review

Tell someone about “The Cortège,” and it may inspire as much apprehension as it does curiosity.

A theatrical procession running this month at the Los Angeles Equestrian Center, “The Cortège” promises to explore grief, loss, mourning and our collective disconnection from one another. It’s a dramatic interpretation of a funeral, albeit one with jubilant street-inspired dance and a Sasquatch-like creature. And robots and drones.

I arrived at “The Cortège” just weeks removed from attending a very real, deeply personal funeral for my mother. Did I want to revisit that space as part of my weekend’s entertainment, and would the show inspire a new round of tears? The answer to both turned out to be yes.

“The Cortège” is alternately playful and serious as it explores the cycle of life.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

For “The Cortège” approaches a difficult subject matter with an imaginative question: What if we explore grief not with isolation or solemness, but with wonder? It’s a prompt that’s ripe for an era of divisive politics, financial stress and often isolating technology.

Beginning at twilight and extending into the evening, “The Cortège” starts with an overture, a six-piece band performing in the center of the field. We’re seated either on the grass on portable pads with backs or in folding chairs on an elevated platform.

Soon, a mist erupts on a far end of the field; a lone figure emerges who crawls and then walks to the center. He’ll move in place for much of the show, remaining silent as a fantastical life transpires around him — dancers, ornately costumed characters and larger-than-life puppets will surreally reflect the journey of life.

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Inspired as much by Walt Disney’s approach to fairy tales as, say, Carl Jung’s theories of collective consciousness, “The Cortège” is a revival of an ancient art — the procession — that aims to be a modern rite of passage. A ritual, “The Cortège” is a communal experience, one that seeks to erase borders between audience and performer while imagining a more optimistic world.

Think of it as theater as a healing exercise, or simply an abstracted evening with elaborate, vibrant costumes and choreographed drones creating new constellations in the sky. It’s also a bit of a dance party, with original music composed by Tokimonsta, El Búho and Boreta.

““The Cortège” builds to a final that invites audience participation — and maybe a little dancing.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

“The Cortège” comes from Jeff Hull, a Bay Area artist best known for devising participatory and mysterious experiences that have used real-world settings as a game board — some may recall the beloved underground experiment “The Jejune Institute.” This, however, is a more personal show. It’s informed as much by the struggles and challenges of adulthood as it is the awe and playfulness that Hull experienced when he was younger, specifically his time working as a teen at Oakland’s Children’s Fairyland, a theme park-like playground for young kids.

“Every day I would follow the yellow brick road and have a magic key and slide down a rabbit hole, and I would wonder why the rest of the world wasn’t like that,” Hull says. “I’ve been trying to make it like that ever since. Why can’t we play? Why does it all have to be barriers? That’s the motivation from a childlike place, but now I also have motivation from a wise elder space.”

In turn, “The Cortège” is part festive renewal and part philosophical recollection. At the start, music is mournful but not quite sorrowful, a lightly contemplative jazz-inspired feel anchored by a steel hang drum. The music shifts through reggae stylings and Eastern rhythms. Performers are robed and instruments are carried on ramshackle wheelbarrows, setting up the transitory mood of the night.

What follows will touch on religious and mystical iconography — we’ll meet three lantern-carrying masked figures, for instance, with exaggerated, regal adornments as they herald a birth. Expect a mixture of old and new technologies. Drones will form to mark a passage of eras, a marching band will conjure New Orleans revelry, and towering, furry creatures may invite youthful spiritedness while militant, robotic canines will represent clashing images of human ingenuity and violence.

Think of “The Cortège” as a ceremonial rite of passage — a show that wants audiences to find healing via community.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

For much of the show, we are asked to wear glowing headphones. Their luminescence highlights the crowd while also creating a more intimate, reflective atmosphere. It’s not quite a sound bath and it’s not quite a play, but as more figures enter the field — some haunting and dreamlike with their bodies shaped like arrowheads, and others sillier bursts of feathered color — “The Cortège” takes on a ceremonial, meditative feel.

While some may indeed come for the outsized costumes and extended dance sequences, Hull says the show is the entertainment equivalent of “shadow work,” that is the therapeutic uncovering of suppressed, forgotten or hidden memories.

“Shadow work is something we need to do as individuals, but it’s also something we need to do as a culture,” Hull says. “Let’s look at ourselves. Let’s look at what we don’t want to admit about ourselves. How can we bring that to life? When you do it as an individual, we’re actually partly doing something for the collective. That’s a big aspect of ‘The Cortège.’ Let’s do shadow work as a cultural moment. It’s not all just meant to be entertainment.”

Audiences are asked to wear headphones during “The Cortège,” creating an intimate relationship with the music.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

Ultimately, however, “The Cortège” is an invitation, a hand extended to the audience asking us to consider and reimagine our own journey through life. Emerging from both the traumatic end of a relationship and the death of my mother, I appreciated the way in which “The Cortège” sought to put our existence in perspective, to reinterpret, essentially, the individual as the communal for a celebratory reminder that we’ve all struggled as much as we’ve dreamed.

Hull says “The Cortège” was born from a time of strife.

“What you mentioned, losing a loved one and going through a separation, my version of that is I had Guillain-Barre Syndrome and was walking with a cane. My wife was diagnosed with cancer and then she lost her father. And this was all during a time when the sun didn’t come out. It was dark out, all day, because of the California wildfires. It was a shift between taking everything personally and realizing that all the things I mentioned were things we all have to go through.”

The show is purposefully abstracted, says Hull, to allow audience members to attach their own narratives. It’s a work of pageantry, inspired in part by Hull’s fascination with medieval morality plays, specifically the story of “Everyman,” an examination of self and of our relationship to a higher power.

“The tale of ‘Everyman’ was one in which a universal protagonist met with all of the challenges of life and a reckoning with himself and with God,” Hull says. “That’s literally what we’re doing here. It is a revival of ancient European pageantry.”

Drones will form constellations in the sky during “The Cortège.”

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

Hull’s name is well-known among those who follow what is the still-emerging niche of so-called immersive entertainment, media that, broadly speaking, asks participants to take on an interactive role. Those who went deep into “The Jejune Institute,” which ran in the late 2000s in San Francisco and inspired a documentary as well as the AMC series “Dispatches from Elsewhere,” could discover a narrative that examined the fragility — or the allure — of human belief systems. It was often, for instance, compared to a cult.

“The Cortège” is clearly a departure. And Hull today is skeptical of the word “immersive.” Though “The Cortege” invites audiences onto the field in its final act and then asks participants to join in a reception (the afterlife), Hull finds much of what is classified today as immersive to be lacking, emphasizing spectacle and imagery over human emotion.

“The Cortège,” says Hull, is “not a metafiction.” Or don’t think of it as a show about a rite of passage. It’s intended to be a rite of passage itself. “That’s kind of the thesis of this piece,” Hull, 56, says, before expanding on his evolved take on the immersive field.

“There’s this world of immersive entertainment, but what are we immersing ourselves in?” he says. “Is this just sensory stimulation? Is this gesturing at the numinous? Is this referencing the mystical? There’s no meta-narrative here.”

Hull’s hope is “The Cortège” will erase the line between the performative and the restorative. “We all want to have a pretend metafictional relationship to transformative experiences rather than genuine transformative experiences,” he says.

Not quite a play and not quite a dance show, “The Cortège” incorporates elements of both during its procession.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

We can get there, Hull believes, by engaging with an art form that has largely been discarded by the Western world.

“We are reconnecting a lost lineage to that which is ancient and to that which is eternal,” Hull says. “A procession is people walking together; that is simply what a procession is. Where are they walking from? They’re walking from their past. Where are they walking to? They’re walking toward the future. That’s what we’re doing.”

I won’t spoil the moment that made me tear up other than to say it was not due to the jolting of any memories. For “The Cortège” is also exultant — a procession, yes, but a walk into an imagined world.

WHEN I was doing the research for this SURI review, I came across some alarming stats.

Every year, over four billion toothbrushes end up either in landfill or, more worryingly, in the ocean.

And it takes so long for a single toothbrush to decompose that almost every plastic toothbrush produced since the 1930s is still languishing somewhere on the planet.

If you’re an electric toothbrush user, you might think you’re exempt from this, but — I hate to break it to you — you’re not. In fact, you’re probably worse.

SURI 2.0 Electric Toothbrush, £105

Happily, there’s now an ingeniously designed, decently affordable alternative.

Last week, SURI — a brand favoured by celebs including Gwyneth Paltrow — unveiled its second-generation SURI 2.0 toothbrush, and I was lucky enough to get my hands on one prior to its release date.

I’ve used the original SURI 1.0 toothbrush for years, but for the last month I’ve been getting to grips with the new model.

Pros

• One of the most thoughtfully-designed products I think I’ve ever come across — the attention to detail is astounding
• MUCH more sustainable than alternatives
• Brilliant battery life
• Pretty affordable, depending on which generation you go for
• Perfect for travel
• If you take care of it, it’ll last forever
• Dentist-approved (it’s approved by the dentist I spoke to, at least)

Cons

• The first generation doesn’t have pressure sensing, which can lead to overbrushing
• The second generation is significantly more expensive than the first
• There’s no bells and whistles like app connectivity — but do you really need them?

Rating: 9.5/10

How I tested the SURI toothbrush

I first met the co-founder of SURI, Mark, at a press event almost three years ago.

His knowledge and passion blew me away, and he was kind enough to give me one of the brand’s toothbrushes to try myself.

It’s tackled my gnashers daily ever since — it’s moved house twice with me, and gone on several holidays.

This summer, I was one of several lucky journalists to be sent the brand’s new and upgraded toothbrush, the SURI 2.0.

As the Sun’s reviews manager, it’s my job to hold it to account, ensuring that it delivers on its promises, provides value for money, and handles day-to-day operations.

SURI toothbrush review: The Nitty Gritty

First impressions

SURI 1.0 Electric Toothbrush, £75

Before I encountered SURI in 2022, I’d happily been using a middle-of-the-road electric toothbrush, without thinking too much about its environmental impact.

If you’d put a gun to my head, I’d probably have told you that electric toothbrushes are better for the environment than manual ones, as they don’t have to be thrown away every couple of months.

I’d have been wrong.

In fact, they’re a nightmare combo of hard-to-mine rare earth metals, carbon-dioxide-heavy manufacturing processes and “planned obsolescence” — they’re only designed to last three to five years or so, so that you routinely come back and buy a new one.

That means that they, too, end up in landfills, where their toxic components can leech into soil and water supplies.

SURI (short for “Sustainable Rituals”), by comparison, has put a LOT of thought into how to end the environmental nightmare caused by billions of humans brushing their teeth.

The handle is made from aluminium, rather than the hard plastic preferred by other brands. This is a very conscious choice — 75% of all aluminium ever created is still in circulation today, because it’s such an easy-to-recycle material.

Other parts of the toothbrush are made from clever materials like cornstarch (the head), castor oil (the bristles), and steel (the internal components).

These are all designed to have as small an environmental impact as possible — when you buy replacement heads, SURI sends you a mail bag so that you can return your used heads to be industrially composted.

Does it deliver?

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SURI 2.0 Electric Toothbrush, £105

So we’ve established that SURI is more sustainable than its competitors — but does it make a better toothbrush?

When I’ve spoken to the company’s co-founder, Mark, he has emphasised the company’s decision not to include the app-powered, Bluetooth-compatible bells and whistles you get in other toothbrushes.

After all, what percentage of people really want to link their toothbrush to an app? Most people I’ve encountered want to get the chore over and done with so they can go to bed.

Instead, the SURI is pretty utilitarian — it includes all the things that you’d need in a modern toothbrush, without adding any unnecessary marketing fluff.

It’s a sonic toothbrush, which is a type of electric toothbrush — they’re defined by their very, very quick vibration, which produces their signature “sonic” humming sound.

The SURI vibrates 33,000 times per minute, which actually puts it at the gentler end of the spectrum — and unlike some competitors, it doesn’t have multiple power settings.

Personally, day-to-day, I’m fine with that — I like a gentler clean, and relatively low vibrations work with the softer castor oil bristles to create a sensation that feels much kinder to my gums than other brushes I’ve used.

However, it would be nice to have a pedal-to-the-metal setting for those days when I’ve had a few glasses of red wine, or accidentally made my way through a large bag of Skittles while watching telly.

The thing about the OG SURI brush that concerned some dentists was its lack of pressure sensor, a feature that notifies you if you’re brushing too hard.

Thankfully, the new SURI 2.0 has added that feature.

There are a host of other features that make this brush extremely practical.

The first that comes to mind is the UV-C Travel Case, which comes as standard with the SURI 2.0 but is an added cost for the 1.0.

As well as protecting your toothbrush from whatever else you throw in your suitcase with it, it comes with a UV light that removes 99.9% of the bacteria on your bristles.

There’s also the month-long battery life — my partner’s electric toothbrush only lasts for a week, if she’s lucky.

Last, but certainly not least, is a tiny thing that I love — each SURI brush comes with a magnetic mount, which you can put on your bathroom mirror or wall.

That might sound pointless, but it stops your toothbrush from amassing that gross toothpaste residue at the bottom, which always makes me feel slightly nauseous.

How much is the SURI toothbrush?

The new SURI 2.0 costs £105.

That’s quite a steep increase from the original brush, which retails for just £75.

However, the 2.0 comes with a travel case as standard, which wasn’t the case for the original brush — if you wanted one, you’d have to fork out another £25.

While it’s not exactly a bargain in a world where you can pick up an electric toothbrush for £40 or £50 on Amazon, SURI markets its device as “the last toothbrush you’ll ever buy” — the toothbrush is designed to be repaired, and SURI will replace the battery for a “reasonable” fee.

The toothbrush head needs to be replaced every couple of months; you can buy a pack of three heads for £14.99, or set up a subscription to have two heads delivered every six months for £8.98 each time.

Where to buy the SURI toothbrush

The best place to get the SURI is probably the brand’s own website, where you can find both generations of the toothbrush as well as all the accessories you might want, including the travel case, chargers, magnetic mounts and toothpaste.

However, it’s also available at selected retailers, including Boots.

SURI alternatives

In terms of its environmental attributes, SURI is in a class of its own.

A few companies are attempting to make Oral care more environmental — for example, Georganics makes a sonic toothbrush with a “Zero to Landfill” scheme, through which the brand promises to responsibly dispose of your toothbrush.

However, it doesn’t have the same stylish mass appeal — it feels a bit granola and tree-hugging than SURI’s chic, Gwyneth Paltrow-friendly version of sustainability.

Plus, SURI puts a bigger emphasis on ensuring that its toothbrushes are made from environmentally friendly materials.

And, of course, if you’re not bothered about eco-credentials, there are tons of options available from normal high-street brands.

Nearly two decades after the fact, Anna Wintour is finally giving her review of “The Devil Wears Prada,” the 2006 Anne Hathaway comedy built around the onetime Vogue editor in chief’s notorious style of leadership.

And although Wintour is more than fashionably late, she’s showing up in time for the sequel.

The film “had a lot of humor to it, it had a lot of wit, it had Meryl Streep,” Wintour said recently on the New Yorker Radio Hour. “[The cast] were all amazing. And in the end, I thought it was a fair shot.”

The famed editor, who stepped down from the Vogue gig this summer, said she went into the premiere of the original film wearing Prada but not knowing what the movie was about. Wintour said people in the fashion industry had expressed concerns about the Miranda Priestly character, worrying she would be played as a caricature of Wintour. But those fears were unfounded.

“First of all, it was Meryl Streep, [who is] fantastic.”

“The Devil Wears Prada” is based on the 2003 bestselling novel of the same name by Lauren Weisberger, who worked as a personal assistant to Wintour. The film follows a writer played by Hathaway who gets a job at a fashion magazine managed by a highly demanding boss, played by Streep.

The actor who played the no-nonsense editor in chief earned an Academy Award nomination for her performance.

Wintour announced in June that she would step down as editor in chief of the magazine after 37 years at the helm. She will continue to oversee Condé Nast, the global media company that publishes Vogue among other publications including the New Yorker, GQ, Vanity Fair and Wired.

“The Devil Wears Prada 2” is in production with a release date set for May 2026. Streep, Hathaway, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci will all reprise their roles; Adrian Grenier, who played Hathaway’s boyfriend in the original film, will not appear. New cast members include Kenneth Branagh, Justin Theroux and Lucy Liu.

Sept. 10 (UPI) — The Supreme Court on Tuesday said it would review a challenge to President Donald Trump‘s sweeping tariffs, expediting the case to be heard in two months.

The high court justices issued the one-page order that set the schedule for the case, with the arguments session to take place during the first week of November.

Trump asked the justices to intervene last week, seeking an early November review by the conservative-leaning high court to make a speedy decision on his controversial tariffs, after twice being told by the courts they are illegal.

“It is gratifying to see the Supreme Court accept these cases on an unusually fast track,” Andrew Morris, senior litigator with the New Civil Liberties Alliance, which filed amicus briefs against Trump’s tariffs in both cases challenging them, told UPI in an emailed statement.

“The court should act promptly to strike down the tariffs. It should hold that the president cannot invoke emergency powers — and national security — to impose tariffs on the American people.”

Since returning to the White House in January, Trump has turned to tariffs as a key tool of his economic policy to right what he sees as unfair trading relationships that the United States has with other nations.

In April, he imposed a 10% tariff on nearly all goods imported from nearly all countries, followed by so-called reciprocal tariffs slapped on specific countries and at specific rates in order to redress those perceived negative trade imbalances.

Trump has argued he has the power to impose the tariffs under the International Emergency Economic Powers Act, which permits the president to implement asset freezes, trade embargoes and other similar economic sanctions during a national emergency.

On April 22, the educational toy manufacturer Learning Resources Inc. sued the Trump administration, arguing the president did not have the power to impose sweeping tariffs, only Congress does.

“The Constitution vests the power to impose tariffs in Congress,” the company said in its complaint, while arguing Trump was misusing the IEEPA, which was intended to impose sanctions on foreign terrorist and hostile nations representing an unusual and extraordinary threat to U.S. society.

“The statute does not mention tariffs or duties, and in the five decades and eight administrations since its enactment, no president besides President Trump has ever invoked IEEPA to impose a tariff or a duty.”

Several other lawsuits followed, and in May, the U.S. Court of International Trade in New York ruled against the Trump administration, finding the tariffs were illegal and that the IEEPA did not give the president import tax powers.

Late last month, a divided appeals court agreed. However, the tariffs remain in place, at least for now.

While Trump and his administration have boasted that the tariffs will raise billions in revenue, critics say it is the American public, and not the foreign companies, that are footing the bill.

THE SLOTS section of any online casino is always the busiest area of the platform, and that highlights the popularity of these games. There is always a vast choice, and although there are new releases regularly, some established titles continue to attract interest.

Released in 2006, Mega Moolah remains hugely popular, and that’s largely due to its jackpot potential. This Mega Moolah slot review will look at possible payouts along with all the other aspects of this game in closer detail.

Mega Moolah slot quick overview

Here’s a quick summary of what Mega Moolah offers:

Mega Moolah slot features overview

4

Since its release in 2006, Mega Moolah has captured more media attention than most slot games. It has provided some of the biggest wins, and while it should be remembered that the big prizes are extremely rare, this is clearly a big part of its appeal.

Despite its low RTP, Mega Moolah has a medium variance, so wins can be more frequent than in other jackpot games. It can suit all players, but it’s largely one of the best online slots for experienced players whose main goal is to target jackpots.

👍 Pros

• Four progressive jackpots
• Free spins round
• Medium variance

👎 Cons:

• Low RTP
• High minimum stake

Mega Moolah slot graphics, sound & gameplay mechanics

4

This game was released in 2006, so we shouldn’t expect to see state-of-the-art graphics. The game reflects the type of design that was in place back then, but it’s a colourful game, and the cartoon animals offer charming imagery.

The soundtrack aims to conjure the feel of an African safari, and it certainly hits the mark. It has been updated to work on mobile, so there should be no loss of functionality if you switch from a static device to playing on the go.

How to play Mega Moolah slot

Follow these steps if you want to play Mega Moolah at the best online slots sites in the UK:

1. Find a casino that hosts the game: All of the best online slots sites host this title, so it shouldn’t take long to find an outlet.
2. Set your preferred stake: The game may default to a high stake, so use the tool to change it if you prefer.
3. Press spin to play: The spin button will be clearly marked.
4. Look for high-paying combinations: Check our Mega Moolah slot review and follow the paytable for high-paying combos.
5. Bonus rounds: These will activate automatically when triggered.
6. Monitor your bankroll: Play responsibly and don’t use all your bankroll in one session. Ideally, play with up to a maximum of 10% of your balance.

Mega Moolah slot symbols

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Mega Moolah features a range of themed symbols split into high- and low-paying categories. The high-paying symbols include safari animals such as elephant, buffalo, giraffe, zebra, and antelope, each offering bigger rewards when landing in combinations. The low-paying symbols are the classic playing cards from A to 10, which appear more frequently but offer smaller payouts.

The lion is the wild symbol – it substitutes for all regular symbols and doubles the payout when part of a winning combination. The monkey serves as the scatter, and landing three or more triggers 15 free spins, where all wins are boosted by a 3x multiplier. These special symbols bring extra value to the base game and create opportunities for bigger wins during regular spins.

Mega Moolah slot RTP, payout & volatility

The RTP of 88.12% is low and means that, on average, £88.12 will be paid out for every £100 wagered, over time. Results between players will vary, but those independently verified stats are worth keeping in mind.

For players who get involved with Mega Moolah, it’s all about aiming for the jackpot. It’s rare to land the truly big payouts, but it’s that possibility that keeps players engaged. The slot has a medium volatility, and in general, payouts will be less frequent but they may be higher when they come in.

Mega Moolah bonus features & free spins

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We’ve already seen that the lion is the wild symbol and the monkey is the scatter in Mega Moolah. The lion is a conventional wild icon that replicates all others as it looks to find a matching combination. If it does find a winning match, it will double any payout.

To activate the free spins section, at least three of the monkey scatters must fall into view. When this happens, players are rewarded with 15 additional spins.

The progressive jackpots can be triggered at random at any point. There are no special symbols to look out for, and the four jackpots in question are labelled Mini, Minor, Major and Mega. Any of these can be activated randomly during the base game.

Where to play Mega Moolah slot in the UK

As one of the most popular games online, the best UK online casinos all host Mega Moolah. Use the search bar at your favourite casino to check, but it’s almost certain that it will be on the listing.

Two recommended options for players in the UK are Dream Vegas and bet365. Both are well-known brands, but more importantly, they are licensed by the UK Gambling Commission, they promote responsible gambling, and both offer a good choice of secure funding providers.

If you are looking for one of the best online slots sites, you need to find a platform that covers all of those points.

Another trusted option is Casumo. This has customer support around the clock, as well as secure payment options and a mobile-friendly casino interface.

Key takeaway

Undoubtedly, it’s those progressive jackpots that have made Mega Moolah so popular with slots players over the years. The game is among the titles with the biggest payouts in history, and it continues to attract attention for that reason alone.

That said, those wins are rare, and it’s always important to play responsibly. With its straightforward gameplay, familiar safari theme and the chance to land life-changing prizes, Mega Moolah is a solid pick for UK players who enjoy classic slots with big potential. Try it out at a trusted, UK-licensed online casino.

🔎 More slot reviews

About the author

James Anderson

James Anderson is a Betting & Gaming Writer at The Sun. He is an expert in sports betting and online casinos, and joined the company in November 2020 to work closely with leading bookmakers and online gaming companies to curate content in all areas of sports betting. He previously worked as a Digital Sports Reporter and Head of Live Blogs/Events at the Daily Express and Daily Star, covering football, cricket, snooker, F1 and horse racing.

Find James on LinkedIn

Remember to gamble responsibly

A responsible gambler is someone who:

• Establishes time and monetary limits before playing
• Only gambles with money they can afford to lose
• Never chase their losses
• Doesn’t gamble if they’re upset, angry or depressed
• Gamcare – gamcare.org.uk
• GambleAware – GambleAware.org

Read our guide on responsible gambling practices.

For help with a gambling problem, call the National Gambling Helpline on 0808 8020 133 or go to gamstop.co.uk to be excluded from all UK-regulated gambling websites.

‘Relieved’ BBC Breakfast editor Richard Frediani has reportedly been ‘cleared’ after a review into his behaviour and will be continuing his duties

BBC Breakfast’s editor, Richard Frediani, has reportedly been ‘cleared’ of bad behaviour by bosses amid a ‘feud’ with presenter Naga Munchetty. During the summer, it was claimed that show boss Richard went on extended leave on the flagship show after complaints about his behaviour.

Host Naga was said to not get on with the editor. However, many staff members came out in defence of Richard. One even told the Mirror that some staff were disappointed with Naga who it’s claimed raised concerns about his management style with BBC managers.

One source told the Mirror: “He is not a bully at all and the truth will come out. He’s a great boss and was – and is still – overwhelmingly loved by the team, who respect his drive, expertise, and journalistic ambition. He has delivered great audiences and the first ever Bafta for breakfast TV.

READ MORE: BBC chaos as popular radio presenters’ shows suddenly axed in major shake-upREAD MORE: Zoe Ball admits ‘worry’ as she addresses list of highest paid BBC stars

“He can be brash and opinionated but works so hard for his team and allows people to flourish.”

Three months on, it was reported that the BBC conducted an interview review of the bullying allegations, with the broadcaster conducting 70 sessions and a ‘listening exercise’ with staff.

Richard, who is said to be ‘relieved’ with the outcome, reportedly told staff he was in the clear and would be continuing with his duties as editor.

“He’s in a significantly more secure place than he was. And I think he’s had a lot of support from people on the team who have come out and said he’s a great editor,” a support told The Times.

“Not everyone on the team because there are divided loyalties, but he is in a much better place.”

A spokesperson for the BBC told the Mirror: “While we do not comment on individual HR matters, we take all complaints about conduct at work extremely seriously.”

A source claimed Naga and co-host Charlie Stayt were ‘furious’ about Richard being ‘cleared’ to return to his duties.

“Naga and Charlie are furious and feel like the BBC have backed him over them,” they told The Sun. “No one would be surprised if they ended up leaving.”

In July, an insider told the publication that Naga was looking for a new job. While the presenter ‘loves the BBC’, her team reportedly ‘renewed talks’ with other companies.

They said: “Her team last week renewed talks with LBC. The Global Radio station would suit her as there’s far less of the fluffy nonsense that’s involved in working at the BBC.”

Meanwhile, the BBC’s annual salary was previously published and Naga was revealed to be earning almost double her co-host Charlie’s pay.

Charlie has stayed within the £190,000 salary band, whereas Naga enjoyed a £10,000 increase to her earnings, moving from £345,000 to £355,000.

The Mirror have reached out to the BBC and the representatives of Charlie and Naga for comment.

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In “Task,” premiering Sunday on HBO, Brad Ingelsby, creator of the 2021 miniseries “Mare of Easttown,” which introduced the wider world to Wawa and the Delco accent, returns with another tale of crime and family in the rural-suburban wilds west of Philadelphia. Where women were at the center of “Mare,” men are the subject here — a cop and a criminal, symmetrically arranged — messed-up middle-aged single fathers who care about their kids.

Both have been loaded with tragedy. Robbie (Tom Pelphrey), whose wife took off a year before, has a much-missed dead brother in whose house he’s living with his two kids and young adult niece (Emilia Jones as Maeve, a secret hero); he’s a garbage collector with a sideline in robbing drug houses, which he identifies through their trash. This routine has been successful enough that he and his partner, fellow trashman Cliff (Raúl Castillo), have drawn the attention of the authorities.

FBI agent Tom (Mark Ruffalo) has a dead wife (Mireille Enos, seen briefly in flashback), a son in jail he can’t bring himself to visit and a semi-estranged adult daughter (Phoebe Fox); on leave from field work, he’s been manning the agency table at job fairs. That changes when his boss (Martha Plimpton), much to his displeasure, calls him back as a substitute to lead a task force into the drug house robberies, already assembled by his predecessor from other branches of law enforcement. There’s Lizzie (Alison Oliver), young and distractable; Aleah (Thuso Mbedu), terse and focused; and Anthony (Fabien Frankel), loose and Italian.

It’s clear from the guns that both sides pack, and the fact that Robbie has been stealing from criminals — notably a drug-dealing motorcycle gang, the Dark Hearts, which has its own explosive internal business — that something is going to go fatally wrong sooner or later. (If that’s a spoiler, you are blessed with a special brand of naivete.) The bikers, who are not at all nice, though painted with some recognizably human qualities — represented primarily by Jamie McShane as Perry and Sam Keeley as Jayson — are the usual screen collection of exclusively good-looking men and women, though to be fair, this is true of Tom’s team too — Tom perhaps excepted. (Ruffalo put on weight for the role, and wants you to notice.)

In “Task,” Robbie (Tom Pelphrey) is a single father who steals from other criminals.

(Peter Kramer / HBO)

Indeed, the predominant experience of watching “Task” is waiting for the next terrible thing to happen, which may be called suspense or dramatic tension, but in the event makes for an often depressing watch, especially since the safety (physical, psychological) of young children is involved. (That can feel a little cheap, dramaturgically, like endangering a kitten, but it works.) One is grateful for anything relatively ordinary — Lizzie and Anthony dancing in a bar, Tom’s younger daughter, Emily (Silvia Dionicio) connecting with a co-worker at the custard ice stand. (Another item for the regional reference bucket.)

In the compare-and-contrast structure of the series, we learn that Robbie, though he is a fount of bad decisions, is the more optimistic, proactive of the two characters — he has a dream, in the form of a brochure, regarding a Canadian island, where he would like to spirit his family away. (He’s doing the crime to afford it.) He’s interested enough in finding “a life companion” to open a dating app. Tom, who had been a priest for eight years before losing the spirit and joining the FBI, still in mourning for his wife, drinks too much, is packing a paunch and can’t connect with Emily, the only family member left in the house.

Both have connections to nature. Tom, who grows vegetables, is a birdwatcher; Robbie keeps chickens. Both are essentially tenderhearted, which is perhaps not the most practical quality for their professions, but necessary for the story — we need to like them. They’re like one and a half sides of the same coin.

In among the criminal antics and police work is a lot of talk about life and death and God, guilt and forgiveness. Ingelsby thinks big. The title to one episode, “Out Beyond Ideas of Wrongdoing and Rightdoing There Is a River,” paraphrases the 13th century Persian poet Rumi, and water is a motif — diving into it, swimming in it, hanging around by it. Birds, too, which show up in random shots and, like the lakes and rivers, function as a sort of psychic relief for the viewer and metaphors for the story. When Tom, speaking to Robbie, identifies a certain bird as a “vagrant … a bird that strayed outside its normal range, strayed so far that it’s forgotten how to find its way home,” that is not really about birds. The writing can be a little on the nose, but better a violent story with ideas than one with none.

For all my reservations when it comes to this sort of drama, it’s very well made and very well acted, and, where many crime stories settle for sensational nihilism, “Task” does want to leave you feeling … pretty good. Not horrible. Hopeful. I trust that hasn’t spoiled it for you.

New York Yankees manager Aaron Boone questioned the legality of a bat used by Houston Astros outfielder Taylor Trammell during Thursday’s series finale.

Down by five runs in the bottom of the ninth inning, Houston mounted a comeback by starting off the inning with a single by catcher Victor Caratini and a double off the wall by Trammell. After the at-bat, Boone asked the umpires to check the bat used by the 27-year-old because of its “discoloration.”

Rule 3.02(c) by Major League Baseball bans the usage of a “colored bat in a professional game” unless approved by the league.

The crew chief, Adrian Johnson, took the bat and called a review to verify the legality of the discoloration on barrel.

After the review, the bat was confiscated by the umpires, authenticated and sent to the league office to be inspected, according to Astros manager Joe Espada.

“The bat was worn down a little bit,” Espada said. “He uses that bat all the time and I guess they thought it was an illegal bat.

“I thought it was … whatever,” he added.

Boone said they noticed the color of the bat earlier in the series and brought it up to the league officials on Thursday.

“You’re not allowed to do anything to your bat,” Boone said after the game. “I’m not saying he was … we noticed it and the league thought it maybe it was illegal too.”

After the game, the outfielder remained confused.

“I feel kind of defensive right now, more so a test of my character, like I’m going to willingly do that,” Trammell said. “Just kind of lost on that thing, and if anyone knows me, knows I’m never going to cheat or anything like that.”

Trammell, who played a couple of games for the Yankees last season, stayed on second base. The Astros later scored a run on a single by designated hitter Yordan Alvarez but the Yankees held on to win the game 8-4.

During a dark moment in Bing Liu’s “Preparation for the Next Life,” our protagonist, Aishe (Sebiye Behtiyar), seeks guidance in a place she did not think she’d return to: a mosque. An undocumented Uyghur immigrant from China, Aishe has left behind the religion in which she was raised. But feeling alone and stuck in New York City, she turns toward this place of cultural familiarity, where the imam counsels her that she’ll be rewarded for her obedience in her next life. But what about this life, the one she’s living now?

Aishe has been preparing for her next life since she arrived in New York, getting stronger, smarter, faster, so that she can make the leap to an existence that’s more comfortable, safer, more abundant. Like most young girls with big dreams, there’s only one thing that can slow her forward momentum and that is, of course, a boy.

“Preparation for the Next Life” is the narrative feature debut of Academy Award-nominated documentary filmmaker Liu. His much-lauded film “Minding the Gap” is a searing and searching project about his childhood friends, a group of skateboarders he followed over the course of a heady transition period, often turning the camera on himself and his own family.

In “Preparation for the Next Life,” Liu once again trains his lens on the delicate coming-of-age that is the early 20s. As the title of this adaptation of Atticus Lish’s 2014 PEN/Faulkner Award-winning debut novel suggests, it captures a liminal time in which Aishe, in reflecting on her past while getting ready for her future, is surprised by the arrival of a new person who enters her life and asks her to stay in the moment, at least for a little while.

Aishe locks eyes with Brad Skinner (Fred Hechinger) on the street in Queens and they share an immediate intrigue. He’s recently been discharged from the Army, arriving in New York with some cash and a desire to do anything but go home. The young couple fall into lust, then love, over beers in a Latin American cowboy bar, Uyghur street food and then in a shabby basement apartment. Skinner is a reprieve from Aishe’s life working in brutal restaurant kitchens for under-the-table wages; Aishe is a grounding force for Skinner, grieving the loss of his best friend and managing his PTSD symptoms with a cocktail of meds and plenty of booze. They are both utterly alone in the world until they have each other.

Liu transports us into this small but affecting love story with stunning, saturated, fluid cinematography by Ante Cheng and a swooning score by Emile Mosseri. The filmmaker deploys this lush aesthetic to make us fall in love with Aishe and Skinner’s impossible, head-over-heels romance.

He weaves in Aishe’s childhood memories of her father, with her Uyghur language narration addressed to him, as she asks imploring questions of a man who will never be able to answer. Skinner’s military background inspires her own physical training, jogging miles and lifting weights. She’s always seeking her father, not just in Skinner the soldier but in herself too, the remnants of his presence thrumming through her memory.

Ambitious, driven and desperate to change her station in life, Aishe contemplates marriage, hoping for a path to legal status, though the only free advice she can get from an immigration lawyer is to be careful about whom she marries. She heeds this warning, starting to realize that this boyfriend might not bring her freedom but deadweight, as much as she tries to help him help himself. The scenario is high stakes given both Aishe’s status (she’s at one point arrested and detained) and Skinner’s mental health struggles, but this is a classic tale of a first love that curdles from sweet to sour.

The compelling performances and Liu’s artful direction elevate the script. Behtiyar, in her debut feature, is spectacular, eyes fiery, her expression often inscrutable, body in constant motion as Cheng’s camera follows close behind. Her connection with Hechinger is palpable, heady and heated, despite their characters’ differences, and it’s nice to see Hechinger in a more adult, romantic role, even as Skinner falls prey to his own demons.

Liu does indulge in the prolonging of heartache and indecision, and the story stalls while heading into the third act, the film stretched beyond what the material can sustain. Nevertheless, “Preparation for the Next Life” is a powerful assertion of dreams, humanity and hard work, arguing that every person has a past, a future and a story to tell. Some loves are for a lifetime, others just a moment, but nothing’s stopping Aishe from what she wants in this life — or her next.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

Tragedy and comedy make freaky bedfellows in “Oedipus the King, Mama!” This latest romp from Troubadour Theater Company turns the Getty Villa’s annual outdoor theater production into a Freudian carnival of psychosexual madness.

In “Lizastrata,” the troupe’s 2021 Getty Villa production, Aristophanes’ “Lysistrata,” the old political comedy in which women declare a sex strike to stop a ruinous war, and that singular showbiz sensation, Liza Minnelli, were merrily united in a lampoon with Bob Fosse flourishes. Here, Sophocles’ “Oedipus the King” and Elvis, the King of Rock ’n’ Roll, are brought together for an equally madcap if less artfully composed mashup.

The Elvis that storms into this ancient land known as Malibu is long past his prime. As impersonated by Matt Walker, the company’s director and comic frontman, he makes the late-career Las Vegas singer look like a spring chicken. Wearing a white jumpsuit adorned with rhinestones and a wig that looks as if some woodland creature had nested on his head, Walker’s Elvis has a bowlegged gait that suggests either a cumbersome protuberance or the early stages of rigor mortis.

There’s a younger version of the character, played by Steven Booth in a cartoon muscle suit and a tunic that makes it easy to flash the audience. But this exhibitionistic Oedipus is the star of the show’s unnecessary preface, a belabored warmup act that should have been cut in rehearsals.

The show feels overextended, as if 45-minutes of comic material had been inflated to fill out a 90-minute slot. The company’s commedia dell’arte-style shenanigans have a natural elasticity but farcical lunacy snaps when stretched too far.

The references to Southern California are unfailingly funny (this Oedipus claims to have started out as the crown prince of Temecula). But there’s something tired about an Elvis parody. The pompadour gag has lost its cultural shelf life. For the TikTok generation, it might as well be Thomas Jefferson who’s crooning “Hound Dog.”

The music still instantly captivates, even if whole swaths of the audience won’t be familiar with the original songs, impudently rewritten for the occasion. A version of “All Shook Up” is brilliantly deployed just as Oedipus is told the truth of his identity by Teiresias (Mike Sulprizio, outfitted to make the blind prophet look like a rejected member of the “Harry Potter” universe.)

How could any son not be shaken to the core after discovering that he not only killed his father but married his mother and sired his own siblings! That’s a lot to take in, as the cast routinely jokes. But denial buys time for a protagonist who’s too busy acting out his Oedipal fantasies to grapple with difficult realities.

The cast of “Oedipus the King, Mama!” at the Getty Villa.

(Craig Schwartz / J. Paul Getty Trust)

The object of Oedipus’ stunted affection is Jocasta (played by Beth Kennedy in a Priscilla Presley wig and the manner of a Southern ex-showgirl turned cougar). Kennedy not only steals the show but comes close to saving it. The comedy isn’t afraid to go low — poor mixed-up Oedipus isn’t yet fully weaned — but Kennedy’s Jocasta never loses her audacious, sexy-mama vivacity.

Rick Batalla, who plays Creon (pronounced crayon here), Oedipus’ straight-shooting brother-in-law, is another standout, eager to show off his own impish Elvis moves. The musical numbers are more elaborate than karaoke acts, but the volume is contained in deference to the Getty Villa’s neighbors, draining the staging of some of its theatrical power.

Scenically, the costumes of Sharon McGunigle and the puppet and prop design of Matt Scott do the heavy lifting. Walker’s direction has a grab-bag aspect, as if the invitation from the Getty Villa came too late to smoothly integrate all the moving parts.

Walker makes a jokey aside to that effect at the start of “Oedipus the King, Mama!” But no one’s complaining. The Getty Villa survived the fires and it can survive this jovial, if half-baked, Sophoclean circus. Levity is what’s needed now, and the Troubies are still funnier than anything AI could come up with, even if the joke is that ChatGPT had a hand in the script.

In “NCIS: Tony & Ziva,” premiering Thursday on Paramount+, two popular characters from the CBS military procedural “NCIS,” have been brought back after several years and given a series of their own. Michael Weatherly and Cote de Pablo, as special agents Anthony “Tony” DiNozzo and Ziva David, so occupied the romantic fantasies of viewers that their names were portmanteaued into “Tiva.” (You can find thousands of instances of Tiva-themed fan fiction online.) As to the will-they, won’t-they of the relationship, they finally did, before they didn’t, and now they have a 12-year-old daughter, Tali (Isla Gie), whom they’re amicably co-parenting.

I have looked in on the franchise now and again, professionally, as new iterations have extended the length and breadth of the brand, which technically reaches back into “JAG,” from which it was spun off. But I’m not even going to attempt to pretend to have any real expertise in the adventures of a large rotating cast over 22 seasons. (It’s been renewed for a 23rd.) But I respect the institution — the original of which has been and may be now America’s most watched series — and its longevity, as I will salute your long marriage.

At the same time, once you know the basic premise of the show — it’s an elite military police procedural — it’s not hard to figure out where you are, wherever you drop in. The characters may be heroic or eccentric, but they’re heroic or eccentric within a recognized mold, with enough individual personality to make them lovable over a long run, and you can pick up on the interpersonal vibes pretty quickly.

Unlike earlier “NCIS” series, all based on broadcast television, “Tony & Ziva” is platformed on Paramount+, which means that characters utter a bad word now and again — it doesn’t get much edgier than that, and despite the sexual heat it’s hardly racy — and that there’s a budget which allows for foreign locations and big action scenes. And where the earlier shows, notwithstanding soap operatic long arcs, are fundamentally episodic, “Tony & Ziva” is a serial story, stretched over 10 episodes. Whether it’s stretched to breaking, we’ll have to wait and see; only four episodes out of 10 were offered for review.

The crime-fighting combo of a roguish guy and a no-nonsense gal is familiar from “Moonlighting” and “Castle.” Even the fact that the title joins Tony and Ziva with an ampersand and not an “and” indicates a certain lightness of tone, and when Tony, speaking of his company, says, “We try to walk that fine line between techno thriller and workplace comedy,” he is, of course, describing the very series he’s in. A strain of comedy is common to team-based procedurals, and it’s certainly part of what’s kept “NCIS” going strong all these years.

Given that the American brand hasn’t been as toxic, internationally and domestically, since the Vietnam era, possibly, and that “NCIS” series show around the world, it’s just as well that the presumed villains are (apparently) not the anti-American, freedom-hating terrorists one often finds in these things, but Bond-type stateless actors merely seeking power and money.

Additionally, the series — whose earlier iterations have been based in Washington, Los Angeles, New Orleans, Hawaii, Sydney and, in last year’s prequel, “NCIS: Origins,” exotic Oceanside, Calif. — is set in Paris, where, having gone civilian, Ziva has opened a fancy language school and Tony runs a high-end security service. (Among his clients: Interpol. You can’t get more European than that.) Along with easy access to croissants and café au lait, our heroes have the benefit of not having to wax patriotic about a country in which they no longer live. It feels very 2025.

The series’ MacGuffin is a magical thumb drive that, when plugged into a computer system, can seemingly do anything at all; possessing it, therefore, is an issue for both the good guys and the bad, into whose respective hands it goes in and out. When villains use it to frame Tony for extorting money from a hospital and threaten Tali’s life, Tony and Ziva are dragged back into a life of running, shooting, reckless driving and fisticuffs. “Two words,” says Tony, observing Ziva take apart a thug endangering her daughter. “Jewish mother.”

Most important, it puts the pair on the run together — the opening episodes find them (ostensibly and/or actually) in France, Italy, Switzerland and Hungary — and into constant close quarters, where old tender feelings simmer and the question of sharing a bed arises, as in “The 39 Steps,” the greatest of all innocent-and-on-the-run romances.

Ziva, whose pre-NCIS employment was as an assassin for the Israeli secret service — perhaps not the best job for a TV heroine to have on her resume nowadays, but it’s not an issue here — has hung on to an arsenal and plural safe houses. (“Have I ever told you how deeply I appreciate your paranoia?” Tony tells her.) And they’ve both kept their old NCIS badges, which they will flash to dazzle security guards and the like.

Along the way they pick up Boris (Maximilian Osinski), a non-aligned Russian hacker who made the MacGuffin in the first place, and his chirpy fiancee Fruzsi (Anne-Marie Waldeck), who provide both comedy and the image of a healthy, all-in romantic relationship to contrast with that of our hesitating heroes. Filling out the ranks are Tali’s capable nanny, Sophie (Lara Rossi), and Tony’s resident tech whiz, Claudette (Amita Suman), because you apparently can’t plot a thriller anymore without computers at the center of things. By virtue of being Tony’s friend and Tali’s godfather, Interpol exec Henry (James D’Arcy) is the sort of character you expect to turn out to be bad, though it’s up in the air. I’ll say no more about Martine (Nassima Benchicou), other than that Benchicou is very good at being very bad.

Created by John McNamara (“The Magicians”), not previously part of the “NCIS” world, “Tony & Ziva” can be quite absurd, depending heavily on suspensions of disbelief, or a viewer just not thinking too hard. This does not set it apart from a great many such screenplays, and the series does not shy away from genre tropes — the car chase through a marketplace, a fight with a seemingly unbeatable big bald bruiser. Indeed, it embraces them.

But what makes the show worth watching are Weatherly and De Pablo, two extremely attractive middle-aged people with genuine chemistry; he’s superheroically unflappable without ever seeming anything but a regular Joe. She’s sad and serious and not to be messed with. They’ve been around; they have worn edges, and when they intersect, it generates something authentically sweet, as real as the rest of the series is improbable. There’s a reason for all that fan fiction.

This fourth “The Conjuring” movie claims to be “Last Rites” and let’s hope that’s a promise.

While it’s highly likely the wildly successful Conjuring Cinematic Universe will itself continue — whether via scary nun, creepy doll or some other cursed object — the story of Ed and Lorraine Warren has been thoroughly wrung dry at this point and there’s no juice left to squeeze, as demonstrated in the dirge that is this final movie.

Credit where it’s due: The horror franchise has turned in some spectacularly scary and entertaining entries, anchored by performances from Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga as the married paranormal investigators the Warrens, based on an infamous real-life couple. Thanks to their presence, these films have been the best of the Conjuring series, exploring themes of faith and seeing as believing when it comes to both God and the Devil. These films have also offered portrayals of the Warrens that skirt any of their personal controversies, presenting them as blissfully married, heroic figures. Onscreen text might indicate that they were polarizing figures, but the films itself never engage with the scandals.

The first two films, directed by James Wan, ingeniously engaged with many variations on the idea of vision: physical, psychic and through a camera’s lens. Bravura cinematography aligned the audience point of view with Lorraine’s terrifying otherworldly dreams of hauntings, possessions and demonic presence. Michael Chaves, who directed the spinoff “The Nun II” and “The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It,” has mostly upheld these requirements, though his approach is more bombastic than Wan’s elegant style.

Chaves is once again behind the camera for “The Conjuring: Last Rites,” with a script by Ian B. Goldberg, Richard Naing and David Leslie Johnson-McGoldrick that promises to deliver a final Warren case that devastated the family and ended their careers on a dark note. Instead, “Last Rites,” is merely a sluggishly routine send-off for the Warren family.

If you’ve seen a “Conjuring” movie, you’ll know what to expect and “Last Rites” doesn’t break with formula. While the film starts in 1964 with the harrowing birth of the Warren’s beloved daughter Judy, the plot largely takes place in 1986, an annus horribilis for the misbegotten Smurl family from West Pittstown, Penn., haunted by an antique mirror adorned with three carved baby heads, picked up from a swap meet. After a series of unfortunate eventsand increasingly violent visitations, a media frenzy surrounds them and the Warrens turn up to rid the house of creepy crawlies.

This time there’s the added complication of wedding planning: Judy (Mia Tomlinson) is about to get married, but she just can’t shake those pesky psychic flashes she inherited from her mother. Judy is the one who ventures to the Smurl household first. Then her parents, who had been hoping to hang up their ghost-hunting spurs, reluctantly join her for one last ride. Ax-swinging ghouls, terrifying baby dolls and demonic possessions ensue.

In “Last Rites,” the thematic metaphor for seeing is the mirror itself, suggesting that we need to look at the darkest, most terrifying parts of ourselves and not shut them out. Lorraine has tried to protect her girl from the life she has led, facing down the most terrifying demons, ghosts and spooks, but she can’t stop Judy’s destiny and the only way out is to not look away.

“Last Rites” extends the concept of a new generation by incorporating Judy’s fiancé, Tony (Ben Hardy), as a fresh member of the family business. His function in the story is a bit awkward and random, but required for the Warren plotline to end on a high note (that opening bit about the family devastation never seems to come to pass).

The heart of these movies has always been Wilson and Farmiga, and without them, the “Conjuring” movies wouldn’t be worth it. With this fourth movie, the Warren lore has been so thoroughly picked over, the tropes and rhythms now so ingrained, the jump scares end up feeling routine at best. Enduring the dour drudgery of “Last Rites,” it’s never been clearer that it’s time to give up the ghost.

Katie Walsh is a Tribune News Service film critic.

THE CONJURING: LAST RITES

(15) 135mins

★★★★☆

3

FOR over a decade, the Conjuring franchise has been scaring us silly with its “true stories”.

But this will be the final haunted hurrah from parapsychologists Lorraine (Vera Farmiga) and Ed Warren (Patrick Wilson).

The married couple are as devoted to keeping bad spirits at bay as they are each other.

The film begins with a flashback to 1964, where a haunted mirror causes Lorraine to go into early labour.

The birth is traumatic and the demon that wants to get her young baby, Judy, almost wins, with the tot being stillborn.

Evil presence

But after begging the Lord to make the baby breathe, Lorraine wins that battle and we see the loving family grow up with happiness around them.

All while ghostbusting, of course.

But demons don’t rest and Judy, who has visions like her mum, often feels that she is being watched.

Fast-forward to 1986 and the Warrens are retired due to Ed having a heart condition.

But that pesky mirror turns up again, this time in the family home of the Smurls in Pennsylvania.

There are some seriously creepy goings-on and this is a demon not to be messed with. The Smurls have been so violently attacked by a powerful evil presence that they all live in terror.

As usual in these films, what you don’t see is far more terrifying than what you do.

Every usual horror trope is thrown out with a vengeance. But hey, if it ain’t broke. . . 

And it certainly feels like it’s not, as my palms grew clammy and heart rate shot up countless times.

The performances by Farmiga and Wilson are as extraordinary as always, bringing believable calm to the roles.

The climax of the supernatural events includes daughter Judy (Mia Tomlinson) and her boyfriend Tony (Brit actor Ben Hardy), are both tense and unsettling.

Directed by Michael Chaves, who was also the director for the three previous entries in the franchise, the film has a hand-held camera effect that tunes into the 1980s feel very well indeed.

There’s also a nice rounding off at the end with some familiar faces that superfans will appreciate.

A spine-tingling finale to a series of films that will likely haunt generations of fans to come.

ON SWIFT HORSES

(15) 119mins

★★☆☆☆

3

THIS odd beast of a film from Daniel Minahan is adapted from Shannon Pufahl’s 2019 novel.

It opens with Muriel (Daisy Edgar-Jones) and her soon-to-be husband, Lee (Will Poulter), chasing the Californian dream after his return from the Korean War.

Their plans for a fresh start are almost derailed by the arrival of Lee’s magnetic younger brother, Julius (Jacob Elordi), who departs for Las Vegas the next day.

There, Julius finds work in a casino and falls into a secret romance with his charismatic coworker, Henry (Diego Calva).

Back in California, Muriel begins her own double life, gambling at racetracks and discovering an unexpected passion with her neighbour, Sandra (Sasha Calle).

On paper, this is rich material, but on screen, Minahan never quite delivers the goods.

The film certainly looks the part – Andre Chemetoff’s cinematography bathes everything in a golden haze – but beneath the gloss there isn’t enough here to truly hold it together.

In the end, On Swift Horses aspires to be a sweeping saga in the vein of East Of Eden, but it never gets out of a slow trot.

All style, with little substance.

LINDA MARRIC

THE COURAGEOUS

(12A) 83mins

★★★★☆

3

JASMIN GORDON’S debut feature film is an honest portrait of survival, love, and dignity.

Set against the beautiful landscape of Switzerland’s Valais region, it follows Jule (Ophelia Kolb), a rebellious single mother of three who refuses to give up on her family despite poverty, past mistakes and the indifference of the welfare system.

Kolb, best known for the hugely popular series, Call My Agent!, gives a career-defining performance. She captures Jule’s contradictions with remarkable depth.

Gordon directs with sensitivity, as she blends social realism with poetic imagery in a film that never feels needlessly moralising.

Her film never resorts to cliché or sentimentality; instead, it shines a light on the often invisible battles of the working poor in a modern Swiss society where destitution is often a taboo subject.

This is a powerful, heartfelt drama about love, resilience, and the complexity of being a flawed human.

Gordon’s sensitive direction and Kolb’s mesmerising performance combine to create a film that is both socially aware and profoundly moving.

It may be her first ever feature, but Gordon has made a film that feels both mature and hugely engaging.

LINDA MARRIC

“The Paper,” premiering Thursday on Peacock, is a belated spinoff of “The Office,” much as Peacock is a sort of spinoff of NBC, where the former show aired on Thursdays from 2005 to 2013. In the new series, Dunder Mifflin, the office in “The Office,” has been absorbed into a company called Enervate, which deals in office supplies, janitorial paper and local newspapers, “in order of quality.” The newspaper at hand is the Toledo Truth Teller, sharing space with the toilet paper division.

Created by “Office” developer Greg Daniels with Michael Koman, “The Paper” is shot in the same documentary style, ostensibly by the same fictional crew, and imports “Office” player Oscar Núñez as head accountant Oscar Martinez, not at all happy to be back on camera.

In the first episode, Ned Sampson (Domhnall Gleeson), a starry-eyed journalism school graduate turned cardboard salesman turned toilet paper salesman, arrives as the new editor in chief of the Truth Teller, not exactly taking charge of a staff that consists entirely of narcissistic interim managing editor Esmeralda Grand (Sabrina Impacciatore), whose sole prior media experience is as a contestant on a dating reality show called “Married at First Sight”; ad salesman Detrick Moore (Melvin Gregg); subscriptions person Nicole Lee (Ramona Young); compositor Mare Pritti (Chelsea Frei), who wrote for “Stars and Stripes”; accountants Adam Cooper (Alex Edelman) and Adelola Olofin (Gbemisola Ikumelo); and Duane Shepard Sr. as Barry Stokes, the only official reporter, whose beat consists of high school sports and falling asleep. In the sitcom logic of the show, they will all be drafted as volunteer journalists, joined by Travis Bienlien (Eric Rahill), from the toilet paper division.

Times television critic Robert Lloyd and news and culture (and former television) critic Lorraine Ali have worked in many newspaper and magazine offices between them, and come together here to discuss how “The Paper” compares to “The Office,” its journalistic veracity and whether or not it’s funny.

The journalist recruits in “The Paper,” from left: Chelsea Frei as Mare, Ramona Young as Nicole, Melvin Gregg as Detrick, Gbemisola Ikumelo as Adelola, Alex Edelman as Adam, Eric Rahill as Travis and Oscar Núñez as Oscar.

(John P. Fleenor / Peacock)

Ali: I’ll start with my favorite quote about journalism from “The Paper”: “The industry is collapsing like an old smoker’s lung.” Hack, hack, cough, I say from inside the beast. This half-hour comedy offered so many great moments of spot-on commentary about the state of legacy journalism that I wasn’t sure if I should weep or laugh. I chose the latter, most of the time. The first couple episodes are clever, funny and charmingly clumsy — if not too close to the bone for folks like us. I’ll get to the rest of the series in a minute, but how did the satire about a contracting newsroom strike you, Robert?

Lloyd: There are a couple of moments in the pilot episode where it flashes back to an old black-and-white documentary on the Truth Teller in an earlier age when 1,000 people worked for the paper, before the internet destroyed print journalism and the newspaper, which once occupied a whole building, and was eventually reduced to sharing a corner of a floor with the toilet paper division. It gave me a little shock. I feel like I caught the end of that analog era, at the L.A. Weekly, when it was a thin, then a fat alternative paper, and the Herald Examiner, where there were typewriters that must have been sitting there since the ’30s, a sort of piratical “Front Page” energy and tons of talent. (Much of which migrated to The Times when the Herald folded.)

Ali: I felt a tinge of sadness and loss watching those flashback scenes. Then they cut to present day, and the marbled halls of the once-great Truth Teller newspaper are empty. What struck me is how much the fictional paper’s lobby looked like the old Globe Lobby of the L.A. Times’ building downtown. I also got a lump in my throat when they went down into the basement where the old giant presses sat frozen. We had those relics in the old Times building too. For readers who don’t know, the L.A. Times hasn’t been in that landmark building since 2018. We’re now in El Segundo. Sounds like a great setup for a sitcom joke, right?

Lloyd: Most — all? — newspapers have felt the stress of shrinking staffs and resources, of doing more with less. But the Truth Teller starts with almost nothing — that it comes out at all, apparently daily, is something of a joke in itself; at least Ted Baxter was the only knucklehead working at WJM on “Mary Tyler Moore,” but there are more than a few of them here. “The Office” wasn’t about the work, but about surviving the environment. It didn’t really matter what did or didn’t get done. But this is a show about a business — a noble institution, however ignobly served — with deadlines, some of which one would rightly regard as impossible, having met hundreds, if not thousands, in one’s life — even without a skeleton crew that has no idea what it’s doing. But it just sort of wishes them away. Then again, it is a sitcom.

The jokes are well-timed and reliably funny, but like “The Office,” it’s all down to the characters, which are wonderful company. Oscar, of course, we already know and love. But I especially liked Gregg as the soft-edged Detrick, with an awkward crush on the wry Nicole. Ned, whom the Irish Gleeson plays like someone out of a Frank Capra pastiche, can be a little competitive, but he’s no Michael Scott; neither is he exactly Jim to Mare’s Pam, though obviously they occupy a similar position, being relatively normal and attractive. But as the One Who Needs to Be Noticed, Impacciatore’s Esmeralda does have more than a little Michael Scott in her, though turned up to 11, insanely glamorized and in an Italian accent. It’s a hilarious performance. Her delighted scrolling through a thicket of ads on a clickbait article on a tip Brad Pitt left someone is a little comic gem. It’s not unlike the way Janelle James pops out as Ava on “Abbott Elementary.”

Sabrina Impacciatore, left, plays managing editor Esmeralda, who has more than a little Michael Scott in her.

(John P. Fleenor / Peacock)

Ali: It’s impossible not to compare “The Paper” to “The Office.” It’s unfair yet inevitable, and “The Office” wins, though my favorite version of that show was the British version with Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant. But I do like what Gleeson does in “The Paper” with Ned Sampson, portraying him as an enthusiastic editor in chief born about 50 years too late to experience the Woodward and Bernstein glory days of print journalism. The deflated expression on his face is priceless when he advises his lost “reporters” to rely on the Five Ws of reporting, and one asks, “Is that a gang?” Gleeson has an impressive range. He was haunting as the conflicted foodie/serial killer in psychological thriller “The Patient,” where he co-starred, ironically, with Steve Carell. I also really like Young as Nicole, who I admittedly had an affinity for as a drama club nerd in “Never Have I Ever.”

My issue with “The Paper” isn’t the cast, but the pacing. It starts off strong. The first two episodes are filled with sharp writing and build a strong foundation for what we expect to see: the hilarity of an inexperienced, underdog staff turning a local rag into a real source of news. But the momentum doesn’t quite sustain. I felt myself losing interest in the story as the series progressed because their ensuing assignments, setbacks and interpersonal trajectories weren’t all that compelling.

I do, however, appreciate that “The Paper,” like “Abbott Elementary,” mines the tragic humor of a crumbling American institution while also pointing out that this thing is happening under our noses, and shouldn’t we do something — anything — to save it? Turning that tragedy into a sitcom is one answer.

SUMMER is fully upon us, bringing with it holidays abroad, trips to the beach, dips in the pool – and, of course, bare legs.

I’ve grappled with various razors, at-home waxing kits and painful trips to the salon for years, which only leave me dreading the next time my leg hair is ripped from the root, before it grows back and I have to endure it all over again.

Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset, £299 £159.20 with code THESUN20

That was until I decided to take the plunge, listen to my mates, and join the at-home IPL brigade.

Instead of spending hundreds (thousands in the long run) on salon hair removal, I opted to try an at-home hair removal solution that would last — a Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset.

IPL (Intense Pulsed Light) uses a combination of targeted light and heat that is absorbed by the melanin found in hair follicles, essentially disabling and damaging them, which, in turn, stops the hair from growing back.

The highly rated Keskine handset boasts an impressive 4.9-star rating from almost 4,000 reviews, and one of its most notable features is the built-in ice-cooling technology, setting it apart from competitors.

This promises to soothe the skin and alleviate the biggest complaint people have about hair removal: pain.

So, I put the Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset to the test for six weeks to see what results I could achieve while the sun is still shining.

Pros

• Financially worth it in the long run 
• Portable
• Effective
• Works on a range of hair types and skin tones 
• Built-in cooling technology

Cons

• It can feel like a big cash injection
• Have to remain consistent with your sessions
• Slightly noisy (although worth it for the cooling option)

Rating: 8/10

How I tested the Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset

Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset, £299 £159.20 with code THESUN20

Keskine promises visible results within one to four weeks, with optimal results appearing between six and twelve weeks.

I decided to track the effects on my hair over six weeks, assessing every week..

As part of the Sun Shopping team, I’ve tested a range of beauty tech, including the best LED face masks, the best Dyson dupes, and more, so I’m well-versed in what makes a product worth your pennies, even if it’s at the higher end of the price spectrum.

I used the product the recommended number of times: up to three times a week for the first month and then twice a week for weeks four to six.

For some context, I have naturally fair and soft hair on my head, but my leg and armpit hair is thick and stubborn after years of shaving abuse, so my main goal was to see if the IPL would thin the hairs out before removing them completely.

Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset review: The Nitty Gritty

First impressions

I won’t lie to you, I often find myself sceptical about any at-home treatment that imitates salon visits, such as laser hair removal or at-home LED facial treatments.

Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset, £299 £159.20 with code THESUN20

However, always open to having my opinion changed, I unboxed the Keskine to discover a very easy-to-use handheld IPL, which came with a razor and a pair of protective sunglasses.

The device itself is extremely lightweight and compact, with a lovely white and rose gold colour scheme.

Its small size means you can take it on holiday with you, ensuring you never have to miss a session.

Setting it up proved to be an easy task. All you need to do is clean your chosen treatment area and shave off any hair using the razor provided, before patting the area completely dry.

Once you’ve connected the power cord to the adapter and plugged it into a power outlet, all you need to do is turn it on and choose one of the five built-in smart modes.

Don’t be alarmed by the loud whirring noise that comes from the device; that’s just an indication that the cooling capabilities are working.

You can select which part of your body you will be targeting with the IPL — face, armpit, body, bikini or beauty.

Keskine IPL Hair Removal Handset, £299 £159.20 with code THESUN20

Although it’ll make you look like a member of the Blues Brothers every time you use it, you will need to wear the protective sunglasses provided to shield your eyes from the effects of the light.

Does it deliver?

My hair has definitely become much finer and completely disappeared in places since I started using the Keskine.

When speaking to friends who go for professional laser removal treatments in a salon, our results were very similar at the four-week and six-week mark.

I saw most results at six weeks, but noticed that even at the four-week mark, after using the device appropriately and consistently, there were areas where the hair had disappeared, and surrounding areas were extremely wispy where it once was coarse.

I will say that this product is best suited if you already have body hair on the finer side and definitely on the darker side.

As per the Keskine colour chart, the tool is ineffective on darker skin tones and lighter hair types.

1

I found the best results were on intimate areas and my armpits, where I saw a massive improvement on darker, coarser hair.

The product is very simple to use, and the cooling sensation that Keskine offers is a standout feature, contributing to a pain-free experience.

The five adjustment levels are also a nice touch to reduce the pain in more sensitive areas.

How much is the Keskine IPL?

One thing that always used to put me off IPLs and at-home treatments was the hefty price tag that often accompanies them.

However, when you compare the cost of the Keskine – usually £299 but currently on sale for £199.99 (or just £159.20 with exclusive code THESUN20) — to just one session at a popular high street therapy clinic, it suddenly feels worthwhile, especially with very similar results on offer.

When compared to other IPLs, such as Braun or Philips, which offer the same level of settings and features, the Keskine IPL stands out financially, making it well worth the investment.

Where to buy the Keskine IPL?

The IPL can be purchased directly from the Keskine site, which often runs offers.

Additionally, Keskine have provided an exclusive 20% discount code for Sun readers, bringing the price down even further to £159.20; however, you may have to act fast as the code is only valid until July 31st at midnight!

There are also sign-up offers that allow 10% off across the site on your first order, as well as Clearpay being available as a payment plan, along with fast, free tracked shipping.

Keskine IPL alternatives

If you’re looking for the same level of quality as the Keskine IPL, with cooling technologies and adjustable power settings, here are some alternatives:

• Braun Silk Expert Pro 5 PL5124 Corded IPL Hair Removal, £425 £300 – buy here
• Ulike Air 3, £319.99 £279 – buy here
• FOREO Peach 2 Device, £369 – buy here

Hey, hey, they’re the Runarounds, the latest Pinocchio band to straddle the line between fiction and fact. Meet Charlie (William Lipton), guitar! He’s a romantic! Neil (Axel Ellis), also guitar! Not just a pothead! (He reads Ferlinghetti.) Topher (Jeremy Yun), lead guitar! The quiet one! Wyatt (Jesse Golliher), bass! The even quieter one! And Bez (Zendé Murdock), drums, replacing Pete (Maximo Salas), henceforth the “manager,” who surely has been named for Pete Best, or I will eat my Beatles fan club card.

They have been assembled for your fist-pumping adulation from a reported 5,000-plus hopefuls responding to an open call for musicians and dropped into the center of a teenage musical soap opera, also called “The Runarounds,” premiering Monday on Prime Video.

This rockin’ concoction comes to you courtesy of Jonas Pate, creator of the Netflix teenage treasure-hunt series “Outer Banks,” and like that show, it is a wish-fulfilling fantasy set in Pate’s native North Carolina, specifically the seaside city of Wilmington, which offers a lot of lovely scenery and adorable domestic architecture. And like that show, it is all about being young and wanting to be free, like the bluebirds. Unlike that show, everybody here keeps their shirts on, in the actual sense (though not at all in the metaphorical).

The eight-episode season begins just as high school is ending, which in dramatic terms means parties and a scene in which someone makes a graduation speech. (That will be Sophia, played by Lilah Pate, daughter of Jonas.) Charlie, who has just turned 18, is avoiding telling his parents that he’s not going to go to college, even though he’s been accepted to one. (To just one is the perhaps unintended implication.) His entire future, in his head at least, depends on “getting signed” by the summer’s end — which, in music business terms, is 20th century thinking, but like a lot of music being made today, this is an old-fashioned show. That, and getting Sophia, the beautiful, overachieving sad girl he’s been crushing on for four years, to notice him.

Charlie, Toph, Neil and Pete have been playing unspecified gigs under an unfortunate name I’ll not repeat, and they feel pretty good about the band, although strangely it takes until the pilot for them to realize that Pete is a terrible drummer. After some group soul-searching and flyer-posting, they pick up Bez, who drums so well one wonders why he isn’t in three other bands already — or why there seems to be no other groups around, or any sort of music scene. He brings along his friend Wyatt, who picks up a bass, and a new band is born. Wyatt’s interiority, shy smile and young Jeff Tweedy vibe makes him immediately the most intriguing Runaround.

Charlie (William Lipton), Wyatt (Jesse Golliher) and Bez (Zendé Murdock) in a scene from “The Runarounds,” which is set in Wilmington, N.C.

(Jackson Lee Davis / Prime Video)

Along with Sophia, who writes poems that might be lyrics, the female element is filled out by Amanda (Kelley Pereira), Topher’s controlling, capable girlfriend, who will prove a secret weapon for the band, and Bender (Marley Aliah), who goes about with cameras, likes Neil and wholly embodies a somewhat scary, casually cool, not-at-all pixieish dream girl. They don’t get to be in the band, but as actors, they do a lot to support their nonprofessional castmates. (Lipton, the only professional actor in the band — including in 328 episodes of “General Hospital” — comes across as less authentic than the untrained others, though that may be in part because he’s saddled with the heaviest storylines and has to say things like, “I want to write love songs that change the world.”)

As in “Outer Banks,” and two out of every three teen shows ever, most are at odds with their parents, catnip to young viewers who are even occasionally at odds with their own parents, over even minor things because — parents! Charlie’s are played by Brooklyn Decker, whose character teaches film, and Hayes MacArthur, whose character has spent 12 years working on a novel — that is, only working on a novel, which is to say not working; somehow they are not divorced. (And money is becoming an issue, and there is a Big Secret that will shake the family.) “What kind of work is done in a bathrobe, father?” says Charlie’s mouthy little sister, Tatum (Willa Dunn).

Neil’s father, who has health problems, assumes his son will join him in his painting business; Topher’s are conservative stuck-up pills who, like Amanda, have him slated for a career in finance. Bez’s father is also a musician but thinks his son is wasting his time with the Runarounds. Wyatt’s mother is some sort of addict, who hates him. Sophia’s father is self-medicating after the death of her mother some years before, leaving her to pick up the pieces. (“I’m doing everything right on paper but I don’t feel alive,” she says.) Wouldn’t you rather be with your friends, playing in a band?

Wyatt will find a job and a refuge, and the band a rehearsal space in a music store run by nonparental adult Catesby (Mark Wystrach), who spent 18 years in Nashville experiencing success and failure and knew Charlie’s mother once upon a time — so that’ll be a thing. (The store apparently does no business at all.) For inspiration he sends the kids way out in the country to a secret show by his old friend Dexter Romweber (a real person, now deceased, played by Brad Carter), who will shake their nerves and rattle their brains and leave them with words of encouraging and discouraging wisdom before disappearing into the night and a fictionalized fate.

Every so often, we get a performance — at a graduation party, a county fair, a wedding, a roadhouse, a prestigious opening slot, where the crowds react as if they’re extras in a TV show. (The kids can play, and the songs aren’t bad.) As they struggle toward their goal, they’ll meet disaster and resistance. They’ll fuss, they’ll feud. They’ll make mistakes, they’ll make sacrifices, they’ll make trouble, though no trouble that can’t be fixed with an apology or checkbook or someone to bail them out. (I am pretty sure in the long history of underage kids sneaking into clubs, none has ever been arrested and put in jail, but maybe things are different in Wilmington.) They’ll get high and stay out all night, talking heart to heart, which does seem authentically teenage. (The “Wizard of Oz” costumes less so.)

There are niche references for the pop-musically informed: Catesby telling Wyatt to put a couple of P13 pickups into a ’68 Silvertone guitar; moving from the two to the five chord; name-dropping storied rock clubs (the 40 Watt, the 9:30). “This isn’t some f— Squier I got for Christmas,” Neil wails when his Gretsch White Falcon disappears. When Charlie rides his bike off a roof into a swimming pool in the midst of Pete’s party, that is almost certainly in homage to the “I am a golden god” scene from “Almost Famous”; later, they’ll nick an idea from the Beatles.

As with other manufactured bands before them, the line between what’s real and what’s retail is blurred. You can buy Runarounds-branded merch (T-shirts and hoodies, a beach towel, a sweatband, lighters). You can stream their “album,” co-produced by the Talking Heads’ Jerry Harrison, and released by actual major label Arista, from all the usual musical platforms. They’ve got dates scheduled from mid-September to late October in the South, mid-Atlantic and Northeast in legit rock halls, though whether they will identify themselves by their character names, I don’t know. (That wasn’t a problem for the Monkees, who just used their own.) I doubt they’ll be sleeping on floors or tripled up at a Motel 6, unless things are worse than I know at Amazon. If they split the driving, I hope they’re more responsible with that than the characters they play.

It’s a fluffy show, sometimes catching something real, frequently improbable, never completely ridiculous. But the audience at which it’s aimed may be happy enough with an aspirational fairy tale that reflects their own feelings about their own feelings, for which the music itself is a megaphone and a metaphor.

“All good pop songs are a little corny,” says Charlie.

“Maybe,” replies Sophia, which is the right answer.

Nostalgia for extreme tackiness is surely one of the funnier outcomes of a cult film’s success. (Does one sigh wistfully at such memories or smile through a grimace?) The gleeful cine-garbage factory Troma is, at 50 years and counting, now a hallowed name in outsider movie circles, with much of its reputation stemming from an ’80s output that seemed appropriate for the Reagan era. That especially goes for its 1984 monster comedy “The Toxic Avenger,” about a head-smashing vigilante forged from green chemical sludge. It was antipollution if you wanted to be charitable, but really, it was anti-everything. Haste plus waste, made for very bad taste.

Now, of course, we all recycle trash in our daily lives. But does it work as a film principle? Troma aficionado Macon Blair, a key on-and-offscreen collaborator of Jeremy Saulnier (“Blue Ruin,” “Hold the Dark”) and a Sundance-winning writer-director in his own right (“I Don’t Feel At Home in This World Anymore”), has taken up the challenge with his own “The Toxic Avenger,” starring Peter Dinklage as this version’s mutant hero, Toxie, and maybe the worst thing one could say about it is that it’s well-made.

Cue the disconnect when, expecting to be offended by garish, cheap filmmaking, one realizes that so much of the Troma style — gratuitous gore, filthy mouths, blunt-force parody — is ubiquitous to any regular genre diet in film or TV. That leaves matters of artistic character and there’s no getting around the fact that Blair has made the conscious decision that his “Toxic Avenger,” though rude, violent and goofy to a fault, wouldn’t look bad. It’s even got appealing stars: Kevin Bacon, Elijah Wood, Taylour Paige. Is nothing sacred?

But when even the biggest-budgeted movies now look terrible, everything’s already upside-down. What Blair has assembled, then, is diverting homage-schlock: a one-joke Halloween costume you’ll never wear again. Only this time, it asserts its environmental consciousness like a middle finger. The story’s Big Pharma outfit, called BTH, is a full-on villainous entity now, run by rapacious CEO Bob Garbinger (Bacon) who’s pumping consumers with harmful lifestyle drugs when he isn’t hiring a dim-witted punk band to kill a journalist (Paige) trying to expose him. (A muckraking mentor, seen only at the beginning, is called Mel Ferd, a shout-out to the original Toxie’s name.)

And yet things are also, in Blair’s setup, anchored in emotional sincerity (gasp). Dinklage’s affectingly drawn Winston Goose is no mere browbeaten BTH janitor — he’s a soft-spoken widower struggling to raise a stepson (Jacob Tremblay). Winston has also been diagnosed with a terminal illness and medical insurance won’t cover it. His Kafkaesque phone call about his employee plan is almost too realistic to find funny.

Trying to rob his employer one night with a mop dipped in toxic muck, Winston is shot and thrown into said slop. Instead of killing him, though, it transforms Winston into a disfigured creature (performer Luisa Guerreiro does the post-mutation suit work) with a removable eye, blood running blue, and — in a Tromatic touch — acid for urine. His gory dispatching of criminals notwithstanding, the mop-wielding Toxie becomes a community hero for calling out BTH as “ruiners.” But it also puts a target on his splotchy, misshapen head, especially when Garbinger senses in his nemesis an exploitable biofuel.

Whether poking at superhero cliches (there’s a choice post-credit scene) or trying to be kill-clever, it’s all in dopey, gruesome fun, although, to reiterate, a “Toxic Avenger” even normies can enjoy doesn’t exactly sound like a true Troma tribute. Which may explain why its trashmonger founder (and original “Toxic” co-creator) Lloyd Kaufman’s cameo, late in the film, is him crankily muttering next to Blair, who looks just as peeved. They probably had a blast filming it.

The heart and soul of suites by Bach and Handel are often found in the slow, central sarabande, said to be a dance of Spanish origin. In Bach’s cello suites, the sarabande stops time. Watch Yo-Yo Ma play a sarabande. His eyes seem to recede under his eyelids, as though entering a profound state of hypnosis. He can make a Bach sarabande work anywhere, including on a river rafting trip with a background of gurgling water on his latest Bach recording.

The sarabande from Handel’s D-Minor Keyboard Suite is well known as the theme from “Barry Lyndon,” about to thrill Stanley Kubrick fans all over again with the new 50th anniversary 4K restoration screening Saturday night at the Egyptian.

That Handel sarabande was one of the catchy opening numbers of “Sarabande Africaine,” Ma’s joint appearance with Afropop singer-songwriter Angélique Kidjo at the Hollywood Bowl on Thursday night. Ma and Kidjo met seven years ago at an event in Paris commemorating the end of the World War I. That led him to look a little deeper into music he had been playing since he was a young boy and was by now ingrained in his DNA.

And it led him to loudly exclaim, before playing the sarabande from Bach’s Second Solo Cello Suite in his short solo set, “Who knew?”

Musicologists have discovered the origin of the rhythmic patterns of what became this Baroque era vehicle for the transmigration of souls in dances carried by enslaved Africans to 16th century Spain. The church banned the sarabande for its perceived lusty eroticism. But when the dance later reached the hands of a certain German father of 20 children, Bach made sarabandes of such mystical serenity that eros equaled the sacred miracle of new life.

That Ma, an old Silk Road musical warrior, and the multifaceted Kidjo bonded is hardly surprising. But that they could put on a show with a fabulous family of African drummers, Caribbean piano and percussion, and assorted electric guitars and brass and dancers in which all the world — not just Bach but Philip Glass, Dvorak, Gershwin, Ravel, you name it — seemed to be just waiting for the right African accent, and that traditional African music needed no translation at all for some 17,000 at a near full Bowl, that was something.

Even so, Kidjo and Ma are an odd couple. Kidjo proudly transforms anything she comes into musical contact with. To hear “Summertime” in Swahili, a beautiful language for song, is indescribably touching. Kidjo added words to “Bolero.” They were not translated and didn’t need to be. Ravel’s rhythms had a riveting new freshness.

Ma’s cello, on the other hand, fits in, often remaining in the background, though not a distant background. He got into playful duets with drummers and a moving one with Kidjo as an intro to “Summertime.”

There was talk of peace, a better world where we understand each other, by both Ma and Kidjo. They demonstrated how that might work, with Kidjo commanding the stage, brilliantly dressed, while Ma, seated and in a sport coat for the first part, speaking a different yet compatible musical language. Even so, it was the big, crowd-pleasing Kidjo numbers that ultimately sent the audience home dancing.

There was, however, one particularly fascinating area of communality. Glass has written important pieces for both. Ma is featured in Glass’ 2002 score to “Naqoyqatsi,” the third in the “Qatsi” trilogy of silent documentary films by director Godfrey Reggio. Although the least known, “Naqoyqatsi” has an antiwar theme that would have fit right in with “Sarabande Africaine.”

Glass also fell under Kidjo’s spell, first composing three enchanted “Yoruba” songs for the singer, and then his Symphony No. 14 (“Lodger”) for her and premiered by the Los Angeles Philharmonic in 2019. The third in another Glass trilogy, this of symphonies based on David Bowie albums, “Lodger” consists of seven Bowie songs sung by Kidjo with new music by Glass.

For “Sarabande Africaine,” Kidjo sang the first of the songs in the symphony, “Move On,” arranged for cello, piano and percussion. Ma carried the main orchestral melodic lines. Bowie, who sometimes felt the need to move on, could well have written the song for Kidjo, with lines like, “Somewhere, someone’s calling me.”

The two-hour “Sarabande Africaine,” without intermission, could get a tad preachy. The evangelical mixing of musical genres and geography had its touristy elements; however engaging and engrossing the wonder-making, it was always fleeting.

But, ironically, “Move On,” in its new setting, had the powerfully intimate feel of stopping and reflecting. This was the one composer Kidjo and Ma both knew personally. They were equals and equally at home with his style, and the movement put the moving on, the “drifting like a leaf,” “feeling like a shadow,” stumbling “like a blind man,” in revealing relief.

“Move On” ends with Ma tracing a haunting, fleeing cello response to Kidjo singing “Can’t forget you / Can’t forget you” She might have been speaking for how her audience hears her, but also of the forgetful nature of the history of music, in which we are maybe not meant to remember. You hear something, make it your own and move on.

Audiences once adored big adult comedies. Jay Roach’s champagne-fizzy “The Roses” is a seductive attempt to lure them back into theaters.

As bright, mean and ambitious as its lead characters, Theo and Ivy Rose (Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman), this resurrection of the ’80s-style R-rated crowd-pleaser is a remake of — or really, an across-the-room nod to — the 1989 hit “The War of the Roses,” which starred Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner as divorcees who fight to the death over their fancy chandelier.

Inspired by the venomous novel by Warren Adler, both films are metaphors for building a home and then tearing it down, although the chandelier this time is merely incidental. This snarky, self-aware couple is the type to build themselves a smart house and name its system HAL.

The Roses meet-cute in a posh London restaurant when Theo asks to borrow Ivy’s knife to slash his wrists. He’s a morose architect who aspires to build risky, revolutionary designs. She’s a kooky chef whose signature seasoning is a mix of powdered anchovy and blueberry. In the cocktail of their marriage, he adds the bitterness and she adds the spice, qualities that can be either overbearing or harmonious. Their version of sweet talk is Ivy chirping, “Never leave me — but when you do, kill me on the way out.”

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Brutal humor and obstinacy bind these malcontents together for almost 15 years. Then her career takes off and his flops, upending their equilibrium. Now, they’re battling over who gets custody of their California dream mansion. Twins Hattie and Roy are secondary. (Delaney Quinn and Ollie Robinson play their kids at 10; Hala Finley and Wells Rappaport at 13.)

The script by Tony McNamara (“Poor Things”) unleashes the hilarious spouses to aim insults at each other like explosive corks. (McNamara is so skilled at putting cruel words in Colman’s mouth that he’s already helped win her an Oscar for “The Favourite.”) Theo and Ivy open the film skewering each other at marriage counseling, only to be aghast when the therapist advises them to split up. For a while, they stick together mostly to stick it to her, in defiance of the fact that contempt is the No. 1 indicator of divorce. “In England, we call that repartee,” Theo insists.

You wonder if their jokes keep them from honest communication and then you wonder if Roach, who came to fame as the director of “Austin Powers” and “Meet the Parents,” has ever been afraid of that himself. (For the record, Roach has been married to the Bangles’ Susanna Hoffs since 1993 and she here sings two cover songs for the soundtrack, “Happy Together” and “Love Hurts.”)

Mostly, you just enjoy the jokes. Colman, who burst into my awareness in the 2003 TV cringe comedy “Peep Show,” is fantastic throwing jabs around in costume designer PC Williams’ nouveau hipster wardrobe of bold, baggy lines. The actor even does an Ian McKellen impression just because. Yet, the surprise here is Cumberbatch, who seizes his rare opportunity to be flat-out funny, while occasionally rolling over to show Theo’s vulnerable belly. Flirtatiously pouting his lips at Colman, he coos, “How about a three-hour circular argument that goes nowhere?” How about three more Cumberbatch comedies for every awards-baity drama he does?

The story originally satirized materialistic baby boomers stymied by shifting gender roles. Both make interesting time capsules of the traditional man and the liberated woman who revert to smashing fusty china figurines like Neanderthals, although my sticking point with the first movie is that both Roses are too despicable. It’s hard to care about either one once you see how they treat each other’s pets.

But Roach has insightfully made this about people, not societal scapegoats. He and McNamara have changed up nearly everything in this disaster except its vibrations of dread. Since we already know that Theo and Ivy are in for a world of hurt, the film spends much of its running time rewinding to the past to prove how wonderful they could be together — and, more painfully, how sincerely they’ve tried to work out their kinks. We like Cumberbatch and Colman’s Theo and Ivy, even after they’ve become tantrum-throwing twits.

The details of their dissolution — career pressures, childcare clashes, petty jealousies — and its credible tit-for-tat dynamic are discomfitingly relatable. If this version has a larger sociological statement, it’s an indictment of how today’s quest for success is so all-consuming and exhausting that even if you can fit two egos in one house, you probably can’t merge their day planners. In the modern, highly visible, online-viralized game of life, earning money is merely Stage 1. Both Roses are driven to leave their permanent mark on the world.

Meanwhile, their two sets of American friends, Amy and Barry (Kate McKinnon and Andy Samberg) and Sally and Rory (Zoë Chao and Jamie Demetriou), are equally miserable and toxic. All four are such shallow snobs that they can’t imagine why Ivy would want to own Julia Child’s old stove when it’s, well, old. McKinnon’s Amy toggles through obnoxious progressive stereotypes: She’s a self-professed empath who pretends to be in an open marriage to wheedle Theo into bed. Barry, a depressive, gives Samberg a chance to show a deeper level of comic maturity, and also eventually doubles as Theo’s personal attorney. Otherwise, the script prunes the couple’s legal battle down to one scene with Ivy’s viperous lawyer, played by Allison Janney, who brings a rottweiler to the showdown and claims it’s her service animal.

The gags can be silly. There are two vomit scenes and a pratfall where Colman lands on her face. Yet, Roach and his team have put serious effort into their lovely symbology: a shot of Theo glumly walking down an airplane aisle from first class to coach, images of the cold Pacific crashing against rocks that recall his confession of feeling “waves of hatred” toward his wife.

When the film finally gets to its Grand Guignol climax, it rushes through the barbarity, taking no delight in it. I wanted to laugh but realized I’d fallen too much in love with Theo and Ivy, who are both so pitifully certain they’re in the moral right. The schadenfreude is just sad. It stings how much we root for them to kiss and make up. Still, despite the hasty ending, this splashy comedy deserves to woo grown-ups back to the multiplex. The Roses are estranged, but they’ve reunited us with our love for a genre — and it feels so good.

Hank Thompson (Austin Butler), the battered lead of Darren Aronofsky’s grimy trifle “Caught Stealing,” has made two major mistakes. First, he saved a cow. Second, he agreed to watch a cat. Swerving his car around the cow and into a pole wrecked Hank’s promising professional baseball career. The cat-sitting happens after Hank moves across the country from California to Manhattan’s Lower East Side, where he works the closing shift at a dive bar. Before this slacker mama’s boy can crack open a can of Fancy Feast, two toughs come looking for the cat’s actual owner, his neighbor, a mohawked rocker named Russ (Matt Smith). Failing to find their real target, they beat Hank until he loses a kidney.

Then, the truly awful stuff starts. “Caught Stealing,” adapted by Charlie Huston from their novel of the same name, is a bruising bacchanal that celebrates grotty New York City in 1998, when the World Trade Center still stood tall and tech geeks were still mostly broke nerds with jobs no one understands. Duane (George Abud), the drippy programmer across the hall, keeps yelling at Hank and his steady fling, Yvonne (Zoë Kravitz), a party girl paramedic, that he has to wake up in the morning to build websites. They snicker like Duane couldn’t be more lame.

Thanks to the cat, Hank has blundered into a crime caper that will bring gallons of blood and vividly sketched goons to his door: Russian thugs Pavel (Nikita Kukushkin) and Alekset (Yuri Kolokonikov), Hassidic hitmen Lipa (Liev Schreiber) and Shmully (Vincent D’Onofrio) and a Puerto Rican club owner named Colorado (Benito Martinez Ocasio, better known as Bad Bunny). Hank doesn’t know what these hoods want and he’s aching to get them off his back. He’s also getting hounded by NYPD Detective Roman (Regina King), a hard-nosed veteran of Alphabet City who is unconvinced that Hank is tangled up in this messy business simply because of bad luck.

Everything onscreen has been coated in graffiti, booze or bodily fluids. “Caught Stealing” would be torture to watch in Smell-O-Vision. Aronofsky clearly adores this colorful pre-millennial cesspool, even if the characters in the movie are already grumbling that Rudy Giuliani is scrubbing the life out of the place. Hank blames the mayor’s new rules when he has to stop a pack of college kids from dancing in the bar. He may just also hate Smash Mouth. The film prefers the sleazy, energetic sounds of composer Rob Simonsen and a soundtrack weighted toward the British post-punk band the Idles.

Huston has changed the characters to better suit a hyper-local vibe, reworking the book’s pair of cowboys into Schreiber and D’Onofrio’s devout Jewish brothers who detour mid-assassination to visit their mother (an adorable, Yiddish-speaking Carole Kane) on Shabbos. (The actors are so hidden under their beards that it took me half the movie to spot Schreiber’s nose.) Hank’s attempts to escape them and his other pursuers sends the camera climbing up an alleyway, whirling through a Russian wedding and vaulting across the fish tanks at an Asian grocery store, where he gets out of one dragnet by sliding under a bucket of live crabs.

It’s the kind of intimate tour of New York that usually gets called a love letter to the city, except the corners Aronofsky likes have so much grime and menace and humor that it’s more like an affectionate dirty limerick. He can’t resist adding a cockroach to the opening titles. Even in a moment of respite, when Roman takes Hank to a late-night diner for her favorite black and white cookie, the director has instructed the server to hurl the plate at her dismissively. That rude clatter is his equivalent of a sonnet.

Butler’s Hank is dog-paddling through life: a self-loathing failure just trying to keep his head above water. The former high school hero is still coasting on his charisma and only starting to realize how little he’ll have once he loses his looks and life-of-the-party bonhomie. He’s also an alcoholic — “Breakfast of champions,” he says as he chugs beer for breakfast — which adds to the strain when Yvonne warns him that a guy with one kidney needs to lay off the sauce. He doesn’t and learns the hard way that it’s tough to think when you’re hungover. As we’re with hazy Hank in every scene but one, the tone can feel lax, but editors Justin Allison and Andrew Weisblum are great at cutting together a bender.

Hank and Yvonne are hot for each other at 4 a.m. and cooler in the afternoon when they finally roll out of bed, in part because she claims she can’t get serious about someone who spends his life running. Alas, he’ll also have to spend the rest of the film running and when his apartment building feels unsafe, he doesn’t know anywhere else to go but a bar. Stumbling out of one saloon and down the sidewalk past Kim’s Video (now shuttered, R.I.P.), you can practically hear Aronofsky pleading to let him rent a movie and have a quiet night in. Meanwhile, characters keep hammering Hank about whether he’s a real killer; the actual definition becomes semantic. The truth is, Hank doesn’t think at all about who he is, or could become — only of the jock he was — which is the core of his problem.

In flashbacks, Butler glows with the promise of youth. Joy-riding with his friend Dale (D’Pharoah Woon-A-Tai), he humblebrags that the Major League won’t draft him any higher than 15th place. Nightmares about their car accident happen pretty much every time Hank closes his eyes, each one jolting us with the sound of a loud cracking bat. We wince whenever the film leaps from Hank’s fresh-faced past to his throbbing present, especially when he sprints and we fear he’ll pop a stitch.

Even the cat, Bud (a long-haired tortiseshell beauty named Tonic), will wind up limping on three paws and making your heart break. Don’t worry, Aronofsky only shows a few frames of that and nothing of the assault, instead letting Bud spend much of the film with his sweet head poking out of a gym bag. The cat is so impossibly patient about never getting any food or water that his breed must be half-Maine Coon, half-camel.

Aronofsky approached Huston about adapting “Caught Stealing” over a decade and a half ago, around the time he made “Black Swan.” The director’s reputation has been so tethered to ambitious (even pretentious) Oscar-caliber material that even as we get invested in whether dopey Hank can save his own neck — or, at least, the cat’s — the back of our brain is busily wondering what’s drawn him to a story that’s simply a good yarn? He must love the hectic and scuzzy New York classics that launched a generation of great filmmakers in the ’60s and ’70s. Then you think about how in 1998 — a year Aronofsky must have chosen, since the novel itself is set in 2000 — he was roughly Hank’s age and releasing his breakthrough movie “Pi,” shot on location nearby.

At a glance, his first film and his latest one feel worlds different even though they’re tramping around the same streets (and even though Aronofsky has remained loyal to his cinematographer Matthew Libatique, who gives these goings-on a rich and gritty texture). But across his career, Aronofsky has remained fixated on the burden of talent. His movies are almost always about characters at risk of squandering their potential, be they ballerinas, wrestlers, mathematicians or baseball players. Beyond guns, the biggest threat to Hank’s well-being is knowing that he nearly did something great with his life and didn’t. Meanwhile, just around the corner, young Aronofsky himself did something great — and then realized audiences expected him to keep overachieving for the rest of his career.

In that context, “Caught Stealing” feels like Aronofsky’s own pressure release. All the way through the end credits, it just wants to entertain. If this was a director’s debut film, people would praise it to the top of the Empire State Building. That it feels a tad underwhelming compared to the rest of his work is on us (and it’s still leagues better than “The Whale”). Perhaps it’s crossed Aronofsky’s mind that if audiences do dig the fluky adventures of Hank Thompson, Huston has written two more books in the series. Perhaps like Hank himself, he doesn’t want to think too far into the future.