review

After 50 years of being practically synonymous with New York City, “Saturday Night Live” has opened the door to London with “Saturday Night Live UK,” following in the steps of “Law & Order UK” and possibly nothing else. Of all the cities in the world that might conceivably replicate the spirit of the NBC original, the British capital, with its urban dynamism, media concentration and 20,000 comedians, feels like the obvious, and perhaps only, choice. (“Saturday Night Live Italia” might prove me wrong, if that day ever comes.) And, of course, we’ve been in a reciprocal comedy arrangement with Britain — or at least we have been nicking their ideas for shows — for years.

The show premiered in the U.K. this past Saturday on Sky One and NOW, and began streaming stateside Sunday on Peacock, with our own Tina Fey as the first guest host. (“It’s an absolute honor and kind of historic,” she said to studio audience. “Guys, I am the youngest person to ever host ‘SNL UK!’”)

As a “Saturday Night Live” star, writer and head writer; and the co-creator of “30 Rock” — her show about a sketch show set in the very same building as “SNL” — they couldn’t have appointed a better ambassador. Lorne Michaels doubtless has her on speed dial.

Here’s the short review: In the course of a single episode, “SNL UK” managed to feel very much like its parent show — which is to say, some of it worked well and some of it worked less well, but very little of it didn’t work at all. There were sketches that ran too long, or ended weakly, but were generally redeemed by a young(ish), confident 11-member cast that made the most of them. Some will already be recognizable to British viewers. Many have had notable, or anyway noticed, careers in stand-up; in the sort of stand-up that amounts to theater; in straight theater (including Shakespeare, naturally) and/or in television and film. Fey promised to “stay out of their way as much as possible,” but she came to play, and appeared in most every sketch.

The evening followed established protocol. Cold open. (Prime Minister Keir Starmer, played by George Fouracres, is afraid to tell President Trump, whom he regards as a sort of bad boyfriend, that he’ll send no more ships to the Strait of Hormuz: “I know how badly you want to start World War III, and that’s great. You absolutely do that but we can’t be part of it.”) Hammed Animashaun and Jack Shep accompanied Fouracres in the sketch and shared the glory of shouting, “Live from London, it’s ‘Saturday Night!’” They would continue to dominate the episode.

Jack Shep, George Fouracres and Hammed Animashaun in the “SNL UK” cold open, set at 10 Downing Street, in the prime minister’s office.

(NBCUniversal)

Next: Opening credits featuring the cast members out and about in the city. Monologue, with guest appearances from Nicola Coughlan, Michael Cera and Graham Norton. (The set is very much in the style of various American iterations over the years, clock included, with the band onstage.) Film bits and sketches. Musical guest. (Wet Leg, surly.) “Weekend Update.” More skits. Musical guest returns. More comedy. Whole cast onstage at the end, ready to party.

Among other things: A Shakespeare skit found the Bard (Fouracres again) returning to Stratford from London between plays, each time more affected, beginning with an earring and finishing with an electric scooter, sunglasses and a bag of ketamine. A Paddington Bear immersive experience, with an actual bear, turns bloody, recalling Dan Aykroyd’s 1978 classic Julia Child sketch. As a bra salesperson giving an ego boost to Fey‘s customer, Emma Sidi was funnier than the sketch she was in. (It did include a cameo by Regé-Jean Page, from “Bridgerton.”) In another, David Attenborough (Fouracres again, again), using “Jurassic Park” technology, hosts a “last supper” featuring great dead Britons including Winston Churchill, Isaac Newton, Agatha Christie (Fey), “Freddie Mercury, from Queen, Elizabeth the First, from being the Queen,” and Shep’s Princess Diana, pulling focus at Attenborough’s right shoulder; all they manage to discuss is how many starters to get for the table. It had the added bonus of getting the entire cast, and guest host, onstage.

The film bits were first-rate. (Not being live has its advantages.) One advertised an anti-aging cream — Undérage, with a soft “g” — “that works so well everyone will think your man is a nonce.” (That is, a pedophile.) “My skin looks so fresh,” says a happy customer, “my husband can’t go anywhere without being hunted by right-wing pedophile-catching militias.” “My husband lost his record deal and, some, but not all of his fans.” Another concerned a sort of command center where workers labored “to make the internet as bad as we can possibly get it.”

There are, to be sure, tonal differences to British and American comedy; just compare the respective versions of “The Office,” or “Ghosts,” or “Doc Martin” with its domestic remake, “Best Medicine”; the former tends to be darker, more cutting, more absurd. (A “Weekend Update” joke about the former Prince Andrew’s new home, Marsh Fair, “of course named after the nearby marsh where his body will be found.”) Despite that, and the old saw that Britain and America are two countries separated by a common language, the show translated well transatlantically. Apart from some local topical and cultural references, and an occasional unfamiliar word whose meaning was in any case obvious from context, and some swearing, most of it could have been played with few adjustments by the American cast.

“While we may not agree with everything America does,” Fouracres’ prime minister says at the end of the cold open, “we can still be civil and embrace their wonderful, unproblematic culture.” Back at you, buddy!

The season has been extended to eight episodes from the originally ordered six. (Riz Ahmed and Jamie Dornan are scheduled to host.) Why not 10?

Comedians Jo Koy and Gabriel “Fluffy” Iglesias are used to delivering big laughs on large stages. But in the world of major L.A. venues, there’s big, there’s massive, and then there’s SoFi Stadium.

The show starring both comedians was billed as a record-breaking feat for stand-up when they sold out the 70,000-seater. Though the pressure to fill up the stadium was off, it still remained to be seen how the two comics would make their most dedicated fans laugh from more than a football field away. By that criteria, Saturday night was definitely a win.

Kicking off the early portion of the show at 7 p.m., fans were already filling the seats as opening acts from Iglesias’ camp, including Matt Golightly, Joey Guila, Alfred Robles, Martin Moreno (who celebrated his 58th birthday on stage) and ventriloquist funnyman Jeff Dunham got the crowd warmed up for about an hour before Iglesias took the stage first.

Comedians Jo Koy and Fluffy perform Saturday at SoFi Stadium.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

It was almost 8 p.m. when Iglesias emerged following a video skit playing on the jumbo screens and the stadium’s massive halo scoreboard with his funny misadventures of a routine doughnut run at Randy’s Donuts that turned into the plot of “Sons of Anarchy” spinoff “Mayans M.C.” featuring lead actors Emilio Rivera, a.k.a. Miguel Golindo, and Clayton Cardenas, known for playing Angel Reyes. Reyes caused the first major eruption of noise in the crowd by pressing a detonation device that triggered columns of smoke that filled the stage as Fluffy made his entrance in a white flat cap and custom Los Angeles button-up to greet the sold-out stadium.

“Thank you for being here, all I have to say is we did it!” Iglesias proclaimed as the crowd cheered.

Pointing and waving to fans in the nosebleeds, he took time to embrace the moment that topped his previous triumph of performing at Dodger Stadium.

Fluffy takes the stage at SoFi Stadium in Inglewood.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Though the stage couldn’t have been bigger, both comedians used their ability to make a large event feel intimate by drawing the crowd in through storytelling and making them feel like they were part of a conversation. Iglesias set the tone of his set right away by telling us about the chisme (a.k.a. salacious gossip) surrounding his newly married stepson that weaved into stories about his travels all over the world including his controversial stop at the Riyadh Comedy Festival.

Iglesias also took a pause to relate one other historic fact about the two stadiums in L.A. he’s now been able to sell out.

Santino Villalovos of Tracy, Calif., shows his Fluffy tattoo during the Jo Koy and Fluffy show at SoFi Stadium.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

“The two biggest shows in comedy were Dodger Stadium and SoFi Stadium. … And what did they both have in common? They both featured a Mexican,” he said.

Even though he thought about retiring as a comedian after filling up Dodger Stadium (twice) to film his special “Stadium Fluffy,” Iglesias said the SoFi show inspired him to keep pushing himself. And alongside Koy he knew they could do it.

Fans react to special guest Jamie Foxx during Jo Koy’s performance at SoFi Stadium in Inglewood on Saturday.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

“Jo I know you’re in the back, thank you for trusting me man, we did it brother. And I’ll say it in front of an entire stadium, love you. Things like this for me is a huge deal because it inspired me and gave me another reason to keep doing what I love to do. And tomorrow I’m gonna be in the same situation I was after Dodger Stadium — what am I gonna do now? But until then I’m enjoy the hell outta tonight and I still have more stories to share with you.”

Fluffy’s most controversial (and true) bit of the night was breaking the news to his fans that his name is mentioned in the Epstein files, which sent collective shock through the stands.

“I’ve never been to the island, I’ve never been on the plane and I have never met Jeffrey Epstein,” he clarified.

Fans light up SoFi Stadium during Fluffy’s set on Saturday.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

The comedian said that according to reports in the Epstein files, the late convicted pedophile apparently tried to buy tickets to his show at an Improv in West Palm Beach, Fla., in 2014 but was told by his assistant via email that both his shows were sold out.

“Jeffrey Epstein, one of the most diabolical human beings to ever walk the face of the earth. Had the ability to connect with politicians, with influencers, with celebrities. He put people in very compromising positions. He got people on planes. He put people on islands. He was involved in trafficking. He was able to accomplish all these evil, crazy things, but at the end of the day, he still couldn’t get tickets to see my show,” Iglesias said.

Jo Koy reveals himself with the Jabbawockeez at SoFi Stadium.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

After a brief intermission, things transitioned to Jo Koy’s portion of the show featuring warm-up sets from TikTok skitmaster King Bach and longtime friend and stand-up star Tiffany Haddish, who came to the stage looking ready for the red carpet with a flowing silk dress, hair blowing in the man-made wind to deliver her brand of high-energy stories about becoming a real estate tycoon in South-Central.

When it was Koy’s turn to enter the stadium, he slipped in undercover, dressed as one of the Jabbawockeez — the legendary masked hip-hop dance troupe that danced onstage to a medley of West Coast hip-hop dressed in red with acrobatic swagger. At the end of a brief routine, Koy unmasked himself as one of the dancers, eliciting cheers from the crowd as his son helped him change onstage into his regular attire, Dodgers hat and a jean jacket.

Jo Koy performs at SoFi Stadium in Inglewood on Saturday.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Always a man of the people, his set also reminded us that he’s also a man of the pets, specifically dogs, launching into a long bit that felt worthy of a slightly more adult version of a Pixar movie. But beyond jokes and stories, Koy kept coming back to the idea that laughter, more than fame, marketing or money, is what helped the comedians’ big plans for SoFi come together.

“This place is full, all the way to the top, people laughing and having a good time. I know there’s a lotta s— going happening in the world right now but guess what, we don’t wanna hear it right now. We came to have a good f— time. I’m not here to debate s—, everybody’s in here, everything they said wasn’t supposed to happen happened. Look around, every f— color of the rainbow is in SoFi Stadium tonight.”

Jamie Foxx, left, sings with Jo Koy at SoFi Stadium.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

The vibe of the set was all about escaping the problems of everyday life. For most of the night that was taken care of by comedy. And sometimes that escapism was aided by the power of R&B. Twice during the night Koy shocked the crowd with special guest sing-alongs, first with Babyface coming out to serenade the crowd with a brief yet un-relenting hit fest he wrote and/or sang including “Can We Talk,” the ‘90s hit he wrote for Tevin Campbell, and the Boyz II Men anthems “I’ll Make Love to You” and “End of the Road.”

The second surprise came courtesy of Jamie Foxx, who popped out in shades and 10-gallon hat to sing the Ray Charles homage-driven hook of Kanye West’s “Gold Digger.”

Aside from any historic accolades, Saturday night was the culmination of a show that was a year in the making and a victory lap for the careers of two comics who’ve been in the game for decades. It was also a moment where comedy’s past met its stadium-size future in the L.A. comedy world. Though it’s hard to say when the next big comedian will have enough fans to fill a stadium in L.A., Saturday didn’t feel like it was the last time comedy fans will show up to fill SoFi for a pair of comedians who put in the work to make themselves a team worth rooting for.

Key was also a guest on the the TMS programme and he said England will make changes in the way they approach selection.

There had been a perception that the England Test team felt like a ‘closed shop’, particularly to players in county cricket who did not fit the aggressive Bazball style.

Key said the introduction of a “county insight group” to offer input into selection will attempt to formally rebuild relations with stakeholders, including directors of cricket, in the domestic game.

The 46-year-old former Kent captain also said England’s selection policy will become more cut-throat compared to the past when certain players have almost appeared undroppable.

“We’ve overvalued loyalty and overvalued having a settled team,” Key said.

“We thought what we wanted to do is make sure we have a team that is settled out there [in Australia], that we go out there and we’re not giving debuts to opening batters [during the Ashes] and stuff like that.

“But what that does is it creates an environment where there’s not enough consequence. We need to be more ruthless with our selection.”

McCullum is due to return to work towards the end of May as England gear up for a Test series against his native New Zealand which starts at Lord’s on 4 June.

However, Vaughan felt it would have been worthwhile McCullum spending time on the circuit during the early rounds of the County Championship – for good PR if nothing else.

“I’m a bit disappointed that he’s not coming a bit earlier,” Vaughan said.

“I think at this stage, when you’re trying to win back the fans, trying to win back a little bit of the game, if I was Brendon McCullum, I’d come a few weeks earlier, get seen around the counties.

“I’d go and talk to a few coaches, go and speak to a few umpires, get seen out and about just for the optics. Because at this stage he needs the fans, and he needs the game to kind of get behind his philosophy a little bit more.”

You can watch the full TMS debate over the post-Ashes review on BBC iPlayer or download it as a podcast.

Like the mythical city of Brigadoon, Lisa Kudrow’s “The Comeback” has returned to television after many years away, with the difference that time has not stood still for its inhabitants, older in a changing world that values them less and which they navigate with less assurance.

Kudrow, who created and writes the series with Michael Patrick King, was in her youth a player in the twilight of network-dominated television, cast in a smart, influential show with wide, multigenerational appeal; in a quantitative sense, at least, everything would be downhill from there, as the medium transformed and transformed again. “The Comeback” premiered in 2005, just a year after the end of “Friends”; the first season addressed the rise of reality TV, and the next season, in 2014, riffed on dark, streaming “prestige” television.

The new (and final) season, which is both timely and speculative, addresses the impact of artificial intelligence on the medium and the industry, hinting at a dystopian future; this gives it a moral, even political component, not to say a sense of urgency. Not surprisingly, “The Comeback,” as a thing made by humans, comes down firmly on their side — it’s a manifesto at times — even as it acknowledges, uncomfortably, that computer-produced content might be “good enough.”

Once again, Kudrow plays Valerie Cherish, who, at 60 — the phrase “of a certain age” repeats throughout the series — still qualifies as a working actor. But she’s been pushed into the further reaches of the profession: Her two-season cozy mystery series, “Mrs. Hatt” (“part-time gardener, solves crime, husband is an ex-police chief”), is on no one’s radar but her own, having shown on Epix. A day’s work on a “no-budget” film is even less rewarding than she had imagined; she lasted all of two episodes on “The Traitors.” Paddling hard to stay current, to improve her brand, she bumbles through a podcast, “Cherish the Time,” without any idea what to do with that time; employs a social media person, Patience (Ella Stiller), with no discernible impact; and posts pictures of herself holding products in hopes of “future collabs.”

Still, she is not poor. Valerie and husband Mark (Damian Young), have moved from Brentwood to a condominium with a view in the (real life) Sierra Towers, overlooking the Sunset Strip, opening the latest “new chapter” in their lives, though just what that chapter for them is hard to say. Mark has lost his job in finance — “You told a joke at work at a time when jokes were illegal,” Valerie says, trying to cheer him, “no one cares now” — but left on a golden parachute; now he builds his day around pickleball. A potential role in a reality show, “Finance Dudes,” isn’t working out to anyone’s satisfaction. He’s on the verge of a three-quarter-life crisis.

When her self-promoting manager/publicist Billy (Dan Bucatinsky) comes to her waving an offer for a new series, for a new network, in which she’ll star, Valerie is more than intrigued, if taken aback when he tells her that it’s being written by AI. (He isn’t supposed to know.) Network head Brandon (Andrew Scott, as blandly discomfiting as his Moriarty on “Sherlock”) assures her that it is “within the Writers Guild agreement,” but that it is also a secret — which will account for a lot of comedy going forward, secrets and lies being the very stuff of the form. “AI is really extraordinary,” he tells Valerie. “After all, it picked you.”

It’s also created a wholly generic multicamera sitcom, “How’s That?,” in which Valerie’s character, Beth, as she describes it, “runs a cute, charming old New England B&B with the help of her hunk nephew, Bo — so Beth and Bo, B&B.” (“Viewers want a break from the complicated confusing storylines of all these dark streaming shows,” says a network exec.) Her eager supporting cast has no idea that the series is being written by anything other than its human faces, unhappily married couple Josh (John Early) and Mary (Abbi Jacobson). Josh, who thinks of himself as “the voice of women of a certain age,” is precious about the jokes he manages to get into the script; Mary couldn’t care less. Untalented writing assistant Marco (Tony Macht) only wants “to get, like, a really nice house.” The AI, meanwhile, is personified to the cast and crew, who know nothing about it, as someone named “Al,” who “works remotely.”

One by one, the old company is introduced into the new season, Valerie finds Jane (Laura Silverman), her former documentarian, working as a cashier at Trader Joe’s, having tired of scuffling as a filmmaker, “begging people to care about the things that I cared about.” When Valerie lets it slip that her new series is AI-generated — “but don’t tell anyone ‘cause that’s a secret” — Jane is inspired to pick up her camera again. Lance Barber will eventually rejoin as screenwriter Paulie G., Valerie’s old nemesis. Robert Michael Morris, who played Mickey, Valerie’s hairdresser and best friend, in earlier seasons, passed away in 2017; Jack O’Brien, as Tommy, occupies a version of that space here.

Valerie may be only moderately successful, but she isn’t a hack. She has an Emmy for “Seeing Red,” the drama at the center of Season 2. She pushes back against the costumer (Benito Skinner) who wants to put her in a caftan. She knows her craft and is nominally proud of belonging to a union. She’s not a diva, but she has her pride. And that she is loyal, even when it does her no good, makes her easy to like. Thrust half-wittingly onto this cutting edge — being the first in an AI comedy, Mark tells her, “is like saying, ‘I was the first one to eat an arm in the Donner Party’” — she is wholly sympathetic, and, eventually, as things bend toward horror in a last-act revelation, a hero.

Though the subject is serious, the approach this time is light and farcical. Partially abandoning the documentary aesthetic of its predecessors — the first season had the look of amateur video, and the second of guerrilla filmmaking — much of this season is shot as a conventional, non-meta television show, allowing us access to private conversations and meetings without having to account for Jane and her crew, or requiring the players to act as if they’re being watched. Paradoxically, without pretending to reality, it makes some things more real.

Playing himself, director James Burrows, whom Valerie convinces to helm her pilot, notes that the jokes AI writes might come fast but are never better than obvious. “Surprising only comes from a group of writers huddled in a corner beating themselves up to beat out a better show,” he says. And just as Valerie is not a character an algorithm could produce, Kudrow is not an actor a machine could ever imagine. She’s no Tilly Norwood, or Tilly Norwood at 60, or Tilly Norwood with quirks applied. There’s no one like her— other than her — for the learning machines to scrape.

You should never settle for “good enough” when better, or best, is available. But that choice is on you.

A review will also be allowed at the end of a point if a player feels his opponent may be guilty of hindrance.

Daniil Medvedev used the review system against Jack Draper in Indian Wells last week, after the British player briefly stretched his arms out wide during a rally to signal his belief that a Medvedev forehand was long.

Umpire Aurelie Tourte watched a replay on her tablet and ruled Draper was guilty of hindrance – of making either an action or a noise to disturb an opponent – and awarded the Russian the point.

Draper admitted it was a difficult situation for the umpire, but thought Medvedev had “played the rules quite well” and did not believe his gesture had been enough to distract him.

The US Open has been using video reviews since 2023, and the Australian Open since 2025.

It is becoming more common on the women’s WTA Tour and by next season the men’s ATP Tour will have video reviews in place at all of its events.

Another change at Wimbledon this year will be the addition of visual indicators on scoreboards to complement the audio calls produced by ELC.

Spectators have sometimes been unsure whether a ball was in or out – and at the Australian Open this year, the net posts flashed red to give the crowd a visual cue whenever a ball was out.

With exactly 100 days to go until the start of The Championships, the AELTC has also announced that capacity at the qualifying competition in Roehampton will increase from 3,500 to 4,000 each day.

Sheriff Robert Luna has asked the National Institute of Corrections to examine conditions and practices at Los Angeles County jails, a request made after 10 inmates died in jail custody in less than three months.

The request comes amid growing concern over conditions inside county lockups. In September, California Atty. Gen. Rob Bonta sued the Sheriff’s Department over what he called “unsafe and unconstitutional conditions at county jails.”

Luna has also faced questions from the Sheriff Civilian Oversight Commission over health conditions, health access, drug use, and other factors that have led to in-custody deaths.

Now, the Sheriff’s Department is asking the National Institute of Corrections to conduct a comprehensive review of county jails in an effort to reduce the number of deaths, Luna told The Times.

“I want someone to come in and review from top to bottom,” Luna said.

Specifics on when the review would begin, and what it would entail, have not yet been set, but Luna said the aim is to get an outside, “unbiased view.”

Officials with the National Institute of Corrections referred questions to the federal Bureau of Prisons, its parent agency, which did not respond to a request for comment.

The National Institute of Corrections provides state, local and federal resources and guidance.

The agency, according to its site, provides “on site technical assistance” to jail administrators, and also helps to identify “gaps in policy and practice.”

The review, Luna said, would entail “everything we’re doing from policy, procedure, facilities, to make sure we’re not missing anything,” Luna said.

Inmate deaths have raised concerns among top sheriff officials and agencies charged with overseeing sheriff operations. The department saw 46 in-custody deaths in 2025, a steep increase from the 32 reported in 2024.

In-custody deaths are reviewed by the Office of Inspector General and the U.S. Department of Justice.

Bonta’s lawsuit against the Sheriff’s Department, filed in September 2025, alleged inmates were being “forced to live in filthy cells with broken and overflowing toilets, infestations of rats and roaches, and no clean water for drinking or bathing.”

In a statement, Bonta’s office alleged that a lack of access to healthcare in the jails, and conditions inside, contributed to a “shocking rate of preventable in-custody deaths, such as suicides.”

In a previous interview, Luna referred to the spate of death at the start of the year as a “kick in the groin.”

Efforts to reduce deaths are challenging partly because the inmate population inside the jails has been increasingly older, and ill, Luna said, with many of them suffering from drug addiction or long-term conditions.

About 82% of those in custody disclosed at least one medical or mental health issue when booked, officials said.

According to department data, half of the 46 inmate deaths recorded in 2025 were listed as natural. Autopsy results to determine the causes of death are still pending in this year’s cases.

Luna has pointed to changes that have already been made as efforts to improve conditions, including deploying body-worn cameras at the Inmate Reception Center, Men’s Central Jail and Twin Towers Correctional Facility.

The department has also opened a remodeled mental health assessment area at the Inmate Reception Center, the primary intake and release point for county inmates near Men’s Central Jail.

WASHINGTON — Atty. Gen. Pam Bondi was subpoenaed Tuesday to answer questions from Congress about the Justice Department’s sex trafficking investigation of Jeffrey Epstein and the agency’s handling of millions of files related to the disgraced financier.

Bondi was ordered to appear for a deposition on April 14 by the Committee on Oversight and Government Reform after a vote earlier this month that five Republicans supported.

The Justice Department’s failure to fend off the subpoena from the Republican-led committee underscores widespread discontent among President Trump’s own base over Bondi’s management of the review and release of a trove of documents from the criminal investigation into Epstein.

“The Committee has questions regarding the Department of Justice’s handling of the investigation into Jeffrey Epstein and his associates and its compliance with the Epstein Files Transparency Act,” Rep. James Comer, the Republican chairman, said in a letter to Bondi.

“As Attorney General, you are directly responsible for overseeing the Department’s collection, review, and determinations regarding the release of files pursuant to the Epstein Files Transparency Act, and the Committee therefore believes that you possess valuable insight into these efforts,” he wrote.

The department on Tuesday called the subpoena “completely unnecessary.” Bondi and Deputy Atty. Gen. Todd Blanche were expected to provide a private briefing Wednesday to members of the committee.

“Lawmakers have been invited to view the unredacted files for themselves at the Department of Justice, and the Attorney General has always made herself available to speak directly with members of Congress,” the department said in a statement. The agency said it looks forward to “continuing to provide policymakers with the facts.”

The Trump administration has faced constant political headaches since the rollout of the files began in December, with critics accusing the department of hiding certain documents and over-redacting files. In other cases, victims have slammed the department for sloppy redactions that revealed their sensitive information.

The Justice Department has fiercely defended its handling of the Epstein files, saying it worked as quickly and diligently as possible to review and release millions of documents required under the law. The department has denied any accusations that it used redactions to protect certain people or improperly withheld certain materials. And it has said it immediately worked to fix any redaction errors raised by victims.

Richer writes for the Associated Press.

From bike hire to spa escapes and lodge stays, this Center Parcs review shares everything families need to know about the popular UK break

Center Parcs had been on our radar for some time; a getaway promising relaxation without the hassle of airports. However, I hadn’t anticipated just how much the experience would focus on unwinding and quality family time.

The absolute highlight for the children was cycling everywhere. We collected our bikes on site (though, if you have room you can also bring your own) and it quickly became our primary mode of transport – and some of the most unforgettable moments of our stay.

Not a mobile phone or tablet in sight. Without even trying, we slipped into a slower pace, chatting as we pedalled, pausing for snacks and savouring our time together.

Even sporadic rain didn’t dampen our spirits.

READ MORE: I visited Pureseoul’s K-beauty store and found hidden gems – it’s heaven for the skincare obsessed!’

Family time and adult time

Center Parcs is designed with families in mind, but it’s easy to carve out some adult time. I managed to escape to the Aqua Sana Forest Spa, a world away from the hustle and bustle of the village.

The treetop sauna was my standout spot, and a full body massage was the reset I didn’t realise I needed.

But what I adored was the balance. There’s an endless array of activities to keep children entertained – including the Subtropical Swimming Paradise, with indoor and outdoor pools, and rapids.

But there are also tranquil spaces to unwind without missing out on family time. In the Sports Cafe, for example, we could sneak in the Arsenal game, whilst the kids amused themselves on arcades.

Where we stayed

The lodge played a significant role in how relaxed the break felt. Luxuriating in one of the newly refurbished Grand Forest lodges, it’s clear they’re designed with families in mind.

In the kitchen, everything was designed to make cooking a breeze, with ample worktop space and storage. I realise it’s not everyone’s cup of tea (and there are plenty of other options on site if you’d rather not cook at all) but we relish cooking as a family, so having a clear, user-friendly space to do it in made a world of difference – instead of one of us being cooped up in the kitchen whilst the rest of the clan were enjoying themselves.

After action-packed days, it was lovely to cook together and settle down for an evening of board games or a film, whilst ducks would come and tap on the patio doors, much to my daughter’s sheer joy.

All the best things to eat

We stayed for three nights and cooked twice in the lodge, keeping evenings chilled and costs low (Stock up on supermarket essentials before you arrive; there’s a shop on site for extras, but it’s a bit steep).

For our dining out experience, we booked The Dozing Duck – an absolute treat. It boasts shuffleboard tables so the four of us divided into teams for some friendly rivalry.

Book ahead on the app where you plan your stay.

How to book a Centre Parcs break

Two-bedroom Grand Forest Lodge from £799 for a Mon-to-Fri stay. Three-bedroom Woodland Premium Lodge also from £799 – ideal for larger families who need a bit more space.

Breaks run Mon to Fri, or Fri to Mon. Book at centerparcs.co.uk.

You can’t help rooting for Colleen Hoover heroines, bless their bruised hearts. The bestselling novelist specializes in women who have been kicked around by life. She’s the new name brand of tragic romance, picking up where Nicholas Sparks’ terminal diseases left off.

“Reminders of Him,” directed by Vanessa Caswill, is the third film based on a Hoover book in three years and the first that the author herself has adapted alongside co-screenwriter Lauren Levine. Like the others, its lead suffers heartily before falling in love with a hunk. The previous two, “It Ends With Us” and “Regretting You,” were about, respectively, domestic abuse and adultery. “Reminders” adds more tarnish to the poor dear: She’s an ex-convict who served six years for killing her boyfriend in a DUI.

Finally freed from prison, Kenna (Maika Monroe) has returned to Laramie, Wyo., the hometown of her dead lover, Scotty (Rudy Pankow). From what we see of Scotty in flashbacks, he was a buoyant blond goofball — exactly the kind of guy that the apparently friendless and family-less Kenna would have clung to like a life preserver. But she’s not here to lay flowers at his grave. In a salty touch, the first thing Kenna does is remove his roadside cross, claiming he hated memorial shrines.

But Kenna is desperate to meet their 5-year-old daughter, Diem (Zoe Kosovic), who was born months into her incarceration. The girl’s name comes from carpe diem, as in Kenna’s vow to seize the child she never got to hold, but the script has the restraint not to make a big standing-on-a-desk speech about that. Nevertheless, the kid’s grandparents, Grace and Patrick (Lauren Graham and Bradley Whitford), who never liked Kenna to begin with, consider a restraining order in fear that Kenna might actually kidnap Diem.

The stakes are plain: Can Kenna prove herself worthy to be Diem’s mother? Her only tentative ally is Scotty’s childhood friend, Ledger (Tyriq Withers), who thinks she’s hot and intriguing until he realizes who she is. Then he wants Kenna gone too.

Caswill sets the mood with a shot of a snow-capped mountain range, fitting for a movie that proceeds at a glacial pace. (The book moves faster, with Kenna and Ledger hooking up immediately and then discovering their unfortunate connection.)

The first stretch of the movie is strong, with Kenna, who is too broke for a car or even a phone, hoofing it around town in search of any job willing to hire a broke girl with a criminal record. A grocery store manager sends her away coldly after nattering on in corporate-speak about the importance of treating people with respect — an exchange that feels so real it gives you the shivers — but his beleaguered assistant, Amy (country singer Lainey Wilson in her promising, but brief, film debut), steps in and treats Kenna like a person. “What’s your trauma?” Amy asks her and somehow Wilson delivers that line with a lilt that keeps it from sounding corny.

These female strangers share a moment of such sincere human connection that I would have happily watched a dozen more scenes of the two women leaning on each other while they endure their hard-luck lives. Alas, these nice detours don’t last long; the movie has a preordained higher parental purpose that’s bigger than anything else onscreen, from the Wyoming skies to the bond between Kenna and Ledger that’s the main reason an audience has bothered to come.

Where this is all going is as unavoidable as the fact that Scotty died on what seems to be only road in and out of town. As the title declares, there are traces of him everywhere, including Diem’s giggle.

To get anywhere with the film, you have to settle into the idea that Kenna and Ledger must slowly build trust in each other while spending most of the baggy running time talking about a little girl who is rarely around. (When Kosovic is, she’s charming.) Cinematographer Tim Ives snatches his rare opportunities to shoot the beautiful scenery, but most of the pair’s encounters take place in or near Ledger’s orange pickup truck, a totem from the book. Visually, these car chats get stagnant. At least Monroe and Withers generate decent chemistry, eyes shiny and gleaming as they try their hardest to put gas in this love story’s tank.

Ledger calls Kenna “the saddest girl in the world.” True, but the glumness of said world is central to Hoover’s zeitgeisty appeal — a point she underlines a few beats later, Kenna insisting that the radio only ever plays depressing songs. To prove her wrong, Ledger flips it on anyway and to his dismay, it plays one bummer after another, station after station, until finally, the two of them share a much-needed laugh. (Meanwhile, Tom Howe’s acoustic country score is adamantly winsome, even intercut with Coldplay covers.)

Hoover is a strong world-builder. When she writes about small towns with shuttered bookstores or dive bars with fetid pots of coffee, you feel that she truly knows these places and has made a principled choice to set her hard-earned happy endings there. Caswill gets it, keying into credible, lived-in details, like Kenna’s tiny glance at the price tag on a stuffed animal that she’s considering for Diem.

Monroe’s Kenna couldn’t be farther from the cliché romantic diva, usually a high-heeled glamazon who runs a cupcake boutique. Even her hair really does look like she fixed it in the squalid bathroom of the only apartment she can afford. The complex is called Paradise, an on-the-nose irony. The owner (Jennifer Robertson) cuts Kenna a deal if she promises to take a free kitten. (I never saw Kenna get a litter box, but the kitten’s pretty cute.)

Ledger is the fantasy: a former NFL player whose hobbies include babysitting Diem, wearing tight shirts and building himself a hilltop dream cabin that will someday belong in Architectural Digest. (He owns that dive bar but the cast stays Mormon-sober.) Withers, a former wide receiver at Florida State University, also played a football jock in the gorgeously made but narratively screwy horror film “Him,” and it’s a treat to see an actor who moves like a genuine athlete and has that “Yes, coach” politeness that comes from being humbled in a locker room. You don’t totally buy his character exists in reality, but Withers believes in it enough to get the job done.

Another Paradise tenant, Lady Diana (Monika Myers), a headstrong teenager with Down syndrome, is the closest thing the film has to comic relief. Bursting into Kenna’s quarters seemingly at will, she raids her near-empty fridge while bluntly shouldering much of the exposition. “Why are you so poor?” Lady Diana asks, following that up by wondering, “Why are you so sad?”

“Reminders of Him” could use a little more swooning, a little less of the endless middle stretch of driving and talking, interrupted by wet sprints through thunderstorms. The rain pours down so often that you can’t help but snort when the film cuts to Whitford’s granddad angrily watering his lawn.

Eventually, even the film itself seems over all of the dilly-dallying. It takes a narrative shortcut to wrap things up, leaving behind not much other than a few worthwhile scenes: Kenna and Scotty’s meet-cute at a dollar store, her and Ledger pushing through their morning-after guilt, and a powerful moment shortly after Diem’s birth when a fellow inmate gives her a friendly but stern pep talk that sums up everything this film takes nearly two hours to say.

NEW YORK — What makes life worth living? For hard-core “Harry Potter” fans with money to burn, it might be getting Broadway tickets to interact fleetingly with Daniel Radcliffe in “Every Brilliant Thing,” an ingenious and touching solo performance piece written by Duncan Macmillan with Jonny Donahoe on the subject of suicide — or more precisely, on the ordinary joys that militate against such a drastic step.

Radcliffe was breathlessly scampering up and down the aisles of the Hudson Theatre before the show began, enlisting audience members to be participants in the play. Having seen “Every Brilliant Thing” twice before, once at the Edye (the black box at Santa Monica’s BroadStage) starring Donahoe in 2017 and once at the Geffen Playhouse’s intimate Audrey Skirball Kenis Theater starring Daniel K. Isaac in 2023, I knew exactly what he was up to.

The play revolves around a list that the narrator began at the tender age of 7 after his mother first attempted suicide. While she was still in the hospital, he started compiling, as much for her benefit as for his own, sources of everyday happiness.

Ice cream, water fights, kind people who aren’t weird and don’t smell unusual. These items are given a number, and audience members assigned a particular “brilliant thing” are expected to shout out their entry when their number is called.

The list gradually grows in complexity as the narrator gets older. Miss Piggy, spaghetti bolognese and wearing a cape give way to more sophisticated pleasures, such as the way Ray Charles sings the word “You” in the song “Drown in My Own Tears” or the satisfaction in writing about yourself in the second person.

Music plays a prominent role in “Every Brilliant Thing,” which was adapted from a monologue/short story Macmillan wrote called “Sleeve Notes.” The narrator’s terribly British father takes refuge from the emotional storms of his household by listening to jazz records in his office. John Coltrane, Cab Calloway, Bill Evans, Nina Simone are favorite artists, and the narrator can tell his father’s mood simply by the record he’s decided to play.

The production, directed by Jeremy Herrin and Macmillan, involves every level of the Hudson Theatre. I assumed I would be safe, occupying an aisle seat in the murderously expensive prime orchestra during a press performance attended by critics. But I wasn’t flashing a pad as my colleague across the aisle from me was doing to ward off any intrusions. And just before the show was about to start, Radcliffe was suddenly kneeling beside my seat asking if the person I was sitting with was my partner.

I told him that we weren’t a couple, just friends, and that I would be the worst person he could possibly ask to perform anything. But Radcliffe wasn’t so easily put off. “Let’s just say that you’re an older couple who have been together for some time,” he whispered. “And all you have to do is hand me this box of juice and candy bar when I refer to the older couple.”

OK, what harm could there be? Little did I know that “older couple” was to become “old couple,” a term that seemed to be repeated incessantly, at least to my Gen X ears not yet accustomed to scurrilous millennial attacks! I composed myself by pretending that we were in the world of anti-realism. But in truth, I would like to be the kind of person who would offer an anxious kid in a hospital waiting room a juice box and a candy bar, so maybe the casting wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

Daniel Radcliffe in the Broadway production of “Every Brilliant Thing.”

(Matthew Murphy)

A theatergoer was called upon to play the vet who euthanized the narrator’s childhood pet, a dog named Indiana Bones that was symbolized by a coat someone volunteered from the audience. It was the boy’s first experience of death, a difficult concept for a young mind but an important precursor for a boy not given the luxury of existential innocence.

Other audience members, particularly those seated on the stage, played much more elaborate roles. One man, first invited to serve as a stand-in for the narrator’s father, was asked instead to play the boy. He was given one word to say in reply — “Why?” — as his father tries to explain the reason his mother is in the hospital. This same enlisted actor was later called upon to play the dad giving a toast at his son’s wedding, one of the rare occasions when he was able to summon language for the kind of deep feeling he would normally only be able to express through his records.

One kind and patient spectator conscripted to play the school counselor had to remove her shoe to improvise a sock puppet, one of the tools of her empathetic practice. Another audience member sensitively played Sam, the narrator’s love of his life, a relationship that reveals the long-term toll of being raised by a parent suffering from suicidal depression.

Radcliffe’s audience wrangling was as intuitively sharp as his deeply felt performance. He has the comfort of a good retail politician, who’s not afraid of making direct contact with crowds. Two-time Tony winner Donna Murphy, in the house at the reviewed performance, gamely went along when Radcliffe briefly enlisted her luminous services.

Obviously, Radcliffe is the main reason “Every Brilliant Thing” is on Broadway. The show, which began at Britain’s Ludlow Fringe Festival in 2013, is a gossamer piece, a 70-minute curio best experienced in close quarters without the high expectations and ludicrous prices of New York’s turbo-charged commercial theater. The Hudson Theatre lends a mega-church vibe to the proceedings, but the spirits of theatergoers are nonetheless moved.

A scruffy-faced Radcliffe, twinkling accessible geniality in jeans and a sweatshirt, zips up and down the cavernous theater as though waging a one-man campaign against the isolation epidemic. There’s no denying that Harry Potter has matured into an assured stage actor. His Tony-winning performance in “Merrily We Roll Along” should have put to rest any doubts, but the glare of his fame can still obscure his serious chops.

Sincere yet never smarmy, ironic without ever being cynical, well-groomed though far from swank, he’s a more glamorous version of the character than the one originated by Donahoe, the British comedian with an everyman demeanor whose portrayal seemed so genuine at the Edye that I mistakenly thought that the play was his personal story.

Donahoe’s performance was filmed for HBO, but “Every Brilliant Thing” is meant to be experienced in a theater. The whole point of the show is to transform the audience into an impromptu ensemble, a group of strangers emotionally united through the story of one young man’s intimate knowledge of suicide, a subject that Albert Camus called the “one truly serious philosophical problem.”

I’m of two minds about “Every Brilliant Thing.” I was moved once again by the piece, but I’m grateful I didn’t have to wreak havoc on my credit card to pay for my seats. I love the interactive, gentle humanity of the play, but I was also acutely aware of how the work has been commodified. I applaud Radcliffe’s willingness to carve an independent path as an actor, but I might have been more impressed by his adventurousness had he decided to perform in a pocket venue that didn’t have the tiers of pricing I associate with airlines.

Yet launching a conversation around mental health with an audience magnet as powerful as Radcliffe is on balance an excellent thing. And Radcliffe’s compassionate portrayal of a survivor recognizing that he’s not out of the woods just because he made it into adulthood is one of those things that makes a theater lover just a little more appreciative of the humanity at the center of this art form.

Rangers say “all parties must be prepared to have their actions and decision-making subjected to proper scrutiny”, with Celtic referencing “serious concerns” raised by supporters about pre-match access arrangements.

The Ibrox club have called for the review to be “thorough and wide-ranging” and to “include the broader context” around the match, from initial decisions on ticket allocation through to the post-match incidents.

Their statement adds: “The disorder that occurred on Sunday was unacceptable and we condemn it unequivocally. Safety must always come first in football, for supporters, players and everyone working in and around the game.

“There are now a number of serious issues which require proper examination. For that reason, we agree that there should be a fully independent review into the events surrounding the match.”

Rangers have vowed to represent the club and their supporters “robustly” but say they will take action – “including the potential withdrawal of ticketing privileges and stadium bans” – against anyone identified and convicted.

The club also say they are “appalled” to discover graffiti mocking the Ibrox disaster, which claimed the lives of 66 supporters in January 1971.

They add: “To desecrate their memory is vile. It is cowardly. It is shameful. This is not football rivalry and it is not banter. It is the abuse of a tragedy that claimed 66 lives.”

Meanwhile, Celtic say they are awaiting a response from the Green Brigade regarding safety and security measures – as required by the police and Glasgow City Council’s Safety Advisory Group – to allow the club “to advocate re-entry” of the banned fan group to Celtic Park.

March 11 (UPI) — A bipartisan group of senators penned a letter to the Government Accountability Office on Wednesday calling for an investigation into the Justice Department over its handling of the Jeffrey Epstein files release.

The letter accuses the Justice Department of noncompliance with the Epstein Files Transparency Act, the bipartisan law overwhelmingly passed by both chambers of Congress last year. The lawmakers shared concern that the department has still not released all of the files it is required to by the law, despite a December deadline.

Sens. Dick Durbin, D-Ill., Ben Ray Lujan, D-N.M., Jeff Merkley, D-Ore., and Lisa Murkowski, R-Alaska, signed the letter. They also shared concerns about the files that have been released, including victims’ names not being redacted and alleged coconspirators’ names being redacted.

The Government Accountability Office is an independent and nonpartisan agency in the legislative branch. Its purpose is to operate as a watchdog over the federal government, with the authority to investigate and perform audits.

“Contrary to Congress’s explicit directive to protect victims, these records included email addresses and nude photos in which the names and faces of publicly-identified and non-public victims could be identified,” the letter said. “But when it came to information identifying powerful business and political figures who are alleged coconspirators or material witnesses, DOJ appears to have heavily redacted those.”

The senators are requesting that Comptroller General Orice Williams Brown reviews the department’s process it used to review, redact and release the files. They specify that they want the Government Accountability Office to investigate whether the release of the files “has serve to cover up child sexual abuse.”

The Epstein files have continued to be a source of contention between lawmakers and the Trump administration more than two months after the Justice Department was required by law to release the files.

Lawmakers have pushed for answers about the delayed and mistake-filled release from Attorney General Pam Bondi, leading to fiery exchanges in a House Judiciary Committee hearing last month.

The House Oversight Committee issued a subpoena for Bondi’s testimony last week. Five Republicans joined all of the Democrats in the committee in voting for the subpoena.

“This horrific scandal is one where powerful, wealthy men groomed, abused, and raped young women, men, and children,” the letter from the senators reads. “It is critical to understand what led to DOJ’s failure to redact the victims; information and re-victimize those individuals while violating the Epstein Files Transparency Act in its redactions of information related to their alleged abusers.”

Everyone’s getting into podcasts — even demons.

“undertone,” a muted, personal and static microbudget horror debut by Ian Tuason, takes place in the writer-director’s actual childhood home where he tended to both of his parents before they died. Both hospice and inspiration, it’s a stifling place decorated with floral wallpaper and crucifixes. The pain and exhaustion and grief are so real and oppressive, the camera never dares set a foot outside.

Upstairs, Evy (Nina Kiri), watches over her own terminally ill mother (Michèle Duquet). Tuason funneled his emotional gloom into this movie; Evy co-hosts a horror podcast with her overseas best friend Justin (voiced by Adam DiMarco). “This is the only thing keeping me sane right now,” she says. They’re words she’ll regret within the week.

Kiri and DiMarco have the comfortable, convincing chemistry of two old pals who have done a show for a while. One snippet seems to be an episode on Elisa Lam, the real-life tourist found dead in the rooftop water tank of Los Angeles’ Cecil Hotel. There’s also a reference to a website with a red-faced ghoul who hypnotizes victims into cutting off their ears. The latter may be Tuason seeding his idea for a sequel.

Here the central story is that Justin, who lives in London, has received an email with 10 audio files recorded by a couple named Mike and Jessa (Jeff Yung and Keana Lyn Bastidas) who are trying to understand what she’s saying in her sleep. The sender is unknown. (Possibly an evil spirit hoping for the exposure of a mattress ad?) Justin, the believer, is instantly alarmed by how these eerie tapes escalate from cute banter to ghostly crying babies and backward incantations. Evy is the skeptic who dismisses the noises as either an online hoax or bad plumbing.

Due to the time zone differential, Evy and Justin record their show just before he heads out to work in the morning, which for her is 3 a.m. Most of the movie takes place in that witching-hour window, an airlessly silent time where an at-home podcaster doesn’t worry about being interrupted by a leaf blower, an ice cream truck or a dog. Sound-designed by David Gertsman, “undertone” is so quiet that a tea kettle sounds like a fire alarm. Story-wise, it’s equally inert. One of the biggest action shots in the first hour comes when — eek! — a sink turns on.

I’d love to understand why horror films that I find excruciatingly dull give others the heebie-jeebies. My working theory is that they tap into audiences with a preexisting suspicion that the world is wicked — they prove paranoia to be well-founded. My mental default is that the world is neutral-good, and that may be why I prefer movies with active villains scaring me out of my complacency. I spent “Paranormal Activity” and “Skinamarink” restlessly admiring the production design; here, my main thrill came from the soundscape, like when a vibrating cellphone made my chair rattle like it was a tractor, or a noise that can only be described as death-rattle ASMR.

When Evy slips her on headphones, she’s so focused making sense of the latest scary tape, playing it forward, reversed and slowed-down, that she’s oblivious to the bumps in the night in her own house, upstairs near her comatose mother’s bedroom. I suspect Tuason deeply relates to Evy, to the disassociation of living with death every day, and uses her resistance to explore denial. She refuses to admit that the supernatural is real, even as she repeatedly takes a break to steady herself and, as she puts it, “get back into character.” Her stifled panic makes it obvious that fear is taking over.

The screenplay also has a passing reference to Evy’s useless, off-screen boyfriend Darren (voiced by Ryan Turner). Their miserable dynamic is compelling but overall comes off like a plot point Tuason stuffed in his pocket and never got around to using. Our one peek into it comes when Darren phones Evy to pressure her to ditch her mom and come to a party. He claims he’s throwing a kegger to cheer her up. (A frozen lasagna on the doorstep would be better, dude.)

Evy does reluctantly leave the house — we don’t follow her there — and that one moment says as much about crossed-signals communication as anything else in the movie. It’s bullseye-accurate about how isolating it is to lose a parent earlier than your peers.

The film is so committed to its rigors — the two-person cast, the glacial camera pivots, the moody lighting — that it teeters on the line of becoming monotonous. When Tuason eases up a bit, say in a scene in which Evy pops on a sleep podcast that begins by describing a babbling brook and rapidly becomes a nightmare tale of bobbing corpses, he finally shows you that he has the potential for range.

But “undertone” is rooted in that slow-and-still horror discipline that holds its breath waiting for something to happen. It requires the audience to bring their own bad vibes to shots of religious icons on the wall and long takes of Evy clacking on her laptop, unaware of a flickering light behind her. (Rumor is Tuason has already signed on to shoot the next “Paranormal Activity” sequel.)

Mostly it puts the audience in the position of watching a protagonist so passive that chunks of the running time are watching her sit at a table waiting for Justin to look up things for her on Wikipedia. Like amateur detectives, we learn alongside them as they click around pages about Sumerian devils, Catholic saints and the origin of the nursery rhymes “London Bridge” and “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.”

As visuals go, “undertone” is so far removed from anything resembling the cinematic experience that I left with a fresh appreciation for campfire storytelling. At least then the listener gets to use their own imagination. But production designer Mercedes Coyle does dig up two satisfyingly creepy props: one, an antique speaking doll, the other, a small white statue that appears to be the Virgin Mary until we get a better look at her mouth, deformed by a hungry scream.

Despite my quibbles with how her character reacts when things really go awry, Kiri’s Evy has a clarity of purpose that holds our attention despite not having that much to do. In her strongest sequence, she and Justin take a few live callers on their podcast, some of whom bear bad news about Mike and Jessa, and another who phones up in the middle of a crisis that’s too big for these self-positioned experts to handle. Real violence is coming and these armchair ghosthunters are totally out of their depth. Yes, everyone is into podcasts. Maybe they shouldn’t be.

In “Rooster,” a genial comedy premiering Sunday on HBO, Steve Carell, comfortable as an uncomfortable person, plays Greg Russo, the author of a best-selling series of books whose hero is named Rooster. He has come to leafy, fictional Ludlow College to give a reading, but also because it’s where his daughter, Katie (Charly Clive) teaches art history, and because it’s all over school that her husband, Archie (Phil Dunster), a history professor, has left her for Sunny (Lauren Tsai), a graduate student in neuroscience. He’s a concerned father.

“They are light; they are fun. The characters that you like have sex, the ones you don’t get shot in the face,” Greg tells poetry professor Dylan (Danielle Deadwyler) of the “beach read” books he writes, as she ushers him to an auditorium. Unlike his fictional alter ego, Greg is by his own account a self-conscious introvert, heightened by the fact that his ex-wife, Elizabeth (Connie Britton) — “a philanthropist, a pioneer in corporate gender equality and an accomplished CEO” whose name adorns the school’s new student center — left him five years earlier and he never moved on. Additionally, Greg likes nuts and cocoa, can toss a penny into a jar from across a room, and played minor league hockey, which will put him back on skates here.

College president Walter Mann (John C. McGinley) decides it would be “a feather in his cap” to hire a reluctant Greg, “a best-selling author that the parents have actually heard of,” as an artist-in-residence — a deal he makes impossible to refuse by agreeing to keep Katie on staff after she accidentally burns down Archie’s house. (She was only trying to burn his first edition of “War & Peace.”) It’s a role quite like the one McGinley played/plays on “Scrubs,” but more politic and better dressed, when dressed — he takes meetings in his backyard sauna.

And they’re off.

Poetry professor Dylan (Danielle Deadwyler) and author Greg (Steve Carell) become colleagues when Greg is named artist-in-residence.

(Katrina Marcinowski / HBO)

The series was created by Bill Lawrence (“Ted Lasso,” “Shrinking,” “Scrubs,” “Bad Monkey”) and frequent collaborator Matt Tarses, and as men of at least a certain age, the view is slanted from experience back toward innocence; students play a secondary, though not insignificant role in the story. There are some pro forma jokes about the sensitivities of the young, with Greg getting into not-very-hot water over misunderstood references to “white whale” and the Bangles’ “Walk Like an Egyptian.” (“Liberal arts college used to be havens for free thought, Greg,” says Walt. “When did you and I become the bad guys?”) Not that the olds are reliably smart about life — the ways in which they’re not power the series — but they have a better notion of where they’re stupid.

“No one must be humiliated,” Greg says to Archie, quoting Chekhov, as Archie goes off to talk to Katie. (The quote is in the animated opening titles as well, so you can take it as important.) But no one here is out to humiliate anyone, which is nasty and unkind and not at all the sort of humor Lawrence trades in. Of course, characters will be put into embarrassing positions, or embarrass themselves, embarrassment being the root of all comedy, or near enough. (There’s a good bit of slapstick knitted in.) And though we’re told that “there are real villains lurking around this place,” niceness reigns — at least through the six episodes, of 10, available to review — with the possible exception of Alan Ruck as the dean of English. (“There’s no way she wrote all these poems,” he says of Emily Dickinson.)

Though there are couples, and ex-couples and new couples, one doesn’t necessarily feel invested in their getting together, or staying together, or getting back together. Indeed, as in other Lawrence projects — which typically feature divorced or separated characters — romance is a sort of side dish, less the issue than whether people are managing to treat one another well. We knew Ted Lasso wasn’t going to get his wife back, but it wasn’t the point (nor was winning games, really); kindness was what mattered. Greg’s possibly pre-romantic friendship with Dylan is no more significant than his cross-generational friendship with a group of goofball students (led by Maximo Solas as Tommy); they treat each other as peers, while knowing they aren’t. He teaches them that peanut butter can make celery better, and they teach him that he’s cooler than he thinks.

Katie, who says she still loves Archie — who says he still loves her — will also call him “a run-of-the-mill narcissistic a— who sometimes smells like wildflowers.” (As for Sunny, practical and deadpan — that no one gets her jokes is a running joke — not even Archie can see what she sees in him, a problem you might have as well, but, as is true of most everyone here, we’re not meant to merely write him off. Funny secondary characters, who get some of the best business, notably include Rory Scovel as a cop who can’t keep track of his gun, Robby Hoffman as Sunny’s intense, anti-Archie roommate and Annie Mumolo (co-writer of “Bridesmaids”) as Walt’s arch assistant.

Old-but-not-that-old-fashioned, “Rooster” has a tinge of Gen X nostalgia, underscored by the ’80s college radio classics that line the soundtrack. (R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe co-wrote and sings the series’ theme, and Greg, drunk and in a mood, will kill a party getting the DJ to play “Everybody Hurts.” Directed by Jonathan Krisel (“Portlandia,” “Baskets”), it’s low stakes, soft-edged, humane, basically gentle, a little fantastic, a little farcical, well cast and well played in every instance — qualities I happen to like, and maybe you do, too.

The movie is called “Heel” and its frenetic opening — a flash-cut glimpse of young, handsome, swaggeringly cruel Tommy (Anson Boon) in drug-fueled party mode — seems enough to explain the title. The next time we see him, though, he’s neck-shackled in the basement of a remote English estate. What follows in Polish filmmaker Jan Komasa’s blackly comic, unnerving thriller is clearly meant to evoke “Heel’s” more obedience-minded reading.

And who would be harshing this hooligan’s buzz with a case of reform-minded abduction? An eerily isolated, rules-driven nuclear family: mild-mannered, soft-spoken Chris (Stephen Graham), haunted Catherine (Andrea Riseborough) and polite son Jonathan (Kit Rakusen). They all may as well have sprung from the combined neo-gothic conjurings of Edward Gorey and Harold Pinter. Under Komasa’s direction, the mix of fractured fable and terroristic morality play in Bartek Bartosik’s screenplay is absurd but potent, giving “Heel” enough psychologically twisted juju to nearly always feel like more than the sum of its parts.

Our first glimpse of Tommy chained up, pleading to be let go, is through the eyes of a young Macedonian refugee, Katrina (Monika Frajczyk), being given a tour of the large countryside manor where she’s just been hired by Chris for twice-a-week housework. Katrina, like us, is rightly horrified but she’s in her own bind: undocumented, saved by Chris from the streets, with her signature on a confidentiality agreement and a deportation threat hanging over her. She’s hardly in a position to do much more than accept what’s going on as a grimmer version of her own dead-end predicament.

And yet what’s readily apparent is that this weird, fragile, insular family is genuinely keen on folding Tommy into their lives. They’re also convinced of their unorthodox methods, which hinge on reinforcement and reward. Tommy seems receptive, too, with each invitation to participate in his abductors’ togetherness (meals, movie nights, a picnic). This is when “Heel” is at its most alluringly queasy, a dark commentary on all families as institutions inherently built on confinement and emotional blackmail. (It’s no coincidence one of the movie’s executive producers is Jerzy Skolimowski, who made his own pointed kidnapping allegory with “Moonlighting.”)

Everyone’s broken, so the collective strength of the cast in keeping us on our toes about where this is all headed is a huge plus. The wiry Boon doles out his brash character’s reserves of vulnerability to stunning effect — Tommy is a difficult part and Boon knows how to make it revealing and suspenseful. Graham’s tweaked, sensitive patriarch is tantalizingly far from the heartbreaking dad of “Adolescence” and the gloriously oddball Riseborough makes the most of her faint-voiced mom’s severity. Frajczyk and Rakusen are also pitch-perfect.

Last year Komasa had another family-centered thriller with “Anniversary,” a movie about politics corrupting a happy home. But we know that equation already. “Heel” is Tolstoy’s happy-family maxim cooked in a mad scientist’s lab. While it sometimes shows its seams as an idea movie, its elegant disturbia has a boldness, recalling that great mind-game ’60s era that gave us “TheServant,” “The Collector,” and the early psychological freak-outs of Komasa’s countryman, Roman Polanski.

“Pond rules” dictate that if an animal is hungry, the creature that’s about to become a meal should accept its fate. That’s the first lesson that Mabel (voiced by Piper Curda), an idealistic university student whose mind is transferred into the body of a robotic beaver, learns while interacting with wildlife as one of their own in Pixar’s inventive “Hoppers.” In typical human fashion (we love to meddle with nature), Mabel ends up breaking that directive by saving a “fellow” beaver, the slumberous Loaf (Eduardo Franco), attracting unwanted attention that leads her to a wacky group of characters who will transform her rigid young worldview.

For his second feature, Daniel Chong, best known for creating the popular “We Bare Bears” series for Cartoon Network, has unleashed a hilariously unexpected and outrageous crowd-pleaser with “Hoppers.” Recently, I bemoaned that a movie like Sony’s “Goat” stood as further proof that talking-animal animated films had mostly run their course. Chong and screenwriter Jesse Andrews swiftly push back on that read with this environmentalist tale in defense of people who stand up for something, even when it seems no one is willing to stand beside them.

“Hoppers” is Pixar by way of a creator, Chong, whose career isn’t exclusively tied to the studio. That’s likely why his movie is more daring in its humor and tone, bringing a refreshing infusion of mischief to Pixar while maintaining the genuine emotional gravitas that has endeared the company to audiences for over 30 years.

Why is Mabel’s psyche roaming around inside a fake beaver à la “Avatar”? After discovering that this technology has been developed by one of her professors, Mabel thinks it could be the answer to saving the local forest glade where self-aggrandizing mayor Jerry (Jon Hamm) wants to build a highway. Mabel’s grandmother instilled in her an appreciation for nature as a reminder that she’s part of something greater than herself. Collecting signatures isn’t yielding results to stop construction, so, to the dismay of the scientists in charge, Mabel hops into the human-made mammal to learn from the creatures themselves why they’ve left the glade, giving Jerry carte blanche to destroy their home.

The poignancy-to-comedy ratio is precisely calibrated. Sharp gags, whether visual or in superbly timed lines of dialogue often laced with irony, work on multiple levels. A few moments like an accidental death or the wild introduction of an aquatic character are so wonderfully out of left field they make one’s head spin. That also goes for instances late in Mabel’s adventure in which “Hoppers” steps into amusingly creepy terrain, paying homage to the horror genre. These impish touches involve a wicked caterpillar (Dave Franco) whose mother, the Insect Queen, is voiced by acting royalty Meryl Streep. Each group of animals has its own ruler.

Since most scenes occur in the forest glade, the artists at Pixar have created strikingly rendered settings which, while aiming for photorealism, also have a fantastical glow to them, highlighting the inherent magic of nature. That such a seemingly commonplace location is elevated to feel mesmerizing speaks to how animation can make the mundane anew. That’s on top of how the rotund beavers in “Hoppers” have been conceived for maximum cuteness. One of them, Mabel’s guide through this ecosystem, is the disarmingly adorable King George (Bobby Moynihan), who wears a tiny crown (Where did he get it? No one knows) and rules over all mammals with a gentle hand.

Mabel’s friendship with King George, who doesn’t know she is human, becomes the movie’s heartstring-pulling core. The jovial royal believes he can persuade Jerry to change course. Mabel, conversely, doesn’t think Jerry will listen. Her cynicism and King George’s sincere faith in others clash. Among Mabel’s non-furry pals, Tom Lizard (Tom Law) becomes a scene-stealer. (The crazy-eyed, eloquent reptile first became an online sensation as part of a post-credits scene in “Elio.”)

Chong and his team include a minuscule but brilliant detail that illustrates how character design can have major narrative impact: When the animals are speaking among themselves, their eyes are large and expressive, full of life. But when the film takes the perspective of a human looking at the forest dwellers, their eyes appear small and dark, almost nondescript. It’s a subtly visual symbol for how we often fail to gaze at others with understanding.

There are many heavy hitters still to come, but “Hoppers” feels like the first great animated movie of the year. At a time when our right to protest is under siege, this sci-fi yarn exalts the way an individual’s conviction can plant seeds of change, leading to a stronger sense of community. Neither simplistically optimistic nor preachy, “Hoppers” smuggles timely ideas inside a rodent body. Pond rules would probably call that a beaver victory.

By my count, Philip Glass has written 28 operas, the same number as Verdi. The count is iffy because Glass pushes the boundaries between what we tend to call opera and the fuzzier idea of music theater. His first, “Einstein on the Beach” in 1976 — a collaboration between the composer and the late, innovative theater maker Robert Wilson — is a non-narrative effusion of imagery, movement, music and text, each a brilliantly independent entity that somehow excites a hard-to-pin-down purpose.

His latest (and probably his last, Glass turns 90 this year) is “Circus Days and Nights” — a touching and thrilling opera for a circus and staged at a circus in Mälmo, Sweden, in 2021 — caps a wondrous 45 years of operatic advancement. You would have to go back to Handel’s 42 operas, Mozart’s 22 or Verdi’s oeuvre for operatic equivalence.

Glass’ subject matter varies widely in epochs and ethoses, from ancient Egypt to Walt Disney’s Hollywood. Taken as a whole, these 28 operas reveal how we got to be who we are historically, artistically, spiritually, politically and fancifully, often including more than one of those categories, as in his third opera, “Akhnaten,” which Los Angeles Opera has now remounted at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. The instantly recognizable musical style has remained, over the years, consistently abstract and refreshing. It doesn’t tell you how to think, how to feel, even how to understand. It simply grabs your attention; you do the interpreting.

Still, America knows little of Glass’ operatic enormity. The early “portrait” operas — “Einstein,” “Satyagraha” (about Gandhi) and “Akhnaten” (the 14th century BC Egyptian pharaoh) — appear in repertory here and there (meaning mostly in Europe) as do a trio of operas based on Jean Cocteau films. The rest remain little mounted, while several but not all have been recorded. The Metropolitan Opera, for instance, commissioned “The Voyage” in 1992 to celebrate the 500th anniversary of Columbus’ arrival in the Americas, but the epic opera is nowhere to be found in our semisesquicentennial year. It is sadly no longer even thinkable that “Appomattox,” Glass’ revelatory reminder of an America that once honored goodwill negotiation over political self-interest, return to the Kennedy Center, where its final version had its premiere 11 years ago.

L.A. Opera has been better than most American companies in its attention to Glass. It has excellently presented the three portrait operas on its main stage, beginning with “Einstein” in the final and most brilliant revival of the original Wilson staging. The “Satyagraha” and “Akhnaten” revivals have been the designed-to-dazzle inventions of quirky director Phelim McDermott, a co-founder of Impossible, an eccentric British theater company. When new in the last decade, they felt the most arresting productions of these operas since Achim Freyer’s in Stuttgart, Germany, in the early 1980s. Almost every performance at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion has sold out.

John Holiday as the titular ruler in Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

McDermott’s “Akhnaten” got the most attention thanks to breathtaking jugglers and lavish costumes, along with a touch of full-frontal novelty as Akhnaten gets clothed in his kitschy, glittery getup for his inauguration. Glass had chosen the pharaoh because he is thought to have been the first monotheistic ruler.

Akhnaten is revealed in episodes of his life that are not fleshed out but presented as ritual, including the ravishing love duet with his wife, Nefertiti. The revolutionary pharoah builds a great city and reduces spiritual chaos by focusing on a single-minded form of worship. He looks androgenous in portraits, which led Glass to create the role for countertenor.

The sung texts are in ancient languages, and there are no projected song titles. Instead, a narrator gives a somewhat notion of what’s what in the language of the audience, as is Akhnaten’s great aria, a hymn to Aten (god of the sun).

Ultimately, the pharaoh’s prescient spiritual optimism comes in conflict with the all-powerful establishment priests, who kill Akhnaten and Nefertiti. The opera ends with Akhnaten’s son, presumably Tutankhamun, restoring polytheism, and then, once the staging jumps millennia into the future, it’s rediscovered by modern-day tourists. The currency couldn’t be missed Saturday, the Shia cleric and Iran’s supreme leader Ali Khamenei having just been assassinated along with his wife at the start of America’s and Israel’s Iran war.

Sun-Ly Pierce as Nefertiti and John Holiday as Akhnaten in Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

In the opera, it so happens, the ghosts of Akhnaten, his wife and mother, have the last word in a glorious trio.

When first performed at L.A. Opera a decade ago, the lavish production, co-produced with English National Opera, helped recover a neglected opera. In the meantime, “Akhnaten” has gone practically mainstream. The Metropolitan Opera, which also mounted McDermott’s production, released it on CD and DVD, winning a Grammy for best opera recording.

Since then, the choreographer Lucinda Childs, veteran of “Einstein on the Beach,” has staged a stunningly chic “Akhnaten” in Nice, France, that is available on YouTube. Last year, director Barrie Kosky created a sensation with his staging at Komische Oper Berlin, which starred American countertenor John Holiday.

Holiday happens to be the Akhnaten in the L.A. Opera revival, and he is magnificent. McDermott had built his production around the gracefully emotive Anthony Roth Costanzo, slight and luminous in voice and build and game for nudity. If Costanzo’s disarming enthusiasm for the role has been significant in mainstreaming “Akhnaten,” Holiday, who is a very different presence, may be the next step.

Although he can be a popularly gregarious crossover performer, here he suggests a ruler of profound, unflappable dignity, rather than vulnerability. His hymn to Aten is an exercise in majesty, an ode not just to the sun but to the expanses in which our solar system circulates.

In general, the singers class up the production. Sun-Ly Pierce as Nefertiti and So Young Park as Queen Tye add allure. The large cast of smaller roles and chorus is excellent. Zachary James returns as both Amenhotep III, Akhnaten’s father, and the engaging narrator who occasionally threatens to get carried away. McDermott had perfectly employed James as the droll animatronic Disneyland Lincoln in his animation-friendly, slightly goofy production of “Perfect American” in Madrid, where the opera premiered. Here McDermott’s inspired staging demonstrated that Glass’ forgiving personal portrait of Walt Disney makes it the quintessential Hollywood opera that no one dares bring to squeamish Hollywood.

Zachary James as Amenhotep III in Philip Glass’ “Akhnaten” at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Hollywood, however, is hardly squeamish when it comes to synchronized jugglers. For McDermott, they suggest somber ritual and were, in fact, known in Akhnaten’s Egypt. For the audience, they are a thrill a minute. For Glass, they may take on deeper meaning now that the circus is where he landed 26 operas later.

As for Finnish conductor Dalia Stasevska, making her L.A. opera debut, she keenly keeps score and bounding balls together with cinematic flair. Glass removed violins from the orchestra to achieve a dark, primordial orchestral sound along with pounding percussion. Stasevska finds light, color and action. She conducts for the moment. Picturesque wind instruments suddenly burst forth as if a flock of birds were flying over the pyramids. Solo brass can sound momentous. The percussion pounds like nobody’s business, opening the score up to all the implied emotion and glitter on an over-stuffed stage.

Childs’ exalted use of dance and Kosky’s dazzling theatrical imagination may have moved us into a sleeker, more sophisticated and paradisal Glassian realm, but the sheer passion McDermott and Stasevska bring continues its own attraction.

In the meantime, McDermott has worked with Glass on a theatrical show, “The Tao of Glass,” that has been seen in New York and will run throughout much of the summer in London. In a better world of Glass, it would be running alongside “Akhnaten” at the Ahmanson. But the Labèque sisters will be at Walt Disney Concert Hall at the end of the month with a two-piano program based on Glass’ operatic Cocteau trilogy. Also check out L.A. Opera’s several excellent podcasts on “Ahkhnaten” — the company has quietly become a leader in the medium.

“The Bride!” is a maniacal assemblage of ’30s musicals, ’40s noirs, 19th century literature and 21st century ideology. Every wacky second, you’re well aware how perilously close it is to falling apart at the seams. This spiritual sequel to “Frankenstein” is a romantic tale of obsession, possession and fantasy — adjectives that also apply to its filmmaker, Maggie Gyllenhaal, who expends massive quantities of energy jolting it to life. She succeeds by the skin of her teeth.

The monster’s missus comes with as much narrative anticipation as Godot. Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel has Dr. Frankenstein bicker with his creature about her potential existence before deciding against it in fear that “she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate.” Over a hundred years later, the debate continued, raging through nearly all of 1935’s “Bride of Frankenstein” which finally introduces Elsa Lanchester and her sky-high bouffant five minutes before the end credits, just enough time for her to make an iconic impression before her arranged husband blows them both to smithereens. Boris Karloff laments, “She hate me.” Lanchester’s Bride never speaks and quite possibly never knows what is happening to her at all.

Gyllenhaal’s empowerment story, meanwhile, feels like an unhinged scream. Jessie Buckley (who starred in Gyllenhaal’s debut, “The Lost Daughter”) tackles the dual roles of the Bride and Shelley, a hat tip to Lanchester, who did the same thing. The action starts in Shelley’s grave where she’s spent centuries seething about the sequel she never dared to write, then cuts to an American nightclub, where her spirit suddenly possesses a drunken strumpet named Ida (Buckley) — not smoothly but herky-jerky, with the angry author causing this gangster’s moll to go on the fritz. Her accent alternates mid-sentence from city gal to snidely British, Ida loudly accusing a mob boss of murdering women. She’s right and she’s next.

Our setting is 1936 Chicago, but this is an exaggerated, fictional world, not ours or even Karloff’s. Elsewhere in town, the original creature, played by Christian Bale, has lurched here from Austria still on his lonely quest for companionship. (For simplicity’s sake, he goes by Frank.) He begs the ethically gray Dr. Euphronius (Annette Bening) to help him finally experience what he chivalrously calls, “a garden of pleasure.” The blunter and crasser Euphronius asks if Frank has a specific shape of mammaries in mind. (Her maid, played by Jeannie Berlin, is a riot.)

This Bride comes alive roughly and rudely not having given her consent either. Regardless, now that she’s here, she still has to figure out her next move, with or without Frank, and often without key pieces of information. Frank has convinced her she’s an amnesiac. Also, somehow, she doesn’t even know that she’s dead.

The theme is, of course, a woman’s right to choose. But what’s interesting about Gyllenhaal’s approach is that she expands Ida’s options beyond an enthusiastic yes and a priggish no into a dim sum menu that includes a dubious yes, an asterisked yes and a no that rejects even having to answer the question. She also overuses Bartleby the Scrivener’s line, “I would prefer not to.” I would prefer not to hear that quote a dozen times in two hours, but neither I nor the Bride get exactly what we want.

A perversity in the script is that Frank is a manipulator and a gaslighter but overall a pretty good dude. Their bond is messy and thrilling, with one of the most delightful romantic montages in ages. There’s a great scene where Frank exposes his unbeating heart to her and gets rejected, yet he laughs with delight because the Bride’s stubborn spirit is exactly what he likes about her.

The Bride also looks dynamite in her bias-cut coral dress and peekaboo black lace bra. Her zapping turns her entire head of hair — not just a streak — shocking white à la Jean Harlow, and leaves an oddly-appealing black blotch on her cheek. It’s a fabulous look, at once sexy and frightful, with an element of cartoonishness as the movie sends her speeding around the country pursued by gangsters and the police, changing stolen cars but never her clothes.

The movie makes no secret of its phony mechanics. In one scene, the Bride is the most famous outlaw in America; in the next, a cop doesn’t recognize her at all. There are several moments that force you to accept that the characters can become psychic at will, including one where Frank somehow mind-controls a party to dance the jitterbug — heck, we almost believe that he invented it — and the smart move is just to give in and enjoy the number.

Whatever Gyllenhaal wants to do, she does, which becomes its own act of captivation and reckless empowerment. It helps that Buckley and Bale are terrific, as is the ensemble at large. The full force of Lawrence Sher’s cinematography, Karen Murphy’s production design and Hildur Guðnadóttir’s orchestral score is fabulous, combining to make something seedy, moody and extravagant.

Gyllenhaal’s love for other variations of this story is right up there onscreen with brash callbacks to Mel Brooks’ 1974 “Young Frankenstein” and the underrated “Frankenhooker.” Yet “The Bride!” isn’t just assembled from her passion for those movies. It seems to be made of every movie: a wild and playful and overbearing ambulation of references.

Almost every role is a Frankencharacter of the director’s cinematic obsessions, like Penelope Cruz’s lady detective who is named for “The Thin Man’s” Myrna Loy, acts like “His Girl Friday’s” Rosalind Russell, and dresses like Barbara Stanwyck in “Double Indemnity.” I suspect that Gyllenhaal’s favorite movie might be the same as my own, the bitterly nostalgic ’80s-does-’30s Steve Martin musical “Pennies From Heaven.” Watch it and tell me if you agree and even if you don’t, at least you’ll have seen one of the greatest films of all time.

There’s a scene in which Frank meets his own idol, an alt-world version of Fred Astaire (played by Gyllenhaal’s brother Jake, who is good at mugging and singing), and vomits his fandom at him until the actor recoils. The intensity of devotion can feel a bit like that. It also exposes that our culture is ready for its own shock of invention. Shelley spawned the entire genre of modern science fiction; today’s talents often feel like remix artists.

Like the mad scientists she’s sending up, Gyllenhaal goes too far. She triply underlines her feminist themes and nearly sabotages her own clever creation. Ironically, she doesn’t trust the audience to think for itself either. The overkill hits its nadir when the Bride repeatedly wails the survivors’ hashtag, “Me too!” But grab a scalpel and cut 10 minutes out of it and “The Bride!” would be a rip-roaring dazzler. This monster is more than alive, it’s allliiiiiive.

The lovely, funny “American Classic,” premiering Sunday on MGM+, is a love letter to theater, community and community theater. Kevin Kline plays Richard Bean, a narcissistic stage actor. He’s famous enough to be opening on Broadway in “King Lear,” but he has to be pushed onstage and is forgetting lines. After he drunkenly assails a hostile New York Times critic — caught on video, of course — he’s suspended from the play, and his agent (Tony Shalhoub) advises him to get out of town and lay low until the heat’s off, as they used to say in the gangster movies.

Learning that his mother (Jane Alexander, acting royalty, in film clips) has died, Richard heads back to his small Pennsylvania hometown, where his family — all actors, like the Barrymores, but no longer acting — owns a once-celebrated theater. To Richard’s horror, it has, for want of income, become a dinner theater, hosting touring productions of “Nunsense” and “Forever Plaid” instead of the great stage works on which he cut his teeth.

Brother Jon (Jon Tenney), running the kitchen at the theater, is married to Kristen (Laura Linney), Richard’s onetime acting partner, who dated him before her marriage; now she’s the mayor. Their teenage daughter, Miranda (Nell Verlaque) — a name from Shakespeare — does want to act and move to New York, as her mother had before her, but is afraid to tell her parents. Richard’s father, Linus (Len Cariou), is suffering from dementia, though not to the point he won’t actively contribute to the action; every day he comes out again as gay.

Across the eight-episode series, things move from the ridiculous to the sublime. Richard’s attempt to stage his mother’s funeral, with her coffin being lowered from the ceiling, while “Also sprach Zarathustra” plays and smoke billows toward the audience, fortunately comes to naught; but he announces at the ceremony that he’ll direct a production of Thornton Wilder’s 1938 play “Our Town” at the theater, to “restore the soul of this town.” (His big idea is to ignore Wilder’s stage directions, which ask for no curtain, no set and few props, with a “realistic version,” featuring a working soda fountain, rain effects and a horse.) Fate will have other plans for this, and not to give away what in any case should be obvious, the title of the play will also become its ethos, with a cast of amateurs, including Miranda’s jealous boyfriend, Randall (Ajay Friese), and ordinary people standing in for the ordinary people of Wilder’s Grover’s Corners.

The series has a comfortable, cushiony feeling; it’s the sort of show that could have been made as a film in the 1990s, and in which Kline could have starred as easily in his 40s as in his 70s; it has the same relation to reality as “Dave,” in which he played a good-hearted ordinary Joe who takes the place of a lookalike U.S. president. The town is essentially a sunny place, full of mostly sunny people, to all appearances, a typical comedy hamlet. But we’re told it’s distressed, and Mayor Kristen is in transactional cahoots with developer Connor Boyle (Billy Carter), who wants clearance to build a casino on the site of a landmark hotel. (Much of the plot is driven by money — needing it, trading for it, leaving it, losing it.) He also wants his heavily accented, bombshell Russian girlfriend, Nadia (Elise Kibler), to have a part in “Our Town.”

As in the great Canadian comedy “Slings & Arrows,” set at a Shakespeare Festival outside of Toronto, themes and moments and speeches from the play being performed are echoed in the lives of the performers, while the viewer experiences the double magic of watching a fine actor playing an actor playing a part. Kline, of course, is himself an American classic, with a long stage and screen career that encompasses classical drama, romantic and musical comedy and cartoon voiceovers; the series makes room for Richard to perform soliloquies from “Hamlet” and “Henry V,” parts Klein has played onstage. He brings out the sweetness latent in Richard. Linney, who played against her sweetheart image in “Ozark,” is happily back on less deadly ground (though she’s tense and drinks a little). Tenney, who was sweet and funny on “The Closer,” and who we don’t see enough of these days, is sweeter and funnier here, and gets to sing. (All the Beans will sing, except for Linus.)

As a comedy, it is often predicable — you know that things will work out, and some major plot points are as good as inevitable — but it’s the good sort of predictability, where you get what you came for, where you hear the words you want to hear, ones you could never have written yourself. “American Classic” is not out to challenge your world view in any way but wants only to confirm your feelings and in doing so amplify them. Shock effects are fine in their place — and to be sure there are major twists in the plot — but there is a certain release when the thing you’re ready to have happen, happens, whether it brings laughter or tears. Either is welcome.

That the “The Napa Boys” won’t be everyone’s cup of tea — or in this case, goblet of wine — almost feels like this meta comedy’s raison d’être. And to say its fusillade of jokes is hit-and-miss would also be a charitable take. They’re mostly miss, even if that, too, can seem like kind of the point.

Co-writers and co-stars Nick Corirossi and Armen Weitzman (Corirossi also directed) have assembled a series of scenes in search of a story, sending up pivotal moments from a hodgepodge of movies, some real (“Sideways,” “American Pie,” “The Lord of the Rings”), some invented. I’ll admit, it took a minute to understand what the filmmakers were doing (their grandiose statement in the movie’s press kit is purposely unenlightening) and, thus, for this grab bag of nonsense to sink in.

Still, once you realize what the heck it is you’re watching, you might just settle in for a more diverting — or less terrible — time than first expected. But the lower your entertainment bar, the better.

The barely-there plot finds a group of pals and wine aficionados, a.k.a. the Napa Boys, gathering in the California valley (Malibu subbed) for a screwball adventure that, among much else, will involve a coveted wine competition at something called the Great Grape Festival.

The hapless group includes its leader, the crassly horny Jack Jr. (Corirossi), sad-sack widower Miles Jr. (Weitzman), conflicted family man Kevin (Nelson Franklin), underdog vintner Mitch (Mike Mitchell) and a kinder, newer member known only — in an all-caps nod to “American Pie” — as Stifler’s Brother (Jamar Neighbors). Meanwhile, a devotee and “investigative podcaster,” Puck (Sarah Ramos), also joins the guys on their wayward journey.

The film’s goofy conceit is that this is the fourth installment of a Napa Boys movie series (based on nonexistent graphic novels), with the official on-screen title of “The Napa Boys 4: The Sommelier’s Amulet” (Dig that “Indiana Jones”-style font.) As a result, it unfolds as if the viewer is already intimate with a franchise’s culture and lore, dropping us smack into the thick of things with little, if any, context. Confused yet?

This ploy hands Corirossi (a former head creative at Funny or Die) and Weitzman a license to be as slapdash and surface as possible, which, it would seem, is also part of the picture’s wobbly in-joke. Because this alt comedy makes no bones about its characters or situations being even remotely logical or realistic, anything goes — and does. You sometimes wish it didn’t.

Case in point: After a meds mix-up, unruly Jack Jr. (he and Miles Jr. are always addressed with the suffix) unleashes his explosive diarrhea into a barrel of contest-qualifying wine, after which he “spontaneously” ejaculates into it. And then, natch, the judges must sample the concoction. It’s an awful, protracted sequence that begs the question, satire or not, is this truly the funniest bit they could hatch? (To be fair, it’s likely some viewers will, uh, eat it up.)

That aside, the film’s barrage of scenes, sketches, shout-outs and absurdist scenarios leading up to the climactic wine-making championship are largely harmless flights of farce. These involve sex, love, death, near-death, maybe incest, lots of wine tasting (why is the vino here iced-tea brown?) and a moose on the loose.

There are also rides in Jack Jr.’s showy “Wine Wagon” SUV (license plate: IH8MERLOT), beatific montages backed by swelling strings celebrating the “joys” of Napa Boys life (“To be a Napa Boy is to be free!”) and a surprise — and rather pointless — cameo by those other movie “brainiacs,” Jay (Jason Mewes) and Silent Bob (Kevin Smith). There’s also an anxious visit to Jack Jr.’s onetime hookup, the now-elderly sexpert called the Milfonator (Eve Sigall). Oh, and is that really iconic filmmaker and vintner Francis Ford Coppola as the wine competition’s “super-secret celebrity guest judge”? (Two guesses.)

All this inanity takes place over the course of a handful of days, during which no one ever seems to change clothes. Couldn’t Jack Jr. have packed at least two Hawaiian shirts?

And what of the title’s elusive sommelier (DJ Qualls of “Road Trip” fame) and his mystical green amulet? He makes an almost tacked-on, Yoda-like appearance, but it’s too little, too late.

The game if uneven cast includes Paul Rust (channeling Paul Reubens, with whom he co-wrote 2016’s “Pee-wee’s Big Holiday”) as Squirm, Mitch’s insufferably cruel wine-making rival; David Wain (who directed and co-wrote “Wet Hot American Summer,” another spoofy touchstone here) as the wine contest’s even-handed host; and playing the guys’ various love interests: Chloe Cherry, Vanessa Chester, Riki Lindhome and Beth Dover.

Reportedly shot in under 10 days, the film features such fun needle drops as the Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love,” Gerry Rafferty’s “Family Tree” and, of all things to accompany a seduction scene, “The Girls of Rock ‘n’ Roll” sung by Alvin and the Chipmunks and the Chipettes. How this proudly low-budget effort managed to license those tunes is as curious as so much else in this ragtag oddity.

Mexican writer-director Michel Franco (“Memory”) explores dynamics of money, class and the border through the spiky, unsettling erotic drama “Dreams,” starring Jessica Chastain and Isaac Hernández, a Mexican ballet dancer and actor.

In the languidly paced movie, Franco presents two individuals in love (or lust?) who experiment with wielding the power at their fingertips against each other. The film examines the push-pull of attraction and rejection on a scope that’s both intimate and global, finding the uneasy space where the two meet.

Chastain stars as Jennifer McCarthy, a wealthy San Francisco philanthropist and socialite who runs a foundation that supports a ballet school in Mexico City. But Franco does not center on her experience, but that of Fernando (Hernández), whom we meet first escaping from the back of a box truck filled with migrants crossing the U.S.–Mexico border. He’s abandoned in San Antonio on a 100-degree day.

His journey is one of extreme survival, but his destination is the lap of luxury: a modernist San Francisco mansion where he makes himself at home and where he’s clearly been before. A talented ballet dancer who has already once been deported, he’s risked everything to be with his lover, Jennifer, though, as a high-profile figure, she’d rather keep her affair with Fernando under wraps. He’s her dirty little secret but he’s also a human being who refuses to be kept in the shadows.

As Jennifer and Fernando attempt to navigate what it looks like for them to be together, it seems that larger forces will shatter their connection. In reality, the only real danger is each other.

The storytelling logic of “Dreams” is predicated on watching these characters move through space, the way we watch dancers do. Franco offers some fascinating parallels to juxtapose the wildly varying experiences of Fernando and Jennifer — he almost dies of thirst and heat stroke; she arrives in Mexico on a private plane, but both enter empty homes alone, melancholy. During a rift in their relationship, Fernando retreats to a motel, drinking red wine out of plastic cups with a friend in his humble room, ignoring Jennifer’s calls, while she eats alone in her darkened dining room, sipping out of crystal.

These comparisons aren’t exactly nuanced but they are stark and, for most of the film, Franco just asks us to watch them move together and apart, in a strange, avoidant pas de deux. Often dwarfed by architecture, their distinctive bodies in space are more important than the sparse dialogue that only serves to fill in crucial gaps in storytelling.

Cinematographer Yves Cape captures it all in crisp, saturated images. The lack of musical score (beyond diegetic music in the ballet scenes) contributes to the dry, flat affect and tone, as these characters enact increasing cruelties — both emotional and physical — upon each other as a means of trying to contain each other, until it escalates into something truly dark and disturbing.

Franco loses the plot of “Dreams” in the third act. What is a rather staid drama about the weight of social expectations on a relationship becomes a dramatically unexpected game of vengeance as Jennifer and Fernando grasp at any power they have over the other. She fetishizes him and he returns the favor, violently.

Ultimately, Franco jettisons his characters for the sake of unearned plot twists that leave the viewer feeling only icky. These events aren’t illuminating and feel instead like a bleak betrayal. The circumstances of the story might be timely, but “Dreams” doesn’t help us understand the situation better, leaving us in the dark about what we’re supposed to take away from this story of sex, violence, money and liberty. Anything it suggests we already know.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.