review

“Asia dominated the Old World, while the West led the New World—and now we are coming to a truly global world.”– Parag Khanna, “The Future Is Asian,” Epilogue

The Future Is Asian (2019) by Parag Khanna takes us on a journey to show how political landscapes are revolving around Asia. The 21st century is not just about the story written in the halls of Washington or the skyscrapers of New York; rather, it is being drafted in the busy streets of Mumbai, Seoul’s high-tech corridors, and the skylines of Shanghai. Parag Khanna, a renowned global strategy advisor, author, and the founder of, makes him well suited to explore the nuances of Asia’s evolving role in the global arena. He gives us a picture of how global focus is shifting eastward and not just only toward China but rather toward a combination of diverse nations whose collective strength is reshaping global dynamics.

This book spans extensive areas in ten chapters covering Asian history, economics, and global relations of Asia with other continents. The book encompasses nearly all information from China’s infrastructure projects in Africa to K-pop with vast data and name-dropping events, which basically shows Khanna’s portrayal of the “Asia First” paradigm, which is not solely a story about China.

Khanna delivers his main arguments in the first chapter of the book, which is “Introduction: Asia First,” and the rest are basically data-oriented logic to support his argument.The basic premise of the book is that while everyone is focusing on China, Asia is not all about China. Khanna highlights the diversity of Asia beyond China by emphasizing that out of the almost 5 billion people living in Asia, only 1.5 billion are Chinese. Around 40 percent of global GDP is represented through this new Asian system consisting of around 5 billion people. Though China, through its BRI project, is reclaiming its historical roots of the ancient Silk Road and has even surpassed the USA in terms of PPP, it will not lead alone. As Asian countries don’t want the modern colonization of China, as they are still proud of their own nationality and history.

Khanna’s stance on U.S. concerns regarding Chinese neocolonialism in Africa and Asia is notably optimistic. His optimism is striking, but it raises questions about whether he is underestimating the risks, mainly the Sino-Russian strategic cooperation.

The fact that this book, unlike most Western history books, takes an Eastern perspective on world history to counterbalance Western narratives by integrating the lives and lessons of the Buddha and ideals of Confucius, the Mughal Empire’s legacy, China’s Ming Dynasty’s maritime explorations, and numerous other pillars of Asian history. This is the most striking factor of Chapter Two.

In the third chapter, Khanna introduces “Asianization,” pointing out that the previous centuries were basically defined by Europeanization and Americanization, but the 21st century is all about Asianization. He describes the broader Asianization of Iran, Pakistan, Central Asia, and Southeast Asia through economic partnerships and integration such as the Regional Comprehensive Economic Partnership (RCEP), the Bangladesh-China-India-Myanmar Economic Corridor (BCIM), and the Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) by putting aside geopolitical tension and rivalry. As he states,

“Geopolitical rivalries will only speed the Asianization of Asia.”

–            Parag Khanna, “The Future Is Asian,” Chapter 3: “The Return of Greater Asia”

Asia-nomics, described in the fourth chapter, portrays how Asia is coming to the forefront in the field of digitization, AI, and also startups and how it is accelerating Asia’s robust economy by referring to the development in digitization sectors of countries like Bangladesh and India and also the AI domination of China.

Chapter 5 expands the influence of Asian diasporas in the Americas and their growing cultural interaction. He gives a detailed overview of how Asian diasporas are becoming important economically and culturally in the US and in Latin America.This bidirectional flow works as a bridge and facilitates trade and innovation on both sides, often through cultural exchanges.

Chapter 6 analyzes the complex and ever-evolving relationship between Asia and Europe. Khanna points out the bittersweet legacies of colonization still remain a major factor in social integration in this case despite strong economic ties. This chapter underscores the paradox of Europe’s admiration of the Asian economy and, at the same time, an everlasting ambivalence toward Asian people.

Khanna explores Asia’s growing ties with Africa in Chapter 7 by framing it as a deliberate and strategic investment in infrastructure that rejects the historical concept of European colonialism. His optimism lies in the fact that Asian states like China, India, and Japan are building a “Pan-African connectivity, ma,” and this process is more developmental than commercial. He identifies Asia’s approach to Africa as noncolonial and pragmatic, showing a clear distinction from past colonial powers. As he states,

“Asians are racing to connect Africa, not to divide it.”

–            Parag Khanna, “The Future Is Asian,” Chapter 7: “The Return of Afroeurasia”

Chapter 8 expands on Asia’s growing and often overlooked prospect of South-South cooperation. China holds a key position here as an important trading partner for Brazil, Chile, and Peru while also highlighting Japan’s and South Korea’s high-tech partnerships. This narrative extends to the spread of Asian values and cultural and educational exchange, which is a determiner of soft power.

The ninth chapter, on Asia’s Technocratic Future, is an intriguing argument of this book. Khanna makes the case against democracy in favor of pragmatist, meritocratic technocracy, clearly drawing inspiration from his residency in Singapore. According to him, Asians are more intrigued by the improved outcomes of technocracy. States throughout Asia are adopting a similar approach. Some of these traits are starting to appear in Western democracies as well.

Khanna did an impressive job in the last chapter, which focuses mostly on enhancing the shared perception among Asians of what it means to be Asian by fusing social and cultural exports of growing appeal, from Bollywood to K-pop and even the flavor of various cuisines.

In critically evaluating “The Future Is Asian,” it’s evident that Khanna’s logic is thought-provoking, yet they present some contradictions. The reader is quite impressed by the wide range of topics that this book covers without sacrificing depth. The sarcastic comments, exposition, and suitably appropriate examples are indeed praiseworthy.This book also works as a contribution to policymakers, students, and researchers who want to delve into the complex issues of Asia as a whole for comprehensive study.

While he claims that Asia is not just about China, which serves as a key source of confusion because all the data and facts he presented throughout the book do in fact support China’s ascent to power. Throughout the book, Khanna made references to Asia-nomics and Greater Asia as though the region were a single entity with a distinct global viewpoint. However, national identities remain powerful in Asia.

Khanna seemstoo enthusiastic about technocrats solving the region’s problems, oversimplifying the issues and the differences even by calling Modi a “technocrat” despite his promotion of nationalistic agendas.The future is undoubtedly Asian, but this book ignores the challenges of getting there and any potential drawbacks.

The Future Is Asian is like walking into the future as it is happening, something that people who only see the world from a Western perspective might not fully comprehend. Khanna’s positive view of Asia’s ascent provides a crucial narrative in opposition to the fear-mongering discourse prevalent in Western media. To those who are interested in global trends, realize that the future isn’t only Asian—it’s already here, being shaped in the vibrant streets and artistic places of this continent.

Note on References: All citations are based on the e-book version of Khanna, P.(2019).The Future Is Asian:Commerce,Conflict and Culture in the 21^st century(e-book edition).Simon & Schuster

“Long Story Short,” premiering Friday on Netflix, is the sweet, melancholy, satirical, silly, poignant, hopeful, sometimes slapstick cartoon tale of a middle-class Jewish family, told nonchronologically from the 1990s to the 2020s. For all its exaggerations — and unexaggerated portrayals of exaggerated behaviors — it is remarkably acute, and surprisingly moving, about relations between parents and children and brothers and sisters and about the passage of time and the lives time contains. The eight-episode season is bookended with funerals.

On a plane ride home, Avi Schwooper (Ben Feldman), his last name combining his parents’ Schwartz and Cooper, plays new girlfriend Jen (Angelique Cabral) a recording of Paul Simon’s “The Obvious Child,” in which a character goes from a baby to a married man in the space of a verse. “That’s time, right?” he says, setting a theme and a strategy. In the episodes that follow, we’ll see relationships begin and end; children born and grown, not necessarily in that order. Things change, things fall apart, things last.

Created by “BoJack Horseman” creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg — Avi is drawn to resemble him — and designed by Lisa Hanawalt (who inspired and designed the “BoJack” characters and created “Tuca & Bertie”), it has the look of a children’s book, bright, colorful and busy, aggressively two-dimensional, with wobbly bold lines and squiggly patterns. Deceptively sophisticated and wonderfully expressive, it is full of lifelike details, without being made to resemble life.

Avi’s parents are Naomi Schwartz (Lisa Edelstein), intense and serious, and Elliot Cooper (Paul Reiser), laid-back and humorous. Avi, who writes about music, will go on to marry Jen (blond, gentile); Hannah (Michaela Dietz) is their smart, socially isolated daughter. Avi’s sister Shira (Abbi Jacobson), the angry middle child, will start a family with Kendra (Nicole Byer), a Black woman who is Jewish by choice. Younger brother Yoshi (Max Greenfield) is a bit of a lost soul — “sometimes I just feel like the extra one,” he’ll say — diagnosed as an adolescent with ADD, dyslexia and executive function disorder. (“I never gave him enough attention,” Naomi says, rushing to claim the guilt. “Now he has a deficit.”)

Created by Raphael Bob-Waksberg and designed by Lisa Hanawalt, the series has the look of a children’s book, bright, colorful and busy, aggressively two-dimensional, with wobbly bold lines and squiggly patterns.

(Netflix)

Though each episode is a piece in the mosaic, each has its own story to tell: Yoshi selling mattresses that come in a tube; Avi mixed up with self-righteous parents as he campaigns to remove wolves from Hannah’s school (the wolves, by contrast, are drawn realistically); Kendra at work at a birthday arcade called BJ Barnacles; Yoshi on a nocturnal adventure in San Francisco — the show is set around the Bay Area — with a former friend of his sister, attempting to retrieve a lost bag; Shira attempting to make her mother’s knishes; an improvised shabbat in a desert motel. There are inside family jokes (“Is not a schnook,” Cousin Moishe) that will pay off after a while; a school holiday pageant (“Hanukkah, Ramadan, Kwanzaa too / We tolerate them all, but there’s nothing like Christmas,” runs a song in the background). Yoshi has a bar mitzvah; Naomi is honored for her charitable work. Occasional weird inventions are folded in: a “hambulance” delivering ham; food trucks selling potato ice cream and soup on a stick; something called Pacifier Shirt Syndrome, caused by rubbing a dropped pacifier on a short.

Although I suspect this subject is interesting only to (us) Jews, it took a long time for any sort of Jewish specificity to make it to the screen, especially given who built the movie business. (Assimilation was the name of the game for a people blamed for a scapegoated race.) Even now, it doesn’t happen all that much. You could sense it on “Seinfeld,” see it on “Curb Your Enthusiasm” a lot. There are the current Netflix rom-com “Nobody Wants This,” with Kristen Bell in a relationship with Adam Brody’s rabbi, and the recent Adam Sandler-produced “You Are So Not Invited to My Bat Mitzvah.” And there is the odd Holocaust drama.

But in this moment, with its confounding mix of classical antisemitism, fake anti-antisemitism brandished as a weapon against universities and what gets called antisemitism simply because it’s critical of Israel, it’s not a bad thing to get a relatively straightforward look at a contemporary American Jewish family. Together, the characters represent the spectrum of religious attitudes — from atheist to convert, selectively to very observant — but all are steeped in the culture.

Hannah, whose gentile mother makes her “not Jewish,” wonders if her wanting a bat mitzvah might be “cultural appropriation.”

“Look, if Adolf Hitler saw you, I don’t think he’d be doing the math on technically how halachically Jewish you are,” says her father. “He’d throw you in the oven with the rest of us. … If you’re Jewish enough for Hitler, you’re Jewish enough for me.”

That the show can be a little obscure from time to time — I had to look up “Moshiach” to get one joke — just deepens its world. But anyone who’s ever shared a family joke, or wanted to ask a question of someone no longer around to answer it, or compared notes with a sibling on a parent never fully understood will recognize themself here.

When I learned R.F. Kuang was taking readers to hell in her newest book, I groaned. Haven’t we done this enough? I’m not just talking about Orpheus retrieving Eurydice, Dante’s “Inferno” and Virgil’s “Aeneid.” Nor the 19th century poets and cults obsessed with everything chthonic. We as a culture have done katabasis — that is, a journey into the underworld — a lot recently: Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s “Gods of Jade and Shadow” (2019), Leigh Bardugo’s “Hell Bent” (2023) and Netflix’s “Kaos” (2024).

(I’m sure it has nothing to do with the political instability we’re facing. We probably shouldn’t worry about the historical pattern of writers becoming obsessed with the living journeying into hell whenever things aren’t going great in society. I’m sure it’s fine.)

I didn’t think there could be much new here. “Katabasis” is a dark academia fantasy where the protagonist — a psychologically wounded but talented student, lacking self-love, perspective or even just one friend to talk sense into her — journeys into hell to fetch the soul of a mentor she’s in thrall to … and may have killed. If this sounds familiar, well, Kuang’s newest hero, Alice Law, does bear similarities to Bardugo’s Alex Stern.

But I was wrong — there are new things here. The journey into hell has been done, but it hasn’t been done quite the way R. F. Kuang does it.

Like “Babel,” which relied on R.F. Kuang’s knowledge of linguistics, “Katabasis” is rich and textured because of her familiarity with the subject.

(John Packman)

Alice Law and her partner-in-hell, Peter Murdoch, are acutely aware of their literary predecessors, even guided by maps based on those journeys. They go because their doctoral advisor, a man they hate and worship in equal measure, has died and they need him back to ensure they get a good teaching position after graduation. It’s a flawed reason, and a greedy one, a fact neither character seems to understand. They don’t seem to see themselves fitting in anywhere in hell, actually — that tension is both annoying and amusing. Their trip is an intriguing take on the journey; things in hell have changed since Virgil played tour guide.

In “Katabasis,” we’re once again treated to the power of Kuang’s mind. It takes a smart person to write geniuses, and Alice and Peter are brilliant, if blinkered. Like “Babel,” which relied on Kuang’s knowledge of linguistics, “Katabasis” is rich and textured because of her knowledge of the subject, her deep familiarity with its shape and philosophy. Also like “Babel,” “Katabasis” revolves around the dark inequities cracking the foundations of a fictional department in an Oxbridge school, a place people would kill to get into and then die in while they’re there.

A warning: The nesting doll of literary references in “Katabasis” will be a delight to some and impenetrable to others. People who aren’t familiar with chthonic myths might want to do some research before reading. For example, there’s a joke toward the end about how John Gradus is clearly a fake name: The reference is never elucidated, and you’ll only get the joke if you know the phrase gradus ad parnassum means “a step toward Parnassus,” which is the mountain where Apollo and the Muses live in Greek myth, and that the phrase is often used by scholars to indicate a process of gradual mastery over a subject. So John Gradus is a journeyer in his own right, learning where he went wrong in life to reach the Lethe and reincarnate. This novel is not for the intellectually indifferent.

But generally, “Katabasis” is a more mature and less showy novel than Kuang’s earlier works. Perhaps this isn’t surprising; Kuang’s first book was published when she was just 21 and she’s 29 now. A person’s 20s are transformative even if they don’t study in China, at Oxford, at Cambridge and at Yale in quick succession. Readers who thought “The Poppy War” trilogy didn’t stick the landing, or that Rin became insufferable by the end, will be pleased that “Katabasis” does stick it, and that Alice evolves.

Some of the same themes from “The Poppy War” return — the horror of sex, the power of delusion to transform reality. But when Alice faces challenges, she lets go of her delusions. Peter is not disposable like Kitay. Both Alice and Rin sacrifice, but this isn’t Rin’s abject despair; Alice’s sacrifices are more nuanced than Rin could ever fathom.

As much as “Katabasis” has in common with Kuang’s earlier works, tonally it might have most in common with “Yellowface.” Unlike the brutality of “The Poppy Wars” or the tragedy of “Babel,” “Katabasis” maintains a slight wry humor throughout. There’s a satirical subtext here that wasn’t present in her earlier earnest fantasies. I mean, these PhD candidates choose to go to actual hell rather than have an honest conversation with someone at Cambridge. Kuang shows us how self-destructive that is, intriguing as the story reads. Like June Hayward/Juniper Song in “Yellowface,” Alice and Peter are so trapped in the flimsy reality they’ve constructed that they can’t see the obvious way out.

Because in “Katabasis,” hell is not other people. It’s defending your dissertation.

This is my one sticking point with writers taking readers to hell. Cultural images of the underworld are bound by writers, and though Kuang introduces new elements, she adheres largely to their canon. Her take on Dante’s City of Dis is — spoiler! — a regal college where academics spend eternity writing self-absorbed dissertations (shortened by real PhD candidates, of course, to “Diss” — there’s that wry humor). There’s no feedback, no advisors, just faith that someone’s reading. I understand why a PhD student would envision this as the worst kind of punishment, but I’m not convinced it’s the worst possible sin.

“Katabasis” is hell filtered through a scholar’s eyes. Orpheus’ journey has stood the test of time because he went for love. Dante went for knowledge. Alice goes for a recommendation letter. It’s an intriguing addition to the canon, but for mere mortals who haven’t survived abusive, plagiaristic and mystifying advisors to earn Oxbridge degrees — or even just bad bosses — it might be unrelatable.

Castellanos Clark, a writer and historian in Los Angeles, is the author of “Unruly Figures: Twenty Tales of Rebels, Rulebreakers, and Revolutionaries You’ve (Probably) Never Heard Of.”

If history has taught us anything, it’s that no one is truly safe. That gathering dread fueled some great ’70s paranoid thrillers, such as “The Parallax View” and “The Conversation,” but it’s been difficult to replicate that eeriness in today’s extremely online world, when our devices explain and obfuscate with abandon, conspiracies are lifeblood and we feel persecuted one day, invincibly anonymous the next.

The nifty premise of “Relay,” a new white-knuckle ride from “Hell or High Water” director David Mackenzie, is that a certain type of tech-savvy hero can, if not completely ease your anxiety, at least navigate a secret truce with those out to get you. And Riz Ahmed’s solitary off-the-grid fixer, Ash, who hides in plain sight in bustling New York, can do it without ever meeting or talking to you: His preferred mode of traceless communication is the text-telephone service that hard-of-hearing people use in conjunction with message-relaying operators. Like a ready-made covert operation, it keeps identities, numbers and call logs secret.

For the simple fact that “Relay” is not about an assassin (the movies’ most over-romanticized independent contractor), screenwriter Justin Piasecki’s scenario deserves kudos. Rather, Ash’s broker helps potential whistleblowers escape the clutches of dangerously far-reaching entities — unless, of course, they want to settle for cash. It’s a fascinatingly cynical update: Should we make an uneasy peace with our tormentors? (Hello, today’s headlines.)

Before those questions get their due, however, “Relay” sets itself up with clockwork precision as a straightforward big-city nail-biter about staying one step ahead. Seeking protection from harassment and a return to normal life, rattled biotech scientist Sarah (Lily James) goes on the run with incriminating documents about her former employer. When she’s rebuffed by a high-powered law firm, she’s provided a mysterious number to call. Ash, armed with his elaborate vetting methods, puts Sarah through the paces with rules and instructions regarding burner phones, mailed packages and a detailed itinerary of seemingly random air travel. It doesn’t just test her commitment, though — it’s also a ploy to scope out the corporate goons on her trail: a dogged surveillance team led by Sam Worthington (who should maybe only play bad guys) and Willa Fitzgerald.

As the story careens through airports and post offices and New York’s hidey-holes, the cat-and-mouse chase is dizzyingly enjoyable, worthy of a Thomas Perry novel. We wait for the missteps that threaten everything, of course, and they begin with learning that Ash is a failed whistleblower himself, one who is beginning to question his chosen crusade. Another vulnerability, recognizable in the occasional cracks in Ahmed’s commanding stoicism, is the loneliness of the gig. So when a restive Sarah, on one of their protected calls, gently prods for a smidgen of personality from her mysterious unseen helper, one is inclined to shout, “No feelings! Too risky!”

But that, of course, is the slippery pleasure of “Relay,” which pits individuals against venal institutional might. Flaws are the beating hearts of these movies, triggering the peril that makes the blood pump faster. Some of that effectiveness is undercut by some off-putting music choices, but McKenzie’s command of the material is rock solid, Giles Nuttgens’ cinematography achieves a sleek, moody metallic chill and Matt Mayer’s editing is always fleet. In a year that’s already given us one superlative case of adult peekaboo — Steven Soderbergh’s “Black Bag” — “Relay” proves there’s still more room for smart, punchy cloak-and-dagger options.

Ron Howard’s new film “Eden” is a true story about disenchanted Europeans, who, in the 1930s, escaped from their society and decamped on a lonely rock in the Galapagos, only to see their handmade utopia devolve into petty power struggles and murder. It’s also lurid proof that Charles Darwin missed out on the truly juicy survival-of-the-fittest action by about a hundred years.

This is certainly unusual material for a mainstream stalwart like Howard, who knows his way around heroic problem-solving narratives (“Apollo 13,” the Thai cave rescue movie “Thirteen Lives”). But in screenwriter Noah Pink’s melodramatic imagining of incidents both well-documented and mysterious, one can see this Hollywood veteran on a mission to loosen the shackles of his reputation and have some nasty, brutish fun. To wit: A perma-sneering Jude Law greets intruders naked; a wild-eyed Ana de Armas insults and tries to seduce everyone; Vanessa Kirby lets foreplay include the pulling of her diseased tooth; Sydney Sweeney gives birth alone while growling at a pack of wild dogs.

The result may not be terribly illuminating about the (sub)human condition, despite the shout-outs to Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. “Eden” is probably closer to an expensive reality show about mismatched survivalists. But as August fare goes, it’s a sticky, sweaty hoot, well cast and paced like a disreputable beach read, even if you might sporadically wish Werner Herzog had gotten first crack at this material. (It was also covered in a 2013 documentary.)

The first transplants to the uninhabited island of Floreana were German botanist Dr. Friedrich Ritter (Law) and his devoted, ailing partner, Dore (Kirby). Scolds who glorified suffering against the world’s wrong turns, the pair sought a radical reboot of society in rugged isolation, save the inconvenient fact that Ritter’s grandstanding philosophical missives back home were published in newspapers, turning them into eccentric folk heroes. Soon, their precious suffering took the form of new neighbors: idealistic war veteran Heinz Wittmer (Daniel Brühl) and his wide-eyed young wife Margret (Sweeney), who are looking for a new, self-sufficient way of life for their budding family.

It’s difficult to imagine a worse addition to this oil-and-water mix of high-minded nonconformist cranks and hard-toiling middle-class settlers than a capitalist sybarite. Enter the grandiose Baroness Eloise (De Armas), carried like Cleopatra onto the beach by her male lovers (Toby Wallace and Felix Klammerer), and ready to claim Floreana as the future site of an exclusive luxury resort called Hacienda Paradiso. Her first order of business, however, is pitting the scowling Ritter and bland, industrious Wittmers, who had managed a bearable distance so far, against each other.

The island, given an appropriately sickly, uninviting sheen by cinematographer Mathias Herndl, clearly wasn’t big enough for all of these new-world experimenters. But the movie’s two hours offer plenty of room for their portrayers. Howard’s generosity with his actors keeps this ensemble a charged group of clashing molecules. You wouldn’t mistake anybody’s turn for a full-throated or, conversely, subtle characterization — there’s a messiness to the cutting that prioritizes motion over stillness — but the broad strokes of personality are fun.

At its most raw (or is it overcooked?), when de Armas’ loaded-gun vibe veers toward camp or Law peacocks his pomposity with a hint of desperation, the situation may remind you of some insane pre-Code potboiler like 1932 “The Most Dangerous Game,” when a tale of people at their worst seemed all the more fascinating for unfurling in an exotic locale. Just because this corrupting pity party doesn’t crescendo so much as peter out isn’t any more of a reason to dismiss “Eden.” A little time spent with the farcical maneuverings of isolated megalomaniacs means you can skip reading the news that day.

“Splitsville” lands at a moment when every comedy released to theaters feels like a battle cry, an attempt to defend audiences’ rights to have a good time at the movies.

Directed by Michael Angelo Covino, who also produces, co-writes and co-stars alongside Kyle Marvin, the film continues the duo’s comic exploration of bad choices, in which men predictably make poor decisions and are depicted as vain, infantile and often motivated by their worst impulses. (It’s funny because it’s true.)

As the movie begins, Carey (Marvin) is married to Ashley (Adria Arjona), who tells him she has been seeing other people and wants a divorce. He seeks solace from his best friend Paul (Covino) and his wife, Julie (Dakota Johnson), who tell Carey they are in an open relationship. Soon Carey sleeps with Julie and all sorts of jealousies and complicated feelings arise among the four of them.

“Splitsville” — the title appears briefly onscreen as the neon sign of a dessert stand — is outwardly a satire of bourgeois aspirations, modern marriage and how no one really understands the dynamics of what goes on with other couples. But the film is actually more concerned with the absurdities of male friendship, to the extent that Covino and Marvin are perennially enamored of themselves and can’t help from centering their own antics.

Their previous movie, “The Climb,” was also about two friends locked into an up-and-down relationship alternating between of moments of betrayal and gestures of support. While they are not playing the same specific characters from “The Climb,” they are very much playing the same type. Covino is seemingly more smooth and together, though riddled with insecurities, while Marvin initially appears hapless and vulnerable, with an emotional intelligence that reveals him to be savvier than he first appears. So they basically meet in the middle.

The entire movie has a disappointing air of smug self-regard about it, with an expectation the audience will adore everything about the characters as much as they do. What at moments feels like a nascent interrogation of contemporary masculinity ultimately suffers from the very impulses it seems to want to parody. (We hear numerous times that one of them is generously endowed.)

Both Arjona and Johnson are asked to play variations on personas they have depicted elsewhere. Arjona has the same earthy warmth she did in “Hit Man,” while Johnson exhibits a placid air of controlled chaos similar to what she showed earlier this year in “Materialists.” They undoubtedly elevate the movie, though too often their characters feel like game pieces manipulated on a board controlled by the film’s male leads.

Johnson and Arjona are movie stars, beguiling and captivating. Covino and Marvin seem like a couple of guys who somehow wandered onscreen. The tension is never reconciled and is constantly throwing the story off balance.

In “The Climb,” there is a moment where Covino and Marvin briefly wrestle, a ludicrous sight of two grown men tussling on the ground. Here that beat expands into a full-blown fight scene that goes on for more than six minutes, as Paul attacks Carey after learning he slept with Julie. Smashing furniture, breaking drywall, destroying a fish tank (while saving the fish) and somehow singeing off Carey’s eyebrows, the fight scene is the movie’s centerpiece, one of its major selling points and indicative of everything that both works and doesn’t. It is funny, escalating ridiculously, but it is also too outlandish for the characters and the story and only really exists as something that Covino and Marvin simply wanted to do for themselves.

They’re good at jokes but much weaker on meaning, stumbling when it comes to making it all add up to something. With a background in advertising, Marvin and Covino are strong on short, punchy ideas conveyed through strong visuals. They may eventually be better served by making work they do not appear in — their performances are the weakest thing about their movies so far. Even as they remain a promising duo, “Splitsville” never quite fully comes together.

In the early 20th century it was widely thought that there was intelligent life on Mars, and that we actually knew something about the inhabitants. Fringe theorists and yellow journalists spread this view, but so did respected scientists and the New York Times. The U.S. and much of the rest of the world had Martians on the brain. The mania could be summed up by the philosophy of Fox Mulder, the paranormal investigator played by David Duchovny on “The X-Files”: “I want to believe.”

How this came to pass is the subject of “The Martians.” David Baron’s deeply researched and witty book explores what happened when “we, the people of Earth, fell hard for another planet and projected our fantasies, desires, and ambitions onto an alien world.” As Baron writes, “This romance blazed before it turned to embers, and it produced children, for we — the first humans who might actually sail to Mars — are its descendants.”

Well before there was Elon Musk, there was Percival Lowell. A disillusioned, admittedly misanthropic Boston Brahmin, Lowell came to see himself as a scientist with the soul of a poet, or a poet with scientific instincts. He was also filthy rich, and he poured much of his money into equipment and research that might help him prove there was life on Mars.

David Baron, a Colorado-based science writer, approaches his subject with clarity, style and narrative drive.

(Dana C. Meyer)

He was hardly alone. Other movers and shakers in the Martian movement included French astronomer and philosopher Camille Flammarion, who brought missionary zeal to the task of convincing the world of extraterrestrial life; and Giovanni Schiaparelli, the colorblind Italian astronomer who observed “an abundance of narrow streaks” on Mars “that appeared to connect the seas one to another.” He called these “canali,” which in Italian means “channels.” But in English the word was translated as “canals,” and it was quickly and widely assumed that these canals were strategically created by agriculturally-inclined Martians. Lowell, Flammarion and Schiaparelli collaborated and communicated with one another throughout their lives, in the interest of spreading the word of life on Mars.

Baron, a Colorado-based science writer, approaches his subject with clarity, style and narrative drive, focusing on the social currents and major figures of his story rather than scientific concepts that might go over the head of a lay reader (including this one). The Mars craze unfolded during a period defined by the theory of evolution, which expanded our conception of gradualism and inexorable progress, and tabloid journalism, which was quick to present enthusiastic postulation and speculation as fact, whether the subject was the Spanish-American War or life on other planets. Science fiction was also taking off, thanks largely to a prolific Englishman named H.G. Wells, whose widely serialized attack-of-the-Martians story “War of the Worlds” piqued the Western imagination. All of the above contributed to Mars fever.

One by one Baron introduces his protagonists, including Musk’s hero Nikola Tesla. An innovator in wireless communication and what would now be called remote control, Tesla won over the press and public with his enigmatic charm, which led his pronouncements to be taken seriously and literally by those who should have known better. “I have an instrument by which I can receive with precision any signal that might be made to this world from Mars,” he told a reporter. Tesla briefly had a powerful benefactor in Wall Street king J.P. Morgan, who funded Tesla’s wireless research before deciding the Mars obsession was a bit much and cutting him off.

Baron comes not to bury the Mars mania, but to examine the reasons why we choose to believe what we believe. Lowell, spurned in his romantic life and treated as a black sheep by his dynastic family, found in Mars a calling, a raison d’être. As Baron writes, “Mars gave his life purpose; it offered him the means to prove himself a success worthy of the Lowell pedigree.” The Mars believers were dreamers and misfits, all with something to prove (or, in the case of some publishers, papers to sell).

As Baron points out, the scientific method often fell by the wayside amid the hullabaloo. An acquaintance of Lowell’s bemoaned the habit Lowell had of “jumping at some general idea or theorem,” after which he “selects and bends facts to underprop that generalization.” Lowell himself once advised an assistant, “It is better never to admit that you have made a mistake.” Or later, as he sought photographic evidence of the Mars canals: “We must secure some canals to confound the skeptics” — which, today, carries eerie echoes of “Find me the votes.”

None of which should denigrate the dreams of space exploration. Nobody, after all, imagined we would actually walk on the moon. Carl Sagan, the great science popularizer and member of the Mariner 9 team that captured groundbreaking images of Mars in 1971, concluded that those canals were, as Baron puts it, “mere chimeras, an amalgam of misperceptions due to atmospheric distortion, the fallible human eye, and one man’s unconstrained imagination.” But that imagination, Sagan added, had value of its own: “Even if Lowell’s conclusions about Mars, including the existence of the fabled canals, turned out to be bankrupt, his depiction of the planet had at least this virtue: it aroused generations of eight-year-olds, myself among them, to consider the exploration of the planets as a real possibility, to wonder if we ourselves might go to Mars.”

L.A. Times contributor Vognar recently joined the staff of the Boston Globe.

“Honey Don’t!” is a smutty desert mystery in which the detective, Honey O’Donohue (Margaret Qualley), never gets around to solving the central crime. She’s too busy seducing women and swatting down randy men. I’d call the opening murder a red herring except it’s really more like a fish left to cook in the blinding Bakersfield sun.

The second film co-written by Ethan Coen and his collaborator and wife Tricia Cooke (the first was 2024’s “Drive-Away Dolls”), it’s less preoccupied by the challenge of who’s responsible for that corpse than by its own overarching question: Why not? Why not let Margaret Qualley prove she has the electricity to power an audience through any plot? Why not pivot from “The Big Lebowski” and “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” to an announced trilogy of tatty lesbian exploitation pictures? Why not, when a couple has earned the industry clout to shoot the script they want with the cast they want, make exactly the movie they want, even if this pulpy B-picture isn’t very good? Who’s going to tell them, honey don’t?

To be clear, there’s enough to like in “Honey Don’t!” to get you through its 89-minute running time. I’d watch Qualley stride around barking at people for twice as long and her supporting cast, which includes Aubrey Plaza as Honey’s latest lover and Chris Evans as an oily pastor, is delivering at top level, i.e., Coen-worthy. (Newer talent Josh Pafchek pockets his scenes as a moronic Australian brute.) The script has several zingers that are so good you want to applaud right in your seat, particularly an insult Honey slings at her estranged daddy (Kale Browne). Even the extended intro credits have a witty energy that makes you forgive that they’re tap dancing to pad the length.

Still, as with the sillier “Dolls,” which also starred Qualley as a hot-to-trot queer queen, the film is so shaggy that it feels longer than it is. I finished both movies double-checking my watch in astonishment that they really were under an hour and a half.

Qualley’s Honey is a headstrong investigator who is so independent, she refuses to let her secretary (Gabby Beans) make her a cup of coffee. Frankly, she’s not that impressive as a private dick. Honey is only passingly curious why a client died before their first meeting and so predominately distracted by tangental side quests — her troubled teen niece (Talia Ryder), her dalliances with Plaza’s husky lady cop — that the resolution doesn’t involve much brilliant deduction. We know from the first scene that Honey needs to keep a close eye on a mysterious stranger named Cher (Lera Abova). Ultimately, the French femme fatale catches her attention for other reasons.

Across town, the corrupt Reverend Drew (Evans) is swaying his parishioners to sleep with him in the name of godly submission. “I want to see your bosoms jouncing during fellowship,” he commands a member of his flock. The preacher is one of the biggest sinners in Bakersfield, not merely because both he and Honey may as well be using the phone book as a checklist of conquests. A normal thriller would frame their dynamic as cat versus mouse. Here, it’s more like plague and vaccine. Honey is immune to his sales pitches for heterosexuality and holy salvation.

Honey is a brazenly preposterous creation: a 21st century woman who insists on using a Rolodex, something that was headed toward extinction before Qualley was even born. Striding through brush in seamed stockings and high heels — and changing wardrobe multiple times a day just because she can — she’s the only character who never breaks a sweat (except in the bedroom).

Qualley keeps her cool from head to toe: eyebrows stern, line deliveries cucumber-crisp. Like a brassy classic dame, she says exactly what she means. When the local homicide officer, Marty (Charlie Day), makes a pass at her, she bluntly replies, “I like girls.” The guy doesn’t listen — he just keeps pestering her — which makes their dynamic play like some sort of clunky runner about how men are dense.

Marty’s pursuit is that. But Honey’s retort is also how the real-life Cooke shot Coen down the first time her future husband asked her out on a date. More than anything, it’s evidence that “Honey Don’t!” primarily exists as the couple’s own affectionate in-joke. “Tricia’s queer and sweet and I’m straight and stupid,” Coen said last year in an interview with the Associated Press. Both describe their three-decades-plus marriage as “nontraditional.” Both also insist that they’re making these pulp flicks as a unit and don’t care who gets credit for what, claiming that Coen is cited as the director of “Honey Don’t!” simply because he’s the one in the DGA.

Coen is, of course, half of another twosome with his brother Joel that also enjoys defying labels. Their filmography zigzags between thrillers and comedies, lean exercises and awards heavyweights, never making the same movie twice. It’s as though their guiding compass is to stay ahead of audience expectations. The pair has been on a creative break since 2018’s “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs” and it’s been tempting to use their separate projects as an opportunity to examine who each sibling is as an individual. If you watched Joel Coen’s black-and-white “The Tragedy of Macbeth” in a double feature with “Honey Don’t!” you’d leave convinced that the elder Joel was the stylist and the younger Ethan the wit — that Joel wears a monocle and Ethan a grease-painted John Waters mustache.

But they might just be tricking us again. It’s just as valid to say the brains behind those two movies are William Shakespeare and Tricia Cooke, especially the latter as she seems to have had the stronger hand in shaping the two sexy Qualley capers we’ve seen thus far. (The third already has a title: “Go Beavers.”)

As sloppy as it is, there’s no denying that “Honey Don’t!” works as a noir with a pleasant, peppery flavor. Yet, there’s a snap missing in its rhythm, a sense that it doesn’t know when and how its gags should hit. When a playboy (Christian Antidormi) swaggers up to a bar and orders a shot of cinnamon schnapps, the line clangs like it landed better on the page. A few scenes later, a low-level drug dealer goes home to his Bolivian grandmother (Gloria Sandoval) who is such a caricature — bowler hat, lap full of dried chili peppers — that you suspect the character was designed to get more of a laugh. I did giggle when Honey visited her sister, a worn-out hausfrau named Heidi (Kristen Connolly), and kids kept popping out of the corners of her home one after another like rabbits from a hat.

The majority of the townsfolk that Honey encounters are such incurious mouth-breathers that the humor can feel hostile. The film’s worldview is that most people are, as Coen describes himself, straight and stupid. That’s worked out well enough for him. He’s won four Oscars and, more importantly, the ability to do whatever he darned well pleases.

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Sun Motors Reviews

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Which car should I buy? Sun Motors Vehicle Reviews

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Five used-car favourites selected by a Sun Motors expert

Low-cost family favourite: KIA Venga 1.4 

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This 5-door family-friendly KIA Venga 1.4 is for sale at a few quid under £2500. OK, so it’s a diesel and it’s nearly 10 years old, but if you’re looking for a reliable runaround, this compact MPV is a great choice. 

For the budget-busting price, you’ll get a no-frills motor that’s spacious, safe, and (hopefully) reliable enough for thousands more miles.

Smooth operator – BMW 2 SERIES 220D XDRIVE

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A bit of a step up from the KIA is the BMW 2 SERIES 220D XDRIVE. It’s a confident, capable, spacious, and safe grand tourer. OK, so this low-mileage model is diesel, but it’s Euro-6, so it’s not going to cost you a fortune in a congestion zone.

The elevated driving position is comfortable, and BMW’s reputation for reliability makes this a great family car that’s also a little fun once you’ve dropped the monsters off somewhere.

Approved & Awesome: Volkswagen Golf 1.5 TSI EVO Match Edition

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The Volkswagen Golf 1.5 TSI EVO Match Edition is a bit of a beast. The TSI engine is smooth and super-reliable. Inside the car, the Match Trim feels like a real step-up from the standard spec.

The Volkswagen Golf 1.5 TSI EVO Match Edition is a super-hot-hatch that comes used-approved. That means it’s been checked by the experts at VW to ensure it’s ready for the road. 

Europe’s most popular car: 2018 Dacia Sandero 1.0 SCe Laureate

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Would you believe that the basic Dacia Sandero is Europe’s top-selling car? Seems everyone from Scots to Swedes loves a bargain. This 2018 Dacia Sandero 1.0 SCe Laureate has fewer than 50,000 miles on the clock, which is nothing for the low-power, high-reliability powertrain.

Bodywork is up together, and it comes in Dacia’s classic gun-metal-gray. This is no-frills motoring available at £100 per month. We love it.

Superior and sporty: LAND ROVER RANGE ROVER SPORT 3.0

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Be honest, the Dacia isn’t going to impress anyone, but the LAND ROVER RANGE ROVER SPORT 3.0 will. Buy a used model and you’re getting a high-class motor without taking a massive hit on depreciation. 

OK, so £36,000 isn’t cheap, but class costs and the Range Rover Sport have both in spades. It’s a luxury city car that’ll pull jealous looks at the school gate, but a capable off-roader too. We know you won’t want to get it dirty though.

Buying a used car? Check out Sun Motors and find your next vehicle today. Whether you’re looking for automatic, manual or electric, use Sun Motors to decide on your next model.

Aug. 19 (UPI) — President Donald Trump stepped up his criticisms of the Smithsonian on Tuesday, deriding the museums for its negative portrayal of slavery in American history.

Trump wrote in a post on his Truth Social platform that he would direct his attorneys to “review” the Smithsonian in the same way his administration has sought to reshape colleges and universities. The post comes a week after the White House announced it was subjecting the influential museum consortium to an unprecedented examination of its materials, signaling it had become a focal point in Trump’s efforts to transform cultural institutions.

In his post, Trump wrote that museums all over the country are the “last remaining segment of ‘woke.'”

“The Smithsonian is OUT OF CONTROL, where everything discussed is how horrible our Country is, how bad Slavery was and how unaccomplished the downtrodden have been — Nothing about Success, nothing about Brightness, nothing about the Future,” Trump wrote.

Rep. Jim McGovern, D-Mass., reacted with a post on X, writing that if “Trump thinks slavery wasn’t bad, he clearly needs to spend more time in a museum.”

Roughly 17 million people visited one of the Smithsonian’s 21 museums and galleries last year.

Smithsonian Institution Secretary Lonnie Bunch III, who is the first African American to lead the institution and has held the position since 2019, has previously commented on the importance of acknowledging slavery’s impact on American history.

“I believe strongly that you cannot understand America without understanding slavery, that our notions of freedom, our notions of liberty are juxtaposed with our notions of enslavement,” he said in an interview on Face the Nation in 2021. “And so I think that it’s not about pointing blame, it’s not about remembering difficult moments just to hurt.”

Last week, three White House aides wrote to Bunch in a letter notifying him the museum would be subject to a review to “ensure alignment with the President’s directive to celebrate American exceptionalism, remove divisive or partisan narratives, and restore confidence in our shared cultural institutions.”

The reshaping of the Smithsonian and its galleries and museums has been part the Trump administration’s goal to remove left-leaning ideology from the federal government and cultural institutions.

In March, Trump signed an executive order directing the Smithsonian to eliminate “divisive” and “anti-American ideology” from its museums, pointing to exhibits that “promoted narratives that portray American and Western values as inherently harmful and oppressive.”

He also named himself chairman of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, seemingly in opposition to its having hosted performances he disagreed with for promoting so-called woke ideology. The move prompted many performances and performers to cancel shows.

Amanda Knox, who became an international headline in 2007, when, as an American student spending a year in Perugia, Italy, she was (wrongly) accused of the murder and sexual assault of her British roommate, Meredith Kercher, is now the subject, and executive producer, of “The Twisted Tale of Amanda Knox,” an eight-part docudrama premiering Wednesday on Hulu. (Her boyfriend of one week, Raffaele Sollecito, also wrongly accused, does not seem to have garnered similar attention, which might tell you something about misogyny in the prurient press, and its audience.)

The “Twisted Tale” in the title — odd for a story of murder, rape and false imprisonment — suggests that we’re about to see something sort of delightful, like “The Marvelous Misadventures of Flapjack” or “The Epic Tales of Captain Underpants,” an impression underscored by a prologue in the style of “Amélie,” the whimsical French film the couple was elsewhere watching on the night of the murder; it ties the victim, the accused and her prosecutor/persecutor together in a sort of fairy tale. Like the very long end-title “any similarity” disclaimer, concluding “The series includes Amanda Knox’s perspective on events related to the murder of Meredith Kercher,” it allows the series to be something less than true: a tale.

People tell themselves stories to live, to haul out that Joan Didion quote once again, which unavoidably requires making up stories about other people. These events involved a lot of people, only one of whom is an executive producer of this series, based on her memoir, “Waiting To Be Heard.” (Knox co-wrote the finale, as well.) One assumes that some of those other people might see this project as exploitation, or object to how they’ve been represented, though any dissenting voices will be drowned by a publicity machine that will market this as a true story, disclaimer aside. In light of the series, Knox has been recently profiled in the New York Times, alongside star Grace Van Patten, and in the Hollywood Reporter, alongside fellow executive producer and scandal survivor Monica Lewinsky, who encouraged her to make the series.

These are qualities — faults? — “Twisted Tale” shares with every docudrama ever, a problematic genre much beloved by filmmakers and actors; still, as frequently as such projects arise, especially in the age of true crime, we wouldn’t still be talking about “Citizen Kane” today if it simply had been “Citizen Hearst.” We should at least keep in mind as responsible viewers and citizens that what we’re seeing here, however factual in its crucial points, scrupulous in its details, and engaging in its philosophy, and however faithfully the actors embody their real-life models, it’s unavoidably an impression of the truth, built out with imagined scenes and conversations and made to play upon your feelings. It isn’t journalism. And to be clear, when I speak of these characters below, I’m referring only to how they’re portrayed in the series, not to the people whose names they share.

Francesco Acquaroli as Giuliano Mignini and Roberta Mattei as Monica Napoleoni, the investigators on the case, in “The Twisted Tale of Amanda Knox.”

(Andrea Miconi / Disney)

Created by K.J. Steinberg (“This Is Us”), the series is well-acted, well-written, impressively mounted, tonally contradictory, chronologically disjointed, overlong, stressful, exhausting, interesting both for its subject and stagecraft, and briefly inspirational, as Amanda (Van Patten) — arrested, jailed, convicted, acquitted, re-convicted and definitely re-acquitted — becomes a voice in the innocence movement (“My freedom mattered and I was going to make the most of it as long as I had it”) and returns to Italy, a wife and mother, for something like closure.

Echoing the 2016 Netflix documentary “Amanda Knox,” which tells the story (up to that point) in a streamlined but thought-provoking 90 minutes, there has been some care to represent different points of view, with episodes dedicated to Raffaele and prosecutor cum investigator Giuliano Mignini (Francesco Acquaroli), also introduced “Amélie”-style. (As to Kercher, we hear only that “she likes to sunbathe and dance and read mystery novels” — though anything more would be presumptuous.) Raffaele, the superhero-loving son of a troubled mother, made himself into a “protector.” Mignini, who lost a brother to “lawlessness,” sees his work as heaven-sent — though he was also inspired by Gino Cervi as Georges Simenon’s detective hero in the 1960s TV series “Le inchieste del commissario Maigret.” (He adopts that character’s pipe and hat.) “I made a vow to God,” he says, narrating, “no matter the disapproval or dissent, deviant, ritual murders would not go unpunished on my watch.”

On the basis of Amanda being a loud American, and a self-described weirdo, whose response to news of the murder struck some as insufficiently emotional; from bits and pieces of supposed physical evidence, later discounted; and from Mignini’s own notions — including his feeling regarding the body, that “only a woman would cover a woman with a blanket” — the police quickly assemble an elaborate, completely imagined theory based on a sex game gone wrong. (That Knox was in possession of a vibrator and some condoms and brought men to the apartment she shared with Kercher and two Italian girls seemingly branded her, in 2007, as a pervert.)

Subjected to an extremely long interrogation without adequate representation in a language she imperfectly understands, and in which she has trouble making herself understood — detective superintendent Monica Napoleoni (Roberta Mattei) is the angry Javert — Knox signs a false confession that also implicates her sometimes boss, Patrick Lumumba (Souleymane Seye Ndiaye). She quickly recants, to little avail. (Knox has not been acquitted of slandering Lumumba.) That the actual killer is arrested, and convicted, merely causes the police to rewrite their story a little, while still focusing on Amanda and Raffaele. The press runs leaks and accusations from the authorities; and a fascinated public eats it up, spitting out opinions onto social media.

Director Michael Uppendahl employs a variety of styles to get the story told. Some scenes are so natural as to seem improvised; others employ heavy tactics — an assaultive sound design, flash cuts — to evoke the pressure Amanda is under, from both the self-satisfied authorities and a hectoring press. (Paparazzi is an Italian word, after all.) Stirring music underlies her final statement to the court; a letter sent by Amanda to Mignini is lit from within, like the deadly glass of milk in Hitchcock’s “Notorious.” While not inappropriate to a story in which fictions swamp facts, these zigs and zags can pull you out of the story rather than drawing you deeper in.

As Amanda, Van Patten (of the Van Patten acting/directing dynasty — Dick, Joyce, Tim, Vincent, with Grace’s sister Anna playing Amanda’s younger sister) is quite remarkable, switching between English and an ever-improving Italian. Acquaroli, quietly astonishing, brings humanity and the merest touch of weary humor to his stubborn policeman. Sharon Horgan plays Amanda’s intense, demanding mother, with John Hoogenakker as her more subdued father. In a scene pulled straight from the “Amanda Knox” documentary, a reporter asks him when there’ll be a film: “The longer you wait the less her story is going to be worth.” “We do not think of our daughter as a hot property,” he replies.

Meta.

In 1984, at age 33, I fell in love with a woman for the first time. Her name was Cathy. Her previous girlfriend’s name was also Cathy. “Wasn’t that confusing, sharing a name with your girlfriend?” I asked. She shrugged. “Everything about being a lesbian is confusing at first,” she said. “You get used to it.”

In “Sweetener,” Marissa Higgins’ sexy, poignant second sapphic novel, the reader is served plenty of confusion, lesbian-related and otherwise. For starters, two of the book’s three protagonists, who are breaking up as we meet them, are both named Rebecca. With 18,993 girls’ names in active use in contemporary America, why would Higgins build this disconcerting element into “Sweetener’s” structure? It proves to be a decision well-made. As the reader turns the pages, learning to individuate the two Rebeccas (whose central struggle is learning to individuate from each other) gives us bonus information about, and empathy for, both of them.

“My wife and I have the same first name, though our friends never used mine; I’ve always been Rebecca’s wife,” Rebecca No. 1 says of Rebecca No. 2 — No. 2 being the more powerful one, since she’s the one initiating the breakup. “Our last names, too, are still the same, as I took hers at our court wedding,” No. 1 tells us. “With the same name, it’s easy to become one person instead of two.”

Applying for a part-time cashier job near her dismal D.C. apartment, Rebecca No. 1 mulls, “Inside the market, I remind myself I am a person. I have an age, a birthday, an address.” When the store manager asks about Rebecca’s hobbies, she thinks, “Making rent? Getting myself off? Finding a woman with more money than either of us to take me to the dentist?”

The engaging, original plot of “Sweetener” is complex, too. Unbeknownst to Rebecca No. 1, she and No. 2 (PhD student, less depressed, more conniving, heavy drinker) are both dating Charlotte. Obsessed with having a baby, Charlotte wears a fake pregnancy belly, a fact known only to Rebecca No. 2, because Charlotte keeps her shirt on while having sex with Rebecca No. 1. (Having Charlotte thinking, “Please don’t notice please don’t notice please don’t notice” to cover Rebecca No. 1’s failure to notice that her sexual partner is wearing a huge baby-shaped silicone belt seems a bit of an, um, stretch.) Both Rebeccas have great sex with Charlotte. Neither Rebecca wants to stop.

Rebecca No. 2 also wants a baby and doesn’t want to stop drinking, which means not bearing but instead fostering a child, which means enlisting Rebecca No. 1 in the effort, since the two are still legally married, and fostering as a single divorcee requires a minimum one-year legal separation. Neither Rebecca is certain whether pretending to be married will result in their actual reconciliation. Only Rebecca No. 1 is certain that she wants that.

“I know it’s not fair of me to ask anything of you,” Rebecca No. 2 admits in a phone call to her soon-to-be ex-wife, “but I’m serious about wanting to have a family.”

“Sweetener” is the second novel by Marissa Higgins.

(Catapult)

Desperate as she is for a reconciliation, Rebecca No. 1 mulls, “When she says she wants me to think about how important a family is to her, and what this could mean for her, I understand she is not using the word we… I tell her I miss her and she says she misses me, too. Then she says, ‘So you’ll come by when the social worker is here?’”

In 1984, when I dated Cathy No. 2, like the Rebeccas, most of the lesbians I knew were young, poverty-stricken and uncomfortably enmeshed with their lovers, and they considered “lesbian” to be their primary identity. Unlike the Rebeccas, we were also terrified by the consequences of being out during what were extremely dangerous times. During the 1980s and 1990s, Cathy and I were chased down city streets by men shouting slurs at us. We were refused rooms in hotels. Cathy would have been fired from her childcare job if she’d come out at work. My custody of my children was threatened. I was banished from my father’s home.

“My wife and I go to our first class on child development together,” Rebecca No. 1 tells us. “Next to my wife, I feel cool.” A few pages later, she observes: “The social worker tells me I’m lucky to have a partner who values non-threatening communication.” During their home visit with a second D.C. social worker, the Rebeccas lie about a lot of things — chiefly, their marital and financial instability. But they don’t lie about what Cathy and I would have had to hide if we’d tried to adopt a child in the 1980s. Living in a big, liberal city, the Rebeccas don’t feel the need (still required for safety in “red” locales) to call each other roommates or friends. They call each other wives, because in 2025 same-sex marriage and parenting are givens, not distant fantasies.

Ten years after it became “cool” (and legal, and publicly acknowledged) for a woman to have a wife; 40 years after I and many, many others paid a terrible price for coming out in our families, workplaces and neighborhoods, lesbians like Marissa Higgins are creating lesbian characters who live in a sweeter, changed-for-the-better world. The sugar that made life safer for us is the queer activism that begins with telling true tales of queer lives and persists today with renewed need and renewed vigor. “Sweetener,” the novel, is a fun romp through one version of lesbo-land circa 2025. Higgins’ “Sweetener” celebrates and accelerates the long, rough ride to lasting queer equality.

Maran, author of “The New Old Me” and other books, lives in a Silver Lake bungalow that’s even older than she is.

Any western worth its dusty boots and big-sky openness should know what’s breathtaking about freedom, at the same time grasping how being tamed is an uneasy, clarifying rite of passage. That men have typically led these stories means there’s a lot still to be mined when women tackle this genre — both in front of and behind the camera — and in “East of Wall,” about a struggling ranch matriarch (Tabatha Zimiga) with a headstrong daughter (Porshia Zimiga), writer-director Kate Beecroft has found a worthy modern story of cowgirl hardiness near South Dakota’s Badlands.

That air of independence and restriction applies also to what “East of Wall” itself is: a narrative centered on first-time actors playing versions of themselves in a story shaped from their lives, in this case the joys and sorrows of the Zimigas’ open-plains existence rescuing, riding and selling horses, and dealing with financial uncertainty after the loss of a loved one.

When Chloé Zhao took the docu-fiction approach with her melancholy 2017 neo-western “The Rider,” the blended realism and dramatic choreography achieved something heartbreaking, reawakening the hybrid’s possibilities. Beecroft’s solid-enough first feature isn’t as effortlessly transcendent — the seams show a bit more. But there’s plenty of lived-in warmth in its accumulation of details and it gives needed voice to the concerns of women forging their own way in an environment that isn’t exactly kind on anyone.

Very quickly, we’re swept up in what’s loose, chaotic and appealing about tough, tattooed horse whisperer Tabatha and her rough-and-tumble operation, which includes her own children — Porshia is already a rising rodeo star — and various teenagers from this strapped region’s broken homes, plus her hard-bitten mom (Jennifer Ehle), who enjoys her peach moonshine. There’s an unruly found-family charm that belies what’s isolating and rundown about their situation and Austin Shelton’s vista-friendly cinematography does a good job contrasting that beauty and severity, especially in Tabatha herself, an earthy, battle-hardened goddess with a head half-shaved and half-draped with golden hair, and kind eyes rimmed with mascara. She always looks ready to calm a bronc, knock back a beer or tell you off.

Tabatha’s reputation for breaking wild steeds and supporting wayward kids is legion and her sales methods lean toward the unconventional: TikTok videos that frame horses at full speed against ravishing backdrops, and at barn sales, showcases that spotlight her girls’ performing skills. Money is tight, though, and the sting of her husband’s suicide a year earlier has put a grief wedge between Tabatha and Porshia as each tries to imagine what the future holds. That’s when an observant, dogged Texas rancher with his own baggage (Scoot McNairy) shows up with a tempting lifeline that puts everyone’s ownership of their fate in stark relief.

“East of Wall” lives in that indie space of wanting to respect and vibe equally, which means there’s a little too much slo-mo montage and, considering how invested we are in this family, not enough memorable scene work. But even with the thinnest of narrative framing and some arty touches that feel superfluous, there’s an overall portrait of authentic grit and resilience here, of knowing when to hold on and when to let go, that is well-nurtured by Beecroft’s admiring eye for these renegade women.

Nothing against McNairy and Ehle who play well with the first-timers, but there are moments when you wonder if Beecroft should have straight-up made a documentary, foregoing the harnessing of scripted incident for the rawness of what drew her to these people and this world in the first place. Which is another way of saying mother and daughter Zimiga are real finds, true-to-themselves keepers of a heartland tradition, and fresh faces getting to tell that story in a nontraditional form.

In the annals of things I could not have seen coming, none has been more unexpected than “Women Wearing Shoulder Pads,” a queer Spanish-language stop-motion comedy melodrama, set in the aesthetic world of a 1980s Pedro Almodóvar film. (It arrives Sunday at midnight on Adult Swim, the home of things one doesn’t see coming, and premieres the next day on HBO Max.)

Though it takes place in Ecuador, its central character, Marioneta Negocios (Pepa Pallarés), is Spanish, and it’s easy enough to imagine Almodóvar muse Carmen Maura in the role — though it is also impossible to imagine the story told as well, or at all, in any other way. When I call this series perfect, notwithstanding the happy imperfections of its puppets and sets, it’s not because everything works as its meant to, but because there’s nothing you can measure it against — it occupies its own self-created space. Every element is necessary. Even presenting it in English would be to lose romantic, dramatic, telenovelistic force.

At the center of the story is the cuy, a guinea pig eaten in Andean South America, though in this telling they’re also used in a version of bullfighting. (Some cuys are large enough to ride on.) The primary action is a power struggle between Marioneta, a socialite running a campaign promoting cuy as pets, not food, and Doña Quispe (Laura Torres), who has risen from life as a humble butcher to the anything-but-humble CEO of the country’s most famous restaurant, El Cuchillo (the knife).

Mixed up in their lives are Coquita Buenasuerte (Gabriela Cartol), Marioneta’s seemingly happy-go-lucky assistant; Espada Muleta (Kerygma Flores), a matadora in love with Marioneta; Nina (Nicole Vazquez), Doña Quispe’s vegetarian daughter, serving a pro-cuy group as its Minister of Refreshments and Head of Recruitment for Rebellious Teens — “I have looked upon the caged cuy through the prison of capitalist enterprise, through the hubristic iron bars of a homocentric world view” — who will become a pawn in the older women’s game.

Not everything will be as it seems.

Created by Gonzalo Cordova (a veteran of “Tuca & Bertie” and “Adam Ruins Everything”) and produced by the Mexican animation studio Cinema Fantasma, the series comes packaged as eight 11-minute episodes — that is cartoon length — which neatly constitute a short feature film. On the bill are mystery, suspense, terror, revenge, hot romance (including some puppet sex), masked stalkers, performance art, love notes posted with knives, parodies of television shows and commercials, old secrets coming to light and nuns singing karaoke.

From “Gumby” to “Rudolph” to “Wallace and Gromit” to “The Fantastic Mr. Fox,” stop motion is of all forms of animation most magical and in its real-space, three-dimensional, handcrafted way the most like life, if not necessarily the most lifelike. (It can look ungainly, which is also part of its charm.) It’s a magnification of childhood playtime, a puppet show in which the puppets have broken loose from the puppeteers. The cleverness of the execution is as or more important than how seamless it is. “Women Wearing Shoulder Pads” does all sorts of neat tricks, some you notice and more you simply accept — and when deemed necessary, or just amusing, it will insert a live-action hand or mouth. It’s an exaggerated world — appropriately to the heavy-breathing material — but emotionally expressive, even moving, and lots of fun.

Are we in for a new age of scripted basic cable television? Given the successes of the old age, which threaded its way between broadcast and premium cable TV, a little bolder than the former, less pricier than the latter, making up what it lacked in resources with invention and charm — producing such shows as “The Detour,” “Halt and Catch Fire,” “Lodge 49” and “The Closer,” to name just a few of my favorites — I’d be all for it.

Premiering Friday on the USA Network, lately devoted to sports, reality shows and reruns, the legal drama “The Rainmaker” is the first fruit of an intentional return to the network’s self-styled “blue sky” era, when its slogan was “Characters Welcome” and “optimism” in storytelling was a stated goal. “Psych,” “In Plain Sight,” “Monk” and “Suits” — whose recent success after being recycled onto Netflix would seem to be a factor in this turnaround — were among the series born in that period.

Based on John Grisham’s 1995 novel, faithfully adapted by Francis Ford Coppola into a 1997 film starring Matt Damon and Claire Danes, the TV “Rainmaker” has been kitted out with some new and altered characters and a novel focus, and in order to keep you on the hook across 10 episodes, it stirs in a case of arson and a serial murderer. (And surely some additional complications — only five episodes out of 10 were available for review, so even though I wouldn’t tell you about what’s coming later, I couldn’t.) Serial killer notwithstanding — nothing drearier than a serial killer — the nuts and bolts and girders and panels of a USA show are here — colorful characters, one part comedy to one part drama, a mystery to solve, and just a tiny bit of sex. (This is basic cable, remember.)

We meet hot-headed good guy Rudy Baylor (Milo Callaghan) and his cheery girlfriend Sarah Plankmore (Madison Iseman), both not long out of law school, both yet to take the bar exam, at a legal-aid event, providing free advice to the sort of people who could never afford a lawyer, wouldn’t know where to start or maybe just want someone to listen to their stories. They meet Dot Black (Karen Bryson), who is very much not over the death of her son while in a hospital whose name I can’t recall but for my own convenience will just call Bad Hospital. Badspital. That the hospital — the Badspital — has offered her $50,000 while their motion to dismiss is still pending, sets Rudy to wondering what they might be trying to hide. Anyway, Dot, whom we’ll see again, finds the offer insulting and also needs an apology.

Rudy and Sarah have both been hired by the 800-pound gorilla law firm Tinley Britt. On their first day, he arrives late to work — and bloody, having gotten into a fight with his mother’s shiftless, but large, boyfriend. He proceeds to get into another fight, abstractly, with senior partner Leo F. Drummond (John Slattery), who fires him. (In the novel, Rudy is merely laid off in a merger — not so dramatic!) Moaning to friend and bar-owning sometime boss Prince Thomas (Tommie Earl Jenkins) that he’s been turned down by every other respectable firm in town, Thomas suggests “a not so respectable one.”

John Slattery stars as Leo Drummond, a senior partner at Tinley Britt, the law firm where Rudy is hired and subsequently fired.

(Christopher Barr/USA Network)

Here things depart significantly from the text, and the fun begins.

Rudy is delivered to the law offices of glamorous Jocelyn “Bruiser” Stone (Lana Parrilla) and associates, located in a partly converted Mexican restaurant — though past the receptionist the only associate in sight is “paralawyer” Deck Shifflet (P.J. Byrne). A purely comic character, Deck has failed the bar seven times but has many useful skills and qualities, not least a flexible sense of professional ethics. He insists on calling Rudy “Boo Boo.” It takes him a minute to realize it, but Rudy has found his people.

Gender flipped from the novel’s J. Lyman Stone, Bruiser (when not in court) favors animal prints, plunging necklines and short skirts. “I only need three things,” she says. “Kentucky bourbon, a bloody steak and a man who won’t spend the night.” You get the picture.

But there’s more to her than that. When Rudy, who has been with Deck trolling the Badspital for clients, suggests he wasn’t cut out to be an “ambulance chaser,” she also has this to say.

“You know where the term ambulance chaser came from? It was used by white shoe firms in the ’20s to crap on any lawyer that wasn’t a member of their club. When the contingency-fee law was enacted, small firms rose up full of attorneys who were just like their clients, the ones on the Statue of Liberty, the tired, poor, the huddled masses — those same people are our clients now, and if you think you’re better than them, you’re not. You are them.”

It’s good to know someone still takes Emma Lazarus seriously.

Among the figures Rudy and Deck encounter at the hospital, or the Badspit — oh, never mind — is Melvin Pritcher (Dan Fogler), whom we have seen in the series’ opening scene, escaping a house fire that kills his mother. There are several things to say about him that probably constitute spoilers, so I’ll just note that though Melvin is quite unpleasant, Fogler is very good.

With Sarah working for the Empire and Rudy embedded with the rebels, their relationship has been engineered by the writers to be problematic, possibly to break down — though each does seem to be trying. (They’re good kids.) She’s got a trust fund; he’s doesn’t own a suit of his own, dressing rather in one passed down from a dead brother. They’ll wind up in court opposite one another like Tracy and Hepburn in “Adam’s Rib,” for Tinley Britt is defending the hospital from Dot, who has become a client of Bruiser’s firm. Their future together is also potentially complicated by Kelly Riker (Robyn Cara), a woman who lives in Rudy’s building who is obviously being abused, and Drummond’s smarmy lieutenant Brad Noonan (Wade Briggs) — of course he’d be named Brad — who has been assigned to weaponize Sarah against Rudy.

Callaghan gives off a scintilla of Matt Damon vibes, but is his own Rudy, keeping his naive idealist free from leading-man tics. Parrilla finds the balance between Bruiser’s sauciness and seriousness; Byrne plays the clown adeptly; and Slattery, a boss again after “Mad Men,” softens his villainy with some Roger Sterling insouciance.

Developed by Michael Seitzman and Jason Richman, it’s a very watchable show — serial killer passages notwithstanding. There’s nothing fancy in the execution — it’s the opposite of stylish — but everything’s clearly defined and dialed up a step past normal into that space we call entertainment. Welcome back to the blue sky.

Aug. 12 (UPI) — The White House has ordered a sweeping review of the Smithsonian’s exhibitions and materials as part of President Donald Trump‘s efforts to promote a rosier presentation of the nation’s past.

The order came in a letter signed by three White House aides to Smithsonian Institution Secretary Lonnie G. Bunch III that was posted online Tuesday. The letter indicates that the Trump administration is again turning its attention on the Smithsonian, a premiere group of museums and research centers located in the nation’s capital, as it seeks to reshape cultural institutions.

The letter requested a sizable list of the Smithsonian’s internal documents that will be used in a review to ensure the museum aligns with an earlier Trump administration directive “to celebrate American exceptionalism, remove divisive or partisan narratives, and restore confidence in our shared cultural institutions.”

The review will focus on eight of the Smithsonian’s museums with an eye on next year’s 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the museum’s plans for the event, according to the letter. Materials that will be included in the review included exhibition texts, educational materials and social media “to assess tone, historical framing, and alignment with American ideals.”

“As we prepare to celebrate the 250th anniversary of our nation’s founding, it is more important than ever that our national museums reflect the unity, progress, and enduring values that define the American story,” states the letter signed by aides Lindsey Halligan, Vince Haley and Russell Vought.

This isn’t the first time Trump has sought more control over the Smithsonian. Earlier in his term, Trump issued an executive order seeking to end “influence of a divisive, race-centered ideology” at the Smithsonian. More recently, Smithsonian staff temporarily removed references to Trump’s two impeachments from an exhibit on presidential power.

The upcoming review of the Smithsonian will also include interviews with staff to understand the development of its exhibits, according to the letter, which states that its goal is not to interfere with its operations.

Additionally, the review will evaluate how existing materials and collections “are being used or could be used to highlight American achievement and progress” and if they should be conveyed to other institutions. Lastly, the review will seek “the development of consistent curatorial guidelines that reflect the Smithsonian’s original mission.”

“Berta, Berta,” a two-character play by Angelica Chéri, was inspired by a prison work song from Parchman Farm, the notorious Mississippi State Penitentiary whose harsh conditions and history of forced labor extended the nightmare of antebellum slave plantations into the 20th century.

The play, which is receiving its West Coast premiere in an Echo Theater Company production at Atwater Village Theatre directed by Andi Chapman, is set in Mississippi in 1923. The action takes place in the home of Berta (Kacie Rogers), a young widow who’s awakened in the middle of the night by a visitor from her past.

Not just any visitor, mind you, but the love of her life. Leroy (DeJuan Christopher) arrives at the threshold of her small, well-cared for home in a clamorous uproar. He’s filthy, his white shirt is covered in blood, and Berta can’t tell if he’s possessed by the devil or out of his mind.

It turns out that he’s killed a man who claimed, falsely, to have slept with her. Berta is horrified that Leroy has done something so rash and violent. He holds it as proof of the depth of his love for her. But why, Berta wants to know, did he not get in touch with her after he was released from Parchman? The crime he’s committed will only send him back to where, in Leroy’s own pained words, “they take the colored man to kill him from the inside out.”

Berta and Leroy exchange grievances over the futility of their love. He can’t understand how she could have married; she’s bewildered that he could have expected her to wait indefinitely for a ghost. Their passion, however, won’t be denied, no matter how angry they make each other.

The play is pitched for maximum intensity, and Chapman’s direction encourages a mythic scope — a wholly appropriate approach for a drama that leaps over the safety of realism. Amanda Knehans’ beautifully designed set, as snug as it is appealing, grounds the action in a clean and cozy domesticity. But this is just an illusion, as the production makes clear through the expressionistic wildness of the lighting (Andrew Schmedake) and sound design (Jeff Gardner).

The couple has been granted a brief reprieve from their separation. Leroy, observing an old superstition, made an oath to the awakening cicadas that he will turn himself in if he’s given the chance to make peace with Berta. She has made her own pact with the insects, asking them to restore the life of her stillborn baby, whose corpse she has held onto in the hope that the cicadas will answer her prayer.

The pressurized, supernatural stakes in such tight quarters sometimes encourage Christopher to push a little too vociferously. Berta’s home is too small to contain Leroy — and Christopher’s performance never lets us forget it. But the turbulent charge of Leroy’s voice and body language serves another purpose: keeping the character’s history as an oppressed Black man cruelly cut off from his soulmate ever in sight.

Rogers’ Berta, comfortably situated in her domestic nest, scales her performance accordingly. She is our anchor into the world of the play, reacting to Leroy’s tumultuous intrusion with suspicion and alarm. But as the intimacy grows between the characters, the performers become more relaxed and playful with each other. The Wagnerian nature of Berta and Leroy’s love settles down without losing its miraculous mystery.

The Sunday matinee I attended was a Black Out performance — an opportunity for a Black audience to experience the play in community. Playwright Jeremy O. Harris championed this concept during the initial Broadway run of his groundbreaking drama “Slave Play.” There was backlash to the idea in London, where some critics found the practice racially exclusionary. But anything that promotes the communal embrace of art, particularly among historically underrepresented groups, ought to be celebrated.

I wasn’t the only white person in the audience at “Berta, Berta” on Sunday, but I was one of just a few. When I had initially learned from the show’s publicist that the performance was specially designated, I offered to come at another time, not wanting to take a seat from a community member. But I was assured that there was room and that I was most welcome.

Listening to the play in this special environment, I was more alert to the through line of history. Although set in the Deep South during the Jim Crow era, there appeared to be little distance between the characters and the audience. Berta and Leroy’s tempestuous love games were met with amused recognition. And the threats facing the couple, to judge by the audible response to the work, were received with knowing empathy.

At a different performance, I might have been more impatient with some of the strained dramatic turns. But the production’s living bond with the audience opened my eyes to the realism inherent in this folktale romance, laden with history and floating on a song.

“Miracle Mile” takes place in a city in the throes of chaos as Angelenos flee the threat of a nuclear strike. The film was released in 1988, but it has resurfaced in the last few years, attracting sold-out crowds at the American Cinematheque and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

Written and directed by Steve De Jarnatt and made for $3 million, the film was restored and re-released by boutique film distributor Kino Lorber in 2024. In her commentary for the Blu-ray, author Janet Fitch (“White Oleander”) said “Miracle Mile” depicts “the kind of apocalypse that L.A. people imagine.”

Los Angeles knows how to weather a crisis — or two or three. Angelenos are tapping into that resilience, striving to build a city for everyone.

And even though it did not make a big impression when it opened, De Jarnatt said the film has gained what he called “cult status.”

Much of the appeal of “Miracle Mile” appeal can be attributed to the film’s obvious affection for the stretch of Wilshire Boulevard bordered by La Brea and Fairfax Avenues. Featured locations include the May Co. and Orbach’s department stores (now the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures and the Petersen Automotive Museum, respectively), the nearby Park La Brea towers and Johnnie’s Coffee Shop, which is closed and used primarily for film and TV productions.

The movie, which takes place over the course of 24 hours, starts out as a lighthearted romance. Anthony Edwards plays Harry Washello, a struggling trombone player who falls for coffee shop waitress Julie Waters (Mare Winningham) after they meet cute at the La Brea Tar Pits. The couple make a date to meet after her evening shift is over.

But their plans fall apart. Harry unwittingly intercepts a call at a phone booth, and the caller tells him nuclear missiles will strike Los Angeles within the hour. As the city unravels, Harry and Julie try to save their upended romance.

The ending is both sad and happy. “To be with the one you love at the end, even if it’s a brand new love who you met at the La Brea Tar Pits, which is like a time portal and a museum dedicated to extinction, is as good a way as any to go out,” De Jarnatt says.

(And it was a particularly happy ending for Edwards and Winningham, who bonded while filming the project. At the time, both were married to other people and stayed friends while working together on other projects — including “ER,” in which Edwards played the lead role as Dr. Mark Greene. The two eventually became a couple and wed in 2021.)

SMART doorbells are everywhere, but Eufy’s latest model is one of the best out there.

In this Eufy E340 video doorbell review, I’ve put it to the test so you get the real insight into what it’s like to live with.

Eufy E340 Video Doorbell, £159.99 £109.99 at Amazon

I’ve tested plenty of smart home devices, and video doorbells have become some of the most popular.

But too many lock you into pricey subscriptions or offer poor video quality that feels like a glorified buzzer.

Thankfully, the Eufy E340 is one of the best video doorbells I’ve tried, packed with features that work, and no monthly fees for the pleasure.

Eufy launched back in 2016 as part of Chinese tech giant Anker, and has quickly built a solid reputation in home security.

The E340 arrived in 2024, adding to Eufy’s already impressive lineup of smart doorbells.

It features dual cameras, colour night vision, smart motion detection, and built-in local storage; genuinely smart tech that delivers on its promises.

While it’s not the first doorbell I’ve tested with these features — the Ezviz EP3x Pro I reviewed comes close and even adds solar power —the E340 still manages to stand out.

Read on for my full thoughts on how the E340 performs in real life.

How I tested

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Eufy E340 Video Doorbell, £159.99 £109.99 at Amazon

I’ve tested my fair share of smart doorbells, from Ring and Tapo to budget buys, so I’ve got a pretty good feel for what’s worth your money.

For the past couple of months, the Eufy E340 has been stationed on my front porch, which sees a steady stream of parcels and visitors.

It’s had to brave typical UK weather, deal with delivery drivers, and keep up with the comings and goings of a busy family home.

I tried it in all sorts of conditions, day and night, rain and shine, using the Eufy app for alerts to see how well it performs.

After having it watch over my front door for a while, I have to say I’m impressed.

The Nitty-Gritty

First impressions

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Eufy E340 Video Doorbell, £159.99 £109.99 at Amazon

I expected a solid smart doorbell, but the Eufy E340 felt more like a mini security system.

It’s bigger than most doorbells I’ve tried, thanks to having two cameras stacked vertically.

In the box, you get the E340 unit itself, a mounting kit, a charging cable, and some straightforward setup instructions.

The build feels premium and sturdy. It inspires confidence, unlike some others that just come off cheap and plasticky.

Setting it up was fairly easy. You start by mounting the bracket, then the doorbell just snaps right into place.

It comes with a small security key to remove the unit to charge, which is smart, but you’ll want to keep that key safe; it’s tiny and easy to lose.

Once I downloaded the Eufy app, the rest was a breeze. Just follow the on-screen steps, and you’re up and running in no time.

If you’re going fully wired, there’s a bit more faff involved, but with my battery-powered setup, things were a lot simpler.

Does it deliver?

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Eufy E340 Video Doorbell, £159.99 £109.99 at Amazon

The Eufy E340 was smarter than I expected right out of the box, thanks to the 8GB of onboard storage built into the doorbell.

That’s enough to keep about a month’s worth of footage, depending on how busy your front door is.

You can add a HomeBase later if you want more storage, but I like that it’s an optional add-on, so there’s no extra gadgets to worry about right away.

That said, if you want the HomeBase, be ready to splash out another £159, though it’s really aimed at people who already have a wider ecosystem of Eufy gadgets.

If you just want the doorbell, it’s not a must-have, so you can skip it without missing out.

One feature I like having on hand is Delivery Guard. It doesn’t just notify you when a parcel arrives, it’ll also give you a heads-up if someone’s hanging around your doorstep so you can react.

Thankfully, I’ve not had to experience it in action, but it’s nice knowing it’s got your back.

Plus, with that second camera pointing down, I could always take a quick peek at the doorstep whenever I wanted.

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Eufy E340 Video Doorbell, £159.99 £109.99 at Amazon

For night vision, you get two choices: a subtle but effective black-and-white IR mode, and a full-colour spotlight mode that lights up faces near your door.

The colour mode does lose a bit of clarity around the edges, but honestly, I’d much rather see who’s there in colour than grey shadows.

The Eufy app ties everything together nicely, and it’s simple to use, quick to pull up live views, and makes it easy to filter clips by date or device.

There wasn’t the two-way talk lag that I’ve experienced on other doorbells like this, so speaking through it felt a lot more natural.

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I also liked the quick-reply messages, perfect for those times when you’re busy and can’t have a proper chat but still want to get a message across.

Battery life is solid too, with its 6,500 mAh battery; Eufy says it can last up to six months.

I’ve been using mine for just under two, and I’m nowhere near needing to recharge yet, with about 70% still in the tank.

If you don’t want to worry about charging at all, you can wire it up and forget it. Sadly, I don’t have existing wiring, so that wasn’t an option for me.

It’s true, the E340 isn’t the smallest doorbell around, but it’s definitely one of the sleekest.

It packs a bunch of smart features and sharp video quality without slapping you with subscription fees, just be ready for the upfront cost.

If you want a doorbell that bolsters your home security without any sneaky costs, this one’s a strong contender.

How much is the Eufy E340?

The E340 usually costs £159.99, but right now it’s on sale for £109.99, which feels like a bargain for what you get.

You’re paying mid-to-high-end prices, but with 2K dual cameras, night vision, and local storage included, it’s great value.

Add the HomeBase S380 for another £160 if you want more storage, and the upfront cost does jump quite a bit.

That said, compared to Ring’s ongoing subscription fees for cloud storage, the Eufy starts to look like the smarter long-term deal.

Where to buy the Eufy E340

You can pick up the Eufy E340 as a standalone unit, and right now it’s on sale.

It’s available from most major UK retailers, including:

Eufy E340 alternatives

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If the Eufy E340 isn’t quite what you’re after, there are a few solid alternatives worth considering.

The Ring Battery Doorbell Plus offers a sleeker design and sharp video, but just be ready for those subscription fees if you want full access to storage and extra features.

Then there’s the Ezviz EP3x Pro, which packs similar smart features and video quality, plus it throws in solar power for easy, hassle-free charging.

For those on a budget, the Tapo D235 is a decent option with good video and handy features, though it doesn’t have the same level of polish as the Eufy.

Short, pained lives marked by achievement and promise and then abruptly gone leave a restless afterglow. Youth is supposed to fade away, not become one’s permanent state. And regarding the late musician Jeff Buckley — a roiling romantic with piercing good looks whose singing could rattle bones and raise hairs — that loss in 1997, at the age of 30 from drowning, burns anew with every revisiting of his sparse legacy of recorded material.

Lives are more complicated than what your busted heart may want to read from a voice that conjured heaven and the abyss. So one of the appealing takeaways from the biodoc “It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley” is a repudiating of the typical narrative of inescapable fate, instead pursuing the richness of a gifted artist’s ups and downs. Director Amy Berg would rather us see Buckley as he was in the world instead of some conveniently doom-laden figure.

The result is loving, spirited and honest: an opportunity for us to get to know the talented, turbulent Buckley through the people who genuinely knew him and cared about him. But also, in clips, copious writings and snatches of voice recordings, we meet someone empathetic yet evasive, ambitious yet self-critical, a son and his own man, especially when sudden stardom proved to be the wrong prism through which to find answers.

With archival material often superimposed over a faint, scratchy-film background, we feel the sensitivity and chaos of Buckley’s single-mom upbringing in Anaheim, the devastating distance of his absentee dad, folk-poet icon Tim Buckley (you’ll never forget the matchbook Jeff saved), and the creative blossoming that happened in New York’s East Village. There, his long-standing influences, from Nina Simone and Edith Piaf to Led Zeppelin and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, coalesced into a post-grunge emotionalism anchored by those unbelievable pipes.

Even after Buckley’s record-label discovery leads to the usual music-doc trappings — tour montages, media coverage, performance morsels — Berg wisely keeps the contours of his interior life in the foreground, intimately related by key figures, most prominently Buckley’s mother, Mary Guibert, romantic confidantes such as artist Rebecca Moore and musician Joan Wasser, and bandmates like Michael Tighe. Berg keeps these interviewees close to her camera, too, so we can appreciate their memories as personal gifts, still raw after so many years.

Fans might yearn for more granular unpacking of the music, but it somehow doesn’t feel like an oversight when so much ink on it already exists and so little else has been colored in. The same goes for the blessed absence of boilerplate A-list praise. The global acclaim for his sole album, 1994’s “Grace,” which includes his all-timer rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” certainly put admiring superstars (Dylan, Bowie, McCartney) in Buckley’s path, including one of his idols, Robert Plant. But Berg stays true to a viewpoint rooted in Buckley’s conflicting feelings about the pressures and absurdities of fame, and why it ultimately drove him to Memphis to seek the solace to start a second album that was never completed.

The last chapter is thoughtfully handled. Berg makes sure that we understand that his loved ones view his death as an accident, not a suicide, and the movie’s details are convincing. That doesn’t make the circumstances any less heartbreaking, of course. As warmer spotlights go, “It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley” may never fully expunge what maddens and mystifies about the untimely end of troubled souls. But it candidly dimensionalizes a one-album wonder, virtually ensuring the kind of relistening likely to deepen those echoes.