review

“Frankenstein” has haunted Guillermo del Toro since he was a kid who barely reached the Creature’s knees. Back in 2011, the writer-director was already tinkering with a version of the monster that resembled a blend of Iggy Pop and Boris Karloff with jagged sutures, gaunt wrinkles and a crushed nose. Since then, Del Toro has made changes. The 2025 model is played by Jacob Elordi, a 6-foot-5 actor often cast as the ideal human specimen in movies like “Saltburn” and who here howls to life with handsome features and rock star swagger. But your eyes keep staring at his pale, smooth seams. He doesn’t look hand-stitched — he looks a little like a modern android.

Of course he does. The decades have given Del Toro time to think about what truly scares him. It’s not monsters. He loves all disfigured nasties, be they swamp creatures, eyeball-less ogres or bolt-headed Hellboys. It’s tech bros, like the ones weaseling into Hollywood, who give their every innovation a sterile sheen.

“Frankenstein” is the director’s lifelong passion project: He doesn’t just want to make a “Frankenstein” but the “Frankenstein,” so he’s faithfully set his adaptation in the past. But he’s adjusted the wiring so that 1850s Europe reminds us of Silicon Valley. The result is the best movie of his career.

This Baron Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) is a short-sighted egomaniac who barks over his critics while jabbing the air with his fingers. “I fail to see why modesty is considered a virtue,” he says with a snort.

And Del Toro has written Victor an enabler: a deep-pocketed investor named Henrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz) who struts into Victor’s science lecture hunting for a whizkid to crack the code to immortality. With his gold-heeled shoes and a confidence that he’s too rich to die, Waltz’s wealthy arms dealer is a 19th century take on venture capitalists like Bryan Johnson and Peter Thiel who’ve been poking into the feasibility of pumping their veins with young blood.

“Don’t be a reasonable man,” Henrich advises Victor. The assumption is — and remains — that tycoons and geniuses deserve to run rampant. Great success demands an indifference to the rules. And if you’re wondering whether money or brains has more power, there’s a scene in which Henrich uses a chamber pot and smugly orders Victor to “flush that for me.”

Del Toro is wired into the outrage in Mary Shelley’s sly 1818 novel, a nightmarish satire about men who care only about yelling “first!” without asking what horrors come next. Centuries ago, she warned of man’s ill-considered rush to create artificial intelligence. Today, Dr. Frankenstein’s descendants keep promising that AI won’t destroy civilization while ignoring Shelley’s point, that the inventor is more dangerous than his monster.

Victor, a stunted man-child who drinks milk served by a sommelier, is frozen in the I’ll-show-him stage of growing up with an abusive father (Charles Dance) who whipped him when he got a wrong answer on his schoolwork. Victor’s name, we’re reminded, means “winner,” a symbol of the pressure he’s under to excel.

Isaac plays him with a pitchman’s exuberance that sags as the corners of his mouth wrench down in disappointment. He’s hacked how to make a disembodied head moan in agony. But having rarely felt affection, Victor doesn’t know how to generate that emotion at all. Worse, it hasn’t occurred to him to think past the triumph of his product launch, that his Creature can’t be readily unplugged. The only kind characters in the movie are a rural blind man (David Bradley) and the moth-like Mia Goth, double-cast as Victor’s mother, Claire, and his brother’s fiancee, Elizabeth. A convent girl with a creepy streak, Elizabeth sees beauty in biology, leaning over a corpse’s flayed back to appreciate the intricacy of its ventricles. But the more she studies Victor, the less impressed she gets.

Because Shelley came up with “Frankenstein” as an 18-year-old newlywed who’d just lost a baby, her message gets boiled down to gender: Women birth life, men mimic it. Really, the feminine strength of the book lies in its foxy, shifting narration that opens with a prologue from an Arctic explorer who’s gotten his sailors trapped in the ice, before transitioning to Victor’s story and then the Creature’s. Like a hostess who secretly loathes her guests, Shelley encourages her characters to flatter themselves and expose their braggadocio.

Del Toro has kept that tactic and he’s kept the book’s structure. But within that framework, he’s changed nearly everything else to make Victor more culpable. Unlike the 1931 film, there’s no Igor and no excuse of accidentally using the wrong brain. This Victor does his own dirty work and what goes wrong is his fault. Meanwhile, Del Toro amps up the action, starting the film off with a ghastly great sequence in which Elordi’s Creature punches a sailor so hard his spine snaps into a backward somersault.

“What manner of devil made him?” the Captain (Lars Mikkelsen) exclaims. Victor guiltily explains why he played God.

Being a futurist isn’t bad. Henrich, an early adopter of daguerreotype cameras, shoots photographs of women posing with skulls like he’s paving the way for Del Toro’s whole filmography. But pompous Henrich and Victor don’t appreciate that their accomplishments are built on other’s sacrifices. When the cinematographer Dan Laustsen pans across a battlefield of dead soldiers, it feels like a silent scream. Henrich made his fortune killing these men; now, Victor will salvage their body parts.

Del Toro delights in the kinetic gusto of the tale, the grotesquerie of cracking limbs and blood sloshing about Victor’s shoes. In the laboratory, dead leaves and buzzing flies whirl through the air as if to keep up with the inventor’s wild ambitions and Alexandre Desplat’s swirling orchestral score. The production design by Tamara Deverell is superb as are the costumes by Kate Hawley, who shrouds Goth in dramatic chiffon layers and dresses laced to highlight her vertebrae. (This movie loves bones as much as Sir Mix-A-Lot loved backs.)

As Victor rudely flings around torsos and limbs, it’s clear that he only values life if it’s branded with his name. So yes, of course, Elordi’s Creature looks good. He’s been assembled from the choicest bits of man flesh to show off the talent of his creator, not so different from Steve Jobs caressing samples of brushed aluminum. When Elordi’s Creature pleads for a companion, a sliver of sculpted abs peeking out from under five hulking layers of wool and fur, you expect half the audience’s hands to shoot up and volunteer.

Elordi has adopted one or two of Karloff’s mannerisms: the arms outstretched in search of warmth, the lurching walk. You can see that he’s a tad lopsided on the left side, presumably because Victor couldn’t find matching femurs. Mostly, he’s his own monster, neither the calculating serial murderer of the book nor Karloff’s reactive, animalistic killer, but a scapegoat who finally starts leveling his foes with bone-breaking efficiency.

Towering over Victor by almost a foot, Elordi’s Creature dwarfs his creator physically, morally and emotionally. There’s anguish in his eyes, and when Del Toro shows us the world through his perspective, humanity itself appears anti-life, a pestilence that destroys without hesitation.

There’s a pack of digital wolves that just looks silly. Otherwise, you trust how intensely Del Toro has doted upon every detail. I was flummoxed by a row of servants flanking young Victor (Christian Convery) who appeared to be wearing gauzy bags over their heads. What are those for? My theory is it’s a tribute to the veil Karloff sported during lunch breaks, so as not to frighten any pregnant secretaries on the Universal lot.

Eschewing mobs of pitchfork-wielding villagers, Del Toro focuses on Victor’s inability to parent his unholy son. And while the end stretch gets a bit too stiff and speechy, particularly with a line that Victor is the “true monster,” I loved the moment when the Creature, venting on behalf of all frustrated children however big they‘ve grown, growls, “The miracle is not that I should speak but that you would listen.”

This deservedly anticipated “Frankenstein” transforms that loneliness into stunning tableaux of Victor and his immortal Creature tethered together by their mutual self-loathing. One man’s heart never turned on. One can’t get his heart to turn off. Ours breaks.

An immigrant drama by Rudi Goblen about two brothers born in Nicaragua, “littleboy/littleman,” now receiving its world premiere at the Geffen Playhouse, is an American story at its core.

Lest we forget our past, America is the great democratic experiment precisely because it’s a land of immigrants. Out of many, one — as our national motto, E pluribus unum, has it. How have we lost sight of this basic tenet of high school social studies?

Our tendency to ghettoize drama — along racial or immigrant lines — reflects the failure to understand our collective story.

Goblen, who (like a.k. payne, author of “Furlough’s Paradise”) was a playwriting student of Geffen Playhouse artistic director Tarell Alvin McCraney at Yale, has created not a conventionally worked out two-hander, but an intuitively structured performance piece. Infused by live music and inflected with hip-hop style poetry, “littleboy/littleman” crashes through the fourth wall to make direct contact with theatergoers, who are seated on three sides of the playing area and always just a high-five away.

Marlon Alexander Vargas, the dynamic, sweet-faced performer who plays Fito Palomino, the more creative and mercurial of the two brothers, is on stage interacting with the audience before the play begins. As the musicians — music director Dee Simone on drums and Tonya Sweets on bass — warm up the crowd from their platform at the back of the playing area, Vargas, ever-in-motion, greets theatergoers and counts down to the start of the show.

Rules are spelled out at the top that make clear that this isn’t one of those docile theatergoing experiences, in which the audience is expected to keep mum as the actors do all the work. Spectators are encouraged to make some noise — to show love when they want to show love and to show it even when they don’t.

These friendly instructions are impishly delivered by Vargas, whose performance outside the play has an effect on our experience of his character inside the play. The fate of Fito is the emotional crux of the drama, and what happens to him matters all the more to us because of our theatrical connection to Vargas, our de facto host and impromptu buddy.

Goblen sets up a drama of fraternal contrasts. Bastian Monteyero (Alex Hernandez), the older and more straitlaced of the two brothers, has a tough, no-nonsense demeanor that’s all about discipline and conformity. He’s a bit of a recluse, but he plays by the rules and demands the same from Fito.

A street performer, Fito dreams of opening a vegan restaurant that will offer his community access to affordable, healthful meals. This idea seems far-fetched to Bastian, and he tells Fito that if he wants to continue living with him, he’s going to have to get a real job.

Bastian hooks Fito up with a friend who’s employed at a cleaning service. But scrubbing public toilets isn’t Fito’s idea of an alternative course. Bastian wants his brother off the streets. There are dangers afoot in Sweetwater, Fla., far worse than unpleasant paid work.

A law officer in town, a sadist who demands complete subservience, has it in for Fito, who describes this menacing figure as “a gangster with a badge.” He also calls him “brown on the outside, white on the inside,” and bemoans to his brother the Latino infighting (“the worst thing they ever did was give us all flags”) that only divides people who have political reason to be in solidarity.

Bastian, who affects a white-sounding Midwestern voice when he hustles donations in his telemarketing job, can’t help taking the latter comment personally. He’s made no secret that he wants to change his name so his resume won’t be ignored when he applies for management jobs.

The two brothers have different fathers, and Fito doesn’t have the option of passing. In any case, he’s more embracing of his identity as a person of color than Bastian. What both of them have in common is that they survived both their harrowing childhoods in Nicaragua and their unrelentingly challenging journeys in America, having been raised by a single mother, whose death still haunts them.

Bastian and Fito love each other, but don’t always like each other. Hernandez’s Bastian is a formidable presence, angry, strict and domineering — the qualities he’s needed to navigate a bureaucratic system that has little concern for the feelings of immigrant outsiders. Vargas’ Fito, by contrast, has his head in the clouds and his heart on his sleeve. Goblen never loses sight of their affection even as their conflict grows louder and more bruising.

Bassist Tonya Sweets, from left, Marlon Alexander Vargas and drummer Dee Simone in “littleboy/littleman” at Geffen Playhouse.

(Jeff Lorch)

“littleboy/littleman” is tricky in its theatrical rhythms. It’s like a piece of music that keeps switching harmonic structures, not wanting to get stuck in the same groove. Goblen’s manner of writing is closer to free jazz or freestyle hip-hop than traditional drama.

Director Nancy Medina’s staging, circumnavigating a theatrical circle, lifts the audience out of its proscenium passivity into something almost immersive and definitely interactive. Tanya Orellana’s scenic design and Scott Bolman’s moody lighting create a performance space that is well suited to a work composed as a series of riffs. The influence of McCraney’s “The Brothers Size” is palpable not only in the thematic architecture of the play, but also in how the piece moves on stage.

The staccato nature of the writing is helped enormously by the entrancing acting of both Vargas, who breezes through different theatrical realms as though he had wings, and Hernandez, who locks realistically into character. It’s a credit to the play and to the performers that, by the end of “littleboy/littleman,” the differences between the two brothers seem less important than what they have in common.

Not all the dramatic elements are smoothly integrated, but the production ultimately finds a coherence, not so much in the music (composed by Goblen himself), but in the emotional truth of the brothers’ pressure-cooker lives. Vulnerability unites not only Bastian and Fito, but all of us witnessing their story who hope against hope that compassion will somehow win the day.

A Grammy Award for best new artist. Four top 10 hits since September 2024. Sold-out gigs packed with admirers in pink cowgirl hats wherever she goes.

At 27, Chappell Roan has unquestionably become one of pop’s new queens. But let it never be said that this powerhouse singer and songwriter rules without mercy.

As her band vamped on the intro to her song “Hot to Go!” on Friday night, Roan surveyed the tens of thousands spread across the leafy grounds surrounding the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.

“We’re gonna teach you a dance,” she said, though few in the audience probably needed the lesson at this point in Roan’s ascent. For more than a year, social media has been awash in video clips of Roan’s fans doing a “Y.M.C.A.”-like routine in time to the frenzied chorus of “Hot to Go!”

But wait a minute: “There’s a dad in the crowd that’s not doing it,” Roan reported with practiced disbelief. The band stopped playing. “There’s a dad that’s not doing it,” she repeated — less incredulous than reproving now.

“But he looks really, really nice, so I’m not gonna do anything about it.”

Roan’s show Friday was the first of two in Pasadena to wrap a brief U.S. tour.

(Brian Feinzimer/For The Times)

Friday’s show, which Roan said was the biggest headlining date she’d ever played, was the first of two at Brookside at the Rose Bowl to conclude a brief run of U.S. concerts she’s calling Visions of Damsels & Other Dangerous Things. The performances in New York, Kansas City and Pasadena can be seen as something of a victory lap after the slow-building success of her 2023 debut album, “The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess,” which beyond “Hot to Go!” has spun off numerous other hits including “My Kink Is Karma” and the inescapable “Pink Pony Club.”

That last song, which has more than a billion streams on Spotify and YouTube, documents a young queer woman’s sexual awakening at a West Hollywood gay club; Roan’s music sets thoughts of pleasure, heartache and self-discovery against a gloriously theatrical blend of synth-pop, disco, glam rock and old-fashioned torch balladry.

Having spent this past summer on the European festival circuit, she’s said that Visions of Damsels represents “the chance to do something special before going away to write the next album”; the mini-tour also keeps her in the conversation as nominations are being decided for next year’s Grammys, where she’s likely to vie for record and song of the year with “The Subway,” one of a handful of singles she’s released since “Midwest Princess.”

Yet as clearly as it showcased her natural star quality — the stage was designed like a gothic castle with various staircases for Roan to descend dramatically — this was really a demonstration of the intimate bond she’s forged with her fans, many of whom came to the show dressed in one of the singer’s signature looks: harlequin, majorette, prom queen, construction worker.

An hour or so into her 90-minute set, Roan sat in a giant throne with a toy creature she called her tour pet and recalled her move to Los Angeles nearly a decade ago from small-town Missouri.

“I had a really, really tough time the first five years,” she said, adding that she’d lived in Altadena when she first arrived. (In a bit of now-infamous Chappell Roan lore, she was dropped by Atlantic Records in 2020 after the label decided “Pink Pony Club” was not a hit.) She talked about how much she loves this city — “F— ICE forever,” she said at one point to huge applause — but bemoaned the “weird professionalism” she can feel when she’s onstage in L.A.

“I know there’s a lot of people in the music and film industry here, and I don’t want you to think about that,” she said. “Don’t f—ing talk about it. Don’t talk about work here. I just want you to feel like you did when you were a kid — when you were 13 and free.” She laughed.

“I’m just gonna shut up — I’m so dumb,” she said. Then she sang the lovelorn “Coffee” like someone confessing her greatest fear.

Roan said Friday’s show was the biggest headlining date she’d ever played.

(Brian Feinzimer/For The Times)

Though the castle set was impressively detailed, Roan’s production was relatively low-key by modern pop standards; she had no dancers and no special guests and wore just one costume that she kept removing pieces from to end up in a kind of two-piece dragon-skin bikini.

But that’s because at a Chappell Roan show, Chappell Roan is the show: a fearsomely talented purveyor of feeling and attitude whose campy sense of humor only heightens the exquisite melancholy of her music.

Her singing was immaculate yet hot-blooded, bolstered by a killer band that remade songs like “Good Luck, Babe!” and “Red Wine Supernova” as slashing ’80s-style rock; Roan covered Heart’s “Barracuda” with enough strutting imperiousness to compete with Nancy Wilson’s iconic guitar riff.

“The Giver” was a stomping glitter-country hoedown, “Naked in Manhattan” a naughty electro-pop romp. For “Picture You,” which is about longing to know a lover’s secrets, Roan serenaded a blond wig plopped atop a mic stand — a bit of absurdist theater she played completely straight.

The heart of the concert was the stunning one-two punch of “Casual” into “The Subway,” Roan’s most grandly emotional ballads, in which her voice soared with what seemed like total effortlessness.

After that is when the singer noticed that kindly dad shirking his duties in “Hot to Go!” Maybe the poor guy was just too dazzled to take part.

“The Chair Company,” premiering Sunday on HBO, is a conspiracy comedy — dark comedy, one would definitely have to say — in which Tim Robinson goes down a rabbit hole, from one carrot to the next, after a chair collapses beneath him. It’s a thriller in its way; there will be suspense, and injuries, and a lot of screaming, mostly by the star.

Robinson, who co-created the series with Zach Kanin (who also co-created Robinson’s Netflix sketch show, “I Think You Should Leave”), is a difficult hero. His main shtick is the madman underneath a cracking veneer of civilization; physically, he projects a sort of eccentric normality, like a critique of normal. From the beginning of “The Chair Company,” we see that Robinson’s Ron Trosper is tense and nervous and can’t relax, getting into a argument with a waitress over what and what isn’t a mall — he’s been named to lead the development of a new one in Canton, Ohio. (The action all takes place in the state.)

A presentation he’d been dreading goes well, but as he sits back down, his chair — a standard office model — collapses under him, robbing him of a moment of triumph. What most would throw off with a joke sets Ron on edge, and he begins an obsessive quest to track down the manufacturer. But all he comes up with are dead ends and empty offices, and he begins to suspect a conspiracy. When, getting into his car, he’s hit on the head with a pipe and told to stop asking about the chair, it only makes him more determined to uncover it. Lurking, sneaking and stealing will ensue. Reckless behavior. Shouting.

Along with some standard office comedy involving HR reports and Ron’s “know it when I see it” boss (Lou Diamond Phillips, aging gracefully), there is a family element. Wife Barb (Lake Bell) is moving ahead with plans to develop a more attractive breast pump. Daughter Natalie (Sophia Lillis) is getting married to her girlfriend, and wants to change the venue at the last moment to a haunted house. Son Seth (Will Price), a basketball player apparently of enough talent to mention it in the series, has discovered the pleasures of drinking just as recruiters are coming around. It’s not a developed thread, but it gives Price the opportunity to deliver my favorite line in the series: “Some nights I’ll have like four beers and I’ll sit in my room and I’ll put on Abbott and Costello after I’ve had a couple; it makes me feel good to know that [these] two guys found each other because they both seem so different.” Which is a theme of the show.

The character who makes the series breathe is Mike Santini (Joseph Tudisco), the person wielding the pipe. Ron will track him down, and eventually they’ll become partners in his investigation and, after a fashion, friends. (Though Ron is not always friendly.) Mike is the series’ most original conception, and, in a strange way, its heart — someone not beyond taking money from a stranger to hit another stranger over the head, but sympathetic. Lonely, he craves the connection. Ron, for his part, is forever running out on his family to join Mike in some misadventure.

Robinson, the rare “Saturday Night Live” worker who went from performer to writer, is quite adept at playing this character, which makes Ron exhausting company; it takes a certain sort of stamina, or a love for, this particular brand of chaos to put up with him. It seems hardly credible at times that he’s successfully helped raise two rational children, one to adulthood; has attained an upper-middle-class life (with Lake Bell!); and occupies a position of creative responsibility. There are difficult comic characters you’re nevertheless happy to see — Larry David, because he’s so centered in his world and basically right, Lucille Ball because she’s a genius. But Ron spends so much time at DEFCON 1, dialed up past 11, that it can be off-putting, and drowns out the human inside.

Nevertheless, like any mystery, it draws you along, waiting for answers. Seven episodes of eight were released to reviewers; the seventh ends on what feels like a note of quiet irresolution — if not, in Ron’s mind, satisfaction. But the eighth will surely not let things rest, and you may rest assured — and may need the rest — that eight is not the end.

In “The Last Frontier,” which premieres Friday on Apple TV+, a plane carrying federal prisoners goes down in the Alaskan wilderness outside a town where Frank Remnick (Jason Clarke) is the U.S. Marshal. Eighteen passengers survive, among them a sort of super-soldier we will come to know as Havlock (Dominic Cooper). Sad intelligence agent Sidney Scofield (Haley Bennett) is sent to the scene by her dodgy superior (American treasure Alfre Woodard).

I won’t go into it in depth, especially given the enormous number of reveals and reversals that make up the plot; pretty much everything not written here constitutes a spoiler. The production is excellent, with well-executed set pieces — the plane crash, a tug-of-war between a helicopter and a giant bus, a fight on a train, a fight on a dam. (I do have issues with the songs on the soundtrack, which tend to kill rather than enhance the mood.) The large cast, which includes Simone Kessell as Frank’s wife, Sarah — they have just about put a family trauma behind them when opportunities for new trauma arise — and Dallas Goldtooth, William Knifeman on “Reservation Dogs,” as Frank’s right hand, Hutch, is very good.

It’s as violent as you’d expect from a show that sets 18 desperate criminals loose upon the landscape, which you may consider an attraction or deal killer. (I don’t know you.) At 10 episodes, with a lot of plot to keep in order, it can be confusing — even the characters will say, “It’s complicated” or “It’s not that simple,” when asked to explain something — and some of the emotional arcs seem strange, especially when characters turn out to be not who they seem. Things get pretty nutty by the end, but all in all it’s an interesting ride.

But that’s not what I came here to discuss. I’d like to talk about snow.

There’s a lot of snow in “The Last Frontier.” The far-north climate brings weather into the picture, literally. Snow can be beautiful, or an obstacle. It can be a blanket, as in Eliot’s “Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow,” or a straitjacket, as in 2023’s “A Murder at the End of the World,” a Christie-esque murder mystery that trapped the suspects in an Icelandic luxury hotel. It’s part of the aesthetic and part of the action, which it can slow, or stop. It can be deadly, disorienting, as when a blizzard erases the landscape (see the first season of “Fargo”). And it requires the right clothes — mufflers, fur collars, wool caps, big boots, gloves — which communicate coziness even as they underscore the cold.

The snowy landscape in shows like “The Last Frontier” is part of the aesthetic and action.

(Apple)

Even when it doesn’t affect the plot directly, it’s the canvas the story is painted on, its whiteness of an intensity not otherwise seen on the screen, except in starship hallways. (It turns a moody blue after dark, magnifying the sense of mystery.) Growing up in Southern California — I didn’t see real snow until I was maybe 10? — I was trained by the movies and TV, where all Christmases are white if the budget allows, to understand its meaning.

It was enough that “The Last Frontier” was set in Alaska (filmed in Quebec and Alberta) to pique my interest, as it had been for “Alaska Daily,” a sadly short-lived 2022 ABC series with Hilary Swank and Secwépemc actor Grace Dove as reporters looking into overlooked cases of murdered and missing Indigenous women. This may go back to my affection for “Northern Exposure” (set in Alaska, filmed in Washington state), with its storybook town and colorful characters, most of whom came from somewhere else, with Rob Morrow’s New York doctor the fish out of water; “Men in Trees” (filmed in British Columbia, set in Alaska) sent Anne Heche’s New York relationship coach down a similar trail. “Lilyhammer,” another favorite and the first “exclusive” Netflix series, found Steven Van Zandt as an American mobster in witness protection in a Norwegian small town; there was a ton of snow in that show.

It serves the fantastic and supernatural as well. The polar episodes of “His Dark Materials” and “Monarch: Legacy of Monsters,” the icebound sailing ships of “The Terror” live large in my mind; and there’s no denying the spooky, claustrophobic power of “Night Country,” the fourth season of “True Detective,” which begins on the night of the last sunset for six months, its fictional town an oasis of light in a desert of black. In another key, “North of North,” another remote small town comedy, set in Canada’s northernmost territory among the Indigenous Inuit people is one of my best-loved shows of 2025.

But the allure of the north is nothing new. Jack London’s Yukon-set “White Fang” and “The Call of the Wild” — which became an Animal Planet series for a season in 2000 — entranced readers back around the turn of the 19th century and are still being read today.

Of course, any setting can be exotic if it’s unfamiliar. (And invisible if it’s not, or annoying — if snow is a thing you have to shovel off your walk, its charm evaporates.) Every environment suggests or shapes the stories that are set there; even were the plots identical, a mystery set in Amarillo, for example, would play differently than one set in Duluth or Lafayette.

I’ll take Alaska.

LOVE foreplay but have a lazy partner? Then Christmas has come early — ahem.

Meet The Poet by Smile Makers. Made with clever air-suction technology, this toy is no ordinary vibrator.

The Poet, £79.95 £55.95 from Smile Makers

It’s designed for earth-shattering clitoral orgasms. Add a bit of lube, and it practically mimics real oral sex — a godsend for those of us whose partners skip foreplay… or are single.

As a devoted fan of oral, I like to make it the main course — who needs guys anyway?

Its silky-smooth silicone material feels amazing against the skin, and with three interchangeable heads, you can find your perfect fit.

It’s already racking up glowing reviews and boasts a 4.7-star rating online — so guys, consider yourselves warned!

Pros

• Rechargeable battery
• Three interchangeable ‘mouths’ 
• Cheaper than similar toys on the market
• Waterproof
• Very quiet (if not totally silent)
• Two-year guarantee
• Five pulsation modes 

Cons

• Better for solo play than intercourse
• There are already similar products on the market
• Packaging could be more enticing 

Rating: 9/10

How I tested The Poet

The Poet, £79.95 £55.95 from Smile Makers

As The Sun’s Sexpert, I’ve tried my fair share of vibrators over the years — you can read my round-up of the best sex toys for women.

Where possible, I test the toys by myself, and then my partner is usually roped in for a test drive (not that he ever minds!).

The Nitty Gritty

First impressions

Okay, so the packaging could be a little more enticing, but once opened, the toy itself is very pretty and female-friendly.

Its purple-rose design is elegant enough to sit on your bedside table — no need to hide it away in a drawer.

The instructions are simple to follow, and the toy is easy to use.

Does it… Deliver?

The Poet, £79.95 £55.95 from Smile Makers

As someone who loves oral sex, I can honestly say this is one of the best air-suction toys I’ve tried.

I actually prefer it to toys from Womanizer, one of the first brands to use this kind of clitoral stimulation technology.

It’s more comfortable to use, gentler yet somehow more powerful, and much prettier too. 

Add plenty of lube and it really can feel as good — if not better — than the real thing.

It really can feel as good — if not better — than the real thing.

And yes, lads, you might want to be a little worried about that!

It’s also waterproof, so you can elevate your bathroom game with a cheeky solo session in the shower or bath.

Plus, it’s rechargeable (no more faffing about with batteries) and comes with a cute satin bag to tuck it away in.

How much is The Poet?

At £79.95, it’s cheaper than its racy rival, the Womanizer, as well as Lelo’s Sona 2, which, until trying this, was the best I’d tried.

Plus, it’s currently on sale for £55.95.

Lelo’s Sona 2 is pricier at £100.62 (currently on sale).

So, while this toy is a little up there in price, it’s still more affordable than many other premium brands — and it comes with a two-year guarantee.

Orgasms that are insured — what’s not to love?

Where to buy The Poet

Thanks to the sale, the best place to buy The Poet is probably the Smile Makers website.

But, it’s also available from retailers like SheSpot and Cult Beauty.

It’s worth shopping around, as different sites often run their own discounts.

Alternatives

At the premium end of the market, the Womanizer Next retails at £189 – almost £100 more than The Poet.

Both use air-tech suction, are whisper-quiet, waterproof, and made from soft silicone.

But I find the Womanizer a bit more rigid and less comfortable to hold and use than The Poet.

At the budget end, there’s LoveHoney’s Clitoral Rose Suction, which is super cute and very reasonably priced at £54.99.

It also uses clever air-tech suction technology and is waterproof, but it’s not as comfortable to hold as The Poet, which seems to mould perfectly to the body.

Then, bang in the middle, there’s Lelo’s Sona 2.

Like the Womanizer, it specialises in air-suction clitoral stimulation and is one of my favourite toys.

But The Poet is cliterally the best — and cheaper. 

“Kiss of the Spider Woman,” a sexual and scatological dazzler about an inmate‘s obsession with a favorite musical, sounds like the kind of thing some folks won’t watch even if they, too, were locked in a prison for years. Their loss. In the spirit of the film, I’ll try to change their mind.

It’s 1983 Argentina, the last days of a militarized dictatorship under which 30,000 people have been disappeared. Scraggly, severe Valentin (Diego Luna) is a political prisoner with ties to the revolutionary underground. His new cellmate is a brazen chatterbox named Molina (Tonatiuh), a gay window dresser serving an eight-year sentence for indecency in a public bathroom. They have zero shared interests. But to pass the time — and, more importantly, to get Valentin to put down his biography of Lenin and talk a little — Molina recounts the plot of a Golden Age spectacular starring the fictional movie star Ingrid Luna (Jennifer Lopez), a red-lipped, pineapple-blond beauty whose vintage posters brighten their wretched gray walls.

“I hate musicals,” Valentin complains.

“Then I pity you,” Molina says breezily, charging into the first scene.

Through beatings and starvation, poisonings and betrayals, all under the gaze of the oppressive warden (Bruno Bichir), Valentin and Molina escape into Technicolor in a desperate need for distraction. The writer-director Bill Condon (“Chicago,” “Dreamgirls”) has savvily, unabashedly reworked the 1993 Broadway extravaganza (already a bold adaptation of the 1976 experimental novel and 1985 Academy Award-winning drama). He’s double-cast Luna and Tonatiuh as the film-within-a-film’s leads and changed the imaginary tale from a Nazi propaganda flick to a melodramatic but moving South American romance between a glamour queen and a noble photographer. Its themes of love and sacrifice come to mirror Valentin and Molina’s own relationship.

The songs themselves are the same rather-forgettable numbers by John Kander and Fred Ebb who did a zingier job mixing fascism with feathers in “Cabaret.” “Live inside me on a movie screen,” Lopez’s Ingrid sings, luring Molina to get lost in daydreams. Behind her, dancers gyrate like victims being electrocuted. (I wouldn’t have minded more jolts of morbid humor.) Unhummable as the music is, its message has a spark: In the war for liberation, it’s OK to take mental breaks.

In fact, pleasure is necessary, especially for the regularly tortured Valentin who seems to have been numb for a long time. (Communist memoirs don’t stir the soul.) A hardline ascetic, Valentin won’t even alert the medics when he’s sick, in case they give him morphine.

The two roommates comically bicker about what scant pop culture Valentin knows, taking shots at “Raging Bull,” Meryl Streep and his own crass insistence that Ingrid’s character, Aurora, is frigid due to some kind of childhood trauma. (“Oh, God, let her be,” Molina sighs.) Yet, their conversation always pirouettes back to the gap between the real world and the movies.

“I hate to break it to you,” Valentine says, “but nobody sings in real life.”

“Well, maybe they should,” Molina huffs.

Maybe in confinement they can’t.

Condon smartly limits who sings and why and when. In the 1985 drama, which starred Raul Julia and William Hurt (who won the Oscar for Molina), both men remained trapped in this horrible dungeon and never sang a song. On Broadway, all of the characters — even cranky Valentin — crooned numbers the whole way through. But Condon draws a thick line between reality and fiction to highlight how much his leads need the freedom for radical self-expression.

“Kiss of the Spider Woman” is about a lot of things: Valentin reconnecting with his emotions, Luis discovering that he’s more than a self-described trivial sissy. (“I cringe every time you make fun of yourself,” Valentin growls.) But it’s fundamentally about those scenes in which the palette and polish of the film shifts and cinematographer Tobias A. Schliessler switches from handheld to Steadicam. The putrid chamber drama becomes a fantasia, befouled rags turn into tuxedo pants and it’s finally safe to belt how they feel.

Earlier incarnations of this story had activism as the end goal, Valentin for his principles and Molina for his new friend. Condon is more focused on their humanity. Caring for each other makes this bleak world worth fighting for. Without joy, we’re already in chains.

People will come out of “Kiss of the Spider Woman” gushing about Tonatiuh and with good reason. Striding confidently into his first starring role, the L.A.-born breakout talent is a bright new discovery with shining eyes and brash exuberance. He needs to be excellent for the movie to succeed and he’s pretty darned close, even pulling off a glib beat where Molina recoils from a battered man and quips, “If I looked like that, I’d want a bag over my head too.” There are scenes where he comes off arch and a little telegraphed, although in fairness, that’s also just who Molina is — performance is protection. And when Tonatiuh cowers from the guards, we get a hint of what Molina has suffered without Condon ever having to show the abuse.

To keep things faithful to 1983, Tonatiuh’s Molina doesn’t identify as transgender — the character sticks to the limited vocabulary of the time. But you see Molina’s subtle disappointment when Valentin, trying to be supportive, insists, “You’re not a monster, you’re a man.” And Condon has tweaked a climactic refrain, changing the pronoun to “Her name was Molina.”

Playing Ingrid-as-Aurora — the heroine of a film that, even its biggest fan admits, is “no ‘Citizen Kane’” — Lopez is shellacked under two layers of diva artifice. But at this point in her career, she’s suited to being an icon. She’s long since given up pretending she’s still Jenny from the Block, and Condon has shaped the role of Ingrid to her like a corset. You hear it in the line, “No matter how hard Hollywood tried to make her all-American, she never stopped being Latin” and more than that, you see it in Lopez’s delight as she flashes her legs and tosses her hair. She knows she can nail this role and she really hoofs it. There’s a wide-angle shot of a nightclub where Condon gives her and a dozen background performers a full, uncut minute to twirl. Most impressively, Lopez grabs a martini, slowly does a one-legged spin to the ground and then uncoils herself to stand back up and cheer.

She has a harder time commanding the screen in a third role, when Ingrid also acts the part of the sinister Spider Woman, a spiky-haired, taloned jungle goddess who smooches her prey to death. The movie’s stiff Spider Woman set pieces are a relic of the ’90s musical that put Chita Rivera in a massive web. Trapped in them, Lopez can’t do much more than a predatory grin. But it’s still better than how Condon’s “Chicago” chopped up its choreography into close-ups (and here, there’s still a few gratingly askew camera angles). The new film is the director’s penance: an apologia to musical lovers who want to see the star do every inch of the dancing.

Still, my favorite performance has to be Luna’s, whose Valentin is at once strong and vulnerable, like a mutt attempting to fend off a bear. He’s the only one who doesn’t need to prove he’s a great actor, yet he feels like a revelation. Watching him gradually turn tender sends tingles through your heartstrings. For his second role as Ingrid’s onscreen boyfriend, Condon resurrects a discarded number from the original musical where Luna croons about being “An Everyday Man,” his warm voice perfectly imperfect. Even when he’s grouchy and filthy, you get why Molina would imagine Valentin as the ideal romantic lead.

I don’t want to spoil the ending other than to say that Condon adds an exclamation point to his insistence on music as emancipation with a new scene set after the fall of the junta and its right-wing abduction squads. The camera looks down at the jail as the inmates spill into the courtyard. Then it pulls up for an aerial shot of the entire block. We see citizens flood the streets. We hear honking horns and spontaneous street music. The whole country is free to sing.

In “Boots,” a new miniseries set in 1990, Miles Heizer plays Cameron Cope, a scrawny, bullied gay teenager who is out only to his best (and only) friend, Ray (Liam Oh). Ray, who is joining the Marines to make his disciplinarian but not unkind father proud, convinces Cam to join alongside him. (The recruiters sell a buddy system, which is a bit of a come-on.) Cam told his messy but not unkind mother, Barbara (Vera Farmiga), where he was going, but she wasn’t listening.

Though the series, which premieres Thursday on Netflix and is based on Greg Cope White’s 2016 memoir, “The Pink Marine,” is novel as regards the sexuality of its main character, it’s also essentially conventional — not a pejorative — and largely predictable. It’s a classic Boot Camp Film, like “An Officer and a Gentleman,” or Abbott and Costello’s “Buck Privates,” in which imperfect human material is molded through exercise, ego death and yelling into a better person, and it replays many tropes of the genre. And like most every military drama, it gathers diverse types into a not necessarily close-knit group.

Cam’s confusion is represented by externalizing his inner voice into a double, “the angel on my shoulder and, honestly, sometimes the devil,” with whom he argues, like a difficult imaginary friend. (It’s the voice of his hidden gayness.) Where basic training stories like this usually involve a cocky or spoiled character learning a lesson about humbleness and teamwork, Cam is coming from a place of insecurity and fear. At first he wants to leave — he had expected nothing worse than “mud and some bug bites and wearing the same underwear two days in a row” — and plots to wash out; but he blows the chance when he helps a struggling comrade pass a test. He’s a good guy. (Heizer is very fine in the part.)

Cameron (Miles Heizer), left, is convinced by his best friend (and only friend), Ray (Liam Oh), to join the Marines with him.

(Alfonso “Pompo” Bresciani / Netflix)

Press materials describe “Boots,” created by Andy Parker, as a comedic drama, although, after the opening scenes, there’s not much comedy in it — even a food fight is more stressful than funny. Using “Also Sprach Zarathustra” as the soundtrack to a long-in-coming bowel movement — I just report the news — was already dated and exhausted in 1990, and is bizarrely out of joint with the rest of the production. “Boots” isn’t anywhere near as disturbing as, say, “Full Metal Jacket” — which Ray told Cam to watch to prepare, though he opted for a “Golden Girls” marathon instead. But it makes no bones about the fact that these kids are being trained to kill. “Kill, kill, blood makes the grass grow,” they chant, and “God, country, Corps, kill.” And sometimes just, “Kill, kill, kill.” And things do turn violent, sometimes for purposes of training and sometimes because someone just goes off his head.

Still, that Cam survives, and, after a period of adjustment, thrives (that’s not a spoiler, Cope White lived to write the book) makes this, strictly speaking, a comedy. (And, by implication, an endorsement of the program.) “We’re killing our old selves so we can be our best selves,” he’ll say to Ray. The Marines may make a man of him, but it won’t be a straight man.

Rhythmically, “Boots” follows scenes in which someone will break a little or big rule — I suppose in the Marines, all rules are big, even the little ones — with some sort of punishment, for an individual or the platoon. Laid across this ostinato are various storylines involving recruits working out the issues that have brought them to this Parris Island of Misfit Boys. Cody (Brandon Tyler Moore) was taught by his father to look down on his twin brother, John (Blake Burt), who is in the same outfit, because he’s fat. Slovacek (Kieron Moore), a bully, has been given a choice between prison and the military. Mason (Logan Gould) can barely read. Santos (Rico Paris) is slowed down by a bum knee. Ochoa (Johnathan Nieves) is a little too much in love with his wife. And Hicks (Angus O’Brien) is a chaos-relishing loon, having the time of his life. Obviously, not everyone who joins the Marines is compensating for something; Nash (Dominic Goodman), a more or less balanced character who seems to be sending Cameron signals, is there to pad his resume in case he runs for president one day; but he’ll have his moment of shame.

Sgt. Sullivan (Max Parker), left, is one of the drill instructors who takes an interest in Cameron (Miles Heizer).

(Alfonso “Pompo” Bresciani / Netflix)

Though they all raise their voices and get in people’s faces, the drill instructors do come in various flavors. Staff Sgt. McKinnon (Cedrick Cooper), the senior instructor, is imposing but obviously sane and sometimes kind; Sgt. Howitt (Nicholas Logan) is an unsettling sort who will prove to have some depth, while Sgt. Knox (Zach Roerig) is a twitchy racist, soon to be replaced by Sgt. Sullivan (Max Parker), tall, steely and tightly wound. He doesn’t yell as loud as the others, but even his posture is intimidating. He focuses immediately on Cameron; make of that what you will. He’s the series second lead, basically.

There are some respites from the training, the running and marching, the room full of tear gas, the dead man’s float test, the hand-to-hand combat, the flower planting. (That part was nice, actually.) The yelling.

Ray winds up in sick bay, where he flirts with a female Marine. We get a few perfunctory glimpses of what the brass is like when they’re out of uniform and quiet; it comes as a relief. McKinnon’s wife is having a baby; he makes Cookie Monster noises on the phone for his son. Capt. Fajardo (Ana Ayora), “the first woman to lead a male company on Parris Island,” is heard talking to her mother, presumably about her daughter’s wedding: “I would rather not spend the time or the money because she can’t live without love.” Of her position, she observes that it “only took 215 years and a congressional mandate.” McKinnon, who is Black, offers a brief history of Black people in the Marine Corps as lived by his forebears.

The social themes become more prominent in the second half, and we learn or are reminded just how toxic the military was to gay people, and how backward was its attitude. “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” wasn’t in effect until 1994, and it wasn’t until 2011 that openly gay soldiers could serve. Now, as civil rights are being beaten back to … backwardness by small-minded politicians, there’s a timely element to this perfectly decent, good-hearted, unsurprisingly sentimental miniseries.

AS someone who tried and failed for years to master the art of the at-home blowout, I have the rise of air tools to thank for my transformed hair styling routine.

Every hair tool under the sun promises “salon-worthy results at home,” and I’ve been testing the Shark FlexStyle hair tool for a year to determine if it can truly deliver.

Shark FlexStyle Air Styler and Hair Dryer, £229.99 (was £279.99)

Known originally for its popular vacuums, Shark branched out into the beauty tech space in 2022 with the launch of the FlexStyle Air Styling and Drying System.

The beauty gadget features five different attachments, with an option to build your own bundle based on your hair type.

All of the FlexStyle attachments can also be bought separately on the Shark website for £24.99 each, so you can add to your collection over time.

Shark swooped in at a time when beauty enthusiasts were searching for a more affordable alternative to the £400+ Airwrap.

At £279.99, it’s still an investment, but it’s a fraction of the cost of a Dyson Airwrap i.d.

Is it worth ditching your current tools for an all-in-one gadget? Read below for my full Shark FlexStyle review.

Pros:

• Creates voluminous blow-outs
• Minimal heat damage
• Requires little effort (once you nail the technique)
• Multiple attachments included
• Option to build your own set
• Easy to switch between styler and dryer
• Cheaper than similar alternatives

Cons:

• Noisy
• Bulky for travelling
• Takes a while to master the technique
• Hot brush attachment can feel rough on the hair

Rating: 8/10

How I tested the Shark FlexStyle Air Styler

Shark FlexStyle Air Styler and Hair Dryer, £229.99 (was £279.99)

As The Sun’s Fashion and Beauty eCommerce Writer, it’s my job to try out products that are causing a buzz in the industry.

I’m obsessed with all things beauty, so I’ve tested my fair share of hair stylers over the years, including the best Dyson Airwrap dupe and my Dyson Airwrap i.d review, but it takes a lot for one to become a regular in my routine.

The hype around the Shark FlexStyle is still going, and I can confidently share my thoughts after trialling the tool for a year.

The Smoothing Concentrator (hair drying nozzle) and Auto-Wrap Curling Barrels are my go-to FlexStyle attachments, so I’ll be talking mostly about them.

But I’ve also tested the Paddle Brush, Oval Brush and Fizz Fighter heads.

For reference, I have long, wavy hair that can get frizzy after washing, and I have extensions.

Shark FlexStyle 5-in-1 air styler review: The Nitty Gritty

First impressions

1

Shark FlexStyle Air Styler and Hair Dryer, £229.99 (was £279.99)

Every beauty influencer in existence seems to own the FlexStyle, so I was pretty familiar with its appearance before trying it out.

While sleek in design, the cable and attachments together are on the bulky side (which is to be expected due to its multiple functions), but it’s meant I’ve avoided travelling with it so far.

When purchasing the FlexStyle, shoppers can select the five-in-one bundle, or mix and match their own (choosing four attachments).

I have the model that comes with five attachments: Auto-Wrap Curlers (one for each side of the head), a Paddle Brush, an Oval Brush, a Styling Concentrator, and a Diffuser.

My Fizz Fighter Finishing Tool is a new addition, which I bought separately to try and tame my frizz at my roots.

As I have attachments in my bundle that I don’t use (the diffuser, as it’s designed for curly/ coily hair), I would recommend the Build Your Own Hair Styling and Drying System to get the most for your money.

Does it deliver?

If you’re looking for a way to create bouncy blow-outs yourself, the Shark FlexStyle absolutely delivers, but it does take practice to perfect the process.

My biggest reservation about the FlexStyle before trying it was the drying system.

Shark FlexStyle Air Styler and Hair Dryer, £229.99 (was £279.99)

A multitasking styler runs the risk of being a jack of all trades but a master of none, but Shark has ensured its hair dryer doesn’t compromise on power.

I swear by my Dyson Supersonic Hair Dryer for quick results on my long hair, and the FlexStyle pretty much matches its drying time.

Call me easily pleased, but the way the tool rotates between a dryer and a styler is one of my favourite features.

The fact that it twists into a right angle makes it so much easier to use, and — in a common theme with the FlexStyle — it never makes me feel like I’m overworking to get results.

There are three heat and power settings (I tend to use mine on full blast), and following the instructions of online videos, I always use the Cool Shot feature for locking the style in place.

The Paddle Brush (for straight styles) and the Oval Brush (for blow-outs) both have boar and plastic bristles that are great for gripping the hair, but I’d recommend being gentle to avoid snagging the hair.

The newest addition to my routine is the Frizz Fighter Finishing Tool.

Like the barrels, it attracts the hair, gliding from the root to smooth frizz and flyaways, essentially enhancing the effects of the other attachments.

Now, for quite possibly the main selling point — the Auto-Wrap Curling Barrels.

Shark FlexStyle Air Styler and Hair Dryer, £229.99 (was £279.99)

I have to admit, I was quickly humbled when I realised that the beauty influencers were making the process look far easier than it is.

The airflow technology makes the air wrap around the barrel automatically to create a curl, but I struggled with getting it to pick up the hair for the first few attempts.

And when I did, the curl would drop out within the first few hours.

After plenty of practice (and TikTok tutorials), I managed to master the method, but patience is needed.

I found the key is keeping the sections small as it makes it easier for the hair to wrap, and use a product to hold the curls (I swear by the Colour Wow XL Volumiser).

Unlike when I use curling tongs, the curls aren’t going to last me for days on end, but they do look great that day, and after sleeping on them, I’m left with a subtle wave that I’ll sometimes go over with the barrels.

I also find the whole process to be far more enjoyable than curling my hair with tongs (which could be down to years of the same routine) – and the airflow makes creating curls far more efficient.

The one thing I’d change about the FlexStyle is the noise.

Shark FlexStyle Air Styler and Hair Dryer, £229.99 (was £279.99)

When my roommate borrows it, I can hear the whirring from the other side of the flat, so it’s not one you could use while watching TV or late at night.

Keeping heat damage to a minimum is important to me as I already put enough strain on my hair with bleach, extensions and frequent styling.

Can I confidently say that the FlexStyle causes zero damage? No.

But can I confidently say that it creates a salon-worthy blow-out while causing far, far less damage than other hair tools? Absolutely.

Results aside, I can tell when I’m using the FlexStyle that it’s transferring way less heat than a tong or straightener (you can read my article on the best hair straighteners here).

There’s no burning smell (and if there is, you may need to clean the filter), and my hair has felt healthier since ditching the tongs for the FlexStyle regularly.

I love how my hair turns out every time I use the Shark FlexStyle, and it’s absolutely worth investing time to master the technique in order to get professional-looking results.

Shark FlexStyle FAQs:

Shark FlexStyle price

The Shark FlexStyle isn’t cheap, but if you’re keen to invest in a does-it-all hair tool, it’s more affordable than its competitors.

Shark’s 5-in-1 Hair Dryer and Air Styler with Storage Case is currently on sale for £229.99, while the Build Your Own bundle is slashed to £199.99.

Refurbished models are also available on eBay, a cheaper alternative to buying the FlexStyle brand new.

Shark released a 2025 edition of the FlexStyle earlier this year, which beauty fans can buy for £279.99.

Where to buy the Shark FlexStyle 5-in-1 air styler and hair dryer?

The Shark FlexStyle is available to buy online at Boots, Amazon and of course, the Shark website.

Most major beauty retailers are also currently stocking the styler, including Sephora, Lookfantastic and Cult Beauty.

There are several colourways to choose from, including the limited-edition sparkle FlexStyle that comes in stunning champagne and black shades (and would be perfect if you’re buying the styler as a gift).

The full list of places to shop online:

Is the Shark FlexStyle worth it?

Using the Shark FlexStyle takes some practice to get it right, but once you get the technique down, it’s so worth it.

The styler works effectively on long and thick hair, but those with fine hair will need to work harder for long-lasting curls.

At over £250+, it’s not cheap, but if you blow-dry and curl your hair regularly, it’s an investment worth considering.

The best part about the FlexStyle?

It causes far less heat damage than tongs and conventional hair straighteners – not to mention that it’s significantly more enjoyable to use.

How to use Shark FlexStyle?

For best results, start with towel-dried hair and dry with the Smoothing Concentrator until your hair is roughly 80% dry.

You can use the Paddle Brush attachment to straighten your hair and add shine, or the Oval Brush to add bounce and volume.

The Auto-Wrap Curlers use a clever technology that wraps and curls your hair around the barrel automatically.

All you need to do is hold your hair in place for 10-15 seconds, and then use the shot button to lock in your curl before releasing.

Repeat across sections for a full head of soft, bouncy curls.

Shark FlexStyle 5-in-1 Air Style alternatives

It’s no secret that the Dyson Airwrap i.d is the FlexStyle’s main competitor (make sure to read our Dyson Airwrap i.d review).

Revlon, Bondi Boost and Silk’n all have similar hair tools, and the Sun Shopping team also tried and tested the Babyliss Air Style 1000 in a Dyson Airwrap dupe review.

Beauty fans who are mostly tempted by the Oval Brush attachment on the FlexStyle should also check out our round-up of the best hot brushes.

Over the last decade or so, publishers of American genre fiction have borrowed a page from Hollywood’s playbook by essentially packaging novels like films, grafting together collaborators from two different A-lists: those that feature bestselling novelists and major celebrities. Large commercial rewards have been reaped from these crossbred literary partnerships. Bill and Hillary Clinton, to name just two examples, have both enjoyed bestsellers with big-time writing partners James Patterson and Louise Penny, respectively.

Now we have Reese Witherspoon, already a major force in American publishing, teaming up with Harlan Coben, one of the world’s biggest selling thriller writers, to create “Gone Before Goodbye,” a book that taps into our fascination with the follies of the impossibly rich at the same time that it ponders real questions about the ethics of social engineering via medical advances in organ regeneration.

Now, it must be said that book critics are cynical snobs by nature, and something like “Gone Before Goodbye,” which at first blush seems to have been a project drummed up in a talent agency conference room, is prone to be received with a derisory scoff and a stiff-armed shove from those who are just waiting to sink their teeth into the new Thomas Pynchon novel. But this is Harlan Coben and Reese Witherspoon we’re talking about here, two formidable talents whose track record for delivering smart entertainment is unimpeachable. “Gone Before Goodbye” is not some magpie creature patched together from shopworn thriller tropes, even if certain plot elements feel a bit much. Instead, what the two authors have delivered is a story that pulls the reader deep into a rarefied world where ethics are mere technicalities and the needs of the rich take precedence over petty trivialities like, say, morality.

The book’s protagonist, Maggie McCabe, a brilliant Army combat surgeon who, along with her husband, Marc, and their friend Trace, teamed up after college to create WorldCures Alliance, “one of the world’s most dynamic charities, specializing in providing medical services for the most impoverished,” working as field surgeons risking their lives on the front lines in Afghanistan and the Middle East. The trio once had big plans centered on the prototype of an artificial heart they designed, THUMPR7, which they were convinced would change the world by extending the lives of millions, rich, poor or otherwise.

When the book begins, these plans have been torn asunder: Marc, as it transpires, has been killed in a rebel attack on a refugee camp in Libya. Trace has gone missing along with the artificial heart prototype. And Maggie has lost her medical license due to a hiccup of bad judgment on her part. At loose ends and broke, Maggie, and the reader, are then swept into a strange adventure when a successful cosmetic surgeon named Evan Barlow approaches her with an offer to wipe out her family’s debts in exchange for Maggie committing to perform surgery for a client in Russia who is willing to pay her millions.

Off Maggie goes into the dirty world of the Russian oligarchy, in a city called Rublevka, “perhaps the wealthiest residential area in the world,” where a shady creep named Oleg Ragoravich, one of the 10 wealthiest and most reclusive Russian billionaires, has a job for her. It’s well below Maggie’s pay grade: Oleg wants augmentation mammoplasty for his mistress Nadia. Ragoravich is predictably oleaginous, a man with a file cabinet full of hidden agendas, but he is charmingly persuasive, and the money has already been wired into Maggie’s account. She is in before she even has a chance to back out.

Naturally, there is a great deal more involved than a simple boob job. Without giving too much away, Witherspoon and Coben in this novel have tapped into the wealthy’s obsession with using technology to foster super-agers. As the stakes get higher, the plot ripples out into larger and larger concentric circles that envelop Maggie’s life and everyone in it. But there is so much to take in while this happens, so much voyeuristic pleasure to be had as Maggie acclimates into an almost impossibly lush and lavish world that toggles between Russia and Dubai, the de facto playground for raffish oligarchs intent on bad behavior.

Witherspoon and Coben revel in the details. The plane that spirits Maggie from New York to Russia is a “full-size 180-seat Airbus A320 renovated for private use,” kitted out with a 65-inch contoured TV, a gourmet kitchen and a marble ensuite bathroom with an “oversize rain showerhead.” Ragoravich’s dacha is a “garish and almost grotesque” palace clad in marble that makes Maggie think of Versailles, but in a way that makes Versailles seem dumpy. Everything within is “not so much an attempt to classily suggest opulence and power as to batter you with it.” This is the kind of thriller that invites you into a gilded empyrean that compels you and repels you in equal measure.

The book’s plot mechanics hum along with great pace and verve, even if a few of its particulars are too far-fetched to swallow. With “Gone Before Goodbye,” the two authors deliver a fun ride into a shadow land where the rich are convinced that money can insulate them from everything, including their own mortality — even if they have to murder a few people to get there.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

Fans of the seminal, long-running podcast “WTF With Marc Maron” — and I count myself among them — have been treated to thousands of deep-dive interviews with a starry array of actors, musicians, comics and even some politicians (Barack Obama was a guest in 2015). It’s also been an intimate window into the conflicted inner life of the show’s eponymous host. Maron has seemingly pulled few if any punches in his podcast’s opening monologues as he’s held forth on everything from his fraught emotional state and his two-decade struggle with drug and alcohol addiction (he’s been sober since 1999) to the untimely 2020 death of his romantic partner, the well-regarded indie filmmaker Lynn Shelton (“Humpday,” “Your Sister’s Sister”).

Much of this personal territory and more is revisited in the absorbing, fly-on-the-wall-style documentary “Are We Good?” (named after Maron’s “WTF” sign-off phrase), produced and directed by Steven Feinartz.

Feinartz, who also directed Maron’s last two HBO stand-up specials, began filming his subject in 2021. He trailed Maron as he performed in comedy clubs from Los Angeles to Montreal, recorded his podcast from the garage studio of his Glendale home, visited with his elderly father and, most pivotally, worked through the soul-crushing loss of Shelton. That loss becomes the driving force of the doc, with Maron’s grief informing his daily life and thought process, while also providing cathartic, darkly humorous fodder for his stand-up gigs.

It’s a tricky balancing act that Feinartz depicts with candor, grace and patience, never letting the film’s provocative pathos turn overly grim or sentimental. A stand-up bit in which Maron recalls his ghoulish urge to snap a hospital selfie after bidding goodbye to the deceased Shelton (don’t worry, he decided against it) provides a gulp-worthy example of the comic’s brazen yet reflective approach to the world around him.

That Shelton died at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic made for an additionally cruel and difficult time for Maron, who was unable to share his pain with many others as social distancing took over. He eventually found the funny in that conundrum as well, incorporating the memory into his routine with satiric glee.

Anyone familiar with Maron’s grumpy, F-bomb-tossing persona will likely savor these 90 or so minutes in his swirlingly neurotic company. He unabashedly leans into that vibe here, even while wrangling his pair of self-possessed cats. While Maron sometimes kvetches about Feinartz’s hovering cameras, he seems to have given him a kind of all-access pass to his daily life in a way that belies his trademark crankiness. He may be a reluctant showman, but he’s a showman nonetheless.

The uninitiated, however, might find Maron somewhat less engaging. He readily self-identifies as “selfish, anxious and panicky” and for some, a little of that may go a long way. Still, it’s not hard to relate to his many cogent musings (“How do you love somebody else if you really can’t love yourself?”) as well as to respect he clearly had for Shelton, who’s seen here in an array of luminous, heartbreaking clips.

Other comic talents such as Nate Bargatze, David Cross, Caroline Rhea, Michaela Watkins and John Mulaney also weigh in, bringing a mix of the sincere and the droll to their frank and friendly observations about Maron. On his podcasts and elsewhere, Maron has spoken at length about growing up with narcissistic, emotionally detached parents and how that dynamic likely laid the groundwork for his problematic sense of self. Although that’s not discussed in great detail here, the scenes between Maron and his dad, Barry, now in his mid-80s and living with dementia, have a subtle poignance that shows a kinder, more accepting side of the comedian than perhaps even he might have expected.

Meanwhile, a bit more could have been made of Maron’s acting work, a sideline that’s gained momentum over the last decade or so with worthy roles on TV’s “Glow” and “Stick,” and in films including “Joker” and the upcoming “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.” Maron’s oft-stated uncertainty about his acting ability and the push-pull he has admitted to feeling might have dovetailed nicely with his other qualms.

That said, the profile, which features vivid archival and personal footage and photos of Maron throughout the years, is by no means comprehensive, nor does it try to be. At heart, it’s about a vulnerable man at a unique moment in time and how his past has prepared him — or perhaps not. And we are definitely good for experiencing this singular artist up close.

Mercedes Bryce Morgan’s horror film “Bone Lake” announces itself with a startlingly cheeky opener and closes with a bloody gore-fest, the song “Sex and Violence” by U.K. punk outfit the Exploited spelling out the thesis of the film for us. It’s about the intertwining of sex and violence, you see. But what unfolds between these naughty, viscera-drenched bookends is less of a traditional horror film and more of a psychosexual thriller, like “Funny Games” played between two, young attractive couples, with a setup borrowed from “Barbarian.”

In the script by Joshua Friedlander, a double-booking of a secluded rental mansion becomes a double date when Will (Alex Roe) and Cin (Andra Nechita) stumble in on the intimate weekend vacay of Sage (Maddie Hasson) and Diego (Marco Pigossi). The couples decide to make the best of it and stay, promising to rock-paper-scissors for the house if anything gets “weird.”

And get weird it does. While Diego and Sage seemed perfectly happy on arrival, the sexy, uninhibited Will and Cin have a way of nosing out their insecurities, finding the cracks in their connection and weaseling their way in. Suddenly, their lackluster sex life is on trial, and Sage’s resentment about financially supporting Diego while he pursues his dream of writing a novel bubbles to the surface.

Like any weekend-goes-awry horror movie (e.g., “Speak No Evil”), the female half of the couple catches a bad vibe that her male partner dismisses, due to his vested interest in wanting to stay. For Diego, it’s the promise that Cin will share his writing with his favorite author, for whom she claims to work. They overlook the red flags, blow off their opportunities to leave and decide to go all in with this wanton pair, drinking, playing games, breaking into secret rooms and dodging sexual overtures from each of them.

Morgan and her cinematographer Nick Matthews make the location fun to look at, with a saturated color palette and clever camera movements. However, there are scenes where the film is frustratingly dim and underlit, even if it might be justified by the power going out during a storm.

While there’s a certain verve and style to the middle section, where Will and Cin draw in their prey and toy with them, the Grand Guignol climax bears no rhythm or suspense; it’s merely a bludgeoning of the audience with carnage — too much too late.

Other blunt instruments? Roe and Nechita, who don’t play their roles with any subtlety. Roe’s Will comes off as a dangerous himbo; Nechita’s Cin is an over-the-top minx in her seduction of both Diego and Sage. While Hasson’s Sage is a plausibly strident freelance journalist type, you wonder if she has much experience with female friendship, because Cin’s manipulation is so painfully obvious. Pigossi’s self-obsessed novelist, however, is perfectly pitched in his all-around obliviousness.

There’s a kernel of something fascinating at the center of “Bone Lake,” a melding of sex and violence into gestures that are familiar from true crime stories. But there’s not enough motivation baked into the big third-act twist, and the performances just aren’t strong enough to suggest anything deeper.

“Bone Lake” offers up an appealing surface but it’s ultimately too shallow to get you immersed.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

When we first encounter Daniel Day-Lewis in “Anemone,” we only see him from the back, but there’s no mistaking him. Chopping wood outside his character’s rustic cabin in the middle of nowhere, he drives the ax down again and again, ferociously focused on the task at hand. At his best, which was often, Day-Lewis pursued acting with a primal clarity. Fittingly, his return to the big screen after announcing a retirement in 2017 is in a movie that exudes the same stark, elemental quality. He didn’t just co-write this tale of two estranged brothers excavating their complicated history — he imbues it with his essence, its reason for being.

“Anemone” isn’t just a film about family but one made by a father and his son. It’s the feature directorial debut of Ronan Day-Lewis, who collaborated with his Oscar-winning dad on the screenplay. Ronan, better known as a painter in New York’s contemporary art world, chronicles a collection of still lives who jostle themselves out of an emotional stupor.

Set in England some time during the mid-1990s, the movie opens as Jem (Sean Bean) says goodbye to his melancholy partner Nessa (Samantha Morton) and troubled son Brian (Samuel Bottomley) to venture out into the forest to reconnect with his younger brother Ray (Daniel Day-Lewis), whom he hasn’t spoken to in 20 years. A deeply religious man — he has “Only God Can Judge Me” sternly tattooed across his back — Jem is on a mission whose purpose will only slowly be revealed. When he arrives at Ray’s cabin, Ray knows it’s him before he even sets eyes on his brother. For several agonizing minutes, they sit together saying nothing, as Black Sabbath’s mystical ballad “Solitude” plays softly on the stereo. The tense silence will be the first of several battles of will between the two men, neither willing to yield.

Day-Lewis, now 68 and whose last film was Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Phantom Thread,” seems carved out of stone as Ray, his close-cropped hair and imposing gray goatee suggesting a man who doesn’t just live off the grid but thrives there. Lean and athletic, with a wildness in his eyes, Ray displays the same antagonism as Day-Lewis’ Bill the Butcher from “Gangs of New York” or Daniel Plainview in “There Will Be Blood.” Ray’s mysterious and fraught history as a member of the British military during the Troubles is a festering boil this film will eventually lance. His brother, who also served in the military, has come to speak to Ray about something more personal, but the hells they experienced in that conflict are the larger issue they must confront.

Shot by cinematographer Ben Fordesman in the Welsh countryside, “Anemone” takes place largely in a sprawling woods, Ronan Day-Lewis lending the flinty drama a mythic grandeur. Bobby Krlic’s mournful score is alternately dreamy and eerie, the instrumental music abruptly cutting out in the middle of a hypnotic passage. Wordless interludes find Jem and Ray dancing to music or sparring as boxers, their simmering feud reduced to its core elements of rugged masculinity and sibling rivalry. The artist-turned-filmmaker even incorporates a striking image from one of his oils — that of a translucent horselike creature — as an enigmatic visual motif that proves more ponderous than poetic.

This is not the first time Daniel Day-Lewis has worked closely with family. Twenty years ago, he starred in his wife Rebecca Miller’s father-daughter fable “The Ballad of Jack and Rose.” Both that film and “Anemone” concern solitary men who opted out of society, only to discover that such a plan is difficult to sustain. But they also both suffer from what might be described as an excess of dramatic seriousness, which is especially true of “Anemone.” Whether it’s Morton’s perpetually scowling expression in the infrequent cutaways to Brian’s life back home or the on-the-nose emphasis on looming gray clouds, there’s no question a storm is coming. Even “Anemone’s” rare moments of levity feel drained of color, the weight of this family’s Dark Past so severe that not an ounce of light (or lightness) can be permitted to escape.

Not surprisingly, the star almost makes the movie’s suffocating gloom resonate. “Anemone” allows Day-Lewis to be volcanic when Ray launches into a disturbing, ultimately revolting monologue about a recent run-in with a pedophiliac priest from childhood. Later, when the film finally explains why Ray abandoned the world, Day-Lewis delivers a teary confession that doesn’t have much fresh to say about the insanity of war but is nonetheless ennobled by how he unburdens his stoic character through cascading waves of anger and shame.

Even when he’s been fiery, nearly frothing at the mouth, Day-Lewis has always been a master of stillness, relying on his tall, taut frame to hint at the formidable power or menace underneath. (When his characters explode, it’s shocking, and yet we somehow knew the blast was imminent.) For Ray, a man full of rage who has no patience for religion, sentimentality or forgiveness, his brother’s arrival is an unwelcome event, and even when a slight thawing occurs between them, Day-Lewis remains coiled, ready to strike, their fragile truce constantly in danger of being upended.

But because Jem, like so many of these characters, is underwritten, Bean has to fall back on generalized manly intensity, which turns their showdowns into actorly exercises. The interactions are bracing but also a bit studied — the performers’ technique is more impressive than the story, which too often is merely a delivery device for misery disguised as searing truth.

There’s reason to celebrate that Daniel Day-Lewis has chosen, at least temporarily, to cancel his retirement, but “Anemone” as a whole strains for a greatness that its star effortlessly conveys. Amid the film’s self-conscious depiction of a brewing tempest, he remains a true force of nature.

The contradictions of mixed martial arts brawler Mark Kerr can’t be contained by a ring, an octagon or a film. A vulnerable man with a brutal career, he went undefeated on the mat while struggling in his private relationships and public addiction to painkillers, which he bravely revealed in John Hyams’ 2002 HBO documentary “The Smashing Machine: The Life and Times of Extreme Fighter Mark Kerr.” In that footage, shot between 1997 and 2000, you’re continually startled by how Kerr could clobber his opponents until some lost teeth — putting himself in a mental state he once likened to being a shark in a feeding frenzy — and then after the bell, flash a smile so wide and happy, it split his own head in half.

That’s Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s whole thing, too: Kill ’em with charm. So it’s as all-natural as his daily diet of organic chicken breast that the wrestler-turned-blockbuster-star would want to play Kerr in his own pursuit of excellence. He’s overdue for a sincere indie movie. Fair enough. Yet bizarrely, Johnson and writer-director Benny Safdie (“Uncut Gems,” “Good Time”), working solo without his brother Josh, have decided to simply shoot Hyams’ documentary again.

These two high-intensity talents, each with something to prove, seem to have egged each other on to be exhaustingly photorealistic. Johnson, squeezed into a wig so tight we get a vicarious headache, has pumped up his deltoids to nearly reach his prosthetic cauliflower ears. And Safdie is so devoted to duplicating the earthy brown decor of Kerr’s late-’90s nouveau riche Phoenix home that you’d think he was restoring Notre Dame. In setting out to establish his own style, Safdie just mimics another.

Their version of “The Smashing Machine” tells the same story that Hyams did, across the same years with the same handheld aesthetics and rattle-snap jazz score (by composer Nala Sinephro). It’s stiff karaoke that earns a confounded polite clap. That can’t possibly have been the intention, yet even the songs used as needle-drops are conspicuously borrowed: covers of the country crooner Billy Swan singing Elvis, and Elvis singing Frank Sinatra. Meanwhile, Johnson’s Kerr huffs up a set of stairs in a training montage that already belongs to “Rocky.”

Once again, Kerr gets shaken by his first defeat to Igor Vovchanchyn (played by Oleksandr Usyk, the current heavyweight boxing champion) in Japan’s Yokohama Arena, and responds by bottoming out, getting sober and committing to win his next tournament. All the while he bickers with his on-again, off-again alcoholic girlfriend, Dawn (Emily Blunt), who gets blamed for everything that goes wrong in the ring. A teeth-grindingly mismatched couple, they can’t get through a conversation without arguing. Even trying her best to empathize, she’s overbearing. When Dawn alerts his friend and colleague Mark “The Hammer” Coleman (MMA fighter Ryan Bader in his acting debut) that her battering ram of a boyfriend was drinking before a bout, Coleman snaps at her for letting him act so stupid.

Safdie frames Dawn as a force of domestic destruction (although Kerr tears down doors like wet cardboard). In her introduction, she — horrors! — makes his smoothie with the wrong milk and, a beat later, insists on cuddling the cat on their leather sofa. A shattered Japanese kintsugi bowl is a newly added visual metaphor of their relationship, as is Dawn’s attempt to fix it with Krazy glue, a wink-wink at her emotional volatility. Still, we never understand what holds them together. Blunt is stuck in a reprise of her Oscar-nominated supporting role in “Oppenheimer” as the drunk whose cruelty pardons the male lead’s flaws. Yeah, Mark fizzled in Yokohama, but boy was she awful.

What’s the point? Having stripped away most of the documentary’s narration and sit-down interviews with Kerr’s family and friends, the film barely explores anyone’s psychology — and Blunt’s railroaded Dawn loses her chance to speak for herself. “I don’t think you know a damn thing about me,” she snipes mid-screaming match. She’s right. We don’t know much about her either, nor any of the noisy things onscreen, from the bloodrush of combat to the pull of their co-dependent affair.

We’re supposed to find depth in Johnson’s weary, pinched grin as he appreciates the sunset on a flight to Japan or watches fans at demolition derby cheer just as loudly for mindless chunks of metal getting crushed. He’s quieter than the real Kerr, who could come across like a guileless chatterbox, and when he does talk, it’s often about the control he must exert on his body and his backyard — the diet, the exercise, the sobriety, the gardening — delivered with the conviction of someone giving motivational advice to the manosphere.

If you squint, there’s an idea here that his personal needs set an unyielding tempo in their home, a notion Johnson must resonate with as someone who sets his morning alarm for 3:30 a.m. But we become better acquainted with how light ripples across Johnson’s shirtless back in a tracking shot than with whatever’s going on in his character’s head. More often than not, we’re just watching him walk around in a skin suit of Kerr, trying and failing not to see the movie star underneath. I wonder if Johnson might have channeled the open-faced Kerr better without the fake eyebrows, if he’d trusted his own inner glow instead of immediately going for the dramatic kill.

Look at how dutifully Safdie and Johnson have worked to re-create this world, the movie seems to be saying. Appreciate the intentionally cruddy camerawork by Maceo Bishop that duplicates Hyams’ low-budget limitations. Enjoy how costume designer Heidi Bivens has put Johnson in another silver-buckled black leather belt similar to the one in his infamous, much-memed Y2K-era photo, the one with the turtleneck, chain jewelry and fanny pack. You know without doing the math that, at this time, 39-year-old Safdie was in his early teens, an age that’s a sweet spot for nostalgia. This is his chance to go back to the future. No wonder he doesn’t want to change a thing.

But “The Smashing Machine” should be about change. For the MMA, this was an era of evolution as it transitioned from a contest of raw strength to one of endurance and skill. Former collegiate wrestlers like Kerr and Coleman could no longer win with their signature ground-and-pound techniques. Organizers forbade several of their key moves as their brusque victories weren’t telegenic. Kerr’s early contests often ended in less than two minutes, an oops-I-missed-it-grabbing-a-beer brevity that would have made pay-per-view buyers grumble. Headbutts were disallowed in part to draw the action out, and also because John McCain didn’t want what he called “human cockfighting” on TV.

These underlying tensions were just coming into focus. The original documentary felt blurry because Hyams didn’t yet know how the off-camera legalities would play out. He would have never guessed that the once-maligned Ultimate Fighting Championship league, purchased in 2001 for $2 million, would become a powerhouse with the clout to ink a $7.7-billion television deal just this summer. He also didn’t know that the cash payments Kerr earned in Japan would be revealed to have the yakuza’s fingerprints on them, or that Kerr’s opioid addiction was start of a burgeoning national health crisis that would soon have America in a chokehold.

Surely, Safdie with his two decades of perspective and his own knack for movies about hard-charging, charismatic screwups like Adam Sandler’s gambling addict Howard Ratner in “Uncut Gems” has something to add? Nope, just tell the same tale twice.

Hyams stopped filming in May 2000, at a point when it appeared that Kerr had chosen love over war. Safdie is aware that Kerr would live on to make more choices and that love doesn’t win, either. But despite the benefit of hindsight, Safdie doesn’t seem to have considered that the old narrative no longer fits. He just updates the title cards on the end: a sentence about Kerr and Dana’s future, a note that today’s MMA stars are better paid, a point undermined by a shot of the actual Kerr climbing into an exorbitantly glossy new truck. Turns out Kerr has been a car salesman for the last 15 years, but you wouldn’t know that leaving “The Smashing Machine.” You wouldn’t know why this movie existed at all.

THE SMASHING MACHINE

(15) 123 min

★★★☆☆

3

WHEN big stars take parts that require them to alter their face with prosthetics it’s often a sign they want to be taken more seriously.

Think Steve Carell in Foxcatcher and Bradley Cooper in Maestro.

In The Smashing Machine — director Benny Safdie’s biopic of UFC heavyweight champion Mark Kerr — it’s Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson’s turn to sit in the make-up artist’s chair.

Signalling a departure from the typical action hero roles he is best known for, Johnson’s nose, lips, eyebrows and hairline are transformed to play the fighter.

He’s not totally unrecognisable, though.

A professional wrestler himself, The Rock already had the fighter’s hulking physique.

Acting muscles

And he’s in familiar territory being on screen with his trademark biceps on display.

But here he proves he absolutely can flex his acting muscles too.

American amateur wrestling champion Kerr became one of the pioneers of MMA at the turn of the millennium, well before the sport became the worldwide phenomenon it is today.

We meet him as an unbeaten man, skilled at then-permitted, wincingly violent moves like eye gouges, who lives to win, and who can’t comprehend the thought of losing.

But as painkiller addiction takes hold and Kerr succumbs to his first ever defeat, he returns home a human wrecking ball, tearing his house apart in sheer frustration.

Johnson depicts this rage-fuelled tantrum with real proficiency so we can understand it as a loss of control underpinned by a deep vulnerability.

Emily Blunt, excellent as his girlfriend Dawn, can only look on as the “big man who she loves” demolishes their kitchen with his bare hands.

The real Kerr eventually acknowledged and overcame his narcotic reliance, returning from rehab to the ring.

As a sporting tale, this is in familiar triumph-over-tragedy territory, with no surprises.

While the performances are gripping, the script lacks nuance.

Is this brutal watch a knockout? No, not completely.

But will the prosthetics pay off for Johnson come awards season?

They just might.

A HOUSE OF DYNAMITE

(15) 112mins

★★★★★

3

KATHRYN BIGELOW has done it again, this time turning the camera on the nightmare we all pretend that we can ignore – a nuclear strike.

The director’s tense, claustrophobic, brilliantly staged film grips you from the very first frame.

The story is simple and terrifying – an 18-minute window between a rogue missile launch in the Pacific and its projected strike on Chicago, seen from multiple perspectives.

Every decision, every glance at a screen, every phone call carries huge weight. Uncertainty is the enemy here, and Bigelow wrings every ounce of drama from it.

The cast is flawless. Idris Elba is compelling as a President caught between disbelief and duty, while Rebecca Ferguson delivers a career best as security specialist Captain Olivia Walker.

Elsewhere, Jared Harris, Gabriel Basso, Jonah Hauer-King and Anthony Ramos bring depth as they try to hold a crumbling chain of command together.

It isn’t just a thriller, it’s a heart-stopping meditation on human fragility. If you want cinema that makes you feel the weight of the world in real time, this is the one.

LINDA MARRIC

HIM

(18) 96mins

★☆☆☆☆

3

HORROR film Him feels like it has been stitched together from a dozen better movies, without ever finding a soul of its own.

In short, this is a mess.

The story follows Cameron (Tyriq Withers), a hotshot quarterback whose bright future is thrown off course after a brutal injury.

When retired legend Isaiah (Marlon Wayans) invites him to a secluded training camp, it feels like a chance to rebuild, stronger and faster than before.

But the deeper Cameron steps into Isaiah’s world, the more unsettling it becomes.

Produced by Get Out, Us and Nope director Jordan Peele, Him’s fatal flaw is its emptiness. For long stretches, nothing happens.

Characters drift around muttering ominous nonsense, occasionally raising their eyebrows at the weirdos around them, before going right back to ignoring the obvious.

Withers and Wayans put in respectable perform-ances but the dialogue is clunky, the pacing is dead on arrival and the supposedly shocking reveal is anything but. Even the stylistic additions feel less like art and more like padding for a story that never gets to the point.

Bleak, boring and painfully pretentious, Him isn’t just a bad horror film, it’s the kind of bad movie that thinks it’s being very clever.

LINDA MARRIC

The lead of the horror-tinged heart-tugger “Good Boy” is a copper-colored retriever named Indy who pads around an eerie house deep in the New Jersey woods investigating its mysterious creaks, shadows and smells. Like the Method-style actors of “The Blair Witch Project,” he goes by his real name onscreen. An ordinary dog without a whiff of Hollywood hokum, Indy doesn’t do implausible stunts like Lassie or Rin Tin Tin or comprehend anything that his owner, Todd (Shane Jensen), says besides simple phrases: sit, stay and, gratefully, the title itself. But we’re invested in the mindset of this mundane hero. His nose twitches are as dramatic as an ingenue’s gasp.

First-time feature director Ben Leonberg raised Indy as a pet first, movie star second. Along with his wife, Kari Fischer, who produced the film, Leonberg shot “Good Boy” in his weekend house, staging scenarios for Indy to explore until he had enough material for a (barely) full-length spook show. Even at 72 minutes, “Good Boy” is belabored in the middle stretch. It would make a fabulous one-hour TV special.

Using his personal footage, Leonberg (who also edited the film and did its gorgeous, inky-wet cinematography) opens with a montage of Indy growing up from a tiny puppy to a loyal best friend. We love the dog more in five minutes than we do some slasher final girls who’ve survived several sequels. Indy is the most empathetic scream queen of the year so far — and I mean that literally as his breed, a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling retriever, is known for its high-pitched wail. American Kennel Club lists the Toller as the U.S.’s 87th most popular dog. I expect this movie will lead to an uptick. (Steve Martin already has one.)

What’s wrong in Indy’s new home? A pair of tragedies wind together like vines, although from the dog’s point of view, the distinction between them isn’t always obvious. This battered two-story home with ominous scratches on the basement door has been in Todd’s family for six generations, as the cemetery out back proves. Bequeathed to the youngish urban hipster by his grandfather (indie cult icon Larry Fessenden), a misanthrope who willed his taxidermy collection to a vegan, it’s a good place to disappear.

Todd, who’s in bad physical and emotional shape, has isolated himself in this scraggly, foggy forest to get some privacy from his sister, Vera (Arielle Friedman). There’s also a past death that the dog is able to perceive. A sniff of a rotting old chair frightens Indy so much, he wets the rug.

“Scaredy pants,” Todd teases Indy. The dog can’t explain what only he knows.

Several unnerving things are happening at once, including the presence of a silhouetted stalker, old bones that give the dog nightmares and Todd’s unpredictable mood swings. There’s also a ghost in the movie, I think — at least, there’s a heavy hinge that shouldn’t be able to open without a spectral nudge. Indy stands about two feet tall, so the camera often stays at that height too, gliding close to the floor where the view from under the bed looks as big as an airplane hangar.

A realistic dog’s-eye view of a creepy cabin is a good hook, although people hoping to see an otherwise satisfying genre thriller will feel a bit underwhelmed that Leonberg and his co-screenwriter Alex Cannon are conflicted about pushing the scary elements of the film too far into the supernatural. With a complicated backstory off the table (Indy looks restless whenever adults are having a conversation), the movie taps into our burgeoning belief that animals do have a special sixth sense, like how hospice workers know to pay special attention to whoever gets night visits from the resident pet.

Still, “Good Boy” doesn’t stray too far from the film’s core strength: a normal dog doing normal dog things. In a twitch, a head tilt or a whine, Indy communicates his emotions: curious, lonely, contented, confused, fretful, desperate or petrified. There’s no CG in the dog’s performance, no corny reaction shots and no use of animal doubles either. Todd’s own legs, however, are often doubled by Leonberg, an onscreen switcheroo that’s possible because the lens doesn’t tend to look up.

I liked the plot better on a second watch when I knew not to expect Jamie Lee Curtis on all fours. The ending is great and the build up to it, though draggy, gives you space to think about the interdependence between our species. Dogs are wired to be our protectors and yet, through generations of nurturing, they’ve come to trust that we’ll also protect them. The inarticulate betrayal in the film is that Todd isn’t making good decisions for anyone. His bond with Indy is pure and strong, yet one-sided in that Todd is too distracted to ease the dog’s fears. Indy is bereft to be left alone for long stretches of time in a strange house. But he can’t do a thing about that, nor the sputtering electricity, the fox traps in the brush and the neighbor (Stuart Rudin) who skulks around in hunting camouflage.

In Todd’s facelessness, he’s a stand-in for whatever you want: absentee parents, a struggling partner or child or friend. There’s a scene in which he comes home in obvious need of a cuddle, only to push his dog away. Maybe you’ve been both people in that shot: the person overwhelmed by their own pain and the loved one who has no idea how to soothe them. It’s terrifying to love someone this much, to give them the full force of your devotion only to get locked outside.

Consciously or not, Leonberg has made a primal film about helplessness. Watching it, I was knocked sideways by a sense memory of how it felt to be a child. Like Indy, kids get dragged around to places they don’t want to go to for reasons that aren’t explained, and when they whine, they’re commanded to pipe down. Even as we get older — when our own point of view can stand taller than two feet — the things that truly scare us are the ones that make us feel small and confused.

With next week’s publication of his ninth novel, “Shadow Ticket,” Thomas Pynchon’s secret 20th century is at last complete.

For many of us, Pynchon is the best American writer since F. Scott Fitzgerald. Since the arrival in 1963 of his first novel, “V.,” he has loomed as the presiding colossus of our literature — revered as a Nobel-caliber genius, reviled as impenetrable and reviewed with increasing condescension since his turn toward detective fiction with “Inherent Vice” in 2009.

Now comes “Shadow Ticket,” and it’s late Pynchon at his finest. Dark as a vampire’s pocket, light-fingered as a jewel thief, “Shadow Ticket” capers across the page with breezy, baggy-pants assurance — and then pauses on its way down the fire escape just long enough to crack your heart open.

Only now can we finally see that Pynchon has been quietly assembling — one novel at a time, in no particular order — an almost decade-by-decade chronicle no less ambitious than Balzac’s “La Comédie Humaine,” August Wilson’s Century Cycle or the 55 years of Garry Trudeau’s “Doonesbury.” This is his Pynchoniad, a zigzagging epic of America and the world through our bloodiest, most shameful hundred years. Perhaps suffering from what Pynchon called in “V.” our “great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in,” he has now filled in the only remaining blank spot on his 20th century map: the 1930s.

A photograph of Thomas Pynchon in 1955. The elusive novelist has avoided nearly all media for more than 50 years.

(Bettmann Archive)

It all begins in Depression-era Milwaukee as a righteously funny gangster novel. In a scenario straight out of Dashiell Hammett’s early stories, a detective agency operative named Hicks McTaggart gets an assignment to chase down the runaway heiress to a major cheese fortune. Roughly midway through, Pynchon’s characters hightail it all the way to proto-fascist Budapest, where shadows more lethal than any Tommy gun begin to encroach. By the end, this novel has become at once a requiem, a farewell, an old soft-shoe number — and a warning.

When Pynchon’s jacket summary of this tale of two cities first surfaced six months ago, cynics could be forgiven for wondering whether an 88-year-old man, hearing time’s winged chariot idling at the curb, hadn’t just taken two half-completed works in progress and spot-welded them together. Younger people are forever wondering — in whispers, and never for general consumption — whether some person older than they might have, you know, lost a step.

Well, buzz off, kids. Thomas Pynchon’s voice on the page still sings, clarion strong. Unlike most novelists, his voice has two distinct but overlapping registers. The first is Olympian, polymathic, erudite, antically funny, often beautiful, at times gross, at others incredibly romantic, never afraid to challenge or even confound, and unmistakably worked at. The second, audible less frequently until 1990’s “Vineland,” sounds looser, freer, warmer, more improvisational, more curious about love and family, increasingly wistful, all but twilit with rue. He still brakes for bad puns and double-negative understatements, but he avoids the kind of under-metabolized research that sometimes alienated his early readers.

“Shadow Ticket’s” structure turns the current film adaptation of “Vineland” inside out — that would be “One Battle After Another,” whose thrilling middle more than redeems an only slightly off-key beginning and end. By contrast, “Shadow Ticket” offers a wildly seductive overture, a companionable but occasionally slack midsection, and a haunting sucker punch of an ending.

Mercifully, having already set “The Crying of Lot 49” and “Inherent Vice” largely in L.A., Pynchon still hasn’t lost his nostalgia for Los Angeles, a place where he lived and wrote for a while in the ’60s and ’70s. “Shadow Ticket” marks Pynchon’s third book to take place mostly on the other side of the world, but then — like so many New Yorkers — the novel finds its denouement in what Pynchon here calls “that old L.A. vacuum cleaner.”

Pynchon may not have lost a step in “Shadow Ticket,” but sometimes he seems to be conserving his energy. His signature long, comma-rich sentences reach their periods a little sooner now. His chapters end with a wink as often as a thunderclap. Sometimes he sounds almost rushed, peppering his narration with “so forths,” and making his readers play odds-or-evens to attribute long stretches of dialogue.

Maybe only on second reading do we realize that we’ve been reading a kind of Dear John letter to America. Nobody else writing today can begin a final chapter as elegiacally as Pynchon does here: “Somewhere out beyond the western edge of the Old World is said to stand a wonder of our time, a statue hundreds of meters high, of a masked woman. … Like somebody we knew once a long time ago.”

Is this the Statue of Liberty, turning her back at last on the huddled masses she once welcomed? One character immediately suggests yes, another denies it. Either way, it’s a sobering way to introduce an ending as compassionately doom-laden as any Pynchon has ever given us.

Bear in mind, this is the same Pynchon who, a hundred pages earlier, has raffishly referred to sex as “doing the horizontal Peabody.” (Don’t bother Googling. This one’s his.) One early reviewer has compared “Shadow Ticket’s” shaggy charm to cold pizza, and readers will know what he means. Who’s ever sorry to see a flat box in the fridge the next morning?

For most of the way, though, “Shadow Ticket” may remind you of an exceptionally tight tribute band, playing the oldies so lovingly that you might as well be listening to your old, long-since-unloaded vinyl. The catch is, for an encore — just when you could swear the band might actually be improving on the original — the musicians turn around and blow you away with a lost song that nobody’s ever heard before.

Thus, with a flourish, Pynchon types fin to his secret 20th century. But what does he do now? The man’s only 88. (Anybody who finds the phrase “only 88” amusing is welcome to laugh, but plenty of people thought Pynchon was hanging it up at 76 with “Bleeding Edge.” Plenty of people were mistaken.)

So, will Pynchon stand pat with his 20th century now secure, and take his winnings to the cashier’s window? Or will he, as anyone who roots for American literature might devoutly wish, hold out for blackjack?

Hit him.

Kipen is a contributor to Cambridge Pynchon in Context, a former NEA Director of Literature, a full-time member UCLA’s writing faculty and founder of the Libros Schmibros Lending Library and the just-birthed 21st Century Federal Writers’ Project.

PROVO, Utah — An attorney for the 22-year-old man charged with killing Charlie Kirk asked a judge Monday for more time to review the large amount of evidence in the case before deciding if the defense will seek a preliminary hearing.

A preliminary hearing would determine if there is enough evidence against Tyler Robinson to go forward with a trial. Defendants can waive that step, but Robinson’s newly appointed attorney Kathryn Nester said her team did not intend to do so.

Utah prosecutors have charged Robinson with aggravated murder and plan to seek the death penalty.

Both the defense and prosecution acknowledged at a brief hearing Monday that the amount of evidence that prosecutors have is “voluminous.” Robinson was not present for the hearing and appeared via audio from jail at his defense team’s request.

Judge Tony Graf set the next hearing for Oct. 30.

Defense attorneys for Robinson and prosecutors with the Utah County attorney’s office declined to comment after Monday’s hearing. It took place in Provo, just a few miles from the Utah Valley University campus in Orem where many students are still processing trauma from the Sept. 10 shooting and the day-and-a-half search for the suspect.

Authorities arrested Robinson when he showed up with his parents at his hometown sheriff’s office in southwest Utah, more than a three-hour drive from the site of the shooting, to turn himself in. Prosecutors have since revealed text messages and DNA evidence that they say connect Robinson to the killing.

A note that Robinson left for his romantic partner before the shooting said he had the opportunity to kill one of the nation’s leading conservative voices, “and I’m going to take it,” Utah County Atty. Jeff Gray told reporters before the first hearing. Gray also said Robinson wrote in a text about Kirk to his partner: “I had enough of his hatred.”

The killing of Kirk, a close ally of President Trump who worked to steer young voters toward conservatism, has galvanized Republicans who have vowed to carry on Kirk’s mission of moving American politics further right.

Trump has declared Kirk a “martyr” for freedom and threatened to crack down on what he called the “radical left.”

Workers across the U.S. have been punished or fired for speaking out about Kirk‘s death, including teachers, public and private employees and media personalities — most notably Jimmy Kimmel, whose late-night show was suspended then reinstated by ABC.

Kirk’s political organization, Arizona-based Turning Point USA, brought young, evangelical Christians into politics through his podcast, social media and campus events. Many prominent Republicans are filling in at the upcoming campus events Kirk planned to attend, including Utah Gov. Spencer Cox and Sen. Mike Lee at Utah State University on Tuesday.

Schoenbaum writes for the Associated Press.

In 1997, the comedy “In & Out” did its shiny, star-studded best to mainstream the story of a closeted gay man in a rock-ribbed American community embracing his truth. The fine new indie drama “Plainclothes,” which takes place in 1997 in Syracuse, N.Y., and centers on a young police officer in the throes of desire, wants to remind us that the reality of such reckonings was a bit more fraught.

In first-time screenwriter-director Carmen Emmi’s tense, sensitively threaded scenario, fresh-faced cop Lucas (Tom Blyth) isn’t just holding a secret — he’s involved in the enforced criminalization of it. His assigned undercover detail is the mall, using a seductive look (not entirely acting) to lure gay men to the restroom, silently clocking the moment they meet the minimum requirement for breaking indecent exposure laws, then having them arrested.

Something shifts inside Lucas during one of these stings, however, when he locks eyes with a target named Andrew (Russell Tovey), whose soulful return gaze promises a deeper connection than instant gratification. He spares Andrew the planned indignity waiting outside, but secures a phone number away from the watchful eye of his sergeant (Christian Cooke). Weeks later, the pair arrange to meet in the upstairs balcony of an old movie palace. (Though we never see the screen, sharp-eared film buffs will recognize allusions to Francis Ford Coppola’s 1974 surveillance classic “The Conversation.”) After a couple of warm, intimate exchanges in secluded spaces, Lucas allows himself to imagine a future free from hiding, even if Andrew cautions that what they have can only ever be temporary.

Early in “Plainclothes,” thanks to changes in aspect ratio and Lucas’ facial hair, we realize that this timeline amounts to an extended memory, triggered in the present scenes by tense New Year’s Eve preparations at Lucas’ childhood home and a misplaced letter that he hopes neither his adoring, recently widowed mother (a wonderful Maria Dizzia) nor his obnoxious, hot-headed uncle (Gabe Fazio) find.

The backward-forward structure creates entwined tracks of suspense between the outcome of the Andrew relationship and the expected ramifications of what’s assumed to be a revealing letter. That framework gives “Plainclothes” the feeling of an emotional chase film where pursuer and pursued are the same, stuck in a loop of possibility, torn about what being caught really means.

Emmi’s well-conceived screenplay does justice to the ways a compartmentalized life can crack. When Lucas is with Andrew — and even in scenes with a nice ex-girlfriend (Amy Forsyth) — acceptance is palpable, understanding real. Among family, the pressure to conform activates his guardedness. And when his department, steeped in macho culture and eager for more mall arrests, starts deploying a video camera behind a one-way mirror, an increasingly anxious Lucas is made to feel nothing but risk about his identity.

There may be little that’s psychologically fresh about “Plainclothes,” but the fact that its low-key, close-framed style suggests a taut, moody gay indie you might have seen in the ’90s works in its favor. It’s also well cast, with the appealing Blyth always in control of the undercurrents, especially alongside the excellent Tovey, playing a sadder, wiser closetedness. I wish Emmi hadn’t overegged the visual motif that Lucas’ POV in moments of stress is akin to the fuzzy texture of Hi8 video: A little of it goes a long way and too often pulls us out of the tone in a room. But it’s the kind of choice that’s easier to forgive in a movie so well-attuned to shifts in perception, one that dimensionalizes the problem of achieving clarity when leading a double life.