review

Escape to the Dolomite mountains in northern Italy this winter for stunning scenery and rooms with a view at this striking treehouse spa hotel

There’s certainly something magical about being in the mountains at this time of year, and if you’re looking for an upmarket alpine escape, Brixen in Italy’s Dolomites region ticks all the boxes.

South Tyrol’s oldest town, Brixen – also known as Bressanone – is a popular destination for domestic and international holidaymakers alike, who come for skiing in the winter and walking in the summer. With German as the locals’ first language, the region feels much more Austrian than Italian. It was, in fact, part of Austria-Hungary until the end of the First World War.

If you’re lucky enough to have snow when you visit, Brixen will look like a scene from a snowglobe, with medieval churches, traditional Christmas markets and a festive light and music show held throughout the small town.

Brixen is easily accessible from Bolzano, Innsbruck, Venice and Verona airports, but if the flights work for you, do try to fly via SkyAlps, South Tyrol’s very own airline, direct from London to Bolzano. The journey is a delight, and you’ll feel like you’ve gone back to a golden age of aviation as you board the little propeller plane, which carries no more than 76 passengers. Drinks and snacks (many of which are local to the region) are complimentary, and you get to enjoy stunning views of the mountains as you fly over them.

My Arbor hotel

The My Arbor hotel, a few kilometres uphill from Brixen, has the wow factor as soon as you pull up to it. Perched on the side of a mountain, half of the hotel is raised up on what look like impossibly spindly stilts, as if the architect sketched a design for a treehouse after watching War Of The Worlds . The result is modern yet also completely in tune with the surrounding nature.

The ‘tree hotel’ theme continues as you step through the front door, with huge trunks hanging from the ceiling of the spacious lobby, leading onto a terrace that opens out onto views of the valley below.

The bedrooms are wood-panelled too, in a contemporary chalet-style design. The highlight is the huge daybed in the windows of the rooms, putting you right among the treetops as you lounge with your morning coffee, watching the clouds clear off the mountains in the distance. For total luxury, you can stay in one of three Treetop Suites, which have private terraces and their own whirlpool hot tubs.

The spa at My Arbor

The Spa Arboris is the star of the show at My Arbor, with two entire floors dedicated to wellness, and it’s clearly popular with guests. The first floor allows clothing and has a large indoor/outdoor pool, sauna and plenty of beds. But if you want to embrace German spa culture and leave your swimsuit and your inhibitions behind, then head down to the ‘textile-free’ floor (no one is looking, trust us), where you’ll find lots more saunas, steam rooms and an outdoor hydropool. It’s down here where ‘sauna infusions’ take place four times a day too, involving intense heat, powerful music and essential oils.

Outside, cosy heated ‘cuddle nests’ can also be booked for two-hour periods, filled with snuggly blankets and uninterrupted views.

My Arbor

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From about £225 per person, per night

Booking.com

Book here

A striking treehouse-style hotel in Italy’s beautiful South Tyrol, with stunning views, seven-course dinners and a world class spa.

The food at My Arbor

Most guests at My Arbor stay half-board, and you certainly won’t go hungry here. Dinner consists of a seven-course menu with a changing theme every night, alongside buffet salads, cheese boards and desserts. To accompany it is a huge wine list that the helpful staff are only too happy to advise on. Impressively, our waiter expertly talked us through the 600-bottle offering in English, his third language.

At breakfast you’ll find a selection of all the usual continental favourites – breads, meats, cheeses and pastries – as well as healthier options such as kefir water, freshly squeezed blueberry juice and different flavours of porridge every day.

What to do around My Arbor

The Plose ski resort and cable car is nearby, but locals tell us it’s not one of the Dolomites’ major ski destinations. Instead, most visitors come for the walking, with dozens of picturesque, well-signposted trails around the area. We visited earlier in the year, so our hiking routes felt like scenes straight out of The Sound Of Music , taking us past wildflower meadows, bleating baby goats, ancient churches and trickling streams. We don’t think it gets any more idyllic than that.

How much does it cost to stay at My Arbor?

Rooms at My Arbor start from about £225 per person, per night. SkyAlps operates flights from London Gatwick to Bolzano three times a week, from around £140 each way. Children under two travel free of charge.

To watch “Trifole” is to fall in love with Langhe, a gorgeous section of the Piedmont region of northern Italy. Famed for its farming, cheeses and wine, this hilly, rural countryside feels cut off from modernity: an agrarian past perfectly preserved in an uncertain present. Among Langhe’s hallmarks is its rich tradition of truffle foraging, which becomes the centerpiece for director Gabriele Fabbro’s gentle drama about an aging truffle hunter, his restless granddaughter and a way of life vanishing before their eyes. Unfortunately, this heartfelt film resonates most strongly through those majestic landscapes, not via the story that unfolds.

Constructed with the elemental purity of a fable, “Trifole” introduces the viewer to Dalia (Ydalie Turk), who’s in her late 20s and visiting her grandfather Igor (Umberto Orsini). The trip is a reluctant one for Dalia. Prompted by her anxious mother Marta (Margherita Buy), she’s taking a break from her stalled life in London to check in on him due to Marta’s concern that his failing memory may require him to abandon his beloved crumbling cottage and enter a nursing home. When Igor initially mistakes Dalia for his daughter — Dalia’s mother — his confusion validates Marta’s worries.

Happy to live out the rest of his days in his remote paradise alongside his loyal dog Birba, who ably assists him in his truffle hunts, Igor is displeased that Dalia has rejected her family roots for the big city. Indeed, Dalia has trouble with her Italian, and when she offers to help him find truffles, he insists his granddaughter doesn’t have the instincts or the calloused hands necessary for the job. But Igor isn’t just adept at sniffing out truffles — he quickly deduces that she’s emotionally lost. (A writing career hasn’t materialized as she’d hoped.) Both of them are at a crossroads, neither sure what the future holds.

Turk and Fabbro, who co-wrote the screenplay, did extensive research on the region, incorporating locals’ stories into the narrative. No matter how fantastical “Trifole” eventually becomes, the filmmakers insist the plot points derive from tales they collected. (To that end, there actually is an Igor, Birba is a real truffle-hunting dog and there’s a 2020 documentary, “The Truffle Hunters,” that correlates with much of what we see.) Not surprisingly, this melancholy picture celebrates and mourns Langhe, a region imperiled by global warming and encroaching industrialization that threaten the once-fecund practice of truffle gathering. Igor’s fading memory proves to be an apt, albeit obvious metaphor for a vocation slowly losing its connection to its past as truffles have emerged as a hot gastronomic trend.

In its early stretches, “Trifole” is almost rudimentary in its storytelling, establishing a familiar generational conflict between Dalia and Igor, who live under the same roof but can’t see eye to eye. When she tries to compliment his picturesque farmland, he curtly responds, “It’s nothing like the soil I knew when I was young.” The tension only escalates once Dalia discovers he’s terribly behind on his mortgage, owing hundreds of thousands he doesn’t have. Igor’s only hope is to find an elusive (and valuable) white truffle that could save him from foreclosure. But he is now too frail to brave the deep woods. Dalia, guided by Birba, must take up the quest.

The film’s themes are simply drawn and easy to follow. Dalia may reside in cosmopolitan London but is, of course, miserable, with wise old Igor immediately diagnosing the cause of her malaise. “You don’t love anything,” he advises sagely. “This will end up hurting you a lot.” Consequently, Dalia’s journey to find the mythical white truffle will also be an opportunity to locate a sense of purpose, coming to appreciate her grandfather in a more profound way. Turk conceives her character as a collection of insecurities and hesitant expressions, making Dalia the perfect candidate to be metaphorically reborn through an unlikely forest adventure in which magical events will occur.

In his sophomore feature, Fabbro, who previously directed the 2021 romantic thriller “The Grand Bolero,” juxtaposes the quiet grace of Igor’s modest life with the cacophony and commercialism of contemporary truffle auctions. But Fabbro’s wistful salute to bygone traditions has significant limitations, especially noticeable in the reductive design of his diametrically opposed main characters. Now in his early 90s, Orsini (best known for Luchino Visconti’s 1969 drama “The Damned”) projects a fragile but resilient gravitas that’s quite affecting, but Igor is reduced to a noble symbol — a simplification that also undercuts Dalia, who is little more than a stand-in for a younger generation ignorant of its country’s history.

Only when Fabbro trains his camera on the Langhe skies, the land stretching off into the distance, does “Trifole” suggest the weight and majesty of a culture in danger of disappearing. You can almost touch the sacred soil of Igor’s youth, a world that he alone remembers.

You know millennial nostalgia has reached a dangerous peak when there’s a new “Now You See Me” in theaters. The last time we encountered the merry band of Robin Hood prankster magicians known as the Horsemen, it was the Obama era, when “Now You See Me 2,” the sequel to the hit 2013 film, opened in the summer of 2016. Were we ever so young?

Back then, the Horsemen, played by Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, Dave Franco and either Isla Fisher or Lizzy Caplan as the token girl magician, used the principles of magic for altruistic purposes, redistributing wealth and saving the world from various evil tech overlords.

We’re in even worse shape now, so why not do magic about it? It couldn’t hurt and it seems there’s literally nothing else we can do to exert any modicum of control over billionaires who are exacerbating environmental degradation and dangerous technology.

With “Now You See Me: Now You Don’t,” director Ruben Fleischer takes over the franchise reins from Jon M. Chu (now preoccupied with “Wicked”), who himself took over from Louis Leterrier (the screenplay is by Seth Grahame-Smith, Michael Lesslie and Rhett Reese). Some nine years down the line, fresh blood is needed, so “Now You Don’t” plays like “Now You See Me: The New Class,” introducing a trio of budding magicians who take inspiration from the Horsemen.

A reunion show at a Bushwick warehouse turns out to be — you guessed it — an illusion, with a group of young aspiring magicians, June (Ariana Greenblatt), Charlie (Justice Smith) and Bosco (Dominic Sessa), aping the Horsemen’s faces and using clever presentation in order to rob from the rich (corrupt crypto bros) to give to the poor (their fellow broke Gen-Zers). They’re happy to continue their scrappy operation, living in a converted loft in a bagel factory, until an actual Horseman, J. Daniel Atlas (Eisenberg) shows up at their place with an invite in the form of a tarot card, from an entity known as the Eye.

Turns out they’ve got bigger fish to fry: The whale is Veronika Vanderberg (a hilarious Rosamund Pike), a South African diamond heiress with a prize jewel known as the Heart Diamond and a very shady family history. The quest to steal the Heart will take the Horsemen from Antwerp to rural France and then to Abu Dhabi, where they will use their magical abilities to get out of jams, mess with Veronika and ultimately bring justice to the South African communities that have been exploited by diamond mining (naturally). This globe-trotting adventure will also bring together all generations of Horsemen, including former friends and foes, reminding us that even in comparison to big shiny diamonds, the most important natural resource in the world is friendship.

The funny thing about the “Now You See Me” movies, which are delightfully silly, frothy and ultimately quite stupid (in the best way), is that they’re not really about magic. They’re about puzzles and rubber masks and whipping playing cards through the air and escape rooms. But it’s unclear if anything that they do is actually magic. Sure, there are fantastical illusions (some clearly CGI-enhanced) and Henley (Fisher) is a master of escapology, but half the time, the Horsemen are merely setting up elaborate ruses and then their “show” consists of explaining how they tricked one person, which leads to that person’s arrest. Is that magic? It’s misdirection and lying and showmanship on an internationally grand scale, but it’s more “Mission: Impossible” than David Copperfield. It’s like if Ethan Hunt got on stage and explained everything he did to an adoring crowd before giving them all a monetary gift, Oprah-style.

If the Horsemen say it’s magic, fine. Even though the script is laden with expository dialogue — the amount of times they stand in a circle and babble lore at each other is unconscionable — there’s a fleetness to the pacing and the new additions are charming, particularly insouciant scamp Sessa, whose Bosco matches energy with Eisenberg’s smartest-guy-in-the-room arrogance.

Fleischer’s signature style is slick but chintzy, which works here. (There’s something appropriate for the style of a film about magicians being being shiny but cheap.) The first action sequence is incomprehensible, but they get better throughout. Most importantly, Fleischer knows there’s a winking element when it comes to performing or enjoying magic. It’s campy, it’s cheesy, it’s way more fun than you expect it to be, but there’s a knowingness to the whole endeavor. “Now You See Me: Now You Don’t” is the kind of lightweight, harmless and ephemeral entertainment that allows us to be escape artists from reality for a minute, so go ahead and indulge.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

Look around lately and 20th century science fiction has become 21st century fact. Real life in the year 2025 — the date in which Stephen King set his 1982 novel “The Running Man” — involves technological surveillance, corporate feudalism, infotainment propaganda and extreme inequality, all things that his story about a grisly game show predicted. King, like the great sci-fi authors Philip K. Dick and George Orwell before him, was writing a cautionary tale. But the decades since have seen people take their bleak ideas as a blueprint, like when Elon Musk bragged on X that the Tesla Cybertruck is “what Bladerunner would have driven,” missing the point that we don’t want to live in a dystopia (and that Bladerunner isn’t even Harrison Ford’s name in “Blade Runner”).

The timing couldn’t be better — and worse — for Edgar Wright to remake “The Running Man,” only to put no fire into it. He and his co-writer Michael Bacall have adapted a fairly faithful version of the book, unlike the 1987 Arnold Schwarzenegger meathead extravaganza. (The only way to suffer through that one is if you imagine it’s a parody of pun-driven testosterone flicks.) Tellingly, they’ve left off the year 2025 and only lightly innovated the production design with spherical drones. But there’s little urgency or outrage. Instead of a funhouse mirror of what could be, it’s merely a smudged reflection of what is.

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Glen Powell stars as Ben Richards, a cash-strapped, employer-blacklisted father who begrudgingly agrees to be a contestant on a television hit that no one has survived. There’s only one network, FreeVee, and its goals overlap enough with those of the government that the distinction between them isn’t worth parsing. Every day Ben dodges a death squad, he’ll earn money for his wife, Sheila (Jayme Lawson), and sick baby, up to a billion “new” dollars if he can last a month. (The updated bills have the Governator’s face printed on them.)

But as ever, the game is rigged. The network’s boss, Dan Killian (Josh Brolin), and smarmy host Bobby T (Colman Domingo) rally viewers to turn Ben in for a cash prize, fibbing that he’s a freeloader who refuses to get a job, the typical tax-leeching scapegoat trotted out to turn the middle class against the poor and the poor against themselves. One enraged FreeVee-addicted granny (Sandra Dickinson) genuinely believes Ben eats puppies. “She used to be a kind, clever woman,” her son says with resignation.

Clearly, Wright wants to make a political satire that echoes the drivel of our own actual news. The politics are there in the armored vehicles rolling down city streets and the masked militias out to nab Ben for the bounty money. Yet we don’t feel the paranoia of eyeballs over the streets, even though it turns out that there’s no way to disguise Powell’s foxlike features under a silly stick-on mustache. A hustler named Molie (William H. Macy) warns that the TVs themselves are watching people. It doesn’t really feel like they are. I’ve felt more uneasy in a house with an Alexa.

As for the satire, this faintly cruder version of right now doesn’t have much bite. Little we see is surprising, stimulating or even that futuristic. Screens blare commercials for a drink called Liquid Death (real) and a Kardashian-esque reality show called “The Americanos” (essentially real). The film’s sole representative of upper-middle-class normality — a hostage named Amelia (Emilia Jones) — could trade places with any Pilates instructor.

When an underground rebel, Bradley (Daniel Ezra), breaks down how the network chases ratings by flattening people into archetypes, he’s not telling today’s audience anything it doesn’t already know. King wrote the character as an environmental activist; here, he’s more of a TV critic. Likewise, Bradley’s crony Elton (Michael Cera) has mutated from a pathetic idealist to a Monster-chugging chaos agent — as if “Home Alone’s” Kevin McCallister grew up to join Antifa. Elton’s motivations don’t make sense, but at least Cera barges into the movie with so much energy that his sequence is a hoot. Chuckling that he likes his “bacon extra crispy” as he takes aim at a police squad, he also breaks the seal on this remake’s use of bad puns. From his scenes on, the script crams in as many groaners as it can.

Wright has talent for casting actors that pop. Domingo’s fatuous celebrity host is fantastic, even doing the retro running man dance with Kid ‘n Play aplomb. We see just enough of Ben’s fellow competitors, played by Katy O’Brian and Martin Herlihy, to wish we had more time with them. One of the hunters, Karl Glusman, has so much intensity that I’ll be looking out for what he does next. Pity that the charismatic Lee Pace’s main villain has to spend most of the film covered by a shroud.

Meanwhile, Powell is being put through his own test of Hollywood survival. Everyone seems to agree that he’s the next movie star, but he hasn’t yet landed the right star-making vehicle. Here, as ever, he’s being treated like a Swiss Army knife on a construction site: Handy at a lot of things from humor to action to drama to romance, but his character lacks the oomph to truly showcase his skills. We’re told over and over that Ben is the angriest man in the world, but Powell’s innate likability, that cocky-charming heroic twinkle in his eye, makes him come across peevish at worst. His best moments are all comedy, like when Ben slaps on a thick brogue to hide out as an Irish priest, or his snappy back-and-forth with a psychologist who puts him through a word-association test. (Anarchy? “Win.” Justice? “Hilarious.”)

Still, I missed the truly misanthropic lead of King’s novella, a sour bigot radicalized to see himself not just as a cog in a machine but as a spoke in a revolution. There’s lip service to that idea here, but the film doesn’t take itself seriously enough to give us the chills. It’s not fair to judge “The Running Man” by how closely it hews to the book — and if you remember King’s ending, then you know there’s no way Wright could have pulled that off, although his fix is pretty clever. But tonally, there’s just not enough rage, gore or fun.

Maybe Wright feels the same way too. He’s been wanting to make this movie since 2017 and had the lousy luck to do it for Paramount in the year that the studio embraced the government and sacrificed its employees for its own billion-dollar reward. There’s no bleaker satire than making it through “The Running Man’s” end credits, past images of a raised fist that reads “Together Against the Network,” to see the last words on screen: A Skydance Corporation. Or maybe there is, if someone makes a documentary about what Edgar Wright may have had to cut.

It’s election night in Robert Icke’s “Oedipus,” a modern retelling of Sophocles’ “Oedipus the King” that must be the buzziest, if not the chicest, Broadway offering of the fall season.

The production, a prestigious London import that opened at Studio 54 on Thursday under Icke’s smart and sleek direction, stars a charismatic Mark Strong in the title role. His elegant and urbane Oedipus, a politician on the cusp of a momentous victory, prides himself on not playing by the old rules. A straight talker who has made transparency his calling card, he frequently veers off script in paroxysms of candor, to the chagrin of Creon (John Carroll Lynch), his brother-in-law who has been steering the campaign to what looks like a landslide victory.

But “count no mortal happy till / he has passed the final limit of his life secure from pain,” as the chorus intones at the end of Sophocles’ tragedy. There is no chorus in Icke’s version, but the sentiment holds, as Oedipus unravels the puzzle of his identity with the same relentlessness that has brought him to the brink of electoral triumph.

Anne Reid, left, and Olivia Reis in “Oedipus.”

(Julieta Cervantes)

A birther conspiracy has been raised by his political opponent, and Oedipus, speaking impromptu to reporters on-screen at the start of the play, promises to release his birth certificate and put an end to the controversy. What’s more, he vows to reopen an investigation into the death of Laius, the former leader who died 34 years ago under circumstances that have allowed rumor and innuendo to fester.

Oedipus calls himself Laius’ “successor, the inheritor of his legacy,” and in true Sophoclean fashion he speaks more than he knows. Jocasta (Lesley Manville in top form), Oedipus’ wife, was married to Laius, and so Oedipus is occupying his predecessor’s place in more ways than one.

In Sophocles’ play, Oedipus confronts a plague that has been laying waste to Thebes. In Icke’s drama, which had its premiere in Amsterdam in 2018, the pathogen is political. The civic body has fallen ill. Oedipus sees himself as an answer to the demagogic manipulation that has wrought havoc. The water is poisoned, economic inequality is out of control and immigrants have become an easy target. Sound familiar?

Icke’s Oedipus has an Obama-level of confidence in reason and reasonableness. His direct, pragmatic approach has seduced voters, but has it deluded him into thinking that he has all the answers? Oedipus is an ingenious problem solver. Puzzles entice his keen intellect, but he will have to learn the difference between a paradox and a riddle.

Mark Strong, left, and Samuel Brewer in “Oedipus.”

(Julieta Cervantes)

His daughter, Antigone (Olivia Reis), a scholar who has returned for her father’s big night, ventures to make the distinction: “One’s got a solution — one’s just something you have to live with?” But Oedipus is in no mood for academic hairsplitting.

A countdown clock marks the time until the election results will be announced. That hour, as audiences familiar with the original tragedy already know, is when Oedipus will discover his true identity.

Merope (Anne Reid), Oedipus’ mother, has unexpectedly turned up at campaign headquarters needing to speak to her son. Oedipus fears it has something to do with his dying father, but she tells him she just needs a few minutes alone with him. Thinking he has everything under control, he keeps putting her off, not knowing that she has come to warn him about revealing his birth certificate to the public.

The handling of this plot device, with the canny veteran Reid wandering in and out of the drama like an informational time bomb, is a little clumsy. There’s a prattling aspect to Icke’s delaying tactics. His “Oedipus” is more prose than poetry. The family dynamics are well drawn, though a tad overdone.

Mark Strong and the cast of “Oedipus.”

(Julieta Cervantes)

Reid’s Merope and Reis’ Antigone, ferocious in their different ways, refuse to play second fiddle to Manville’s Jocasta when it comes to Oedipus’ affections. Manville, who won an Olivier Award for her performance in “Oedipus,” delivers a performance as sublimely seething as her Oscar-nominated turn in “Phantom Thread.” Endowed with a formidable hauteur, her Jocasta acts graciously, but with an unmistakable note of condescension. As Oedipus’ wife, she assumes sexual pride of place, which only exacerbates tensions with Merope and Antigone.

Oedipus’ sons, Polyneices (James Wilbraham) and Eteocles (Jordan Scowen) are given personal backstories, but there is only so much domestic conflict that can be encompassed in a production that runs just under two hours without interruption. And Polyneices being gay and Eteocles being something of a philander would be of more interest in an “Oedipus” limited series.

When Sophocles’ tragedy is done right, it should resemble a mass more than a morality tale. Oedipus’ story has a ceremonial quality. The limits of human understanding are probed as a sacrificial figure challenges the inscrutable order of the universe. Icke, who views classics through a modern lens (“Hamlet,” “1984”), is perhaps more alert to the sociology than the metaphysics of the tragedy.

Oedipus’ flaws are writ large in his rash, heated dealings with anyone who stands in his way. Icke transforms Creon into a middle-of-the-road political strategist (embodied by Lynch with a combination of arrogance and long-suffering patience) and blind Teiresias (a stark Samuel Brewer) into a mendicant psychic too pathetic to be a pariah.

Mark Strong and Lesley Manville in “Oedipus.”

(Julieta Cervantes)

But Oedipus’ strengths — the keenness of his mind, his heroic commitment to truth and transparency — mustn’t be overlooked. Strong, who won an Olivier Award for his performance in Ivo van Hove’s revival of Arthur Miller’s “A View From the Bridge,” exposes the boyish vulnerability within the sophisticated politician in his sympathetically beguiling portrayal.

Wojciech Dziedzic’s costumes remake the protagonist into a modern European man. Yet true to his Ancient Greek lineage, this Oedipus is nothing if not paradoxical, suavely enjoying his privilege while brandishing his egalitarian views.

The production takes place on a fishbowl office set, designed by Hildegard Bechtler with a clinical and wholly contemporary austerity. The furnishings are removed as the election night draws to its conclusion, leaving no place for the characters to hide from the unwelcome knowledge that will upend their lives.

What do they discover? That everything they thought they understood about themselves was built on a lie. For all his brilliance, Oedipus was unable to outrun his fate, which in Icke’s version has less to do with the gods and more to do with animal instincts and social forces.

When Oedipus and Jocasta learn who they are to each other, passion rushes in before shame calls them to account. Freud wouldn’t be shocked. But it’s not the psychosexual dimension of Icke’s drama that is most memorable.

The ending, impeded by a retrospective coda, diminishes the full cathartic impact. But what we’re left with is the astute understanding of a special kind of hubris that afflicts the more talented politicians — those who believe they have the answers to society’s problems without recognizing the ignorance that is our common lot.

HAVE you ever wandered through London and seen the towering dome of St Paul’s Cathedral and thought, I wonder what it is like to visit? We’ve done the hard work and broken down everything you need to know.

St Paul’s Cathedral is the UK’s most popular religious attraction with over two million visitors each year.

It was designed by world-renowned architect Sir Christopher Wren and was completed in 1710, after the original cathedral was destroyed in the Great Fire of London.

Amazingly, the stunning landmark even survived the London Blitz during World War II.

And of course, it has a lot of royal connections including hosting the 1981 wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer.

Today, it remains a working church with daily services but the public can visit.

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It costs £26 per adult (£28.60 with a donation) and £10 per child (£11 with a donation).

Concession and family tickets are also available.

The experience 

Arriving at the cathedral, I was pleased to find no queue and with a speedy bag check I was inside within a couple of minutes.

And straight away, I was impressed.

The towering ceilings and sprawling cathedral floor were a beautiful sight, with stone arches, statues and ornate windows.

As soon as you enter, you pick up one of the guides which is essentially a small iPhone.

There are multiple videos, audio clips, pictures and activities to explore as you go through the cathedral.

This means you can take the entire visit at your own pace and in all, I spent around three hours there.

Realistically, I think two to three hours is enough, but you could definitely spend more time there.

What is there for adults?

History lovers will be in their element – the cathedral really is fascinating and holds so much more than religious history.

For example, when exploring the crypt you can see the graves of Admiral Lord Nelson and the Duke of Wellington.

The cathedral itself is also an architectural marvel, designed by the famous architect Christopher Wren.

Throughout there are tons of information boards and the interactive multi-media guide even goes behind the scenes and talks to some of the cathedral’s key figures.

What is there for kids?

Despite what you might think, St Paul’s can also be fascinating for kids thanks to a handy guided experience on the multi-media guide with a phoenix.

The phoenix flies through the cathedral and shares interesting facts about the landmark that are appropriate for children.

It is definitely one of the better children’s guides I have seen, as it makes learning about history of the cathedral both fun and accessible.

There are a number of videos that bring past historical figures to life too, such as the artist William Turner who is buried in the crypt.

In addition to the videos, the guide also has a number of quizzes and interactive games for children.

Of course though, as a historical and religious attraction, younger kids might become bored and also struggle with the amount of stairs up to the galleries.

Is it accessible?

The North Transept features an accessible entrance with a ramp, which the cathedral recommends for wheelchair users or those that require step-free access.

When you enter from here, you enter straight onto the cathedral floor.

There are a number of wheelchairs available at the cathedral on request and there is a lift between the cathedral floor and crypt.

The only area wheelchair users or those who cannot use steps cannot access are the galleries, including the Whispering Gallery.

Even if you are able to use steps the Whispering Gallery is 257 steps, Stone Gallery is then an additional 119 steps and the Golden Gallery is an additional 152 – which is a lot.

It can be a bit of a struggle as many of the steps are up narrow staircases without handrails.

For the elderly or small children, I would say miss this part of the cathedral.

Guide dogs, hearing dogs and assistance dogs are all allowed in the cathedral.

For visually impaired visitors, there are audio description guides and free guided ‘touch tours’ available.

For those who are hard of hearing or deaf, the cathedral has a hearing loop system that covers the cathedral floor, OBE chapel and the crypt.

The multimedia guide also features a British Sign Language tour with subtitles.

I do believe the cathedral has done everything it can do to accommodate those with accessibility needs, however there are some things that are not accessible.

Any add ons?

The multimedia guide has everything you need to learn about the cathedral and its different features and it is free with entry.

But there are a few other tours available.

For example, you could head on a highlights tour for half an hour, which is free for ticketholders.

Or a cathedral floor and crypt tour which is free and lasts an hour to an hour-and-a-half.

For an additional cost, visitors can head on the ‘Triforium Tour’, which includes the library, the Trophy Room and Great Model and a view down from the top of the Geometric Staircase.

However, the tour is not suitable for wheelchair users or those with mobility issues.

It costs £15 per person and lasts an hour.

Is there a shop and cafe? 

We all love a cosy cafe and St Paul’s has a great one.

The Crypt Cafe is located beneath the cathedral floor and recently reopened to the public in March 2025.

Inside it is calm and cosy, with a range of hot and cold drinks, sandwiches and salads, and cakes.

One thing that I particularly liked is that you can leave the cathedral experience to head into the cafe, but you can then re-enter the cathedral if you show your ticket – super handy for a quick caffeine hit.

Prices aren’t too bad either.

You could get a deli lunch, which includes a main and two seasonal salads for £13.95.

Wraps and baguettes cost from £6.95 and soup of the day for £6.75.

Coffee ranges from around £4 to £6, as does cake.

Heading away from the cafe, you will then find the shop.

We all love a good landmark or museum gift shop and St Paul’s’ is great.

The book and gift section is extensive, and I was pleasantly surprised by the prices.

A personal favourite of mine was the St Paul’s Sausage Dog teddy costing £22, inspired by Christopher Wren’s famous quote: “The secret of architectural excellence is to translate the proportions of a dachshund into bricks, mortar and marble”.

What else is there to do in the area?

Away from the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street and Covent Garden, St Paul’s still has a lot of places to explore nearby.

Right next to the cathedral, you could head to the F1 Arcade London or Fairgame – the ultimate adult’s playground, with retro fairground games.

There are a tonne of fast food spots around too including McDonalds, Five Guys and Wagamama.

Just a five minute walk from the cathedral you will find Ye Olde Watling, one of the best pubs in the area with 4.6 stars out of five on Google.

The pub dates back to the 17th century and features a good comfort menu with a range of ales.

The closest bus stop to the cathedral is Stop SH, just outside the cathedral, linking to many different areas of the capital.

The closest tube station to the cathedral is St. Paul’s Underground Station itself, with the Central Line, which is just a three minute walk away.

Final verdict

As someone who has lived in London now for five years and not visited St Paul’s, I wish I went sooner.

The history of the cathedral is truly fascinating for both Londoners and tourists alike.

It definitely is one to visit and for the entrance fee, I think you get a lot for your money.

Especially at the highest gallery where you can see skyline views of London.

Accessibility wise, even without the galleries, I think it is still worth visiting and for kids, if they are bit older or teenagers, they will be fascinated by the stunning artworks, ceilings and winding passages to the galleries.

For younger kids, the interactive guide will definitely keep them occupied whilst parent perhaps look at the more detailed information boards.

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St Paul’s also recently announced a new public park and play area that will be the ‘biggest in the city’.

And whilst you are there, check out the adults-only playground.

Conditions at Syrian al-Hol and al-Roj camps are “inhuman, dangerous, and degrading”, independent report says, urging UK to comply with international obligations.

The United Kingdom government should voluntarily facilitate the return of former repentant ISIL (ISIS) member Shamima Begum and others living in Syrian camps and deprived of British nationality, a new report has urged.

The Independent Commission on UK Counter-Terrorism Law, Policy and Practice said the current stance of the government towards nationals and former nationals detained in Syrian camps was “increasingly untenable” as they were living under “inhuman” conditions.

“The government should facilitate voluntary repatriation for British nationals, including those deprived of British nationality,” it asserted.

“A coherent, humane, and security-conscious repatriation strategy would strengthen compliance with international obligations and promote long-term public safety and social stability.”

Begum’s case lies at the heart of the UK policy of revoking the citizenship of nationals who joined armed groups in Syria. She left London in 2015 as a minor, at the age of 15, with two school friends, and later married an ISIL fighter. Begum gave birth to three children, all of whom died in infancy.

In 2019, the UK government revoked her citizenship soon after she was discovered in a detention camp in Syria.

Since then, she has challenged the decision, which was turned down by an appeals court in February 2024. Born in the UK to Bangladeshi parents, Begum does not hold Bangladeshi citizenship.

She had admitted that she joined the organisation knowing it was proscribed as a “terror” group, and has said she was “ashamed” and regretted joining the group.

Conditions at camps ‘dangerous’

Citing the United Nations, the report described conditions at the camps, including the infamous al-Hol and al-Roj camps, as “inhuman, dangerous, and degrading”.

“Many detainees, especially women and children, are victims of coercion, trafficking, or exploitation, even if some have been involved in terrorism-related activity,” it added.

According to the commission, between 55-72 UK-linked individuals remain in the camps and other detention centres, including 30-40 children.

The report said the UK’s “reluctance” to repatriate its citizens, including those stripped of their citizenship, made it an “outlier” among “comparable jurisdictions” and could prove to be “counterproductive to long-term security interests”.

“Pressure from the US government, which has called for all states to take back their nationals, the change in the Syrian regime, and as other states repatriate, the prospect of what was referred to as ‘Europe’s Guantanamo’ becoming ‘Britain’s Guantanamo’, may force the government to begin returns,” the report pointed out.

The prey may change — the planets, too, their digital backdrops swirling like screensavers — but take comfort in knowing that when it comes to a “Predator” movie, we’re still talking about a dude in a suit. This time, that dude is New Zealand’s Dimitrius Schuster-Koloamatangi, a game 7-foot-3 actor whose eyes bulge behind those motorized mandibles and sometimes shine with feeling.

Despite his size, his Dek in “Predator: Badlands” is what you might call a baby: an untested youth who endures a sibling’s beatdown in the film’s opening moments. Their warlord father is displeased with both of them. After some extreme parenting that would be frowned upon in most societies, alien or otherwise, neon-green blood flows and Dek is hurtling toward another world, vengeance burning in his heart.

“Bring it home — for Kwei,” he mutters in an elaborate creature language invented expressly for the film. (The dialogue itself gets less attention.) Dek will seek the “unkillable Kalisk,” prove his worth in the hunt and, presumably, have some terse words with Dad upon his return.

Not to kill a Kalisk or anything but these Yautja (to use their species name) were never meant to carry a movie. Put one in a film with Arnold Schwarzenegger in the original 1987 summer action hit and suddenly the Terminator seems chatty. Pit them against the immortally gross creatures of “Alien vs. Predator” and the Yautja are nearly huggable.

But main characters they are not. “Predator: Badlands” has a misshapen gait to it, like a comedy skit drawn out to feature length. Fortunately, almost as soon as Dek lands on Genna, a planet of murderous flora, to bag his Kalisk, he runs into a babbling half-robot missing her legs who makes the movie much more compelling. You can either wonder how Elle Fanning, the tremulous heart of “A Complete Unknown” and this season’s “Sentimental Value” found herself in it, or smile at the good fortune of her being a stealth nerd who apparently loves a challenge.

Strapped to Dek’s back C-3PO-style, the disembodied Thia (Fanning) fills the movie with a semi-stoned running commentary: “And what does the chewing — your outside fangs or your inside teeth?” she asks him. When a second Fanning shows up as Thia’s vicious sister Tessa, another “synthetic” built for dangerous off-world work, the film finds its groove as a new chapter in the continuing saga of our friends at the Weyland-Yutani Corporation, a fictional enterprise with such spectacularly bad luck at acquiring bioweapons, they should have faced a hostile takeover by now.

And, like virtually all of Hollywood’s anti-corporate sci-fi adventures, “Predator: Badlands” is, at heart, a pro-business statement, bowing especially deeply to James Cameron’s designs for 1986’s “Aliens,” including its squat vehicles, soulless directives (“The Company is not pleased,” says a computer who isn’t the screenwriter) and the colossal power loader that lets someone human-sized do battle with a beast.

There isn’t much of an original signature here. Returning director Dan Trachtenberg hits the beats competently but not too stridently, like a good superfan should. If you’re expecting Dek’s sensitivity to become an asset, give yourself a trophy. Yet if a machine — or a studio — can produce a robot as fun as Thia, there’s hope for this franchise yet.

NEW YORK — No one could possibly be working harder right now on Broadway than Kristin Chenoweth, who is bearing the weight of a McMansion musical on her diminutive frame and making it seem like she’s hoisting nothing heavier than a few overstuffed Hermes, Prada and Chanel shopping bags.

A trouper’s trouper, Chenoweth has reunited with her “Wicked” compatriot Stephen Schwartz, who has written the score for “The Queen of Versailles.” The show, which had its Broadway opening at the St. James Theatre on Sunday, is an adaptation of Lauren Greenfield’s 2012 documentary about a family building one of the largest private homes in America in a style that blends Louis XIV with Las Vegas.

When the Great Recession of 2008 crashes the party, the Florida couple who are never satisfied despite having everything find themselves scrounging to make the mortgage payments for this unfinished (and possibly unfinishable) Orlando colossus. Not even the banks know what to do with this gargantuan white elephant.

The first half of the musical traces Jackie’s rise from a hardworking upstate New York hick to a Florida beauty pageant winner who escaped an abusive relationship with her baby daughter. Her dream of nabbing a wealthy husband comes true after she meets David Siegel (F. Murray Abraham, in vivid vulgarian resort mogul mode). He’s decades older than her but as rich as Croesus, having proudly transformed himself into the “Timeshare King.”

With David funding her every whim, Jackie discovers the joys of consumerism as her family expands along with her credit line. David adopts her first-born, Victoria (Nina White), a sulky adolescent who doesn’t appreciate her mother’s lavish ways. And the couple proceed to have six more children together before adopting Jackie’s niece, Jonquil (Tatum Grace Hopkins), a Dickensian waif who shows up with all her belongings stuffed into plastic bags.

The musical’s book, written by Lindsey Ferrentino (whose plays included the raw veteran recovery story “Ugly Lies the Bone”) deals only with Victoria and Jonquil, leaving the other kids to our imagination along with most of the pets that suffer the seesaw of lavish attention and thoughtless neglect that is the Siegel family way.

Jackie didn’t set out to build such a ludicrously gigantic residence. As she explains in the number “Because We Can,” “We just want the home of our dreams/And the house we’re in now,/Although it’s sweet,/It’s only like 26,000 square feet,/So we’re just bursting at the seams.”

This version of “The Queen of Versailles,” making the visual most of settings by scenic and video designer Dane Laffrey, that can make Mar-a-Lago seem understated, embraces the sociological fable aspect of the tale. To drive home the political point, the musical begins at the court of Louis XIV and returns to France near the end of the show after the French Revolution has bloodied up the guillotine with the powdered heads of callous aristocrats.

Jackie sees herself as a modern-day Marie Antoinette, but instead of saying “Let them eat cake” she has her driver bring back enough McDonald’s to feed an entire film crew. Chenoweth, who is as gleaming as a holiday ornament on Liberace’s Christmas tree, arrives at a canny balance of quixotic generosity and parvenu carelessness in her portrayal of a woman she refuses to lampoon.

Kristin Chenoweth and the Company of “The Queen of Versailles.”

(Julieta Cervantes)

The second half of the musical recaps what happens when the super rich face ruin — ruin not in the sense of going hungry but of having to stop buying luxury goods in bulk. With his timeshare empire hanging in the balance, Abraham’s David transforms from Santa Claus to Ebenezer Scrooge, belligerently withdrawing into his home office like a beaten general plotting a counteroffensive and treating Jackie like a trophy wife who has lost her golden sheen.

Ferrentino extends the timeline beyond the documentary to include what happened to the family in the years since the film was released and Jackie took to the spotlight like a Real Housewife given her own spinoff. The federal bailout worked wonders for the haves, like the Siegels, while the have-nots were left to fend for themselves — casualties of questionable mortgage practices and the “more, more, more” mantra of America. But no one escapes the brutal moral accounting, not even Jackie, after she suffers a tragedy no amount of retail therapy will ever make right.

“The Queen of Versailles” has grown tighter since its tryout last summer at Boston’s Emerson Colonial Theatre, but it’s still an unwieldy operation despite the impeccable showmanship of Michael Arden’s direction. The problem isn’t the production but the musical’s shifting raison d’être.

The first act hews to the documentary in a flatly straightforward fashion. The making of the film becomes the invitation to tell Jackie’s story in the mythic terms she favors. The musical indulges her not with a smirk but with a knowing smile. It’s the culture that’s skewered rather than those who adopt its perverted values.

But not content to be a satiric case study in how the Siegel family story connects “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” and “Dynasty” to the shallowness and cruelty of Donald Trump’s America, the show aspires to the level of tragedy. Achieving great emotional depth, however, isn’t easy when wearing a plastic surgery mask of comedy.

Kristin Chenoweth as Jackie Siegel in “The Queen of Versailles.”

(Julieta Cervantes)

Schwartz has composed an American time capsule of Broadway pop, with as much variety as “Wicked” though with less bombast and no real standout blockbuster numbers. The score moves from the zingy send-up of “Mrs. Florida” and “The Ballad of the Timeshare King” in the first act to the more maudlin “The Book of Random,” in which vulnerable Victoria gives vent to her suffering, and “Little Houses,” in which the modest lifestyle of Jackie’s parents (played by Stephen DeRosa and Isabel Keating) is extolled in increasingly grandiose musical fashion, in the second.

Strangely, one of the show’s most captivating songs, “Pavane for a Dead Lizard,” is about a reptile that starved to death because of Victoria’s negligence. The number, a duet for Victoria and Jonquil, doesn’t make importunate emotional demands and is all the more poignant for its restraint. (White’s Victoria and Hopkins’ Jonquil come into their own here, letting down the defensive armor of their recalcitrant characters.)

Melody Butiu, who plays the Siegels’ Filipina nanny and indispensable factotum, has a readier place in our hearts for all that she has had to sacrifice to support her distant family. Her material lack exists stoically in the shadow of the family’s monstrous excess.

In “Caviar Dreams,” Jackie proclaims her “Champagne wishes” of becoming “American royalty.” Chenoweth, whose comic vibrancy breaches the fourth wall to make direct contact with the audience, relishes the humor of Jackie without poking fun of her, even when singing an operatic duet with Marie Antoinette (Cassondra James). But the material never allows Chenoweth to emotionally soar, and the fumbling final number, “This Time Next Year,” requires her to land the plane after the show’s navigation system has essentially gone blank.

“The Queen of Versailles” is designed to bring out all of Chenoweth’s Broadway shine. She never looks less than perfectly photoshopped, but the production ultimately overtaxes her strengths. New musicals are impossible dreams, and this is a whopper of a show, daunting in scale and jaw-dropping in ambition. If only Chenoweth’s dazzling star power didn’t have to do so much of the heavy lifting.

If you see “Christy,” you’ll remember Christy the person, not “Christy” the movie. This biopic of West Virginia’s other famous coal miner’s daughter Christy Martin, the first female boxer to make the cover of Sports Illustrated, is an efficiently inspiring and harrowing one when the physically transformed, emotionally present Sydney Sweeney is holding the screen as Martin. But otherwise, under David Michôd’s direction, it’s one more machine-pressed product that may as well have been chatbot-prompted into existence.

That’s a shame because early on, when butch, athletic, semi-openly gay Christy is just a picked-on high schooler punching her way into feeling good about herself, you can detect a keen level of attention, especially in the script by Mirrah Foulkes and Michôd, to what’s unspoken in these types of tales: the violence and verve that can mark a boxing talent and the pressure to conform in a male-dominated sport. In this case, it leads Christy to deny a part of her identity.

It’s a very specific tension that has made movies about female boxers in the 21st century — from “Girlfight” and “Million Dollar Baby” through last year’s “The Fire Inside” — so much more interesting as empowerment case studies than the male-centered ones, which still seem rooted in conventional mythmaking. (We’re still living in the Rocky Balboa Universe.)

As memorably conveyed with twang, sweat and tenacity by Sweeney, the young Christy is a natural competitor whose fists give her an out from the judgmental eyes of small-town life, most notably those of her mom (an effectively chilly Merritt Wever). She fights as if she’s been attacked, but can make winning in the ring look both spirited and a foregone conclusion.

That energy and commitment to turn boxing into a career gets an opportunistic fine-tuning — a feminizing pink kit — when she’s hooked up with trainer Jim Martin, played by an eerily dead-eyed Ben Foster as the ghoul-in-waiting he turned out to be. Foster’s Jim, believably disturbed and shady but a bit on the nose, isn’t the movie’s first problem. That would be Michôd’s addiction to montage-ifying every significant dramatic turning point, slathering on the music to keep the timeline moving.

But the famously chameleonic Foster’s portrayal is the film’s most curious dilemma, because it doesn’t allow us to see why Christy would trust her future to his judgment, much less marry him. It’s as if “Christy,” looking backward through a bloody yet unbowed lens, is afraid of presenting Jim Martin as anything but a shifty sleazebag, when what that does is undercut Sweeney’s more delicate job of convincing us why she’d stay with him for decades.

Sweeney manages it anyway, because, despite what you may have assumed, she’s a sturdy in-the-moment actor, especially with her eyes. Still, the movie’s lack of nuance about how toxic relationships develop makes this central twosome a head-scratchingly imbalanced one. Everyone invariably falls into two camps: unfailingly supportive (a sensitive dad played by Ethan Embry; Katy O’Brian as a former rival) or, whenever Wever reappears, jaw-dropping callousness. Much more galvanizing as a combo platter of high-wattage persuasion and dominance is Chad L. Coleman in his handful of scenes as Don King.

The central problem with “Christy” — which needs to be both uplifting about its star subject’s achievement and complex about her journey of sexuality and trauma — is that it screams for a treatment grittier than the slick melodrama we’ve been given. It’s all highlights and lowlights, rarely interested in the in-between stuff that makes watching all the rounds of a bout so necessary to appreciating what it means to survive on the canvas.

It’s the one-two punch of an earthquake and a piece of scrumptious white chocolate from Belgium, a country famous for its sweet confections, that awakens 2½-year-old Amélie (voiced by Loïse Charpentier) to the wondrous and perilous world around her.

Rambunctious and astute, the toddler heroine of the sublimely beautiful animated film “Little Amélie or the Character of Rain” first communicates in voiceover from the void of nothingness before birth. She declares herself a powerful deity and explains that God is essentially a “tube” that constantly ingests and secretes experiences and things. That description could also apply to human existence in a general sense if you take away the philosophical complications that give us meaning. (We are, thankfully, more than all-consuming vessels.)

But until she’s stirred by the earthquake and chocolate, Amélie refuses to engage with reality, observing without making any effort to move or talk, as if displeased with having been born. Her absolutist views of what it means to be alive slowly peel away in the life-affirming first feature from co-directors Liane-Cho Han and Maïlys Vallade, a screen adaptation of Amélie Nothomb’s autobiographical 2000 novel “The Character of Rain,” popular in French-speaking countries.

Akin to impressionistic paintings, the animation here decidedly lacks intricate designs and opts for flat hues coloring figures without visible outlines. The stylistic choices result in a striking, distinctly pictorial aesthetic in line with earlier projects that Han and Vallade worked on, such as “Long Way North” and “Calamity,” both directed by Rémi Chayé.

The third child of a Belgian family living in 1960s Japan, young Amélie develops an endearing relationship with housekeeper Nishio-san (Victoria Grobois). While her parents have their hands full with her older siblings, Amélie explores nature and becomes enamored with Japanese culture. That the affectionate Nishio-san doesn’t impose her perspective on the girl, but quite literally tries to perceive each moment from her height, signals a bond that’s closer to one between mutuals.

It’s through Amélie’s gaze — or, more precisely, how these filmmakers interpret it visually — that we begin to understand her invigorating whimsy. Early on, it seems like her rapidly changing moods affect the weather; later, Amélie steps into the ocean and it parts as it did for Moses (if only in her restless imagination). A person her age is inherently self-centered, unaware that she is part of a bigger whole.

To illustrate Nishio-san’s account of how she lost her family during World War II, animators Han and Vallade zero in on the dish she is cooking: Chopped vegetables fall into a pot like missiles, a gust of pot steam represents a fiery aftermath, rice under water shows how Nishio-san had to dig her way out of being buried alive. The gruesome subject matter is translated into immediate household imagery that someone Amélie’s age could grasp.

When Nishio-san shares with Amélie that the Japanese word “ame” means rain (so close to her own name), the girl takes this as confirmation that her kinetic, unbridled and visceral impulses are natural. Her feelings of kinship with precipitation are transmuted into a delightfully conceived scene in which little versions of Amélie appear inside every falling raindrop. These fanciful instances benefit from Mari Fukuhara’s score, a drizzle of aural luminosity.

Amélie’s rowdy approach becomes more nuanced when she is confronted with a loved one’s death, as well as her own mortality in the aftermath of two accidents. Han and Vallade also make room for her realizations about life’s unfairness and the inevitability of sorrow — all communicated via flights of fancy that only animation can materialize.

In turn, it comes as a shock for Amélie to learn that she is not Japanese, even if that’s the country she considers home. Her future may be determined by Kashima-san (Yumi Fujimori), the landlady who owns the house Amélie’s family is renting and who brought Nishio-san on to help them. Kashima-san distrusts westerners — her wounds of wartime haven’t healed — and to see Nishio-san smitten with Amélie feels like a betrayal.

The larger implications of her presence escape the little one, but the fact that Amélie, even at her age, is able to empathize with Kashima-san’s despair speaks to the thematic richness and emotional maturity that Han and Vallade channel in their brisk, arresting feature. The gently transcendent, tear-inducing conclusion that “Little Amélie” reaches suggests that memory serves as our only remedy for loss. As long as we don’t forget, what we cherish won’t become ephemeral.

We checked in to this stylish new hotel in west London and discovered stunning interiors, a tranquil garden and innovative drinks at the bar

A few minutes’ walk away from bustling Earls Court Road, past quiet cobbled mews, is Templeton Garden, chic European hotel group Miiro’s latest opening, and arguably London’s most stylish new hotel.

A former townhouse, its grand white-pillared entrance opens up into what looks like an interiors Pinterest board brought to life, an elegant colour palette of creams, beiges and rusts, with a light and airy lounge area leading onto a beautiful private garden out the back – a rare find in central London – with a terrace for taking lunch or drinks.

Stay between 17 November-24 December and get access to the hotel’s Ribbon Room, a Santa’s grotto stocked with beautiful papers and ribbons to wrap your finds from your Christmas shopping expedition like a pro, accompanied by a hot buttered Brugal cider, from Sprout, the hotel’s bar.

The rooms at Templeton Garden

The complimentary colour palette continues to the 156 bedrooms, which our Junior Suite was elegant and understated with soft plaster-pink walls and lots of fabric textures, and immediately made us want to redecorate ours at home. A pop of colour comes from the dark red tiled shower space in the bathroom, complete with marble bath, vintage-style brass fittings and Le Labo Santal 33 products. Sleeping here under the canopy bed feels special yet still homely – a tricky balance to get right.

The food and drink at Templeton Garden

Evenings at Templeton Garden begin with a drink at Sprout, lined with hand-painted wallpaper and low velvet seats arranged around lamp-lit tables, with a stunning gold oak leaf light fitting overhead.

The most interesting thing about this bar, however, is the drinks list. The Market Stall Menu features innovative cocktail creations using ingredients commonly found in the back of your cupboard, such as a Marmitini, Red Onion Manhattan and Anchovy Gimlet. The Specials Menu, meanwhile, uses seasonal fruit and vegetables, and changes regularly depending on what’s available.

Templeton Garden

From £290 per night

Booking.com

Book here

A stylish new hideaway in London’s Earl’s Court.

We opted for the Sweet Pea Spritz, made, we were told, by separating the peas from their pods, roasting the pods, blending them both back together to make a cordial, then mixing them with vodka and sparkling wine. Fresh and slightly sweet, it was like nothing we’d ever tried before, and completely delicious.

It was then on to dinner at Pippin’s restaurant, where the focus is again on seasonal ingredients with lots of fresh herbs from the garden. The spring vegetable salad was a colourful plate of crunchy pickled veg and leaves atop a tangy cheddar emulsion, while for mains, the catch of the day was a delicious crispy-skinned stone bass paired with a herby, zingy chimichurri.

How much does it cost to stay at Templeton Garden?

Rooms at Templeton Garden start from £290 per night.

Opera has housed a long and curious fetish for the convent. Around a century ago, composers couldn’t get enough of lustful, visionary nuns. Although relatively tame next to what was to follow, Puccini’s 1918 “Suor Angelica” revealed a convent where worldly and spiritual desires collide.

But Hindemith’s “Sancta Susanna,” with its startling love affair between a nun and her maid servant, titillated German audiences at the start of the roaring twenties, and still can. A sexually and violently explicit production in Stuttgart last year led to 18 freaked-out audience members requiring medical attention — and sold-out houses.

Los Angeles Opera got in the act early on. A daring production of Prokofiev’s 1927 “The Fiery Angel,” one of the operas that opened the company’s second season in 1967, saw, wrote Times music critic Martin Bernheimer, “hysterical nuns tear off their sacred habits as they writhe climactically in topless demonic frenzy.”

Now we have, as a counterbalance to a lurid male gaze as the season’s new opera for L.A. Opera’s 40th anniversary season, Sarah Kirkland Snider’s sincere and compelling “Hildegard,” based on a real-life 12th century abbess and present-day cult figure, St. Hildegard von Bingen. The opera, which had its premiere at the Wallis on Wednesday night, is the latest in L.A. Opera’s ongoing collaboration with Beth Morrison Projects, which commissioned the work.

Elkhanah Pulitzer’s production is decorous and spare. Snider’s slow, elegantly understated and, within bounds, reverential opera operates as much as a passion play as an opera. Its concerns and desires are our 21st century concerns and desires, with Hildegard beheld as a proto-feminist icon. Its characters and music so easily traverse a millennium’s distance that the High Middle Ages might be the day before yesterday.

Hildegard is best known for the music she produced in her Rhineland German monastery and for the transcriptions of her luminous visions. But she has also attracted a cult-like following as healer with an extensive knowledge of herbal remedies some still apply as alternative medicine to this day, as she has for her remarkable success challenging the patriarchy of the Roman Catholic Church.

She has further reached broad audiences through Oliver Sacks’ book, “Migraine,” in which the widely read neurologist proposed that Hildegard’s visions were a result of her headaches. Those visions, themselves, have attained classic status. Recordings of her music are plentiful. “Lux Vivens,” produced by David Lynch and featuring Scottish fiddle player Jocelyn Montgomery, must be the first to put a saint’s songs on the popular culture map.

Margarethe von Trotta made an effective biopic of Hildegard, staring the intense singer Barbara Sukowa. An essential biography, “The Woman of Her Age” by Fiona Maddocks, followed Hildegard’s canonization by Pope Benedict XVI in 2012.

Snider, who also wrote the libretto, focuses her two-and-a-half-hour opera, however, on but a crucial year in Hildegard’s long life (she is thought to have lived to 82 or 83). A mother superior in her 40s, she has found a young acolyte, Richardis, deeply devoted to her and who paints representations of Hildegard’s visions. Those visions, as unheard-of divine communion with a woman, draw her into conflict with priests who find them false. But she goes over the head of her adversarial abbot, Cuno, and convinces the Pope that her visions are the voice of God.

Mikaela Bennett, left, as Richardis von Stade and Nola Richardson as Hildegard von Bingen during a dress rehearsal of “Hildegard.”

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

Hildegard, as some musicologists have proposed, may have developed a romantic attachment to the young Richardis, and Kirkland turns this into a spiritual crisis for both women. A co-crisis presents itself in Hildegard’s battles with Cuno, who punishes her by forbidding her to make music, which she ignores.

What of music? Along with being convent opera, “Hildegard” joins a lesser-known peculiar genre of operas about composers that include Todd Machover’s “Schoenberg in Hollywood,” given by UCLA earlier this year, and Louis Andriessen’s perverse masterpiece about a fictional composer, “Rosa.” In these, one composer’s music somehow conveys the presence and character of another composer.

Snider follows that intriguing path. “Hildegard” is scored for a nine-member chamber ensemble — string quartet, bass, harp, flute, clarinet and bassoon — which are members of the L.A. Opera Orchestra. Gabriel Crouch, who serves as music director, is a longtime member of the early music community as singer and conductor. But the allusions to Hildegard’s music remain modest.

Instead, each short scene (there are nine in the first act and five — along with entr’acte and epilogue — in the second), is set with a short instrumental opening. That may be a rhythmic, Steve Reich-like rhythmic pattern or a short melodic motif that is varied throughout the scene. Each creates a sense of movement.

Hildegard’s vocal writing was characterized by effusive melodic lines, a style out-of-character with the more restrained chant of the time. Snider’s vocal lines can feel, however, more conversational and more suited to narrative outline. Characters are introduced and only gradually given personality (we don’t get much of a sense of Richardis until the second act). Even Hildegard’s visions are more implied than revealed.

Under it all, though, is an alluring intricacy in the instrumental ensemble. Still with the help of a couple angels in short choral passages, a lushness creeps in.

The second act is where the relationship between Hildegard and Richardis blossoms and with it, musically, the arrival of rapture and onset of an ecstasy more overpowering than Godly visions. In the end, the opera, like the saint, requires patience. The arresting arrival of spiritual transformation arrives in the epilogue.

Snider has assembled a fine cast. Outwardly, soprano Nola Richardson can seem a coolly proficient Hildegard, the efficient manager of a convent and her sisters. Yet once divulged, her radiant inner life colors every utterance. Mikaela Bennett’s Richardis contrasts with her darker, powerful, dramatic soprano. Their duets are spine-tingling.

Tenor Roy Hage is the amiable Volmar, Hildegard’s confidant in the monastery and baritone David Adam Moore her tormentor abbot. The small roles of monks, angels and the like are thrilling voices all.

Set design (Marsha Ginsberg), light-show projection design (Deborah Johnson), scenic design, which includes small churchly models (Marsha Ginsberg), and various other designers all function to create a concentrated space for music and movement.

All but one. Beth Morrison Projects, L.A. Opera’s invaluable source for progressive and unexpected new work, tends to go in for blatant amplification. The Herculean task of singing five performances and a dress rehearsal of this demanding opera over six days could easily result in mass vocal destruction without the aid of microphones.

But the intensity of the sound adds a crudeness to the instrumental ensemble, which can be all harp or ear-shatter clarinet, and reduces the individuality of singers’ voices. There is little quiet in what is supposed to be a quiet place, where silence is practiced.

Maybe that’s the point. We amplify 21st century worldly and spiritual conflict, not going gentle into that, or any, good night.

‘Hildegard’

Where: The Wallis, 9390 N. Santa Monica Blvd., Beverly Hills

When: Through Nov. 9

Tickets: Performances sold out, but check for returns

Info: (213) 972-8001, laopera.org

Running time: About 2 hours and 50 minutes (one intermission)

Renate Reinsve is the new face of Scandinavia: depression with a smile. Standing 5 feet 10 with open, friendly features, the Norwegian talent has a grin that makes her appear at once like an endearing everywoman and a large, unpredictable child. Reinsve zoomed to international acclaim with her Cannes-winning performance in Joachim Trier’s 2021 “The Worst Person in the World,” a dramedy tailor-made to her lanky, likable style of self-loathing. Now, Trier has written his muse another showcase, “Sentimental Value,” where Reinsve plays an emotionally avoidant theater actor who bounces along in pretty much the same bittersweet key.

“Sentimental Value” gets misty about a few things — families, filmmaking, real estate — all while circling a handsome Oslo house where the Borg clan has lived for four generations. It’s a dream home with red trim on the window frames and pink roses in the yard. Yet, sisters Nora (Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) aren’t fighting to keep it, perhaps due to memories of their parents’ hostile divorce or maybe because they don’t want to deal with their estranged father, Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård, wonderful), who grew up there himself and still owns the place, even though he’s moved to Sweden.

Trier opens the film with a symbolically laden camera pan across Oslo that ends on a cemetery. He wants to make sure we understand that while Norway looks idyllic to outsiders jealous that all four Scandinavian countries rank among the globe’s happiest, it can still be as gloomy as during the era of Henrik Ibsen.

More impressively, Trier shifts to a fabulous, time-bending historical montage of the house itself over the century-plus it’s belonged to the Borgs. There’s a crack in it that seems to represent the fissures in the family, the flaws in their facade. Over these images, Reinsve’s Nora recites a 6th-grade school essay she wrote about her deep identification with her childhood home. Having grown up to become terrified of intimacy, today she’s more like a detached garage.

Nora and Agnes were young when their father, a modestly well-regarded art-house filmmaker, decamped to a different country. At a retrospective of his work, Gustav refers to his crew as his “family,” which would irritate his kids if they’d bothered to attend. Agnes, a former child actor, might note that she, too, deserves some credit. Played in her youth by the compelling Ida Atlanta Kyllingmark Giertsen, Agnes was fantastic in the final shot of Gustav’s masterpiece and Trier takes a teasingly long time to suggest why she retired from the business decades ago, while her older sister keeps hammering at it.

Gustav hasn’t made a picture in 15 years. He’s in that liminal state of renown that I’m guessing Trier has encountered many times: a faded director who’s burned through his money and clout, but still keeps a tuxedo just in case he makes it back to Cannes. Like Reinsve’s Nora, Gustav acts younger than his age and is at his most charming in small doses, particularly with strangers. Trier and his longtime co-writer Eskil Vogt have made him a tad delusional, someone who wouldn’t instantly recognize his graying reflection in a mirror. Sitting down at a cafe with Nora, Gustav jokes that the waitress thinks that they’re a couple on a date. (She almost certainly doesn’t.)

But the tension between Gustav and Nora is real, if blurry. He’s invited her to coffee not as father and daughter, but as a has-been angling to cast Nora as the lead of his next film, which he claims he’s written for her. His script climaxes with a nod to the day his own mother, Karin (Vilde Søyland), died by suicide in their house back when he was just a towheaded boy of 7. Furthering the sickly mojo, Gustav wants to stage his version of the hanging in the very room where it happened.

His awkward pitch is a terrific scene. Gustav and Nora are stiff with each other, both anxious to prove they don’t need the other’s help. But Trier suggests, somewhat mystically, that Gustav has an insight into his daughter’s gloom that making the movie will help them understand. Both would rather express themselves through art than confess how they feel.

When Gustav offers his daughter career advice, it comes off like an insult. She’s miffed when her dad claims his small indie would be her big break. Doesn’t he know she’d be doing him the favor? She’s the lead of Oslo’s National Theatre with enough of a social media following to get the film financed. (With 10 production companies listed in the credits of this very film, Trier himself could probably calculate Nora’s worth to the krone.)

But Gustav also has a lucky encounter with a dewy Hollywood starlet named Rachel (Elle Fanning) who sees him as an old-world bulldog who can give her resume some class. Frustrated by her coterie of assistants glued to their cellphones, Rachel gazes at him with the glowy admiration he can’t get from his own girls. Their dynamic proves to be just as complex as if they were blood-related. If Rachel makes his film, she’ll become a combo platter of his mother, his daughter, his protégée and his cash cow. Nora merely merits the financing for a low-budget Euro drama; Rachel can make it a major Netflix production (something “Sentimental Value” most adamantly is not).

It takes money to make a movie. Trier’s itchiness to get into that unsentimental fact isn’t fully scratched. He seems very aware that the audience for his kind of niche hit wants to sniffle at delicate emotions. When Gustav’s longtime producer Michael (Jesper Christensen) advises him to keep making films “his way” — as in antiquated — or when Gustav takes a swipe at Nora’s career as “old plays for old people,” the frustration in those lines, those doubts whether to stay the course or chase modernity, makes you curious if Trier himself is feeling a bit hemmed in.

There’s a crack running through “Sentimental Value” too. A third of it wants to be a feisty industry satire, but the rest believes there’s prestige value in tugging on the heartstrings. The title seems to be as much about that as anything.

I’ve got no evidence for Trier’s restlessness other than an observation that “Sentimental Value” is most vibrant when the dialogue is snide and the visuals are snappy. There’s a stunning image of Gustav, Nora and Agnes’ faces melting together that doesn’t match a single other frame of the movie, but I’m awful glad cinematographer Kasper Tuxen Andersen got it in there.

The film never quite settles on a theme, shifting from the relationship between Nora and Agnes, Nora and Gustav, and Gustav and Rachel like a gambler spreading their bets, hoping one of those moments will earn a tear. Nora herself gets lost in the shuffle. Is she jealous of her father’s attention to Rachel? Does she care about her married lover who pops up to expose her issues? Does she even like acting?

Reinsve’s skyrocketing career is Trier’s most successful wager and he gives her enough crying scenes to earn an Oscar nomination. Skarsgård is certainly getting one too. But Fanning delivers the best performance in the film. She’s not only hiding depression under a smile, she’s layering Rachel’s megawatt charisma under her eagerness to please, allowing her insecurity at being Gustav’s second pick to poke through in rehearsals where she’s almost — but not quite — up to the task.

Rachel could have been some Hollywood cliché, but Fanning keeps us rooting for this golden girl who hopes she’ll be taken seriously by playing a Nordic depressive. Eventually, she slaps on a silly Norwegian accent in desperation and wills herself to cry in character. And when she does, Fanning has calibrated her sobs to have a hint of hamminess. It’s a marvelous detail that makes this whole type of movie look a little forced.

Discrimination against black people is “baked” into the leadership, culture and governance of the Metropolitan Police, an internal review has found.

The independently commissioned review, authored by Dr Shereen Daniels, surveyed 40 years of evidence of how racism had affected black communities, as well as black officers and staff.

Baroness Doreen Lawrence, mother of murdered black teenager Stephen Lawrence, said that while the report was welcome, it “contains nothing I did not already know”.

Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Mark Rowley described the report as “powerful”, adding that it “calls out that further systemic, structural, cultural change is needed”.

The review, commissioned from the consultancy HR Rewired, concluded that darker-skinned Met staff were “labelled confrontational” while lighter-skinned employees might receive quicker empathy and leniency.

Dr Shereen Daniels said that systemic racism was “not a matter of perception”, adding that “true accountability begins with specificity”.

“The same systems that sustain racial harm against black people also enable other forms of harm. Confronting this is not an act of exclusion but a necessary foundation for safety, fairness and justice for everyone,” Dr Daniels said.

Baroness Lawrence said that discrimination “must be acknowledged, accepted and confronted in the Met”, adding that racism was the reason why her son had been killed and why the police had “failed to find all of his killers”.

She added: “The police must stop telling us that change is coming whilst we continue to suffer. That change must take place now.”

Imran Khan KC said that the report’s conclusions were “little surprise”, adding that Sir Mark Rowley should resign if he did not “recognise, acknowledge and accept” its findings.

He added: “This Report lays out in shocking clarity that the time for talking is over, that promises to change can no longer be believed or relied on.”

The report is the latest to highlight racism within Britain’s biggest police force, after Louise Casey’s 2023 review – commissioned after the murder of Sarah Everard – concluded that the Met was institutionally racist, misogynistic and homophobic.

Reviews conducted decades ago have criticised discrimination within the Met – including the 1999 Macpherson report that called the force “institutionally racist” after the mishandling of Stephen Lawrence’s case.

Earlier this year, secret BBC filming found serving Met Police officers calling for immigrants to be shot and revelling in the use of force.

Several officers have since been sacked, after Sir Mark Rowley pledged to be “ruthless” in getting rid of officers who are unfit to serve.

Following the publication of the latest report, Sir Mark Rowley said: “London is a unique global city, and the Met will only truly deliver policing by consent when it is inclusive and anti-racist.”

Movies that depict the history of war criminals on trial will almost always be worth making and watching. These films are edifying (and cathartic) in a way that could almost be considered a public servic and that’s what works best in James Vanderbilt’s “Nuremberg,” about the international tribunal that tried the Nazi high command in the immediate wake of World War II. It’s a drama that is well-intentioned and elucidating despite some missteps.

For his second directorial effort, Vanderbilt, a journeyman writer best known for his “Zodiac” screenplay for David Fincher, adapts “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist” by Jack El-Hai, about the curious clinical relationship between Dr. Douglas Kelley, an Army psychiatrist, and former German Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring during the lead-up to the Nuremberg trials.

The film is a two-hander shared by Oscar winners: a formidable Russell Crowe as Göring and a squirrely Rami Malek as Kelley. At the end of the war, Kelley is summoned to an ad-hoc Nazi prison in Luxembourg to evaluate the Nazi commandants. Immediately, he’s intrigued at the thought of sampling so many flavors of narcissism.

It becomes clear that the doctor has his own interests in mind with this unique task as well. At one point while recording notes, in a moment of particularly on-the-nose screenwriting, Kelley verbalizes “Someone could write a book” and off he dashes to the library with his German interpreter, a baby-faced U.S. Army officer named Howie (Leo Woodall), in tow. That book would eventually be published in 1947 as “22 Cells in Nuremberg,” a warning about the possibilities of Nazism in our own country, but no one wants to believe our neighbors can be Nazis until our neighbors are Nazis.

One of the lessons of the Nuremberg trials — and of “Nuremberg” the film — is that Nazis are people too, with the lesson being that human beings are indeed capable of such horrors (the film grinds to an appropriate halt in a crucial moment to simply let the characters and the audience take in devastating concentration camp footage). Human beings, not monsters, were the architects of the Final Solution.

But human beings can also fight against this if they choose to, and the rule of law can prevail if people make the choice to uphold it. The Nuremberg trials start because Justice Robert Jackson (Michael Shannon) doesn’t let anything so inconvenient as a logistical international legal nightmare stop him from doing what’s right.

Kelley’s motivations are less altruistic. He is fascinated by these men and their pathologies, particularly the disarming Göring, and in the name of science the doctor dives headlong into a deeper relationship with his patient than he should, eventually ferrying letters back and forth between Göring and his wife and daughter, still in hiding. He finds that Göring is just a man — a megalomaniacal, arrogant and manipulative man, but just a man. That makes the genocide that he helped to plan and execute that much harder to swallow.

Crowe has a planet-sized gravitational force on screen that he lends to the outsize Göring and Shannon possesses the same weight. A climactic scene between these two actors in which Jackson cross-examines Göring is a riveting piece of courtroom drama. Malek’s energy is unsettled, his character always unpredictable. He and Crowe are interesting but unbalanced together.

Vanderbilt strives to imbue “Nuremberg” with a retro appeal that sometimes feels misplaced. John Slattery, as the colonel in charge of the prison, throws some sauce on his snappy patter that harks back to old movies from the 1940s, but the film has been color-corrected into a dull, desaturated gray. It’s a stylistic choice to give the film the essence of a faded vintage photograph, but it’s also ugly as sin.

Vanderbilt struggles to find a tone and clutters the film with extra story lines to diminishing results. Howie’s personal history (based on a true story) is deeply affecting and Woodall sells it beautifully. But then there are the underwritten female characters: a saucy journalist (Lydia Peckham) who gets Kelley drunk to draw out his secrets for a scoop, and Justice Jackson’s legal clerk (Wrenn Schmidt) who clucks and tsks her way through the trial, serving only as the person to whom Jackson can articulate his thoughts. Their names are scarcely uttered during the film and their barely-there inclusion feels almost offensive.

So while the subject matter makes “Nuremberg” worth the watch, the film itself is a mixed bag, with some towering performances (Crowe and Shannon) and some poor ones. It manages to eke out its message in the eleventh hour, but it feels too little too late in our cultural moment, despite its evergreen importance. If the film is intended to be a canary in a coal mine, that bird has long since expired.

Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

If our waking hours are a canvas, the art is how one fills it: tightly packed, loosely, a little of both. At a time when they were both 40 and the art scene in ’70s New York was in thrall to street-centered youth of all stripes, real-life writer Linda Rosenkrantz asked her close friend, photographer Peter Hujar, to make a record of his activities on one day — Dec. 18, 1974 — and then narrate those details into her tape recorder the following day at her apartment.

The goal was a book about the great mundane, the stuff of life as experienced by her talented confidants. In Hujar’s case, an uncannily observant queer artist and key gay liberation figure planning his first book, what emerged was a wry narrative of phone calls (Susan Sontag), freelancing woes (is this gig going to pay?), celebrity encounters (he does an Allen Ginsberg shoot for the New York Times) and chance meetings (some guy waiting for food at the Chinese restaurant). The Hujar transcript, recovered in 2019 sans the tape, was ultimately published as “Peter Hujar’s Day.”

Now director Ira Sachs, who came across the text while filming his previous movie “Passages,” has given this quietly mesmerizing, diaristic conversation cinematic life as a filmed performance of sorts, with “Passages” star Ben Whishaw perfectly cast as Hujar and Rebecca Hall filling out the room tone as Rosenkrantz. (They also go to the roof a couple of times, which offers enough of an exterior visual to remind us that New York is the third character getting the time-capsule treatment.)

From the whistle of a tea kettle in the daylight as Hujar amusingly feels out from Rosenkrantz what’s required of him, to twilight’s more honest self-assessments and a supine cuddle between friends who’ve spent many hours together, “Peter Hujar’s Day” captures something beautifully distilled about human experience and the comfort of others. For each of us, any given day — maybe especially a day devoid of the extraordinary — is the culmination of all we’ve been and whatever we might hope to be. That makes for a stealthy significance considering that Hujar would only live another 13 years, succumbing to AIDS-related complications in 1987. It was a loss of mentorship, aesthetic brilliance and camaraderie felt throughout the art world.

Apart from not explaining Hujar for us (nor explaining his many name drops), Sachs also doesn’t hide the meta-ness of his concept, occasionally offering glimpses of a clapperboard or the crew, or letting us hear sound blips as it appears a reel is ending. There are jump cuts too, and interludes of his actors in close-up that could be color screen tests or just a nod to Hujar’s aptitude for portraits. It’s playful but never too obtrusive, approaching an idea of how art and movies play with time and can conjure their own reality.

The simple, sparsely elegant split-level apartment creates the right authenticity for Alex Ashe’s textured 16mm cinematography. The interior play of light from day to night across Whishaw and Hall’s faces is its own dramatic arc as Hujar’s details become an intimate testimony of humor, rigor and reflection. It’s not meant to be entirely Whishaw’s show, either: As justly compelling as he is, Hall makes the act of listening (and occasionally commenting or teasing) a steady, enveloping warmth. The result is a window into the pleasures of friendship and those days when the minutiae of your loved ones seems like the stuff that true connection is built on.

“Death By Lightning,” premiering Thursday on Netflix, introduces itself as “a story about two men the world forgot,” and while it is undoubtedly true that few in 2025 will recognize the name Charles Guiteau, many will know James A. Garfield, given that he was one of only four assassinated American presidents. There are less well remembered presidents, for sure — does the name John Tyler ring a bell? — and assassins better known than Guiteau, but if you’re going to make a docudrama, it does help to choose a story that might be more surprising to viewers and comes with a murder built in. It is also, I would guess intentionally, a tale made for our times, with its themes of civil rights, income inequality, cronyism and corruption.

Indeed, most everything about the Garfield story is dramatic — a tragedy, not merely for the family, but for the nation. For the sense one gets from “Death by Lightning” and from the historical record it fairly represents, is that Garfield, killed after only 200 days in office, might have made a very good chief executive. (The stated source for the series is Candice Millard’s 2011 book “Destiny of the Republic: A Tale of Madness, Medicine and the Murder of a President”; Millard is also a voice in the more briefly titled, illuminating “American Experience” documentary “Murder of a President.”)

That the longtime Ohio congressman did not seek but was drafted for the job — a compromise chosen, against his protests, on the 36th ballot at the 1880 Republican National Convention, where he’d given a stirring speech to nominate a fellow Ohioan, Treasury Secretary John Sherman — made him, one might say, especially qualified for the job; unlike some politicians one might name, he was self-effacing and humble and not out for personal gain. But he saw, finally, that he had a chance to “fix all the things that terrify me about this republic,” most especially the ongoing oppression of Black citizens, a major theme of his inauguration speech (with remarks transferred here to a campaign address delivered to a crowd of 50,000 from a balcony overlooking New York’s Madison Square Park). “I would rather be with you and defeated than against you and victorious,” he tells a group of Black veterans gathered on his front porch, from which he conducted his campaign. (Some 20,000 people were said to have visited there during its course.)

Political machinations and complications aside, the narrative, which stretches two years across four episodes, is really fairly simple, even schematic, cutting back and forth between Garfield (Michael Shannon, between tours covering early R.E.M. albums) and Guiteau (Matthew Macfadyen), a drifter with delusions of grandeur, as they approach their historically sealed date with destiny. Garfield is goodness personified; we meet him on his farm, cooking breakfast for the family, planing wood to make a picnic table. (A table we will meet again.) Guiteau goes from one failed project to another, living it up on money stolen from his sister, running out on restaurant checks and rooming house bills, telling lies about himself he might well have thought were true, until he decides that politics is the place to make his mark. Under the impression that he was responsible for Garfield’s election, he believed the new president owed him a job — ambassador to France would be nice — and when none was coming, turned sour. A message from God, and the belief that he would save the republic, set him on a path to murder.

Matthew Macfadyen plays Garfield’s assassin, Charles Guiteau, in the miniseries.

(Larry Horricks / Netflix)

The series largely belongs to them — both actors are terrific, Shannon imbuing Garfield with a gravity leavened with kindness and humor, Macfadyen’s Guiteau, optimistically dedicated to his delusions yet always about to pop. But it’s a loaded cast. The ever-invaluable Betty Gilpin, in her fourth big series this year after “American Primeval,” “The Terminal List: Dark Wolf” and “Hal & Harper,” plays Garfield’s wife, Crete, fully up on the political scene and free with her opinions. Shea Whigham is New York senator and power broker Roscoe Conkling, Garfield’s moral opposite, and the series’ villain, if you excuse Guiteau as mentally ill. (The jury didn’t.). As wise Maine Sen. James Blaine, Bradley Whitford exudes a convincing, quiet authority, honed over those years working in the pretend White House on “The West Wing.” All the men have been whiskered to resemble their historical models.

Where most of them, even Guiteau, remain consistent from beginning to end, it’s Nick Offerman’s Chester A. Arthur who goes on a journey. Conkling’s right hand, in charge of the New York Customs House — which generated a third of the country’s revenues through import fees — he’s offered the position of vice president to appease Conkling, New York being key to winning the election. Arthur begins as a thuggish, cigar-smoking, sausage-eating, drunken clown, until he’s forced, by events, and the possibility of inheriting the presidency, to reckon with himself.

When First Lady Crete Garfield wonders whether there should be a little extra security (or, really, any security at all) around her husband, he responds, “Assassination can no more be guarded against than death by lightning — it’s best not to worry too much about either one,” giving the series its title and clearing up any confusion you may have had about its meaning. Indeed, Guiteau moves in and out of what today would be well guarded rooms with surprising ease, managing encounters (some certainly invented) with Crete, Blaine, a drunken Arthur and Garfield, whom he implores, “Tell me how I can be great, too.”

Created by Mike Makowsky, it isn’t free from theatrical effects, dramatic overreach or obvious statements, but as period pieces go, it’s unusually persuasive, in big and little ways. Only occasionally does one feel taken out of a 19th century reality into a 21st century television series. The effects budget has been spent where it matters, with some detailed evocations of late 19th century Chicago and Washington that don’t scream CGI. The first episode, which recreates the 1880 convention, held at the Interstate Exposition Building in Chicago, aligns perfectly with engravings of the scene and brings it to life, supporting the wheeling and dealing and speechifying in a way that one imagines is close to being there.

Because we know what’s coming, the series can be emotionally taxing, especially as a wounded Garfield lingers through much of the final episode, while being mistreated by his doctor, Willard Bliss (Zeljko Ivanek), who ignores the advice of the younger, better informed Dr. Charles Purvis (Shaun Parkes), the first Black physician to attend to a sitting president; many, including Millard, believe it was the doctor who killed him through a lack of sanitary precautions, and that Garfield might have recovered if he’d just been left alone, an idea the series supports.

But you can’t change history, as much as “Death By Lightning” makes you wish you could.

The first shot of director Lynne Ramsay’s stubborn and exasperating postpartum nightmare “Die My Love” would be a great opener for a horror movie. The camera lurks in the kitchen of an isolated ranch house, as still and foreboding as a ghost, while a couple named Grace and Jackson (Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson) poke around the front porch of their newly inherited property. The two take several beats to go inside, long enough that we suspect these crazy kids are making a dangerous mistake. Just look at the wallpaper. Those florals would make anyone crack.

“It’s not New York but it’s ours,” Jackson says of the rural home, left to him by his uncle who died violently upstairs in a way that Grace finds hilarious. He grew up in the area and his parents, Pam and Harry (Sissy Spacek and Nick Nolte), still live nearby. Neither Jackson nor Grace say anything about their past lives back in the city, but he yearns to play drums and she once claimed to write. There’s a sense that their dreams have stalled out, either due to finances, passion or talent. So they move in, have a baby and pivot to domestic chaos.

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Lawrence and Pattinson are such a natural, overdue pairing that it’s a surprise to realize this is the first time they’ve teamed up to make the kind of polarizing, go-for-broke prestige film they both enjoy. The two stars launched into the public consciousness roughly around the same time, then followed the same trajectory from teen franchise idols to creatively ambitious A-listers and now, more recently, newish parents making a movie about miserable parents whose hopes have run aground. Lawrence has two tots under 3; Pattinson, a toddler. Their kids shouldn’t watch this movie until college.

In a dynamic montage, Ramsay sets up their boyfriend-girlfriend pair as lusty but strange. Jackson and Grace flirt by fighting like wild beasts. Nuzzling, sniffing, biting, wrestling — that’s foreplay (and she’s more into it than he is). But they can’t communicate with words. “If you’re not feeling good, maybe we should, like … talk?” Jackson says tentatively to his increasingly restless and unstable partner. Grace isn’t interested in talking, though occasionally she’s game to scream. When they fight for real, their bodies twist into spasms of outrage. And when the other one isn’t looking, each seems to power down — Lawrence’s Grace physically collapsing like an unplugged air dancer — a clue of how much energy they must privately expend to make it work.

“Die My Love,” adapted by Ramsay, Enda Walsh and Alice Birch from the 2012 novel by Argentine author Ariana Harwicz, makes parenthood feel like being handcuffed to an anchor that’s sinking into a swamp. Lawrence’s Grace needs help and the more she flails, the worse she makes things. The book is an inner monologue of poison: “How could a weak, perverse woman like me, someone who dreams of a knife in her hand, be the mother and wife of those two individuals?” the first paragraph seethes. But Ramsay rejects putting its angst into words. As with Joaquin Phoenix in “You Were Never Really Here,” she prefers characters who silently roil under their skin.

The tension in this home starts quiet — too quiet — with Grace cranking up kiddie albums by Alvin and the Chipmunks and Raffi to drown out whatever noise is happening in her head. After Jackson brings home a stray dog, the racket becomes unbearable, with sound designers Tim Burns and Paul Davies skillfully and cruelly making sure that no matter how far Grace roams, she can still hear the darned thing bark.

Lacking much perspective into Grace, we mostly see a mentally unwell woman incensed that her sexual playtime is over. She howls with the urge to mate, prowling the house in matching fancy bras and thong sets that clash with this disheveled house and its stockpile of cheap beer. Occasionally, a mysterious leather-clad biker (LaKeith Stanfield) speeds by, considering a quickie with this bored beauty.

Grace’s erotic agony is reductive and a bit ridiculous, although I think the script is also trying to imply that Grace herself is focused on the wrong problems. The film represents her depression by coating the night scenes in so much blue tint that even Picasso might suggest dialing it back. Despite cinematographer Seamus McGarvey’s efforts to put us in her headspace with lenses that make the world blur and swirl around her, you’re more afraid of Grace than for Grace, especially when the shock editing has her smashing through doors like Michael Myers.

Hurling herself into every scene, Lawrence puts her full faith in Ramsay. It’s not a trust fall so much as a trust cannonball. As good and committed as Lawrence is, there were times I wanted to rescue her from her own movie, to protect her from the fate of Faye Dunaway when “Mommie Dearest” turned another blond Oscar winner into a joke.

Yet, this is a character who hates pity and I can’t help but admire that Ramsay faces down today’s phonily upbeat and relatable motherhood discourse with this boogey-mom who keeps herself aloof. Grace treats the older women in her family like a wall of advice to be tuned out even when they’re right. “Everybody goes a little loopy the first year,” Spacek’s Pam says, offering empathy that falls on deaf ears. (Spacek delivers a lovely, endearingly layered turn.) And while Grace is so lonely she literally claws the walls, she rejects any overture of friendship, either from a perky fellow parent (Sarah Lind) or a peppy cashier (Saylor McPherson) whose attempts to start a conversation go so badly that when the poor dear asks Grace if she’s found everything she’s looking for, Grace huffs, “In life?”

Pattinson has the more recessive role but his performance is so subtle and clever that it’s worth watching closely. His Jackson is pathetic, passive and skittish around his baby’s mother, who he both longs to heal and tries to avoid. He has a few moments that play so close to comedy — say, whining to be let into the bathroom — that you wish the movie would do more to encourage our pained, guttural laughs. The punchlines are there, such as a beat after one meltdown where Jackson admits he’s getting really stressed out and Grace coolly replies, “About what?”

There’s one scene in which Grace reveals a snippet of backstory that might explain her psychology, and I think that specificity is a narrative misstep. What’s powerful about Grace is that she’s howling for all parents, even the mostly happy ones. Harwicz’s book deliberately never gave her character a name.

Even inside this movie, Grace’s anguish is universal. Yes, she wanders into the wilderness at night, but so do her in-laws Harry and Pam, for reasons of their own.There are dark vibrations emanating from almost every character, even the minor ones, although Grace is too caught up in herself to take any comfort from that. But Ramsay is comfortable suggesting that everyone feels crazy and miserable. I suspect she thinks it’s the most normal way to live.