. Yet, the most grating new addition is a self-righteous student named Dei Meeks (Sydney Park), who polices the humor. The movie relishes killing the killjoy. A whole mob does her in; it’s the one death that feels angry. I’d have been happy to see her die in her first scene. Not that I empathize with canceled comics who posture as if they’re victims under attack, but it would do this country good if it could occasionally share a laugh.

Don’t waste one brain cell trying to deduce the assassin. The answer is surprising and satisfying. While the script’s hasty nods to “KPop Demon Hunters” and the biopic “Michael” make it feel like it was written on yesterday’s Kleenex, the immediacy allows “One Battle After Another’s” Teyana Taylor to acknowledge that Madigan’s Aunt Gladys stole her Oscar. Swilling tequila shots and hollering “Viva la revolución!,” she’s hysterical in the cleverest opening slasher scene since Drew Barrymore answered the phone in the 1996 “Scream.” I’d watch six more “Scary Movies” if Taylor starred in them. But like Hall and Faris, she deserves better.

Japanese filmmaker Chie Hayakawa isn’t afraid to look death in the eye. The writer-director’s 2022 feature debut, “Plan 75,” imagined an unsettling future in which the elderly are offered a subsidy by the government to be euthanized. For her follow-up, she travels into her own past, drawing from memories of her father’s battle with cancer.

But while “Renoir” features no sci-fi elements, the nearness of oblivion remains just as prominent. Shorn of sentimentality, this gentle drama follows a quietly observant fifth-grader who feels the grim shadow of mortality all around her. How the character will absorb that realization is anyone’s guess — including Hayakawa’s.

Newcomer Yui Suzuki stars as Fuki, who lives in a nondescript Tokyo suburb in 1987. Her soft-spoken dad, Keiji (Lily Franky), is suffering with terminal cancer in its final stages, the emaciated man spending as much time in the hospital as he does at home. Fuki’s mother, Utako (Hikari Ishida), doesn’t seem very despondent, though: One senses an emotional exhaustion that comes from preparing so long for the inevitable that she’s now mostly numb, her anticipatory grief having given way to frayed nerves.

Fuki’s pre-mourning process is equally complicated. Outwardly, she shows no signs of being devastated by her dad’s imminent passing, happily playing with him, almost in denial of his fate. But “Renoir” subtly suggests the impressionable girl is more aware than she lets on, surrounding her with random reminders of death. Local news breathlessly reports on random domestic murders. Even when Fuki gets away from the city, the camera lingers on her watching a campfire’s dying embers. The film derives its title from the girl’s interest in “Little Irène,” a painting by influential French impressionist Pierre-Auguste Renoir. She asks if Renoir is still alive. No, he’s dead too.

Hayakawa pulls from her childhood in multiple ways for her sophomore feature, which premiered in competition at Cannes last year. “Renoir” takes place in 1987 specifically because that’s the year she turned 11, and, like her protagonist, she was infatuated with “Little Irène.” But there’s a refreshing absence of nostalgia in Hayakawa’s conception of Fuki and her quizzical processing of her father’s fatal illness.

For school, Fuki writes an essay about her wish to be an orphan. She becomes obsessed with hypnotism and mind-reading, an unorthodox strategy to create a sense of control. And, occasionally, she wanders into daydreams that Hayakawa presents so matter-of-factly that viewers may sometimes be unsure if what they’re seeing is actually happening. In “Renoir,” Fuki’s flights of fancy are as naturalistic as her everyday life — a sharp reminder that, for children, imagination and reality are often indistinguishable.

If death has been integral to Hayakawa’s two features, it’s society’s callous reaction to aging that is her primary focus. “Plan 75” eschewed dystopian-thriller conventions to ponder how Japan might one day treat its senior citizens, viewing them as little more than a drain on resources. “Renoir” makes a similar point within a memory piece. Keiji is the one dying, but it’s telling that Hayakawa centers the story on Fuki and Utako, who each, in their own way, seem more concerned about their own personal dramas.

As Keiji’s situation grows more dire, Utako enters the orbit of Toru (Ayumu Nakajima), a workplace advisor with whom she’s instantly smitten, pondering pursuing him romantically. Ironically, Toru preaches the importance of good communication skills in the office, a lesson the film’s guarded family would be wise to heed. While Utako hides her feelings for Toru, Fuki begins a secret odyssey in which she impulsively joins a phone dating service, engaging in conversations with a creepy college student (Ryota Bando) who pushes her to meet in person. This potentially traumatic subplot is the closest “Renoir” gets to traditional suspense, but even here Hayakawa adopts a muted approach, sidestepping shock value for bittersweet commentary about young people’s confusion around love. Both Utako and Fuki chase after human connections fraught with danger, each trying to insulate themselves from the tragedy waiting at home.

“Renoir” may be a delicate wisp of a film, but it’s flecked with thoughtful questioning about whether childhood’s sorrows leave permanent scars on us as adults. Suzuki exudes the fragility and buoyancy of adolescence, playing Fuki as someone constantly imbibing the world, rarely revealing what she’s doing with that stimulus. The simplest moments resonate the strongest, such as when the moody 11-year-old holds a balloon over the balcony of her family’s high-rise apartment, casually releasing her grip so that it tumbles to the ground far below. Does it speak to a desire to jump herself? “Renoir” won’t say, but the character is so poised you feel confident she’ll survive her father’s death. Who knows: Maybe years from now, she’ll even make a touching, emotionally astute movie about it.

Glaciers aren’t stationary. Immense and imposing, formed through the downward trajectory of water from mountains as it collects and freezes, they have always moved. Now, however, they’re leaving. The demise of glaciers is a fact inherent in all the bad news about the effects of climate change on what once seemed permanent. But for Icelanders, whose connection to glaciers is ancient and mythic, our human epoch has become an extended hospice for the landscape of their lives.

Somehow, though, Sara Dosa’s documentary on this matter, “Time and Water,” avoids playing like a funeral in waiting. Built around Icelandic writer Andri Snær Magnason’s voiced lamentations on a vanishing frozen world, along with archival footage of his family, it’s no simple howl of grief, even when it takes us to a publicly held memorial in 2019 for Iceland’s Ok glacier, the first such “death” diagnosis in the country’s history. Rather, Dosa’s film is a meditation on change — both the kind that we accept with a heavy heart and something more general. “Time and Water” is a curiously vibrant elegy, teeming with appreciation for the intimate majesty that is all life, generational and geologic.

Dosa has finessed this emotional-meets-elemental space before in her Academy Award-nominated 2022 documentary “Fire of Love,” about married volcanologists Katia and Maurice Krafft. That was a wonderfully eccentric romance forged in molten lava. Here, she’s in a collaboration of sorts with her subjects, both human and elemental. Magnason’s opening narration over spectacular footage of glaciers — up close and from far away — gently informs us that we’re watching a time capsule, one where the bonds of family and environment are intertwined.

We learn how Iceland’s glaciers, essentially rivers of varying pace, begat their unique ecosystems, but also how they provided the breathtaking terrain upon which Magnason’s grandparents Hulda and Árni fell in love. (Grandma Hulda was the first woman to fly in Iceland, itself a very cool fact.) The onset of dementia in Árni spurs his grandson to consider what’s lost when the markers of memory depart. “Time and Water” touches on the epic verse called rimurs, passed down via chanted song by Icelandic women, their descriptive, sorrowful tales like dispatches from previous ages.

“Tone poem” is an overused term in cinema, but the humbling “Time and Water,” graced with a playful, atmospheric Dan Deacon score, earns that distinction. Naturally, it helps that you can never tire of all the air-crisped glacier imagery, captured digitally and in 16mm. Folded into the cozy slide-show vibe of Magnason’s home videos and the carefully chosen archival footage, the movie plays like a scrapbook portrait in which home just happens to boast the grandest of backyards.

How much longer will Icelanders enjoy it? The glaciers are predicted to be gone within 200 years. That’s an eternity or a drip, depending on whose survival we’re talking about. Still, “Time and Water” collapses the notion that we are somehow separate from these ancient, essential formations: an encouraging hello to the future from inside a sobering goodbye.

Cape Fear,” premiering Friday on Apple TV, is a 10-episode limited series remake of a 1991 Martin Scorsese remake of a 1962 film adapted from John D. MacDonald’s 1957 novel “The Executioners,” and as in a game of telephone each subsequent version adds new material and moves a little farther from the original. (The credits to the series, created by Nick Antosca, note all previous sources and screenwriters.) Thirty-four years having passed since the last go-round, we are treated to such modern advances as catfishing, drones, deep fakes, social media and pushy true-crime podcasters.

In each iteration, a family is menaced by a recently released ex-con who blames one or more of them for his incarceration. Antosca fills his extra-long take on the material with complications and inventions; though the series is also chock full of borrowings from and allusions to its predecessors — you can hardly call them Easter eggs, lying there as they do in plain sight. (And sound: Bernard Herrmann and Elmer Bernstein‘s earlier scores share space with Jeff Russo’s new one.)

In every version, the antagonist is a now-charming, now-menacing psychopath named Max Cady (Javier Bardem), memorably played by Robert Mitchum in 1962 and Robert De Niro in 1991. In the novel and movies, Cady was serving time for rape; here it’s for the murder of his wife and unborn child, when new evidence suddenly springs him from prison after 17 years. We are invited to suspect this evidence from the very beginning, though this suspicion will itself become suspect. “Or is it?” is a question you’ll be prompted to ask through the series.

The objects of Cady’s slow-boiling vengeance — seemingly — are married lawyers Tom (Patrick Wilson) and Anna Bowden (Amy Adams), sharing the position previously represented solely by Gregory Peck and Nick Nolte in turn. Anna, who had unsuccessfully represented Cady, ironically works for an Innocence Project-type nonprofit, whose chief, Noa Toussaint (CCH Pounder), is only too delighted to fundraise on the back of Cady’s celebrity. Cady, claiming no hard feelings, insinuates himself into their world, apparently friendly, apparently helpful, so that it’s not always clear what’s sincere and what’s strategy. Is he a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or just a creepy, sometimes violent sheep? (“Killed his wife, didn’t kill his wife,” a minor character will volunteer, “he’s an arrogant bastard either way.”)

There are now two Bowden children in the picture, doubling earlier versions. Natalie (Lily Collias), Anna’s daughter from a previous relationship, is a good girl looking to go just a little bad, who feels unseen by her busy parents. Sad, sullen younger half-brother Zach (Joe Anders), unrecovered from a social media misstep, is acting more strangely than teenage boys usually do.

This is a cat and mouse — or cats and mice — melodrama, with customized stock characters given dark secrets and backstory traumas less as explanation than complication. (Good, bad, whatever, everyone’s got issues.) Cady, who has a prison-acquired brain injury — cue flashback, in black and white, naturally — suffers from headaches and hallucinations, reacting painfully to flashbulbs (a Chekov gun, I wondered?), seeing visions of his dead wife and son, whom he pictures grown. (He is sad about it, whether or not it’s his fault.) And is that masked woman in green he keeps seeing real or imagined?

On a nuts and bolts level, it’s all screwed together tight, even the pieces that stick out at weird angles. (Is there a reason to make Cady an apparently talented chef, other than to demonstrate his knife skills?) The actors fill their parts with feeling. Bardem gets the most, and most extreme attitudes, to play, whether cozying up individually to the Bowdens, threatening a groupie, undergoing a religious conversion, acting normal or being weird. Adams is low-key forceful as his primary opponent. (Tom’s comparatively weak character is underscored by his secret habit of microdosing LSD and a nothingburger flirtation with a colleague.) Collias is impressively real. The dialogue is well-crafted, the Southern atmosphere (Atlanta doubling Savannah, with Savannah here and there standing for itself) suitably oppressive.

Nevertheless, it’s fair to ask whether this story, even with its yards of extra material, could be told in under nine hours? The answer, most assuredly, is yes. And might it be better shorter? It might.

Not that I’ve ever been a fly on the walls of the executive conference or dining or washrooms where such deals are made, but I suspect the length has less to do with artistic necessity than A) the obscure economics of streaming and B) the not unrelated habits of viewers, who, to judge by questions I get asked, abhor a vacuum. A 10-episode series will put off the moment when they have “nothing to watch,” while the streamer gets to keep them in the ecosystem longer. “Cape Fear” is hardly the only series to which this applies. As I imagine the series will do well — mystery with a smattering of horror seems very much what the people want — more may be just the ticket for some people. Still, there’s a sense that the story has expanded to fill the space, with plotlines for all and crazy side trips (snakes! drugs!) in escalating levels of nuttiness.

That might be more feature than bug, but I can’t say I felt much of anything for the characters, or was concerned whether the Bowdens would emerge from their ordeals a stronger family. (Whatever the outcome, I’d say they have work to do.) Having been given only eight of 10 episodes to review, I’m interested, in a disinterested way, how this all will shake out, when the story finally moves to the Cape Fear River, and whatever final twists — that there will be twists, I am certain — an inevitably Action Packed Finale has in store.

Los Angeles County prosecutors are reviewing two sex assault cases against Sean “Diddy” Combs that stem from allegations made by a Florida music producer last year, law enforcement officials and the alleged victim said Wednesday.

Investigators from the Los Angeles Police Department and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department presented the cases to prosecutors in January 2026, according to a statement from the district attorney’s office.

A spokesman for the district attorney’s office declined to say when the alleged incidents occurred or explain why it has taken nearly nine months to make a charging decision.

Combs — who rose to fame as a hip-hop mogul in the 1990s as the face of Bad Boy Records — has gone through a years-long public downfall following myriad allegations of domestic violence and sex abuse. In July, a New York jury convicted him of transporting prostitutes across state lines for drug-fueled bacchanals referred to as “freak offs.”

He was sentenced to four years in federal prison and remains incarcerated at a minimum-security prison in New Jersey.

Combs’ reputation and business began to publicly unravel in 2023 after federal authorities raided his homes, and a leaked video showed him beating his ex-girlfriend, Casandra “Cassie” Ventura, at a Los Angeles hotel.

TMZ first reported on the D.A.’s office’s decision to review the L.A. allegations. A spokesman for Combs declined to comment.

In November, The Times reported that the Sheriff’s Department was investigating Combs on suspicion of a sex assault that happened in East L.A.

Jonathan Hay — a Florida-based music producer who was working with Combs on a project to remix songs written by deceased rap legend Notorious B.I.G., also known as Christopher Wallace — said Wednesday that he is the alleged victim in the cases under review by the district attorney.

Hay told several media outlets in 2025 that he was the “John Doe” from a civil lawsuit filed last July that accused Combs of sex assault in 2020 and 2021. Hay first reported the assaults to police in Largo, Fla., he has said.

According to the suit, Hay, Combs and others were at a Los Angeles warehouse that stored some of Wallace’s possessions in 2020 when Combs “provided drugs to everyone present” and subsequently began masturbating in front of Hay.

Combs “started watching porn on his cell phone, grabbed one of Biggie’s shirts off a rack, and began to masturbate with it in front of the plaintiff,” the suit alleges. In a separate incident in March 2021, Hay alleged Combs forced him to perform oral sex, according to the suit.

“I have an overwhelming feeling of hope as we are knocking on the door of criminal justice,” Hay wrote in an email to The Times on Wednesday. “I am beyond grateful that both the LASD and LAPD investigated this case thoroughly for many months and submitted it to the District Attorney.”

Combs’ civil attorney Jonathan Davis has previously denied Hay’s allegations.

“Let me make it absolutely clear, Mr. Combs categorically denies as false and defamatory all claims that he sexually abused anyone,” Davis said in a statement last year. “He looks forward to vindicating himself in court, where such matters are decided — and not in the media — based on admissible, material evidence, not rank speculation and unsubstantiated allegations.”

Times staff writer Richard Winton contributed to this report.

What will today’s kids think of He-Man, the muscle-bound ’80s relic with the most iconic bob after Anna Wintour? Launched in an era where machismo meant a goofy wrestler or metal singer with an eight-octave falsetto, the steroidal beskirted barbarian has always been a bit ridiculous. C’mon, his name is He-Man. What in the testosterone is that?

And so, director Travis Knight (“Bumblebee”) has made his reboot of “Masters of the Universe” a dopey, friendly comedy about modern masculinity in crisis with a He-Man who openly wonders what kind of a man to be. Hurtled out of the kingdom of Eternia as a boy, this Prince Adam (a terrifically game Nicholas Galitzine) came of age in Oklahoma City as a sweet guy who happens to be obsessed with swords. Instead of transforming into the strongest man in the galaxy to protect his throne from the evil duo of Skeletor (voiced by Jared Leto) and Evil-Lyn (Alison Brie), earthbound Adam parries HR complaints while sitting behind a desk plate that labels his gender identity not as He-Man but He/Him.

Times have changed. Even He-Man’s talking pet tiger (Tom Wilton) asks for consent before giving him a lick.

Galitzine’s He-Man is more Clark Kent than Superman, a gentle, funny, under-estimated dweeb. On a blind date, his descriptions of magical griffins and burning deserts sound humiliatingly immature. Dumped before dessert, he sulks home where his bro-y roommate (Christian Vunipola) secretly watches the weepie “The Notebook” when no one is looking as the soundtrack spins an acoustic cover of the Cure’s “Boys Don’t Cry.” Every man in this movie has a public persona and a private one. Even Adam’s irritable female boss, Suzie (Sasheer Zamata), hides under a people-pleasing mask. “This is my mega-serious face,” she says with an unnerving grin.

The performances are good; the plot, postcard-sized: Adam returns to Eternia, unleashes his alter-identity He-Man and wrestles with the pressure to live up to his new biceps. Although Adam must rescue his royal parents (James Purefoy and Charlotte Riley) from Skeletor, he reaches for empathy before a blade. Could Skeletor really be that bad, he asks his childhood friend Teela (Camila Mendes). “He has a skull for a face,” Teela insists. In this world, everyone’s measured against their looks.

Here’s another question: Could Skeletor really be Jared Leto? Physically, of course not. Skeletor is all pixels with a clattering jaw perfect for chewing the scenery. (The bully is especially hilarious when the story transplants him to an ordinary weight-lifting gym — call him Skele-Chad.) Leto’s grumbling Brit-inflected baritone is an unrecognizable concoction of trilled r’s and plummy vowels — and the best performance he’s done in years. With apologies to Bette Midler, you should hear the gravitas Leto brings to calling his minions “the buttworms beneath my feet.”

Yes, that’s the humor level of the dialogue. Chris Butler, Aaron Nee, Adam Nee and Dave Callaham have written a heavy-handed script in which, when Castle Grayskull comes under attack, Idris Elba’s soldier is forced to yell, “We’re under attack!” You know, in case the exploding laser beams weren’t obvious.

Obviousness is this film’s handicap — and the main joke. In this movie’s lore, juvenile Adam, played by an adorable Artie Wilkinson-Hunt, is the guilty child who invented his meathead He-Man moniker, as well the nicknames of his allies Ram-Man, Mekaneck and Fisto, who all look exactly as they sound to their chagrin. “I don’t fist anyone,” Fisto (Jóhannes Haukur Jóhannesson) protests. The grown-ups in the audience snicker.

Knight was a kid himself when the cartoon version of “He-Man and the Masters of the Universe” debuted on television. As with his “Transformers” spin-off “Bumblebee,” he makes movies like a child who loves taking his action figures out of the box and giving them a silly soul.

He’s no hack: Knight’s debut film, “Kubo and the Two Strings,” was nominated for an Academy Award for animation. Raised with an affection for brands (his father, Phil Knight, is the co-founder of Nike), he also feels obliged to include so much fan service for his generation that kids will have to swashbuckle through confusing callbacks to discover He-Man for themselves. One battle scene is scored to 4 Non Blondes’ “What’s Up?” simply as a nod to a He-Man mash-up video that went viral back in 2005, a clash as wonky as it sounds. Yet Daniel Pemberton’s opening theme music is a rousing crescendo of stadium rock synthesizers. You can hear Queen guitarist Brian May in the score — not merely as an influence. It’s actually him.

Culturally, hyper-machismo has oscillated from cool to lame to ironically cool and back again for decades. Even Queen itself was deemed lame until “Wayne’s World” resurrected “Bohemian Rhapsody” as headbanging slapstick. If you spot a guy swaggering like a brute from Eternia on the sidewalk, masked or not, he probably thinks he’s more awesome than everyone else does. Likewise, when He-Man smashes skulls to a wailing metal soundtrack, I no longer know if I’m meant to be snickering with the electric guitars or at them. Neither does the movie, which seems to decide each scene’s individual tone on a coin flip.

Frankly, the dorky version of Adam is more fun than the heroic He-Man, even with Knight hammering us every minute to laugh that he’s a total weakling. Galitzine embraces the indignity. Zooming through the air in a flying Sky-Sled, he wedges his face into a triple chin. Dazed and enthusiastic, Galitzine’s human charm counterbalances Eternia’s synthetic feel, a blandscape of bright forests and cliffside dungeons that looks dated — not to 1983 but to last decade’s greenscreen-heavy would-be fantasy franchises like “Clash of the Titans” and “John Carter.”

Please don’t make Galitzine do five of these movies, even though he’s very good. An unusually pretty leading man who is quirkier and funnier than he looks, Galitzine is the kind of rising talent Hollywood rarely knows how to handle. In his previous roles, he gave off the impression of being flummoxed by his own attractiveness, whether as a queer prince (“Red, White & Royal Blue”), a Harry Styles-esque pop star (“The Idea of You”) or a popular football jock whose high school classmates are oblivious that he has the IQ of a second-grader (“Bottoms”). Here, Galitzine multiplies that self-conscious gag times a thousand, visibly dazzled by his own six-pack when he transforms from himbo to gym-bro. Even Skeletor is agog over the “big long sword dangling between his thighs.”

Smartly cast, Galitzine could prove to have the potential of Brad Pitt, another blond hunk who longed to get weird, chafing against roles that made him take off his shirt until he hit 55 and realized it was a flex. But shouldering a wobbly, expensive summer tentpole is a risk — just ask Sam Worthington or Taylor Kitsch. If “Masters of the Universe” tanks, here’s hoping Galitzine summons the strength to dig himself out of the rubble.

Hollywood has been waiting for Kane Parsons since the year he was born. The 20-year-old director is the same age as YouTube’s first videos and grew up with no barriers between his creativity and an audience. “Backrooms,” his debut feature, marks the start of a new new wave of filmmakers raised by internet feedback who are ready to reinvigorate the industry.

Young Steven Spielberg screened his 8mm reels for his neighborhood. Parsons uploaded his early shorts online where he could analyze the mass response. When one, an unsettling nine-minute experiment about a warren of dingy carpets, taffy-yellow walls and gridded drop ceilings clicked with 78 million viewers, he made sequels. A24 offered Parsons a deal before he finished high school. He’s graduating into multiplexes having spent his adolescence writing, directing, editing, composing and market-testing what people want to watch. I’d toast to that, but Parsons isn’t old enough for Champagne.

Given that backdrop, “Backrooms” would be one of the year’s most significant releases even if the movie itself was merely fine. But it’s better than fine — it’s a work of honest-to-goodness art. Working with screenwriter Will Soodik, Parsons has gone back into that banal maze to find an uncannily mature story about loss and stagnation, about how our self-serving narratives barricade us from emotional growth.

Set in 1990, “Backrooms” has the fritz of an old VHS tape. (Like so many other Gen Z kids, Parsons is nostalgic for a pre-smartphone era he never knew.) A failed architect-turned-furniture salesman named Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor, superbly expressive) tumbles through a portal in his store’s basement to the backrooms of the title — less Alice in Wonderland, more Alice in Wonderbland.

“It’s like it was made by a bunch of construction workers on acid,” he muses. The hallways lead to more hallways, the overhead fluorescents whine like hornets. Someone — or something — has piled lamps and stools into the center of one room, scattered chairs in another and embedded shoes into the floor as though the ground were made of sand. The disorder looks like the wreckage of an unknown chaos. Aboveground, Clark is trapped in his own resentments, throwing temper tantrums like a toddler. Down here, frustration feels natural.

Should he be afraid? And if so, then what of?

Distant thuds warn that Clark isn’t alone. Soon after, three other characters follow Clark into this liminal space: his loud employees Bobby and Kat (Finn Bennett and Lukita Maxwell) and his exasperated therapist, Dr. Mary Kline (Renate Reinsve), who is haunted by flashbacks of her agoraphobic mother. There’s also a mysterious man in a lab coat (Mark Duplass) who works for a company that factors into the backrooms’ preexisting internet lore, but doesn’t have much purpose in this script. It’s fine just to see Duplass as a gesture toward corporate apathy. More beings will appear too and cinematographer Jeremy Cox’s deliberately low-fi look forces you to do triple and quadruple takes to comprehend what you’re even seeing.

How does a 20-year-old fathom adult-sized discontent? Lord knows, but Parsons does. One theory is that today’s 20-year-olds were just launching into teenhood when the pandemic teleported them from their classrooms to isolated computer screens. Meanwhile, they overheard their parents fret that society might be forever hollowed out. When a young person looks toward the future, what do they see? Probably not an office building bustling with entry-level jobs.

Think about how the act of buying a couch no longer involves interacting with a salesman like Clark, but peering at a pixelated living room that doesn’t actually exist with a couch that changes colors at a tap. Think about how lately the internet at large feels human-less. Then layer that emptiness over the images here.

Sparse yet gripping, “Backrooms” and its minimalist story accommodate the audience’s own free-ranging imagination. The infinite size of these drab catacombs triggers sense-memories of feeling small and confused in an ordinary place that feels all wrong. It’s a time travel trip back to childhood — mass entertainment made intimate — with Parsons tossing us scraps of Clark and Mary’s personal histories like a breadcrumb trail. I remembered what it felt like to get lost in a motel on a road trip with my grandparents. More recently, I tidied the home of a friend who was in the hospital, the pill bottles and crumpled blankets left in situ as evidence of someone else’s pain. “Backrooms” felt like that, too.

There’s an incredible special effects shot where the camera sinks through the floor of Mary’s living room to find a mutation of the same room — and then another and another — each replica deteriorating further from reality until it becomes a new room altogether that would fit right into the backrooms. This, we wordlessly understand, represents how memories of the past can be at once factually inaccurate and emotionally true. We’ve all been bewildered kids, Parsons more recently than most. Some of the most powerful people on Earth still behave like they’re stuck in that headspace.

Describing “Backrooms” as a horror film doesn’t feel exactly right. It’s a surrealist painting in motion, the equivalent of staring at Salvador Dali’s wasteland of melting clocks until it makes gut-sense. Dali made that famous masterpiece, “The Persistence of Memory,” in 1931, a breath-holding moment between wars when daily life looked normal enough but vibrated with the dread that no, things were definitely not OK. Kids don’t know that, but they vibe with Dali anyway because he keys into their suspicion that the world doesn’t really obey the rules.

That anxiety hums through “Backrooms.” It’s why millions of people watched and shared the original short. Yet as fraught as it sounds — and as abruptly as it ends — I left elated. A major new moviemaking talent has arrived and he’s the beginning of a movement. Other internet-honed young filmmakers will follow with their own fresh insights into genres like action, comedy and romance. Kane Parsons is just the first one through Hollywood’s labyrinth.

“Hell’s Kitchen,” the Alicia Keys musical that has landed at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre in a blaze of rousing sound, deploys the R&B star’s glorious treasure trove of work in the service of a semi-autobiographical version of her coming-of-age story in the Manhattan neighborhood that gives the show its title.

The Hell’s Kitchen of Alicia Keys’ story, set in the 1990s, isn’t the gang-ridden Hell’s Kitchen of West Side Story, set in the 1950s. Keys grew up in Manhattan Plaza, a federally subsidized residential complex that provides affordable housing for artists. But for a teenager in rebellion from her watchful mother, the vibrant, music-filled street life comes with its share of dangers.

Kennedy Caughell as Jersey and Maya Drake as Ali in the North American Tour of Alicia Keys’ “Hell’s Kitchen” at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre.

(Marc J. Franklin)

Ali (Maya Drake, who’s making her professional debut in this North American tour production) is a 17-year-old ready to break out of the cage her mother, Jersey (Kennedy Caughell), has placed her in. Jersey, a single mom, isn’t a tyrant. She just doesn’t want to see her daughter make the same mistakes that she did, namely get pregnant at a young age before she’s had a chance to realize her own dreams.

The book by playwright Kristoffer Diaz (“The Elaborate Entrance of Chad Deity”) is structured around a loving but combustible mother-daughter relationship amid the creative ferment of New York. This artistic neverland is crystallized in the apartment building that has music pouring out of every floor when Ali rides the elevator.

Maya Drake as Ali and the company of the North American Tour of Alicia Keys’ “Hell’s Kitchen” at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre.

(Marc J. Franklin)

The story isn’t the strong suit of “Hell’s Kitchen,” which is powered by Alicia Keys’ versatile catalog, which has been supplemented with original material. The hits — “You Don’t Know My Name,” “Girl on Fire,” “Fallin’,” “If I Ain’t Got You,” “Like You’ll Never See Me Again,” “No One” and “Empire State of Mind,” among them — reverberate inside the Pantages with a thrilling exuberance.

What’s most impressive, however, is the way these tracks have been arranged both musically and dramatically. Jukebox musicals are notorious for shoe-horning in beloved songs without regard for storytelling integrity. “Mamma Mia!,” which crammed in as many ABBA hits as possible, hardly even bothered to find pretext for their inclusion. The lucrative example paved the way for more than two decades of musical theater shamelessness.

The company of the North American Tour of Alicia Keys’ “Hell’s Kitchen” at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre.

(Marc J. Franklin)

“Hell’s Kitchen,” directed by Michael Greif, takes a more dignified approach, raiding Keys’ greatest hits in a way that doesn’t cause dramatic offense and better yet, adds a layer of surprise to music that is so well known.

The songs are allocated in unexpected ways. Numbers that you might think belong to Ali are divided among the company. Jersey is first in line, and Caughell makes the most of her opportunities. But sharing in the bounty are Davis (Desmond Sean Ellington), Ali’s mostly absent and chronically unreliable father; Knuck (Jonavery Worrell), Ali’s forbidden love interest; or Miss Liza Jane (Roz White), a pianist who lives in the building and becomes Ali’s formidable mentor.

There are other characters who offer luminous assistance, but these are the principals in a musical tale built around Ali’s central relationships. Keys’ origin story is more dynamic on an atmospheric than dramatic level. A mother having difficulty with her boy-crazy teenage daughter isn’t exactly breaking any ground, and Diaz avoids venturing into more turbulent territory. Ali’s divided identity, stemming in part from an all-too-present white mother and all-too-missing Black father, sets up issues that are touched on but never deeply engaged.

Desmond Sean Ellington as Davis and Kennedy Caughell as Jersey and the company of the North American Tour of Alicia Keys’ “Hell’s Kitchen” at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre.

(Marc J. Franklin)

Miss Liza Jane spots Ali’s musical gift right away and fills her with a sense of pride and responsibility in her Black heritage. But her character’s role is somewhat earnestly compartmentalized. Knuck recognizes that Ali’s fascination with him stems in part from the way she sees him, much as her mother does, as a “thug.” But their tentative affair is secondary to the complex bond between Ali and Jersey, whose troubled connection with Davis helps Ali understand why her mother is so paranoid about her romantic choices.

But these concerns fall away when the performers start singing. Drake has a beautiful voice, but her Ali is slighter than that of Maleah Joi Moon, who won a Tony for her Broadway debut performance. I didn’t mind that Davis sings “Fallin’,” as Ellington has a voice of luscious thunder. Worrell’s Knuck more than holds his own with his duets with Ali. (In fact, I was more taken by his velvety interpretation of “Like You’ll Never See Me Again” than Ali’s more straightforwardly pretty version.) White’s Miss Liza Jane takes the Pantages audience to church in her numbers. And when Caughell magnificently directs “No One” to Ali, I can’t imagine there’s a dry eye in the house.

Desmond Sean Ellington as Davis and Maya Drake as Ali in the North American Tour of Alicia Keys’ “Hell’s Kitchen” at the Hollywood Pantages Theatre.

(Marc J. Franklin)

This tour production isn’t crisp in all areas. The dancing isn’t always smooth, the costumes struck me as a road show idea of New York cool, and the acting didn’t do much to compensate for some of the book’s less subtle moments.

But the energy of the production is infectious. “Hell’s Kitchen,” a New York story of a wunderkind discovering her gift, helped me get over my allergy to the jukebox genre. The soaring quality of the orchestra and the delectable company of voices pay exhilarating homage to a singular artist, who seems right at home at the Pantages.

“Pressure,” the new World War II movie from director Anthony Maras and writer David Haig, is a hyperfocused look at the days leading up to D-day with a special focus on the weather. It’s a one-setting thriller that unspools in the pressure-cooker environment of General Dwight D. Eisenhower’s war room at an English country estate. The movie works backward from a famous 1961 Eisenhower quip to JFK that attributed his success in Normandy, France, to the Allies having “better meteorologists than the Germans.”

If you’re skeptical about how exciting a movie about the weather on D-day might be, “Pressure” takes that as a creative challenge, an argumentative stance from which to start. For the next hour and 40 minutes, Maras and co-writer Haig, who also wrote the 2014 play from which the film is adapted, explain to us exactly how important the meteorologists of D-day were, beginning with the disastrous D-day rehearsal Exercise Tiger.

With the weather app at our fingertips these days, it can be hard to imagine just how difficult it was to forecast the weather in the 1940s, especially in Northern Europe. That was the predicament facing Eisenhower (Brendan Fraser) just 72 hours before the planned D-day launch of June 5, 1944. But we know that D-day happened on June 6, so the arrival at that date is part of the film’s narrative intrigue.

After a devastating glimpse of Exercise Tiger, red blood mixing with blue ocean waves and white sandy beaches, we’re quickly introduced to our protagonist, Group Capt. Chief Meteorologist James Stagg (Andrew Scott), in his cozy home with his pregnant wife before he’s swept into critical war planning.

He’s stern, terse and no-nonsense. Stagg is the kind of person who wants to be correct more than he wants to be liked and he insists on a careful collection of live data, using weather balloons, phone calls and mathematical charting. His foil is Col. Irving Krick (Chris Messina), a charming American meteorologist and Eisenhower’s chosen weather guru, a yes man who relies on selective historical data and a persuasive speaker whose approach rankles the fastidious Stagg. Eisenhower instructs the two men to come to an agreement and “Pressure” follows the ups and downs of their working relationship over the course of several days.

The movie becomes a two-hander between Scott’s Stagg and Fraser’s Eisenhower, the former convinced that a storm on June 5 will make conditions less than ideal, the latter raging at the uncertainty while simultaneously attempting to placate a phalanx of military personnel. The troops are requisitioned, the destroyers in place, the full moon just right, the secrecy of the invasion delicate. Fraser’s explosive performance underlines the immensity of the stakes, balancing every precarious element of this enormous mission.

Maras, who is known for another terrific one-setting thriller based on a true story, 2018’s “Hotel Mumbai,” both directs and edits and his films are put together like precision clockwork: propulsive and relentless, the pace italicized by Volker Bertelmann’s scores. “Pressure” is skillfully directed, sweeping us into this world with a kind of addictive immediacy, and is also beautifully lensed by cinematographer Jamie Ramsay. Maras and Ramsay make the wise choice to shoot the film with richly saturated color instead of the usual grayish, desaturated look often assigned to period pieces set in this era. It’s not gritty and harsh, but rather stunning and lovely — an eerie contrast to the terror and bloodshed of the day itself.

While Fraser delivers an external performance as the tough American general, Scott offers a restrained, mostly tamped-down depiction of the repressed and methodical Stagg. But when he finally bursts with a cathartic eleventh-hour speech about the inaccuracy of Krick’s historical forecast, Eisenhower listens. Scott, as seen in “All of Us Strangers” and “Blue Moon,” is so good at this kind of acting, processing every emotion internally but allowing just enough to show to let the audience into his character’s emotional state. It’s wildly compelling to watch.

In a quiet conversation with Eisenhower’s close confidant and aide, Kay Summersby (Kerry Condon), she jokes that weathermen are boring. Stagg reminds her that the weather itself isn’t. Weather feeds us, it can destroy us — it rules our existence, he says. “People ask, ‘When will the wind stop blowing?’ No one ever asks, ‘Why does the wind blow? What is the wind?,’ ” revealing himself as a sort of philosophical poet of the weather. His forecast was the crucial edge in D-day and the volatility of the weather is increasingly relevant in our lives, especially with our changing climate.

Boring? Never. Thrilling and history-making? Indeed.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

Mexico’s consulate in Los Angeles helps thousands of citizens each week, assisting them with registering births, obtaining passports and, increasingly since President Trump’s second term began, accessing legal help for loved ones who have fallen afoul of his administration’s immigration policies.

Although it serves the country’s biggest Mexican community, all 53 Mexican consulates in the U.S. provide services that make Mexican people’s lives easier — just like the nine U.S. consulates in Mexico improve the lives of Americans south of the border.

The U.S. State Department has launched a review that might lead to the closure of an unknown number of Mexican consulates. Although it hasn’t said why, the review is happening against the backdrop of the immigration crackdown, some thorny bilateral issues and far-right theories that the consulates have been interfering in U.S. politics and encouraging Mexicans to migrate northward.

Azucena Aviles, a 33-year-old mother who drove more than an hour to the L.A. consulate this month to renew her Mexican passport and get one for her daughter, said consular services are invaluable — especially in California, which is home to nearly 13 million people of Mexican descent, including an estimated 1.7 million who are in the U.S. illegally.

“It wouldn’t be fair if they messed with the Mexican people, especially with our support systems, which come from the Mexican consulate and which, in some way, help or protect our fellow Mexicans,” she said.

Trump has been exerting growing pressure on Mexico, with questions looming over issues including human rights, national sovereignty and regional diplomacy.

His administration has given only the broadest of explanations for launching its review.

“Department of State is constantly reviewing all aspects of American foreign relations to ensure they are in line with the President’s America First foreign policy agenda and advance American interests,” Dylan Johnson, assistant secretary of State for global public affairs, wrote in an email.

Among the possible reasons for the review is that it could somehow fit into the Trump administration’s immigration efforts to deport people in the U.S. illegally. The largest contingent of such people — an estimated 4.3 million, according to the Pew Research Center — are Mexican.

Relations between the two countries could also play a role, with Trump increasing pressure on Mexico in the run-up to free trade negotiations important to both nations’ economies, taking a more aggressive approach toward the U.S.’ southern neighbor and even threatening to take military action against Mexican cartels.

Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum has avoided head-on conflicts with Trump and instead relied on diplomacy, including sending top officials to Washington and seeking to maintain a strong relationship with the Trump administration by cracking down on Mexican cartels. Sheinbaum and her predecessor have also been key allies in slowing migration to the U.S. and speeding up the deportation of other Latin American migrants.

But Sheinbaum has taken a firmer stance in regards to the deaths of Mexicans in U.S. immigration detention centers, calling them unacceptable and saying the conditions in such lockups were “incompatible with human rights standards and the protection of life.” She instructed Mexican consulates to visit detention centers daily to help ensure detained citizens are being held in safe conditions.

Relations rapidly deteriorated in recent weeks after the U.S. indicted several Mexican officials on drug trafficking charges, and two CIA officers died following an anti-narcotics operation in northern Mexico — American involvement that Sheinbaum said her government had not authorized. That drug raid raised uncomfortable questions in Mexico about the extent of U.S. involvement in domestic security operations.

Years of tit-for-tat tariffs between the two countries have also added strain.

A review of foreign consulates is “usually a sign that a bilateral relationship is in a very, very rocky moment,” said Arturo Sarukhan, a former Mexican ambassador to the U.S. In Mexico’s case, it comes at “the worst moment of the U.S.-Mexico relations” in decades, given all the current points of contention, he said.

Further straining relations is a theory being amplified by Peter Schweizer, a writer with a following among Trump loyalist who has claimed that Mexican consulates interfere in U.S. politics and encourage migration to the U.S. Experts say that although a few Mexican consulate officials may have sought to influence politics back home, there is no evidence of them interfering in U.S. elections.

In response to the State Department review, Sheinbaum said the idea that Mexican consulates are “playing politics in the United States is completely false.” She said the job of consulates anywhere is to “always protect” citizens.

Sarukhan too said that although consulates defend the rights of Mexican citizens, there is no evidence that they are interfering in U.S. elections.

Whatever the reasons for the consulate review, it has stoked worries.

During a weekly public forum at the L.A. consulate, a woman who didn’t give her name and whose husband had been in U.S. immigration detention asked for help finding him a lawyer, highlighting one crucial service consulates provide for their citizens.

An older man said he had heard about the review and asked about possible closures.

Carlos González Gutiérrez, Mexico’s top diplomat in Los Angeles, responded that, as Sheinbaum said, there would be “no reason whatsoever” for the U.S. to close a Mexican consulate.

Indeed, consulates would have significant, devastating effects for Mexican immigrants,” especially in isolated areas, said Ariel Ruiz Soto, a senior policy analyst for the Migration Policy Institute.

Every day, consular officials go to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement holding center in downtown Los Angeles to identify and interview as many detained Mexican nationals as they can.

González Gutiérrez, 62, begins every weekly public forum by noting how many detained Mexicans consular officials have interviewed since the immigration crackdown began in Los Angeles last June.

At that May 11 meeting, the figure stood at 1,940. Nearly half had deep roots in the U.S., he said. About 46% have been deported, 35% have children born in the U.S., 69% entered the country through a port of entry, 6% overstayed a visa and 2.5% requested asylum. Most were men, and many worked in construction, agriculture, gardening and the service industry.

He also disputed the claim that Mexican consulates are interfering in U.S. politics.

“We are guests of this country’s government, just as U.S. consuls are guests of the Mexican government. In that sense, we are neither activists nor spies,” said González Gutiérrez. “We carry out our work openly, within a pluralistic and democratic society.”

Pineda and Janetsky write for the Associated Press. Janetsky reported from Mexico City.