review

We’re nearing the home stretch for kiddie summer movies, moms and dads. Stay hydrated and nourished, because your multiplex chaperone duties aren’t truly over until early August or so, when the fare turns distinctively adult-themed before going full prestige in the child-unfriendly zone of fall awards season.

But with the messy, strained “Smurfs” on offer this weekend, a tired parent may want to bail early and find a last-minute sleepaway camp to shove the little ones off to instead, because this latest big-screen version of the cute-culture behemoth may test your tolerance for all things wee and cerulean. As legacy management goes, it’s more trial than celebration.

Even if you grew up with Belgian artist Peyo’s utopian woodland humanoids (rendered with Hanna-Barbera efficiency for cheap ’80s television), nostalgia isn’t on offer here — just the usual running tap of attention-driven wackiness, creating a fast-growing puddle of gags, colors, songs (including pop icon Rihanna’s contributions) and believe-in-yourself platitudes that feel random, not earned. As deployed by “Shrek” franchise veteran Chris Miller (“Puss in Boots”), animation is less a storied artistic method with which to enchant, so much as a whiz-bang weapon of mass distraction, scalable and noisy.

The Smurfs themselves have come in for something of an origin makeover. No longer simple, communal mushroom-village inhabitants with happy lives centered on personality quirks and avoiding a mean wizard, in this telling (written by Pam Brady) they hail from a line of ancient, cosmic guardians of goodness, a background that feels beholden to the superhero mindset overriding so much popcorn gruel these days. Conversely, the baddies, wizard brothers Gargamel and new antagonist Razamel (both amusingly snarled into existence by voice actor JP Karliak, channeling Harvey Korman), belong to — what else? — an Evil Alliance set on world domination.

Everything about the story, from opening to closing dance party, feels like it was made up on an especially unimaginative playdate by bored kids who’d rather be watching TV. A Smurf called No Name (James Corden) wants to be known for something, like his trait-defined pals Hefty, Vanity, Grouchy, Baker and Clumsy. Close friend Smurfette (Rihanna), the village’s confident, outgoing badass, tries to buck him up, but he sings a boring who-am-I lament anyway.

Papa Smurf (John Goodman) is kidnapped through a portal, the first of many. There’s a missing magical book given the name Jaunty (Amy Sedaris). The Smurf rescue party goes to a disco in Paris. Then the Australian Outback. Outer space too. Natasha Lyonne voices the leader of an underground species of what look like scratchy couch pillows. Razamel hates Gargamel. Papa has a red-bearded brother, Ken (Nick Offerman tiringly doing Nick Offerman), and we learn later, a long-lost sibling named Ron (Kurt Russell). All these brothers, yet I still wouldn’t say family dynamics are a going emotional concern.

Sometimes everyone floats in the air. Mostly, it’ll be your mind. But turn away for one second, and the characters will have likely gone to another dimension. Because, of course, multiverses are really popular now too. Like the kind in which no voice cast member was likely in the same city as any other when they phoned in their lines.

At least the animators looked like they stayed busy. At one point, when dimension-palooza hurtles our tiny blue posse into different animation modes — claymation, pencil drawings, 8-bit video graphics — there’s a whiff of the delightful, meta-zany chaos of classic cartoons. But for the most part, “Smurfs” hews to the textbook silliness of CGI-generated action and attitude humor, only this time so needlessly zigging and zagging it barely has time to convincingly sell its ultimate message of strength in togetherness. An incoherent movie is hardly the vessel for that kind of lesson. When it ends, though, it’ll definitely feel like an example of kindness.

We checked in to the family-friendly medieval-themed hotel at Warwick Castle, where families can enjoy live jousting and banquet dinners. Here’s what we thought…

It’s not every Saturday that you’re greeted by a 14-foot knight in shining armour sitting atop a giant horse – but that’s exactly the memorable welcome we received when we checked in to Warwick Castle’s medieval-themed hotel.

The Warwick Castle Hotel, which opened its doors in July 2024, is nestled within the 64-acre grounds of the historic 11th-century castle. With 60 rooms available to book, it’s the perfect overnight getaway for families and history buffs seeking a royal experience, and a great getaway during the summer holidays.

What can you do at Warwick Castle?

Our day began at the castle’s Zog area, a playground filled with friendly dragons that kept my little ones entertained while I savoured a quick coffee from the refreshments huts.

Next, we ventured into the Horrible Histories Maze; we may have gotten lost for longer than anticipated but the kids had a blast collecting stamps scattered throughout the maze for their passports, reports OK!.

READ MORE: ‘Hidden’ water park with beach, carvery and huge play area is perfect summer day out

READ MORE: Get a Legoland Resort visit for 3 people this school holiday for £50 less if you’re fast

For those with a strong stomach, the castle’s dungeon and gaol let you experience the smells and sounds of the torture chambers of days gone by. Meanwhile, the Princess Tower provides an opportunity for the young ones to dress up in their finest gowns.

We then made our way to the main arena to witness an exhilarating War of the Roses live event featuring jousting knights on horses. The performance was superb, and we all rooted for the Earl of Warwick.

We also made a beeline for The Falconer’s Quest show, the UK’s largest birds of prey attraction, where we watched birds from around the globe soar above us.

The castle itself is impressively preserved, and we certainly clocked up our step count as we ascended the stairs to the ramparts and towers, peeking through the stone slits where arrows once whizzed by and gazing down at the spots where waste was hurled onto unsuspecting attackers. The climb rewarded us with breathtaking views of the surrounding countryside.

We also explored the Great Hall and State Rooms, grand spaces filled with 17th and 18th-century opulence and collections of weapons and armour. The castle offers complimentary history tours, which I would have happily joined if my children hadn’t been so keen on getting ice creams (which, admittedly, were a welcome treat after a day packed with walking, climbing and jousting).

Warwick Castle Hotel

As the day drew to a close we made our way back to the hotel, conveniently located just a short stroll from the castle. The hotel’s exterior blends seamlessly with its surroundings, resembling a medieval hall.

Upon entering the reception, we were greeted by talking portraits whose eyes followed us around the room and which gave us a brief history of the castle and its grounds.

The hotel rooms pay homage to the Wars of the Roses, featuring rose motifs, chambers adorned with richly coloured fabrics, wooden beams, and shields adorning the walls. Designed with families in mind, the rooms offer bunk beds, a pull-out bed for an additional child, and a cot. The bathrooms are equipped with both a bath and a shower, along with some delightful herbal toiletries.

For evening meals, the Knight’s Village Restaurant offers a ‘medieval banquet’ buffet in a large hall, akin to a Sunday carvery. However, we opted for the snack bar in the glamping area where the evening entertainment was held, featuring archery lessons and a knight-themed bedtime story.

In between munching on burgers the kids were busy making friends with other sword-wielding children, while we relaxed with a drink amongst other slightly tired parents, content knowing we would end our night in a cosy bed fit for any aspiring knight or princess.

The next morning, breakfast (included for all guests) was a lively event in the hall, serving up a full English or pancakes along with fruit, cereals and pastries. It’s advisable to book well ahead to secure a good time slot.

As we bid farewell to the Earl of Warwick atop his prancing horse and waved goodbye to the talking portraits, we unanimously agreed that our visit to Warwick Castle was a day – and knight – to remember.

How much does it cost to stay at Warwick Castle Hotel?

Rooms at Warwick Castle Hotel start from £159 for a family of four on a B&B basis, or from £199 for a family of four, which includes B&B and a one-day ticket.

For other ideas for family days out this summer, Virgin Experience Days is running a major summer sale, and this offer lets you get a family trip to Legoland Windsor Resort with a huge £48 saving.

Red Letter Days is also currently offering Thorpe Park Resort Entry Tickets for Two, which you can get for £70.

“Untamed,” a quasi-police drama premiering Thursday on Netflix, is a vacation from most crime shows, set not in a big city or cozy village but in the wilds of Yosemite National Park. (Never mind that the series was shot in British Columbia, which has nothing to apologize for when it comes to dramatic scenery, and whose park rangers are not threatened by draconian budget cuts nor their parks by politicians’ desire to sell off public lands.)

The mountains and valleys, the rivers and brooks, the occasional deer or bear are as much a part of the mise-en-scène as the series’ complicated, yet essentially straightforward heroes and villains. Lacking big themes, it’s not so much meat-and-potatoes television as fish and corn grilled over a camp fire, and on the prestige scale it sits somewhere between “Magnum P.I.” and “True Detective,” leaning toward the former.

Created by Mark L. Smith (“American Primeval”) and Elle Smith (“The Marsh King’s Daughter”) and starring Eric Bana and Sam Neill, Antipodean actors wearing American accents once again, it’s a limited series, though, for a while, it has the quality of a pilot, introducing characters that could profitably be reused — with perhaps a little less of the trauma peeking out at every corner. Of course, if the show becomes a fantabulous success, the Netflix engineers may contrive a way to make it live again; it’s happened before.

“Untamed” starts big. Two climbers are making their way up the face of El Capitan when a woman’s body comes flying over the cliff, gets tangled in their ropes and hangs suspended, dead. She is hanging there still — the climbers have been rescued — when Investigative Services Branch special agent Kyle Turner (Bana) rides in on his horse.

“Here comes f—ing Gary Cooper,” mutters grumbling ranger Bruce Milch (William Smillie) to new ranger Naya Vasquez (Lily Santiago), a former police officer (and single mother, with a threatening ex) newly arrived from Los Angeles. (The horse, says Milch, who regards it as a high horse, gives him “a better angle to look down on us lowly rangers.”) What are the odds on Vasquez becoming Turner’s (junior) partner? And on a difficult relationship developing into a learning curve (“This is not L.A. — things happen different out here”) and turning almost … tender?

More heroically proportioned and handsome than anyone else in the show, a man of the forest with superior tracking skills, Turner is also a mess — a taciturn mess, which also makes him seem stoic — barely holding himself together, drinking too much, living in a cabin in the woods filled with unpacked boxes, undone by the unaddressed family tragedy that broke him and his marriage. (The dark side of stoicism.) Sympathetic remarried ex-wife Jill (Rosemarie DeWitt, keeping it real), who herself is only “as happy as I can be, I guess,” and sympathetic boss Paul Souter (Neill), try to keep him straight.

“You’ve locked yourself away in this park, Kyle,” Souter tells Turner. “It’s not healthy.” Turner, however, prefers “most animals to people — especially my horse.” Nevertheless, he has a couple of friends: Shane Maguire (Wilson Bethel), a wildlife manager — that means he shoots things, so be forewarned — also living in the woods, but without the cabin, is the toxic one; Mato Begay (Trevor Carroll), an Indigenous policeman, the nontoxic one. And he’s sleeping with a concierge at the local nice hotel, just so that element is covered; it’s otherwise beside the point.

If the dialogue often has the flavor of coming off a page rather than out of a character, it gets the job done, and if the characters are essentially static, people don’t change overnight, and consistency is a hallmark of detective fiction. The narrative wisely stays close to Turner and/or Vasquez; there are enough twists and tendrils in the main overlapping plots without running off into less related matters. (Keeping the series to six episodes is also a plus, and something to be encouraged, makers of streaming series. Your critic will thank you for it.) Still, between the hot cases and the cold cases, with their collateral damage; hippie squatters from central casting chanting “Our Earth, our land;” a mysterious gold tattoo, indigenous glyphs and old mines — there is an especially tense scene involving a tight tunnel and rising water — the show stays busy. Though last-minute heavy surprises don’t register emotionally — trauma overload, maybe — you will not be left wanting for answers, or closure.

And you will learn quite a bit about vultures and their dining habits — not what you might think.

“The Institute,” a 2019 novel by Stephen King, Maine’s Master of the Macabre — or horror, I just said macabre for the alliteration — has become a miniseries with some major additions and minor emendations. Premiering Sunday on MGM+, it belongs to a popular genre in which superpowerful young’uns are gathered in some sort of academy, and more specifically to one in which children with extraordinary powers are weaponized by adults for … reasons. They always have reasons, those cruel adults.

The child at the center of the story is 14-year-old Luke Ellis (Joe Freeman, who shoulders a lot of dramatic weight), a genius with a mostly untapped ability to move things with his mind. (Classic power!) One night while Luke is asleep, people break into his house, and when he wakes in the morning in his bed, you know as well as I that what he’ll find outside his bedroom door is not the rest of his house — just like Patrick McGoohan in “The Prisoner,” one of several other works for the screen that may cross your mind as the show goes on. “Stranger Things,” “The Matrix,” “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” “The Breakfast Club” and “Severance” are some others that came to my mind.

Luke is in the Institute, a drab complex, whose young inmates are identified either as “TK” (telekinetic) or “TP” (telepathic), or once in a blue moon, “PC” (precognitive). Just how Luke’s kidnappers fixed on him in the first place is something for you not to think about. But there he is, and because he is also a genius, his warders think he might be more than usually useful to them. Ms. Sigsby (Mary-Louise Parker) runs the place; her cheery tone and promises of fun food and no bedtime does not hide from you, or from Luke, the fact that she is a liar. That she tells Luke he’s there as part of a project to “serve not just your country but the whole world” is not something to impress any kidnapped teenager.

Fionn Laird, left, Mary-Louise Parker, Simone Miller, Viggo Hanvelt and Arlen So in “The Institute.”

(Chris Reardon / MGM+)

Aiding and abetting Sigsby are sepulchral security head Stackhouse (Julian Richings), who at one point will speak the words “unjustly vilified term final solution”; Tony (Jason Diaz), an almost comically sadistic orderly; and Dr. Hendricks (Robert Joy), who has cooked up the pseudoscientific nonsense at the heart of the plan and puts Luke through a variety of upsetting “tests.” Housekeeper Maureen (Jane Luk) is nice, though — not to be completely trusted, necessarily, but nice.

Meanwhile, handsome Tim Jamieson (Ben Barnes), a former policeman, decorated for an incident that left him bad about feeling decorated, hitchhikes into town — the town near the Institute, whatever it’s called — and gets himself a job with the local constabulary as its “nightknocker,” checking that businesses have locked their doors and the streets are trouble free. At the police station, he meets Officer Wendy Gullickson (Hannah Galway), which makes space for some light guy-gal vibing, while his nocturnal peregrinations will bring him into contact with Annie (Mary Walsh), a street person and conspiracy theorist, who does know an actual thing or two, and who will inspire Tim to poke around that place up on the hill with the guards and the barbed-wire fence. He may not be a cop anymore, but he is not, he says, “the kind of guy who can look the other way.”

At the mostly empty, sort of shabby Institute — like a student center that hasn’t been updated in 30 years, because what’s the point — Luke meets fellow inmates Kalisha (Simone Miller), who inexplicably kisses him upon first meeting, Iris (Birva Pandya), cool kid Nick (Fionn Laird), and later little Avery (Viggo Hanvelt), who may prove the most powerful of all.

The institute has a Front Hall and a Back Hall; at some point, kids from the former are transferred to the latter, which completes a “graduation” the staff mark with a cake and candles. (They’re told that after doing time in the Back Hall, they’ll be going home, which could not possibly be part of the plan.) The meaning of the column of smoke rising from one of the compound’s buildings should be immediately obvious.

Written by Benjamin Cavell (who co-wrote the 2020 adaptation of King’s “The Stand”) and directed by Jack Bender (King’s “Mr. Mercedes”), it drags at times and isn’t particularly interesting to look at, though there’s action and a few special effects toward the end, which, King being King, isn’t over until it’s over — and it never is. Parker is always good to watch, and her Mrs. Sigsby is given some material to make her seem human — if not quite to humanize her — but nothing regarding the Institute and its complicated plans and methods really makes any sense, even in King’s made-world.

Still, if you regard “The Institute” as a kind of YA novel about resistance and revolt, and a metaphor for the way young people have been sacrificed by the old to feed their agendas and wars, it has some legs.

There are a frightening number of ways an American can become indebted today: there’s medical debt (I won’t be paying off my child’s birth until he’s nearly 5 years old, and I have insurance). Mortgages, of course (though as a millennial living in an expensive city, I wouldn’t know what those look like). And then there’s student loan debt carried by nearly 43 million Americans, and which disproportionately affects Black women. But hey, at least one good thing has come of that, as TV writer and novelist Kashana Cauley graciously acknowledges in her new book, “The Payback”: “To the student loan industry,” reads her dedication, “whose threatening phone calls made this book possible.”

Narrated by Jada Williams, a wardrobe designer turned retail salesperson, “The Payback” is full of such you-gotta-laugh-to-keep-from-crying humor. The book opens at Phoenix, the clothing store at the Glendale mall where Jada now works, and includes a hilarious yet mostly sincere appreciation for the beleaguered centers of suburban America: “I loved mall smell,” Jada narrates, waxing poetic about the scents of the bins at the candy store and the ever-present pizza smell before admitting that she sometimes even leans down to smell the plastic kiddie ride horses. “Sometimes, when there were no kids, I’d lean into the horse and sniff it to get a whiff of plastic, childhood dreams, and dried piss. Yes, I know, nobody’s supposed to savor the aroma of pee, and I wouldn’t rank it first among the smells of the world, but pee is life. It’s humanity. It’s the mall.”

Jada loves the mall, and she even loves her job, which is not a given for anyone who’s lost their dream career like she did. She’s passionate about helping people find the clothes that look and make them feel good, even if she’s doing that for 20% commission. She’s definitely gotten over her sticky fingers habit, too, except that, well, on the day the book opens, someone leaves an expensive watch in the fitting room, and Jada can’t help but pocket it. This eventually leads to her getting fired, but not before the boss she likes, Richard, dies on the store’s floor and Jada and her co-workers get to witness the newly formed debt police in action chasing and beating up Richard’s grieving widower during his wake.

The debt police are exactly what they sound like: cops who come after people in debt. Cauley, a former writer for “The Daily Show With Trevor Noah” who has contributed to the New Yorker, has fun with this concept: she dresses them up in turquoise and makes them all obnoxiously hot and as annoying as the worst Angeleno cliché you can think of (they’re especially obsessed with overpriced new age treatments and diet culture). The cherry on top is their true apathetic evil. “These Leo moon incidents are always the worst,” a debt policeman says, for example, while literally beating Jada up.

Six months after she’s fired, Jada is making money by “eating food on camera in the hope that internet people, mostly guys, according to their screen names and Cash App handles, would pay [her] rent.” She eats shrimp for its pop and the way she can lick it; graham crackers for their whisper and crackle; almonds for their snap; celery sticks for their crunch. On the one hand, she’s paying her rent; on the other hand, her relationship to food has become sonically focused and exhausting.

The saving grace is that Jada manages to stay friends with her former Phoenix co-workers, Lanae (frontwoman of a punk band, the Donner Party) and Audrey (a runner and hacker in her spare time). Together, they come up with a plan to erase their own — and everyone else’s — student loan debt. It’s a heist, of sorts, except instead of getting rich, they’ll stop being in the hole for tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars. But the real pleasure, just like it is in any good heist movie, is witnessing the three women spending time together and becoming closer over the course of the book.

Jada is a deeply imperfect narrator. She’s quick to judge others, slow to trust, and even steals a watch on page 12 (Gasp! She’s a thief!) So, yes, she’s a messy millennial who has some issues to work through, but neither she nor anyone deserves to spend the rest of their life indebted to a system that claimed a college education as the only way to break into the middle class, and which instead ends up keeping so many from it.

The novel is a satire, of course, and the debt police are over the top because it’s generically appropriate, but also because Cauley is using humor to approach the horrifying reality that people really do go to prison for having debt in this country. And even when they don’t, student loan debt ends up increasing the racial wealth gap. According to the latest data from the Education Data Initiative, “Black and African American college graduates owe an average of $25,000 more in student loan debt than white college graduates.” Flash-forward four years after graduation, and “Black students owe an average of 188% more than white students.”

Yet the job of a novelist isn’t to hit you over the head with statistics but to entertain you — if you learn anything along the way or think more deeply about something you’d never considered, that’s great, but it’s not the main point. For all that it deals with systemic racism and economic precarity, “The Payback” is a terrifically fun book that made me laugh out loud at least once every chapter.

Masad, a books and culture critic, is the author of the novel “All My Mother’s Lovers” and the forthcoming novel “Beings.”

July 11 (UPI) — President Donald Trump and first lady Melania Trump on Friday toured areas devastated by flash flooding in central Texas that has killed more than 100, including at least 36 children, on the Fourth of July.

The president and first lady arrived in Kerr County, Texas, shortly after 12:20 p.m. CDT to meet with people and families in Kerr County, where the Guadalupe River rose 26 feet and killed at least 121, including several children who had been staying at a Christian summer camp, Camp Mystic.

“This is a tough one,” Trump said during a roundtable discussion in Kerrville, Texas. “We were just making a little tour of the area. It’s hard to believe the devastation.”

He called the Guadalupe a “little narrow river that becomes a monster” when torrential rains pummeled the area during the early morning hours on Independence Day.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “We just gave our warmest condolences, but how do you give condolences?”

The president praised the first responders and community members who risked their lives to save others during the tragedy.

The first lady also met with victims’ families and offered her “deepest sympathy to all of the parents who lost beautiful young souls.”

“We are grieving with you,” Melania Trump said. “Our nation is grieving with you.”

The president and first lady were joined by Texas Gov. Greg Abbott and Republican U.S. Sens. Ted Cruz and John Cornyn, both of Texas, during Friday’s visit.

Trump approved a major disaster declaration for Texas earlier this week. He told NBC’s Meet the Press on Thursday that the flood was a “once-in-every-200-year” event and said he supported the installation of a dedicated alarm system to warn of future floods.

“After having seen this horrible event, I would imagine you’d put alarms up in some form,” he said.

According to Abbott, search and rescue operations still continue with some sources saying more than 170 people are still missing, including many children.

Department of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem announced Thursday that “We remain laser focused in our work with Governor Abbott and local Texas leaders to support those impacted by the tragic flooding.”

Lena Dunham, of “Girls” fame, with her husband Luis Felber, has created a romantic comedy, “Too Much,” premiering Thursday on Netflix. It’s lighter in tone than that previous show but still comes with plenty of dysfunction, self-sabotage and sex. (Drugs too, though it doesn’t make a case for them.) The titles of the episodes establish a negative relation to the genre: “Terms of Resentment,” “Enough, Actually,” “Notting Kill,” “Nonsense and Sensibility,” “Pity Woman,” “Ignore Sunrise,” “To Doubt a Boy.” But in the end, it wants what they’re having.

Dunham, who wrote or co-wrote all 10 episodes and directed several, has elected not to star, but has brought in Megan Stalter, from “Hacks” as her stand-in, Jessica. (Dunham plays Nora, Jessica’s depressed older sister, mostly from a bed.) Like Jessica, Dunham is an American living in England, in a relationship with a musician, so we may credit at least some details to the authority of their shared experience.

Jessica once wanted to direct films, to “say something about the female experience,” but she has been working for 15 years as a line producer for an ad agency, a job at which she is evidently good, but which means little to her. When her New York firm merges with a British company, she’s sent to London for three months to help make a Christmas commercial, starring Rita Ora. Having been left six months before by her longtime boyfriend, Zev (Michael Zegen) for willowy knitting influencer Wendy Jones (Emily Ratajkowski), to whom he’s become engaged, she is ready to go — all the more so because her happy place is “love stories set in pastoral England.”

On her first night in town, Jessica discovers that the “estate” she thought she was renting is not Pemberley but public housing; she takes a taxi to a random pub, where Felix (Will Sharpe), the boy in this 30-something love story, is performing a sad song to a few patrons. They meet-cute in the bathroom. He walks her home. They talk. He lends her his coat. (There is, interestingly, no attempt to convince us that Felix is a major talent; indeed, the suggestion is that such career as he had is on a downward slope.)

People fall out of love on television almost as often as they fall into it, sometimes as a prelude to falling back into it, or falling for someone else, and less often deciding that they are in fact happier on their own. From the wealth of self-help books, advice columns, therapists, country songs and, yes, romantic comedies that fill our culture, I reckon the messier elements of “Too Much” will feel familiar to many. There is plenty of chaos in this comedy, but its best moments come in passages of relative calm. (They are something of a relief from the dominant emotional mishigas.) A long, wordless scene consisting of a single overhead shot of Felix and Jess on a bed, as she listens to a mix he made her, is remarkably moving, not least because the actors are doing so much while doing so little.

“Too Much” on Netflix first look.

(Netflix)

Even as she becomes involved with Felix, Jessica continues her practice of recording private videos on her phone, on TikTok, as a sort of therapeutic diary, ranting about Zev; many are addressed directly to Wendy Jones. Meanwhile, she deals with Andrew Scott as a pretentious director (“We’ve got to make this feel like it’s Ken Loach doing a Christmas film”) and mucks in with new boss Jonno (Richard E. Grant) and colleagues Josie (Daisy Bevan), Kim (Janicza Bravo), who is interested in Josie, and chatterbox Boss (Leo Reich), who has published an “experimental PDF novel, to much acclaim” and broke up with someone because “he did not have the emotional intelligence necessary to deal with someone whose love language is being a b— in a fun way.” She confounds them with her loud, childlike American energy, filling empty spaces with words, making jokes that don’t come off. (“Just kidding” is a thing she says a lot.)

Recently sober, Felix has his own complement of bandmates, friends and friendly ex-girlfriends, including three women named Polly — Adèle Exarchopoulos plays the important one — whose history with Felix makes Jess nervous. (Jennifer Saunders is a bit of a surprise.) Sharpe, last seen on TV in the second season of “The White Lotus,” plays him quietly, a little melancholy, perhaps, but not unduly moody; even in a difficult situation — he’s carrying just as much baggage as Jessica — his energy remains low-key and relatively grounded, though he will be called upon to do some panicked running.

If the series has a fault, it’s that there’s possibly too much “Too Much.” In the movies, the business of “boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl” (substitute your preferred genders), has traditionally been settled in under two hours. The streaming economy, however, has stretched the narrative timeline, elongated the arc, padding out a predetermined number of episodes with extraneous digressions, giving minor characters things to do that don’t necessarily contribute to the story, while not developing into much on their own. There are brief cutaways to Jonno’s home life, which at least has the benefit of giving us more Grant, plus Naomi Watts as his wife, Ann; scenes back in New York likewise give us unrelated time with Rita Wilson as Jessica’s mother, Lois; Rhea Perlman her mouthy grandmother, Dottie; Dunham’s Nora and Andrew Rannells as her ex-husband, Jameson, who left her in favor of “exploring non-monogamy with a couple both named Cody.”

More problematic, an exasperating character like Jessica, lived with at such length, can become exhausting, and she does. Dunham mitigates this, and the roller coaster of Jessica and Felix’s relationship, by employing an episodic structure, setting whole or nearly whole episodes against different backdrops: a wedding, a work trip, a dinner party, Felix at home with his parents (Stephen Fry and Kaori Momoi), Jess and Felix up all night (having sex, watching “Paddington”) when she has to be fresh for work in the morning, and a flashback to Jess’ history with Zev (he’s been made a “writer,” shorthand for pathetic). Taken individually, as discrete stories, they’re easier to digest. The writing is sharp, the performances spot-on.

Stalter, who is in her fourth season stealing scenes on “Hacks,” plays a character halfway around the world from her character there. Where her Kayla is brash, entitled and self-confident to a fault, Jess is needy, full of second thoughts and self-doubts, even as she projects a kind of frantic cheerfulness. (“I’m a chill girl, I’m normal,” she tells herself, doubtfully.) Dunham often shoots Stalter straight on, filling the screen with her face, which pays benefits; she has great presence. (And sings very sweetly too, better than her boyfriend.)

The endgame, when we get to it, could not be any more conventional — which, I imagine, is the idea. One might think it parodic if it hadn’t been established that this is the dream in which Jessica lives; anything less would be unkind.

I see I’ve neglected to mention the dog. There is a little dog too, who plays an important part.

No surprise, 2025 has been an eventful year so far in Hollywood.

In addition to the megahits and epic bombs at the box office, the entertainment industry has been roiled by chaotic forces.

The second Trump administration. The ongoing Blake Lively–Justin Baldoni legal saga. The federal trial of Sean “Diddy” Combs, resulting in a mixed verdict in which the hip-hop mogul was acquitted of the most serious charges — racketeering and sex trafficking. And of course, the devastating wildfires that ravaged the Los Angeles area, particularly Pacific Palisades and Altadena, back in January.

But in terms of the actual business of movies, TV and streaming, there’s plenty of serious stuff to dig into that could shape the future of entertainment — from streaming’s continued ascent, to Disney and Universal’s lawsuit against Midjourney, to the race for state tax credits to save California’s beleaguered production economy.

Here’s our Wide Shot midyear review, by the numbers.

The box office has been on a roller-coaster ride since the COVID-19 pandemic, with the release schedule feeling the effects of the industry’s broader retrenchment. Although the 2023 strikes that thinned out the release schedule are in the rearview mirror, the uncertainty has very much continued.

After a brutal first quarter (ouch, “Snow White”), sales have rebounded thanks to hits including “Minecraft,” “Sinners” and “F1,” with grosses reaching $4.43 billion so far domestically, according to Comscore. That’s up 15% from the same period last year, but still down 26% from 2019. Attendance is up 6.5% from 2024 with about 350 million tickets sold, according to Steve Buck at EntTelligence.

The challenges remain the same.

Studios struggle to draw crowds with much other than the biggest blockbusters and whatever they can convince Gen Z is an “event” movie. And the films themselves are so expensive that even big numbers don’t guarantee that an action spectacle with a robust audience will break even during its theatrical run. Even horror movies aren’t really low-budget anymore (see “Final Destination: Bloodlines” and “28 Years Later”).

After years of shortened theatrical windows, audiences know they can wait to see a new movie at home, often after just a few weeks. That’s why theater owners at the industry convention CinemaCon called on studios to commit to a longer standard gap between a movie’s theatrical release and its availability for home viewing. Meanwhile, audiences face ever longer preshows, with ads now playing between the trailers at AMC. With so much debt, the chain sure needs the money.

The slate for the rest of the year is lumpy.

July is looking strong after “Jurassic World Rebirth’s” $147-million Fourth of July weekend opening, with Warner Bros. and DC’s “Superman” reboot, and Disney and Marvel’s “The Fantastic Four: First Steps” hoping to reinvigorate the superhero genre. Prerelease tracking for “Superman” is all over the place, but an opening of $125 million is a fair target. “Fantastic Four” is poised for a debut in the ballpark of $100 million. But August is lacking in obvious hits. Maybe Paramount’s “The Naked Gun” will bring pure comedy back — but we’ll see.

Paramount caved, reaching a $16-million deal to settle President Trump’s lawsuit over CBS News’ “60 Minutes” interview with Kamala Harris. Trump declared victory over the “Fake News media,” while 1st Amendment advocates and journalists howled, fuming that the owner of one of TV’s most respected brands chose to buy peace rather than fight the case — widely considered frivolous — and stand up for press freedom.

There are still unanswered questions. In the aftermath of the deal, a source close to Trump‘s world said the president’s team is also anticipating millions of dollars in airtime for PSAs related to MAGA-friendly causes and antisemitism — an alleged side deal that Trump himself referenced after the fact. Paramount said its deal with the Trump team did not include PSAs.

In any event, Paramount’s leaders — not to mention its incoming owners at Skydance Media and RedBird — are eager to move on. David Ellison and Shari Redstone are now counting on the Federal Communications Commission to finally approve the $8-billion merger so they can get to work reshaping the storied entertainment firm.

Speaking of Paramount, one of the company’s biggest franchises is causing headaches for the new owners — and vice versa — as the company wrangles with the creators of “South Park” over the future of the long-running, foulmouthed cartoon.

Skydance balked at a proposed overall deal worth at least $2.5 billion for the “South Park” guys, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, sources have said. (Their current $900-million deal is still in place.) Separately, the two sides are trying to work out the streaming rights to the show. Paramount wants to run the episodes on Paramount+, but it also wants to share the rights (and the costs) with another streamer — perhaps the 300-plus episodes’ current home, HBO Max. The streaming rights are expected to fetch north of $200 million a year.

In Hollywood’s current era of downsizing, Skydance may have legitimate reasons to not want to overpay for a show entering its 27th season. But Parker and Stone still have leverage: Without “South Park,” the cupboard at Comedy Central is pretty bare.

Parker and Stone’s lawyers have gone to the mat, accusing David Ellison’s allies — namely former NBCUniversal boss and current RedBird executive Jeff Shell — of overstepping their authority in the negotiations. The “South Park” team expressed its displeasure in a way only the makers of Cartman and Kenny could. After Comedy Central announced a delay for the new season premiere, the show’s X profile tweeted a statement saying the Skydance deal was “a s—show and is f— up South Park.”

Hollywood got its long-sought lifeline from Sacramento, as Gov. Gavin Newsom signed into law a beefed-up film and television tax credit program, allocating $750 million annually for productions in the state.

That’s more than double the previous program, which was capped at $330 million a year. Shortly afterward, the state legislature passed a law to increase the tax credit to as much as 35% of qualified expenditures for movies and TV series shot in the Greater Los Angeles area — and up to 40% for productions shot outside the region. It also expanded the types of productions that could qualify.

California currently provides a 20% to 25% tax credit to offset qualified production expenses, such as money spent on film crews and building sets. The plan does not cover above-the-line expenses, such as actor and director salaries, which remains a disadvantage as California tries to compete with other states and countries. New York and Texas are both ramping up their own incentive programs.

The Golden State’s production economy has been devastated by competition. Boosting the tax incentives is one lever the state can pull to lure shoots back. There’s also been a push to overhaul red tape at the local level in Los Angeles. Whatever good all this does, it’s sure to be more effective than Trump’s now-largely forgotten call for tariffs on movies produced abroad.

Streaming hit a major symbolic milestone earlier this year, as television usage for YouTube, Netflix and their brethren overtook broadcast and cable for the first time in May, according to Nielsen. Streaming services combined to attract 44.8% of all TV set viewing, representing the largest share to date for direct-to-consumer platforms. Viewership for linear networks was just behind at 44.2%.

Nielsen’s regular viewership report — the Gauge — is a useful snapshot of the state of television today. Combined with the rapid decline of cable and satellite bundle subscriptions, the drop-off in viewing explains much of what’s going on at the legacy media companies.

Firms including Disney and Paramount are still cutting hundreds of jobs to adjust to the new realities. Warner Bros. Discovery — which has been on a yearslong quest to reduce its heavy debt load — said it will split its operations in two, cleaving the studios and streaming business from its global networks. That decision followed NBCUniversal’s move to spin off its cable nets into a new company called Versant.

Those plans are gambles. Cable networks are in decline, but they’re profitable. For most media companies, streaming is growing but has only just gotten into the black after years of losing billions.

Honorable mentions:

$417.5 million: Alcon Entertainment, the production company known for “The Blind Side” and “Blade Runner 2049,” gained a prized asset by acquiring the film library of bankrupt Village Roadshow. The $417.5-million deal gives the firm Village’s stakes in movies including “Joker” and “Mad Max: Fury Road,” both released by Warner Bros. Village Roadshow declared bankruptcy amid a brutal legal battle with Warner Bros. over its release of “The Matrix Resurrections,” which went to streaming and theaters at the same time.

$400 million: “It Ends With Us” director Justin Baldoni’s lawsuits against actress Blake Lively, her husband Ryan Reynolds, the New York Times and others were tossed last month, with a judge ruling that the claims — including defamation, extortion and breach of contract — failed to pass legal muster. U.S. District Judge Lewis J. Liman granted motions to dismiss both a $400-million countersuit against Lively, Reynolds and others and a $250-million defamation claim against The Times.

$2 billion: The biggest movie of the year isn’t from Hollywood at all. It’s “Ne Zha 2,” an animated Chinese film that grossed more than $2 billion, the vast majority of which came from its home country. Despite trade wars and the dominance of local productions, though, U.S. movies can still do well in China. “Jurassic World Rebirth” opened with $41.6 million there.

$20 million: Walt Disney Co. and Universal are suing AI firm Midjourney for allegedly ripping off and copying their intellectual property with its image-generating technology. With 150 violations cited in the lawsuit, at a statutory $150,000 per infringing item, that’s a total of more than $20 million in potential damages.

$300 billion: The eye-popping valuation for privately held OpenAI, the San Francisco company behind ChatGPT and Sora.

$9.2 billion: The amount Disney ultimately paid for Comcast’s Hulu stake, valuing the service at $27.6 billion. After a mediation process, Disney paid less for the stake than Comcast wanted.

— Times staff writers Meg James, Samantha Masunaga, Wendy Lee, Stephen Battaglio, Stacy Perman and Josh Rottenberg contributed to this article.

Stuff we wrote

Finally …

Listen: For your morning run, Killswitch Engage’s “This Consequence.”

Watch: I finally started “Apple Cider Vinegar” over the weekend, and hoo boy, what a fascinating, infuriating story.

Fine, I’ll say it. I need Superman. I’m craving a hero who stands for truth and justice whether he’s rescuing cats or reporting the news. Cheering for such idealism used to feel corny; all the cool, caped crusaders had ethical kinks. Even his recent movies have seemed a little embarrassed by the guy, scuffing him up with cynicism. I’m with the latest incarnation of Superman (David Corenswet) when he tells Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan) that having a big heart is “the real punk rock.”

Director James Gunn’s antsy reboot skips past the origin story of infant Kal-El slamming into Kansas in an escape pod from Krypton. Instead, this “Superman” opens with Corenswet’s savior slamming into Earth again, this time after losing his first fight. Lex Luthor (Nicholas Hoult) and his bionic minions have batted Superman around Metropolis like a toy, forcing him to flee to his Fortress of Solitude in Antarctica with 14 broken bones and a busted bladder. The starkness of the white snow against his bright costume looks like a blank page asking: Who should Superman be today?

The Superman myth has always been a fable of collision: a near-perfect alien challenged to protect fragile, scared humans who struggle to accept that we’re not the bestest beings in the universe. Here, Kal-El’s parents (Bradley Cooper and Angela Sarafyan) are heard insulting Earthlings outright — “The people there are simple and profoundly confused” — which, for the franchise, is actually going a little easy on humankind. Historically, we tend to let him down, going back to his surprisingly spiky movie debut in 1951’s “Superman and the Mole Men” (note the lack of a “versus”), in which George Reeves protected the outsiders of the title from a rural American mob. “Obviously, none of you can be trusted with guns, so I’m going to take them away from you,” he lectures the townsfolk, pretzeling their shotguns. “Stop acting like Nazi storm troopers!”

Gunn isn’t that punk rock. He’s pop punk; he wants to be liked by a mass audience. Having taken control of the DC Universe, he’s pivoted away from gloom to concoct a Superman who isn’t too sweet or too serious — frankly, he’s a little stupid. After a hasty resuscitation from his adorable dog Krypton and his robot butlers (voiced by Alan Tudyk, Pom Klementieff and Michael Rooker, among others), Superman races back into battle before he’s healed. He gets beaten senseless again.

Stupid is a smart idea for a 21st century reboot. Superman’s stymied do-gooder impulse feels right for an era where you can’t say “Save the whales” without some genius asking why you don’t care about plankton. The goal might have been to make him super naive. But Gunn doesn’t do sincerity, so this Superman comes off as obtuse and overwhelmed — which, even for a Julliard-trained actor like Corenswet, is pretty impossible to pull off with any personality. His dimples and blue eyes are empathetic. But he mostly just looks dazed.

This Superman is all impulsive energy, much like his unhousebroken puppy, who also wears a cape and tramples on things when he tries to help. They’re essentially the same species. Superman gets distracted midfight by his urgent need to protect a squirrel; Krypto spends one brouhaha looting a pet store. Superman’s reporter girlfriend of three months, Lois (a savvy and sensible Brosnahan, kitted in fabulous ‘70s-style threads), is well-aware of his dual identity and the flaws in his hasty reactions to injustice. She points out that physically threatening the thuggish president of fictional Boravia (Zlatko Buric) to stop invading weaker countries is technically torture. “People were going to die!” Superman sputters. Lois’ reticence about him mirrors our own vacillation with the DC Universe’s new direction: We need to see something more from this guy before we commit.

In this script, the lines of good and evil aren’t drawn in black and white or even gray — they’re a tangle of squiggles. There are no neat solutions, no shortcuts and there’s no way for Superman to defend himself when Hoult’s Luthor drums up a dubious sex scandal to accuse the Kryptonian of “grooming” humanity and hires an actual room of typing monkeys to ruin his online reputation. (You may remember that before Gunn was hired to oversee DC Studios, Walt Disney fired him from Marvel when a blogger behind Pizzagate unearthed the director’s old shock-jock jokes about pedophilia and 9/11. Clearly, that grievance is still on his mind.)

The plot is impatient but entertaining enough. The villainous billionaire Luthor, who Hoult plays like a beady techno-zealot, has several schemes up his fancy sleeve. One involves a tent city in the desert that hides a portal to an extrajudicial jail for his enemies, both interstellar and domestic. (He’s got green-skinned babies and a sobbing ex-girlfriend in there.) Gunn has sarcastically tried to make the place look cheery — Luthor’s henchmen are dressed in mismatched Hawaiian shirts — but the sequence might give you the shivers.

Gunn is known for wrangling groups of weirdos (“Guardians of the Galaxy,” “The Suicide Squad”) into blockbuster action-comedies. His instincts are to spray everything with silly string and slap on a wacky soundtrack. Here, there’s actually a very good doom metal electronic score by John Murphy and David Fleming, but the movie stiffens up whenever it needs to get real. When we visit Clark Kent’s family farm, it’s touching to see his childhood bedroom. But his plainspoken Ma and Pa (Neva Howell and Pruitt Taylor Vince) have been made to talk so slowly they sound like they have brain injuries. It’s as though “Superman” isn’t sure how to be earnest without whacking us over the head with it.

The script is way more confident when Gunn gets to scribble in the margins, whisking in Milly Alcock’s party-hardy Supergirl for a fast and fun cameo. (She’ll have her own movie next summer.) Luthor’s main henchwoman, known only as the Engineer (María Gabriela de Faría), is constructed from skittering robotic cells that let her change form like a Swiss Army Knife, while his latest ditzy blonde girlfriend, Eve (a very funny Sara Sampaio), wriggles her way into becoming a memorable highlight. One of the film’s umpteenth kaiju fights introduces the corporate-sponsored Justice Gang, a trio of apathetic superheroes spearheaded by Green Lantern (Nathan Fillion) with Hawkgirl (Isabela Merced) and Mr. Terrific (Edi Gathegi). They dispatch a monster so gracelessly that Superman finally gets some sense knocked into him. “There’s got to be a better way to do this,” he groans.

The movie’s tone shape-shifts just as recklessly as an outer space inmate named Metamorpho (Anthony Carrigan) who can transform into explosive acid. Gunn is compelled to show us his entire vision for the DC Universe. But as he cuts from a slow-burning gag about a garage door opener to a legitimately brutal execution to a whizbang combat scene set to a song that whoops, “Fun fun fun!,” I just wished I was having more of it.

This isn’t quite the heart-soaring “Superman” I wanted. But these adventures wise him up enough that I’m curious to explore where the saga takes him next. Still, I left chewing over how comic book movies can be so popular and prescient, and yet people who’ve grown up rooting against characters like Lex Luthor cheer them on in the real world. Maybe Gunn can answer that in a sequel. Or maybe our stubborn myopia is what this Superman means when he says, “I screw up all the time but that is being human.”

Any profession can corrupt its practitioners — and arts critics are no exception. Are they enlightened standard-setters dragging us back from a cultural abyss — or deformed exiles from the arts who, with sharpened pens and bent backs, are ready to pounce on plot-holes and devour careers at a moment’s notice?

If Charlotte Runcie’s debut novel, “Bring the House Down,” is anything to go by, it’s a bit of both. The book centers around four heady weeks at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, which begins the unraveling of two newspaper critics who have traveled up from London to cover the sprawling performance art event. Runcie, a former arts columnist for the Daily Telegraph, has created something so delightfully snackable that you may, as I did, gulp it down in two or three sittings.

Runcie’s anti-hero is theater critic Alex Lyons. Alex gives everything he reviews either one star or five, and the latter are vanishingly rare. He bemoans a world of “online shopping reviews,” where “five stars has come to mean the baseline, rather than outstanding,” and so insists on panning almost everything he sees. What’s bad for artists is good for him: His reviews become desperately sought-after career makers or breakers. “The paper didn’t allow Alex to award zero stars. Otherwise, he’d do it all the time.”

“Bring the House Down”

(Doubleday)

We learn about Alex’s story through our narrator Sophie Ridgen, his colleague who, despite being in her mid-30s like Alex, is on a very different track. Alex rose quickly through the newspaper’s ranks, and his reviews are featured on the front page almost daily. Sophie continues to toil as a junior culture writer, picking up whatever scraps nobody else wants. Sophie is also a new mom, overworking to compensate for time lost to maternity leave. She feels uncomfortable in her post-pregnancy body, exhausted and frustrated with her husband. Alex, on the other hand, finds it “embarrassingly easy” to get laid.

But Alex’s glory days are numbered. Early on at the Fringe, he sees a one-woman show that, unsurprisingly, he hates. He writes a review as devastating as it is personal (calling the star a “dull, hectoring frump,” her voice a “high-pitched whine”). All of this would be business as usual for Alex except for one problem: After quickly filing his review of the show, he bumps into Hayley Sinclair, its creator and star, in a bar. He takes her home and sleeps with her. He knew the one star was waiting for her; she did not.

When she finds out, there is hell to pay. Hayley transforms her nightly show into the “Alex Lyons Experience,” collecting testimony from his ex-girlfriends and lovers, or even those who have simply received bad reviews from him. Over the following weeks her show swells into a Greek chorus of one man’s wrongs. The whole nation, including members of Parliament, have hot takes (the performance is livestreamed). It doesn’t help his case that Alex is a bit of a nepo baby, as his mother Judith is an actor whose name would be recognized in most British households.

Sophie, living with Alex in the company-rented flat, has a front row seat to his public unraveling. She watches the livestreams with guilty awe, stalks Alex and Hayley compulsively online, and feverishly scans social media for the latest gossip (Runcie is great at writing a fake mean Tweet/X dispatch). She starts missing calls with her husband and their toddler son, as she becomes fully obsessed with the drama unfolding in Edinburgh.

As she continues to inhabit the same flat as her colleague, Sophie is increasingly questioned by others as to whose side she’s on, Alex or Hayley’s. For much of the book, she seems unable to make up her mind. She refuses to give up on Alex, and increasingly becomes his only source of companionship, which she can’t help but find flattering. But she also finds herself sympathetic to and magnetized by Hayley, whose popularity is blossoming on the Fringe circuit and beyond.

While Alex and Hayley both appear to possess other-worldly levels of charisma, one flaw with Runcie’s novel is that this is something we are repeatedly told, rather than shown. Alex spends most of the book being condescending to Sophie, and yet she is transfixed by him. “He had the strange ability to make you feel as if you were the only person who was in on a joke, the only person who understood some fundamental truth about the world that escaped other people.” This feels unsatisfyingly generic, like something you might find in an online wedding vows template.

We are at least given more backstory and a more plausible explanation for Sophie’s fascination with Alex: the ego trip. Having been dragged down by motherhood, a rocky marriage, and grief over the death of her own mother, Sophie enjoys Alex’s increasing dependence on her, a lone rock of support amid an ocean of alienation. There is something undeniably delicious in watching someone you revere fall to their knees, and Sophie begins to see in Alex “a tiny flickering of fear, at first only visible as a barely perceptible interruption to his arrogance, like a power cut that dims the lights for just a hundredth of a second.”

Hayley, unfortunately, never quite comes to life in the same way. And it remains unclear why her show, which is essentially a litany of (legitimate) complaints about a real-life terrible man with some added pyrotechnics, takes Edinburgh and the entire country by such storm. “I find I can’t explain why it had the effect that it did,” Sophie tells us. “This wasn’t theater, not really; it was a happening. The audience weren’t spectators anymore, but a silent, connected web of righteous energy.” Without more to go on, we have no choice but to take her word for it.

The result feels like a missed opportunity to interrogate some important questions. How much does the identity (gender, race, or class) of the critic matter when it comes to their ability to judge art? What about the identity of the artist themselves? In other words, who shall criticize the critics? Readers may leave Runcie’s novel feeling that some of these questions go unanswered, but this deeply entertaining novel is nonetheless well worth the price of admission.

Mills is a writer and human rights researcher who has worked for Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, the Wall Street Journal and Associated Press. She lives in New York.

Hold on to your water glasses because you can hear the plot of “Jurassic World Rebirth” coming from a mile away. A ragtag group of adventurers land on a remote island planning to exploit dinosaur DNA — and some of them get chomped. The only new thing about this seventh installment is the cast: Scarlett Johansson and Mahershala Ali as freelance covert operatives Zora and Duncan, Jonathan Bailey as paleontologist Henry Loomis and Rupert Friend as a pharmaceutical titan named Martin who wants to treat coronary disease by harvesting samples from three massive reptile hearts. Gauging by the response every time this sequel has come up in conversation, it should have been subtitled: “This Time There’s No Chris Pratt.”

I went to the theater with my own heart as big as a Titanosaur’s. (Goofy name aside, it’s a real herbivore and you’ll see a herd of them.) After all, screenwriter David Koepp wrote the screenplay for the 1993 original and the franchise’s latest director, Gareth Edwards, made a serviceable “Godzilla.”

Alas, Edwards has made “Godzilla” again. “Jurassic World Rebirth” is a straight monster movie with zero awe or prestige. It’s incurious about its stomping creatures and barely invested in the humans either, tasking Johansson and most of the cast to play fairly similar shades of hardy and determined. You’ll see a nod to the 1962 adventure “One Million Years B.C.” (you know: Raquel Welch, fur bikini), which is more of a template than a kitschy joke. There isn’t a shiver of surprise about who gets the chomp, only disappointment that the fatalities are so bloodless — they’re mild even for PG-13.

Some of this ennui is by design. The narrative backdrop is that after 32 years of who-coulda-thunk-it rampages, humankind is tired of dealing with the darned things. Audiences can relate.

To establish this miserliness of spirit, the present-day scenes start with a Brooklyn traffic jam caused by an escaped sauropod lying collapsed and dying on the side of the road. It’s the same species that transformed Sam Neill, Laura Dern and Jeff Goldblum into giddy, glassy-eyed children, only now drained of all majesty. Some creep has even spray-painted its hindquarters with graffiti.

Plenty more dinosaurs will arrive in the film’s two-hour-plus running time: swooping Quetzalcoatlus, splashing Mosasaurus, frilled Dilophosaurus and a bitty Whoknowswhatasaurus that Ali’s Duncan keeps in a bamboo birdcage by his boat dock in Suriname. But the only one that made me feel anything was that pathetic sauropod abandoned like a sidewalk sofa.

A beat later, “Rebirth” cuts to a shuttering museum exhibit where workmen are trashing their copy of that iconic banner that reads “When dinosaurs ruled the earth.” The original “Jurassic Park” inspired a generation of kids to dream of scientific discoveries. This era is throwing in the towel.

The action sets sail with a hefty oceanic sequence where Edwards leans on his expertise in sluicing fins and underwater ka-thumps. Our heroes also scoop up a rather ungrateful shipwrecked family: yachtsman Reuben (Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), his daughters Isabella (Audrina Miranda) and Teresa (Luna Blaise) and Teresa’s good-for-nothing boyfriend, Xavier (David Iacono). Initially, we can’t wait for Iacono’s louse to get eaten but we come to treasure his comic relief, particularly when Xavier wanders off to relieve himself next to a nest of velociraptors. Danger lurks and the doofus just stands around with his johnson in his hand.

Eventually, the crew makes land on Ile Saint-Hubert near French Guinea, where a genetic dinosaur laboratory was evacuated 17 years earlier. In an opening flashback, we learn that a technician concocting a freakish T. rex littered a Snickers wrapper, causing a chain reaction that within two minutes resulted in the snacker becoming a snack.

You may consider yourself inured to product placement. Even so, its use here is brazen and strange, from this case of death by chocolate to an “E.T.” embezzlement in which Isabella befriends a baby Aquilops with red rope licorice. There’s even a scene in an abandoned convenience store which, despite a decade and a half left in the custody of pesky dinosaurs, the snack labels remain tidily pointed toward the camera. At least that setting has a modified raptor pausing at a soda cooler to admire its reflection.

I don’t think Johansson and Ali will take as much pride in “Rebirth,” assuming they bother to watch it. Both get through the film without embarrassing themselves, in part because neither is very committed. Johansson’s tough security expert swaggers, Ali smiles and our sturdy goodwill for both actors keeps us from holding the movie against them. Early on, the two get one scene together where they put on a pretense of speaking in shorthand about the emotional costs of a career in Blackwater-style skulduggery. It has the air of a stretch before buckling in for a long haul flight.

This is composer Alexandre Desplat’s “Jurassic” debut and he dutifully reworks John Williams’ famous notes of wonder and yearning a few ways, like a subtle tinkling when Bailey’s strapping science geek imagines the joy of witnessing a dinosaur not in a zoo or a theme park, but in the wild. Bailey is a fine actor and his Loomis would be the soul of the movie if he wasn’t battling for screen time. He’s the only character who seems to like dinosaurs — everyone else sees them as dollar signs or boogeymen.

The series itself has gotten so bored with the beasties that it continues to invent new ugly mutants. “Rebirth” unleashes the Distortus rex — imagine a parakeet’s head on a bodybuilding cockroach. All the dinos struggle to feel convincing as they seem to change size every time you look at them (and the CG backdrops are chintzy). Yet, I still prefer the trusty regulars like the amphibious Spinosaurs, who resemble dog-paddling hellhounds, the pecking Quetzalcoatlus that gulps people like sardines and, of course, the Tyrannosaurus rex, now striped and able to hide in ways that defy physics but at least get an audible chortle.

“Rebirth” is a confounding title for a downbeat entry that’s mostly preoccupied by death and neglect. Who knows whether we’re at the head or tail of the Anthropocene, but the movie seems weary of our dominion. “I doubt if we make it to even 1 million,” Loomis admits, adding that he hopes to die in shallow silt so he can become a fossil too. With the franchise officially out of ideas, how about skipping to “Jurassic Park: One Million Years A.D.” so a futuristic species can resurrect us for some malevolent fun and games?

Vera, the heroine of Gary Shteyngart’s sixth novel, “Vera, or Faith,” is a whip-smart 10-year-old Manhattanite, but she’s not quite smart enough to figure out her parents’ intentions. Why is dad so concerned about “status”? Why does her stepmom call some meals “WASP lunches”? How come every time they visit somebody’s house she’s assigned to see if they have a copy of “The Power Broker” on their shelves? She’s all but doomed to be bourgeois and neurotic, as if a juvenile court has sentenced her to live in a New Yorker cartoon.

Since his 2002 debut, “The Russian Debutante’s Handbook,” Shteyngart has proved adept at finding humor in the intersection of immigrant life, wealth and relationships, and “Vera” largely sticks to that mix. But the cynicism that has always thrummed underneath his high-concept comedies — the dehumanizing algorithms, the rapacious finance system — is more prominent in this slim, potent novel. Vera is witnessing both the slow erosion of her parents’ marriage along with the rapid decline of democracy in near-future America. Her precocity gives the novel its wit, but Shteyngart is also alert to the fact that a child, however bright, is fundamentally helpless.

Not to mention desperate for her parents’ affection, which is in short supply for Vera. Her father, the editor of a liberal intellectual magazine, seems constantly distracted by his efforts to court a billionaire to purchase it, while her stepmom is more focused on her son’s ADHD and the family’s rapidly dwindling bank account. Things are no better outside in the world, where a constitutional convention seems ready to pass an amendment awarding five-thirds voting rights for “exceptional Americans.” (Read: white people.) Vera, the daughter of a Russian father and Korean mother, may be banished to second-class citizenry.

Even worse, her school has assigned her to take the side of the “five-thirders” in an upcoming classroom debate. So it’s become urgent for her to understand the world just as it’s become inexplicable. Shteyngart is stellar at showing just how alienated she’s become: “She knew kids were supposed to have more posters on their walls to show off their inner life, but she liked her inner life to stay inside her.” And she seems to be handling the crisis with more maturity than her father, who’s drunk and clumsy in their home: “If anyone needed to see Mrs. S., the school counselor with the master’s in social work degree, it was Daddy.”

It’s a challenge to write from the perspective of a child without being arch or cutesy — stories about kids learning about the real world can degrade to plainspoken YA or cheap melodrama. Shteyngart is striving for something more supple, using Vera’s point of view to clarify how adults become victims of their own emotional shutoffs, the way they use language to at once appear smart while covering up their feelings. “Our country’s a supermarket where some people just get to carry out whatever they want. You and I sadly are not those people,” Dad tells her, forcing her to unpack a metaphor stuffed full of ideology, economics, self-loathing and more.

Every chapter in the book starts with the phrase “She had to,” explaining Vera’s various missions amid this dysfunction: “hold the family together,” “fall asleep,” “be cool,” “win the debate.” Kids like her have to be action-oriented; they don’t have the privilege of adults’ deflections. Small wonder, then, that her most reliable companion is an AI-powered chessboard, which offers direct answers to her most pressing questions. (One of Shteyngart’s most potent running jokes is that adults aren’t more clever than computers they command.) Once she falls into a mission to discover the truth about her birth mother, she becomes more alert to the world’s brutal simplicity: “The world was a razor cut … It would cut and cut and cut.”

Shteyngart’s grown-up kids’ story has two obvious inspirations: One, as the title suggests, is Vladimir Nabokov’s 1969 novel “Ada, or Ardor,” the other Henry James’ 1897 novel “What Maisie Knew.” Both are concerned with childhood traumas, and if Shteyngart isn’t explicitly borrowing their plots he borrows some of their gravitas, the sense that preteendom is a crucible for experiencing life’s various crises.

In its final chapters, the novel takes a turn that is designed to speak to our current moment, spotlighting the way that Trump-era nativist policies have brought needless harm to Americans. A country can abandon its principles, he means to say, just as a parent can abandon a child. But if “Vera” suggests a particular vision of our particular dystopian moment, it also suggests a more enduring predicament for children, who live with the consequences of others’ decisions but don’t get a vote in them.

“There were a lot of ‘statuses’ in the world and each year she was becoming aware of more of them,” Vera observes. Children will have to learn them faster now.

Athitakis is a writer in Phoenix and author of “The New Midwest.”

It takes a little over an hour for “Nobu” to marinate long enough to approach a point of complexity, not exactly bitter but no longer cloyingly sweet. Nobu Matsuhisa, the celebrated sushi master, is running quality-control checks in one of his restaurants. A poor chef is sweating the test so badly, he won’t need soy sauce soon enough. His dish keeps being sent back: Chop the chives finer. Why is this pile of raw crudo smaller? Why did you paint a line of salt instead of a dot? The scene goes on, excruciatingly. A few minutes later, Robert De Niro — an early investor and co-founder — dominates a private board meeting with concerns about too-rapid growth. It’s not quite the ominous Waingro showdowns of “Heat” but in the ballpark.

Fastidiousness, precision and a kind of reputational exclusivity are at the heart of Matsuhisa’s enterprise. These are hard things to make a documentary about. But it’s also why Nobu needed to come to Beverly Hills for his concept to take root — not just any Los Angeles but the ’80s-era boomtown of power lunches and spend-to-impress dining. Spago’s Wolfgang Puck makes an appearance in director Matt Tyrnauer’s half-interesting film, fawning over his longtime friend sitting next to him but not quite articulating the essence of their revolution: high-end branding. You wish more time was spent on that conceptual idea, enabled by celebrities throwing around money on food they barely ate.

The kind of doc that “Nobu” more often resembles (as do most foodie-targeted profiles) is a gentle chronology of a humble genius and everyday guy who just happens to fly private. Matsuhisa bows to euphoric local fishmongers, does a lot of hugs and selfies with his staff, visits his roots in Japan and Peru. There are family interviews and a detour to Alaska, where, years before he had a 300-person nightly waitlist, an early restaurant of his caught fire — in the bad literal way (Tyrnauer cuts to the Anchorage newspaper headline). These false starts are somehow exhausting, lacking in suspense. He contemplated suicide, then came to California.

The food sails by: wedges of black cod with miso, delicate plates of thinly sliced fish adorned with tweezer-manipulated herbs. All of it is crazy-making and delicious. Still, apart from former Los Angeles Times food editor Ruth Reichl, who witnessed the rise of Nobu as it happened, there are few on-camera voices who speak directly to Matsuhisa’s gifts and experimentation with form. 2011’s “Jiro Dreams of Sushi” does a better job of delivering the intimate discipline of cutting and shaping. More testimony to the experience of eating at Nobu would have helped this feel less like a commercial.

“Nobu” is a film oddly unconcerned with the communal experience of dining. We hear about the way his sushi workstations are elevated (a “stage,” Matsuhisa calls them) and that’s central to the performance going on here, also the remove. Something clicks when the film heads to Nobu Malibu and visits the table of supermodel Cindy Crawford, whose “Cindy rice,” a dish he invented for her, adorns the menu. There’s a deep mutual gratitude between them that goes back years. An appreciation of the finer things? No doubt. Game recognizing game? Definitely.

It’s been 50 years since “Jaws” ruined that summer, spawning a fleet of increasingly dreadful sequels and knockoffs, turning a simple fish into a movie monster, and a dozen since “Sharknado” turned the monster into a joke. Sharks had been swimming in the culture before that, to be sure, often with the prefix “man-eating” appended, though men eat sharks too, and way more often — so who’s the real apex predator? And even though they are not as naturally cute as our cousins the dolphins and whales — I have never heard of one balancing a ball on its nose — they have also been made adorable as plush toys and cartoon characters.

“All the Sharks,” premiering Friday on Netflix, is a competition show in which four teams of two vie to photograph the most, and the most different, species of sharks, across two eight-hour days, and are set loose in the waters off Japan, the Maldives, South Africa, Australia, the Bahamas and the Galapagos Islands. And, brother, are there a lot of varieties — hammerhead shark, walking shark, whale shark, tawny nurse shark, pajama shark, pelagic thresher, tiger shark, tasselled wobbegong shark, puffadder shy shark, baby shark, mommy shark and daddy shark, to name but a few. (There are 124 species of sharks in Japanese waters, we’re told, and 200 off South Africa.) Points are awarded according to the rarity or abundance of the species in each location. These sharks are neither monsters nor jokes, though at least one contestant finds the banded houndshark “freaking adorable … their little cat eyes, their subterminal mouth.”

As competitions go, it is friendly, like “The Great British Baking Show” or “MasterChef Junior.” There’s no way to sabotage your opponents, no strategy past guessing where the sharks might be running, eating or hanging out. The purse — $50,000 — goes to the winners’ chosen marine charity, though prizes are also awarded to the top-scoring team in each episode. (Cool gear, seaside vacations.) Winning is not so much the point as just staying in as long as possible — because it’s fun. Sometimes things don’t go a team’s way, but no one has a bad attitude.

“All the Sharks” is hosted by Tom “The Blowfish” Hird, far left. The competitors are Randy Thomas, Rosie Moore, Aliah Banchik, MJ Algarra, Dan Abbott, Sarah Roberts, Brendan Talwar and Chris Malinowski.

(Netflix)

Naturally they are good-looking, because this is television, and fit, because you need to be to do this; most have professional expertise in fishy, watery or wild things. (They certainly know their sharks.) Brendan (marine biologist) and Chris (fisheries ecologist) are a team called the Shark Docs. Aliah (marine biologist specializing in stingrays — which are closely related to sharks, did you know?) and MJ, identified as an avid spearfisher and shark diver, comprise Gills Gone Wild; they met at a “bikini beach cleanup” and have been besties ever since. British Bait Off are Sarah (environmental journalist) and Dan (underwater cameraman), who like a cup of tea. And finally, there are the Land Sharks, Randy and Rosie. Dreadlocked Randy, a wildlife biologist, says, “I was always one of the only Black guys in my classes … I got that all the time: ‘Oh, you’re doing that white boy stuff’ and it’s just like, ‘No, I’m doing stuff that I love.’” Rosie, an ecologist who specializes in apex predators, wants to show girls it’s “OK to be badass … work with these crazy animals, get down and dirty.” She can hold her breath for five minutes.

The show has been produced with the usual tics of the genre: comments presented in the present tense that could only have been taped later; dramatic music and editing; the “hey ho uh-oh” narrative framing of big, loud host Tom “The Blowfish” Hird, with his braided pirate’s beard, whose website identifies him as a “heavy metal marine biologist.” Footage of great white sharks — the variety “Jaws” made famous — is inserted for the thrill factor, but none are coming.

But whatever massaging has been applied, “All the Sharks” is real enough. The contestants deal with rough seas, strong currents, jellyfish and sundry venomous creatures, intruding fishermen, limited air, sinus crises, variable visibility and unexpected orcas. And the sharks — who do not seem particularly interested in the humans, as there is no lack of familiar lunch options — do sometimes arrive in great, unsettling profusion. (There’s a reason “shark-infested waters” became a phrase.) Meanwhile, the ocean itself plays its ungovernable part. In their enveloping blueness, dotted with colorful fish and coral reefs, the undersea scenes are, in fact, quite meditative. (Humans move slow down there.) Someone describes it as like being inside a screen saver.

In the bargain, we learn not a little bit about shark behavior and biology, and there is an implicit, sometimes explicit, conservation theme. Each encountered species gets a graphic describing not only its length, weight and lifespan but the degree to which it is or isn’t endangered — and, sad to say, many are.

“Heads of State” is not the Cheech & Chong reunion film you’ve been waiting for, but a comic thriller co-starring John Cena and Idris Elba, premiering Wednesday on Prime Video. Previously joined in cultural history by the DC super antihero flick “The Suicide Squad,” the actors have remade their rivalrous characters there into an odd couple of national leaders here, dealing with conspiratorial skulduggery, bullets, bombs and the like.

Call me dim, but I wasn’t even half aware that Cena, whose muscles have muscles, maintains a long, successful career in professional wrestling — which is, of course, acting — alongside his more conventional show business pursuits; he’s ever game to mock himself and not afraid to look dumb, which ultimately makes him look smart, or to appear for all intents and purposes naked at the 2024 Oscars, presenting the award for costume design. (He was winning, too, in his schtick with Jimmy Kimmel.) Elba, whose career includes a lot of what might be called prestige genre, has such natural poise and gravity that one assumes he’s done all the Shakespeares and Shaws and Ibsens, but “The Wire” and “Luther” were more his thing. He was on many a wish list as the next James Bond, and while that’s apparently not going to happen, something of the sort gets a workout here.

Elba plays British Prime Minister Sam Clarke, described as “increasingly embattled” in his sixth year in office, who is about to meet Cena’s recently elected American president, Will Derringer, on the eve of a trip to Trieste, Italy, for a NATO conference. (Why Clarke is embattled is neither explained nor important.) Derringer resents Clarke, who can’t take him seriously, for having seemed to endorse his opponent by taking him out for fish and chips. (This is a recurring theme.) An international star in the Schwarzenegger/Stallone mold — “Water Cobra” is his franchise — one might call Derringer’s election ridiculous, but I live in a state that actually did elect Schwarzenegger as its governor, twice. Wet behind the ears (“He still hasn’t figured out the difference between a press conference and a press junket,” somebody says), Derringer thinks a lot himself, his airplane, his knowing Paul McCartney and his position. Beyond aspirational platitudes, he has no real politics, but as we first see him carrying his daughter on his shoulders, we know he’s really OK.

Directed by Ilya Naishuller (“Nobody”) and written by Josh Appelbaum, André Nemec and Harrison Query, the movie begins with a scene set at the Tomatino Festival in, Buñol, Spain, in which great crowds of participants lob tomatoes at each other in a massive food fight — it’s a real thing — foreshadowing the blood that will soon be flowing through the town square, as a team of unidentified bad guys ambush the British and American agents who are tracking them. They’ve been set up, declares M16 agent Noel Bisset (Priyanka Chopra Jonas), who is later reported “missing and presumed dead” — meaning, of course, that she is very much alive and will be seen again; indeed, we will see quite a lot of her.

Also starring is Priyanka Chopra Jonas as M16 agent Noel Bisset, who is tasked with protecting the two heads of state.

(Chiabella James / Prime Video)

Meanwhile, the prime minister and the president board Air Force One for Trieste. They talk movies: “I like actual cinema,” says Clarke, who claims to have never seen one of Derringer’s pictures. “I’m classically trained,” the movie star protests. “Did you know I once did a play with Edward Norton? But the universe keeps telling me I look cool with a gun in my hand — toy gun.”

Following attacks within and without the plane, the two parachute into Belarus and, for the remainder of the film, make their way here and there, trying to evade the private army of Russian arms dealer and sadistic creep Viktor Gradov (Paddy Considine) led by your typical tall blond female assassin (Katrina Durden). They’ll also meet Stephen Root as a computer guy and Jack Quaid as a comical American agent. Elsewhere, Vice President Elizabeth Kirk (Carla Gugino) takes charge. (“Bad?” is the note I wrote. I’ve seen my share of political thrillers.)

There will be hand-to-hand combat, missiles, machine-gun shoot-em-ups, more than a couple helicopters and a car chase through the streets of Trieste — a lovely seaside/hillside city I recommend if you’re thinking of Italy this summer. Must I tell you that antipathy will turn to appreciation as our heroes make common cause, get a little personal and, with the able Agent Bisset, become real-life action heroes? That they are middle-aged is not an issue, though there is a joke about the American movie star being less fit than the U.K. politician.

The logline portends a comedy, possibly a parody, even a satire. It’s definitely the first of these, if not especially subtle or sharp (Derringer stuck in a tree, hanging from a tangled parachute; Clarke setting off a smoke bomb in his own face — that did make me laugh), a little bit the second, and not at all the third, even though it sniffs around politics a bit. Above all, like many, most or practically all action films, it’s a fantasy in which many things happen that would not and could not ever, ever happen in the real world, because that’s not how people or physics behave. (It certainly doesn’t represent America in 2025.)

There is just as much character development or backstory as is necessary to make the players seem more or less human. Plot-wise there are a lot of twists, because the script superimposes a couple of familiar villainous agendas into a single narrative; it’s mildly diverting without being compelling, which, I would think, will ultimately work in its favor as hectic, lightly violent entertainment. Not even counting the orgy of anonymous death that has qualified as family entertainment for some time now — blame video games, I won’t argue — it’s a painless watch, and, in its cheery, fantastic absurdity, something of a respite from the messier, crazier, more unbelievable world awaiting you once the credits have rolled.

Amid their public feud over the looming tax bill, US President Donald Trump has suggested that the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) review subsidies tied to once ally Elon Musk, including those received by Tesla and SpaceX, in order to save money.

“Elon may get more subsidy than any human being in history, by far, and without subsidies, Elon would probably have to close up shop and head back home to South Africa. No more Rocket launches, Satellites, or Electric Car Production, and our Country would save a FORTUNE. Perhaps we should have DOGE take a good, hard, look at this? BIG MONEY TO BE SAVED!!!,” the president said in an early morning post on Trump’s social media platform Truth Social.

Trump’s remarks on Tuesday came after Musk renewed his criticism of the sweeping tax-cut and spending bill — which the White House hopes to sign into law by July 4th — pledging to unseat lawmakers who supported it after campaigning on limiting government spending.

Shortly after, Senate Republicans hauled Trump’s big tax breaks and spending cuts bill to passage Tuesday on the narrowest of margins, pushing past opposition from Democrats and their own GOP ranks after a turbulent overnight session.

The outcome capped an unusually tense weekend of work at the Capitol, the president’s signature legislative priority teetering on the edge of approval or collapse. In the end, that tally was 50-50, with Vice President JD Vance casting the tie-breaking vote.

Musk and Trump spar over bill

Feuding with Trump could create hurdles for Tesla and the rest of Musk’s business empire.

The US Transportation Department regulates vehicle design and would play a key role in deciding whether Tesla can mass-produce robotaxis without pedals and steering wheels, while Musk’s rocket company SpaceX has about $22bn in federal contracts.

Trump previously threatened to cut Musk’s government contracts when their relationship erupted into an all-out social media brawl in early June over the bill, which non-partisan analysts have said would add about $3 trillion to the US debt.

But after weeks of relative silence, Musk rejoined the debate on Saturday as the Senate took up the package, calling it “utterly insane and destructive” in a post on X.

On Monday, he said lawmakers who campaigned on cutting spending but backed the bill “should hang their heads in shame!” “And they will lose their primary next year if it is the last thing I do on this Earth,” Musk added.

The criticism marked a dramatic shift after the billionaire spent nearly $300m on Trump’s re-election campaign and led the administration’s controversial DOGE initiative.

Musk has argued that the legislation would greatly increase the national debt and erase the savings he says he achieved through DOGE.

Conflicts of interest

Musk was long slammed for his conflicts of interest while leading DOGE — accused of going after government agencies that had open investigations against him and his associated companies.

A report from the left-leaning think tank Public Citizen found that 70 percent of the agencies in May found that Musk aimed to make significant cuts to agencies, including the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, which had been investigating Tesla.

The Food and Drug Administration, which had been investigating his brain implant chip, Neuralink, and cuts to the Department of Defense, which has been called for by both progressive Democrats as well, comes as SpaceX receives more than $22bn in federal contracts from the agency, according to the report.

The market response

There are conflicts with Musk within the bill he’s actively rallying against. The bill, which Trump eliminated the EV tax credit, Musk originally said would not hurt Tesla. The EV tax credit, however, has helped other carmakers make more affordable electric vehicles for more consumers, and Musk has recently changed his tune.

In a note last month, JP Morgan said cutting the EV tax credit could cost Tesla $1.2bn annually. Now the market is reacting as these plans might come to fruition in a matter of days, and amid the president’s Truth Social post, spooking investors.

Tesla stock tumbled roughly 6 percent as of 11:00am ET (15:00 GMT) and about 13 percent over the last five days.

“[This] BFF situation has now turned into a soap opera that remains an overhang on Tesla’s stock with investors fearing that the Trump Administration will be more hawkish and show scrutiny around Musk related US government spending related to Tesla/SpaceX and most importantly the autonomous future with the regulatory environment key to the future of Robotaxis and Cybercabs,” Dan Ives, senior analyst at Wedbush Securities said in a note provided to Al Jazeera earlier this morning.

Musk’s other companies include SpaceX, X Corp, and Neuralink are privately held companies.

More broadly the markets erased some of the gains in the last few days. The tech-heavy Nasdaq is down by about a full percentage point and the S&P 500 down 0.3 percent.  Dow Jones Industrial Average, on the other hand, is trending upwards, roughly 0.6 percent higher than the market open.

UK players love slot games, and Eye of Horus is up there with the best. It’s a standout classic.

Originally, it was released by Merkur Gaming but was later adopted by Blueprint. Eye of Horus has gained a loyal following. Players love its simplicity and expanding symbol feature.

In this Eye of Horus slot review, we cover the key mechanics, payout potential and where to play in the UK.

Book of Dead slot quick overview

Eye of Horus slot features overview

4

Eye of Horus keeps things simple but does it well. The standout mechanic here is the expanding wild. This covers the full reel and substitutes for all symbols except scatter. During free spins, the wild also upgrades high-paying symbols. You get better win potential!

The bonus round requires three scatters. You can also retrigger it up to five times. No complicated multipliers here, or mini games. The appeal is the streamlined action and symbol upgrades.

This game is great if you’re a casual player. Or someone who prefers a medium volatility slot with frequent bonus triggers and classic mechanics.

👍 Pros

• Expanding wilds. Great visual impact and potential win boosts.
• Free spins can be retriggered multiple times.
• Symbol upgrade mechanic keeps it engaging.
• Simple layout suits mobile play.
• Clear win structure. Not overly complicated.

👎 Cons:

• No multipliers or bonus mini games.
• Visuals may feel dated compared to newer slots.
• Max win lower than other high-volatility games.

Eye of Horus slot graphics, sound & gameplay mechanics

4

Eye of Horus uses a classic ancient Egypt theme. The visuals are simple but bold. The symbols are clear and the reel setup is uncluttered. The background features stone pillars and hieroglyphs. It sets the tone without distracting the player.

The sound design is minimal. Reels spin with retro arcade-style clicks. Bonus triggers bring in a short Egyptian-style jingle. It’s functional rather than immersive.

Gameplay is smooth on both desktop and mobile. Touchscreen controls are responsive. All features are accessible across devices. The stripped-back style suits mobile play, especially for players who like a no-frills experience.

How to play Eye of Horus slot

Interested in trying it out? Here’s how:

1. Open the game at a licensed UK casino, such as Casimba, or take your pick among the best online casinos, as most of them have the classic Eye of Horus slot.
2. Set your stake using the control panel.
3. Press the spin button.
4. Look out for winning combinations.
5. Land three scatter symbols to trigger free spins.
6. Keep track of your balance and play responsibly.

Eye of Horus slot symbols

Eye of Horus uses a classic pay structure. Low-paying symbols are traditional card values from 10 to Ace. Higher-paying symbols are based on the theme. These are scarabs, ankhs and falcons, as well as others.

The Horus symbol acts as a wild. It can expand to cover the reel and substitute for all standard symbols. Three Temple Door symbols trigger the free spins round – the scatters, as it were.

4

During free spins, each wild upgrade increases the value of mid-tier symbols. This adds extra win potential and variety.

Eye of Horus slot RTP, payout and volatility

Eye of Horus has an RTP of 96.31%. This means that for every £100 wagered, around £96.31 is expected to be paid back over time. It’s a theoretical value, not a guarantee – and not per player.

The game runs on medium volatility. Wins can occur at a steady pace but they tend to be moderate. This suits players looking for balanced risk and reward.

The maximum win is 10,000x your stake. There is no jackpot feature. However, the bonus round upgrades can help increase overall payout potential, particularly during longer sessions.

Eye of Horus bonus features and free spins

4

The main feature in Eye of Horus is its free spins round. It’s triggered by landing three or more scatter symbols. These are represented by the temple doorway. They can be anywhere on the reels. This awards 12 free spins.

During the bonus round, you want wild symbols (the Horus icon). Each time one appears, one of the higher-value symbols is upgraded to the next level. You win potential increases. The wild also expands to cover the full reel. It means your chances of landing winning combinations are better. 

Additional free spins can be retriggered. Two wilds during the round award three extra spins. Three wilds grant five more. This can continue until the maximum number of free spins is reached.

No multipliers or jackpots are featured. However, the upgrade mechanic provides good bonus potential, especially with frequent wilds.

Where to play Eye of Horus slot in the UK

Eye of Horus can be played at several trusted, UK-licensed casinos. All the best online slot site platforms like MrQ and Casimba have it. It’s offered alongside secure payment options and full access to responsible gambling tools, of course.

All recommended operators hold a licence from the UK Gambling Commission. That means player protection, fair gameplay and support. Mobile compatibility is also strong across both platforms.

Key takeaway

Eye of Horus is simple. It’s a retro-style slot with timeless appeal. The bonus round offers decent win potential, particularly for players who like symbol upgrade mechanics. The gameplay may feel repetitive to some but its classic structure makes it ideal for fans of traditional slots.

Eye of Horus Slot is a great pick for UK players who enjoy straightforward gameplay with nostalgic charm. Try it out at a trusted, UK-licensed online casino.

About the author

James Anderson

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

Find James on LinkedIn

Remember to gamble responsibly

A responsible gambler is someone who:

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

Read our guide on responsible gambling practices.

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

Josh Jackson’s “The Enduring Wild: A Journey Into California’s Public Lands” is a story of adventures across 41 California landscapes, with photos of beautiful places you are unlikely to have seen, in locations ranging from the Mojave Desert to the Elkhorn Ridge Wilderness in Mendocino County. Early on, the author lays out mind-bending stats: more than 618 million acres in the United States are federally owned public land and 245 million of those belong to the Bureau of Land Management.

Public lands, he notes, “are areas of land and water owned collectively by the citizens and managed by the Federal government.” These lands “are our common ground, a gift of seismic proportions that belongs to all of us.”

Drive across the United States and consider that 28% of all of that is yours. Ours.

Jackson’s assertion that we are all landowners is a clarion call amid a GOP-led push to sell off public land. The shadow of the current assault on public lands weighs heavy while reading this lovely book.

The book has endearing origins. When Jackson could not get a reservation for weekend camping with his kids, a buddy suggested that he try the BLM. Until that moment he had never even heard of the Bureau of Land Management. Yet, 15.3% of the total landmass in California is … BLM.

Jackson starts out with history: All these lands were taken from Native American peoples, and he does not overlook that BLM used to be jokingly referred to as the Bureau of Livestock and Mining. In 1976, a turnaround came via the Federal Land Policy and Management Act, which built a multi-use mandate to emphasize hiking and conservation as much grazing and extraction (a.k.a. mining). This effort to soften the heavy use of public lands by for-profit individuals and companies led to the so-called Sagebrush Rebellion and the election of President Reagan. Arguably, we’ve been struggling with finding the multi-use balance ever after.

Jackson’s first BLM foray was out to the Trona Pinnacles in the Mojave Desert, where he and his two older children camped, playing in a wonderland where “hundreds of tufa spires protrude like drip-style sand castles out of the wide-open desert floor that extend for miles in every direction,” while his wife, Kari, an E.R. nurse, stayed home with their newborn. The pandemic shutdown in 2020 inspired Kari’s suggestion, “Why don’t you start going to see all these BLM lands?”

Jackson’s love affair with BLM lands was not immediate, as just a few miles into his next hike in the Rainbow Basin Natural Area near Barstow, he was underwhelmed, like he was missing something. A few miles later, he sat and considered a Terry Tempest Williams quote from “Refuge”: “If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self.” Revisiting this quote on repeat, Jackson had an emotional shift, deciding to stop hiking and … start walking.

On his next trip to the Amargosa Canyon, Jackson began by reaching out to the Amargosa Conservancy, learning about the Timbisha Shoshone people whose ancestral land this is, about past mining and dozens of plant and animal species. Committed to going at the pace of discovery, he admired the enchanting, striated geology of Rainbow Mountain, cherished creosote, mesquite and the brave diversity of desert flora and was struck by the gaze of an arrogant coyote. On his return, he found that in three hours, he had only traveled … a mile.

Yet it was during this meander that his writing made a steep drop into seeing, feeling, connecting, plunging toward transcendence.

A highlight of the book is a repeat trip to Central California’s Carrizo Plain, first during a drought, silenced by its sere magnificence. After the heavy rains of 2023, he joined Cal Poly San Luis Obispo botanist Emma Fryer and was overcome by the delirious beauty of a superbloom, feeling like “I had wandered into the Land of Oz.” Fryer observed that the drought was so severe that only the hardy native seed survived within the soil, releasing their beauty the moment water allowed them to come to life. Seeing the same place twice was revelatory, both familiar and completely new.

It’s hard to tell if the places he visits gets more beautiful over the course of the book or his capacity to appreciate them and share his joy has grown. Despite the frequent paucity of BLM cartographic resources, apparently Jackson never got lost or worried about dropping the thread of a trail. Describing his father, Jackson might as well be talking about himself: “I have no memories of my dad being worried or fearful in unfamiliar situations.” Nevertheless, toward the end of the book, when he and his hardy father camped next to the rushing Eel River, Jackson did worry about bears breaking into their tent. Fortunately, the bears did not arrive but, inspired by William Cronon’s “The Trouble With Wilderness,” Jackson’s heart opened as he realized that “Nature” is not out there; nature is wherever we are.

Back in Los Angeles taking long walks with his daughter, past bodegas and car washes, he saw jacaranda, heard owls and coyotes and realized the wild had been here all along. An urban sycamore claimed its space regardless of enclosing cement and car exhaust, as spectacular and venerable as any sycamore in the state.

Can the places Jackson visited for his book endure public larceny? He is tracking the answer to this question, real time, on his Substack, where he’s currently describing the shocking attempts to sell millions of acres of BLM land.

“It’s been a wild few weeks for BLM lands. 540,385 acres in Nevada and Utah were on the chopping block to be sold off,” Jackson recently noted. “Everyone was talking about the land totals — but no one was showing what the landscapes actually looked like. So, I decided to go see them.”

Great advice: Bring a friend, pack water and go.

Watts’ writing has appeared in Earth Island Journal, New York Times motherlode blog, Sierra Magazine and local venues. Her first novel is “Tree.”

Charlie English begins “The CIA Book Club” by describing a 1970s technical manual: a dull cover, as uninviting as anything. A book that practically begs you to put it back on the shelf and move on.

Which was exactly the point. Secreted inside the technobabble dust jacket was a Polish-language copy of George Orwell’s “1984,” the boring cover a deliberate misdirection to deter prying eyes. The false front is a bit of skullduggery that harks back to a world where conspiracy to escape detection was a part of everyday life. A world where literature could be revolutionary, “a reservoir of freedom.”

English, formerly a journalist for the Guardian, specializes in writing about how art and literature are used to fight extremism: “The Storied City,” published in the U.K. as “The Book Smugglers of Timbuktu,” spotlights librarians who heroically saved priceless manuscripts of West African history from al Qaeda; “The Gallery of Miracles and Madness” traces the “insane” artists who influenced the early 20th century Modernism movement and Hitler’s attempts to stamp out their art — and them. His new book takes us through five decades of Poles fighting Soviet domination and Communist propaganda with a potent weapon: literature.

Even from the vantage point of the 21st century, when we know what became of the USSR, English’s book reads like a thriller. There are CIA suits, secret police, faceless bureaucrats and backstabbing traitors lurking in these pages. We face tensions between paramilitary cowboys and prudent intellectuals, between paper-pushing accountants and survivors saving a culture. While reading, I worried about figures like Helena Łuczywo, who edited and published an underground newspaper, and Mirosław Chojecki, who smuggled books and printing supplies into Poland. As with the best spy novels, we know the good guy is going to win while reading “The CIA Book Club,” but how English gets us there is exciting.

His best chapters follow the protests in the Gdańsk shipyards that led to the Solidarity trade union. A better future shimmers on the page when Lech Wałęsa climbs over a fence as an unemployed electrician, taps someone on the shoulder and becomes “the face of the Polish revolution.” (Ten years later, he became president of Poland, too.) In the violent crackdown that followed the momentary blossoming of freedom after Gdańsk, we feel the heartbreak and fear of the people. We hope again when fighters like Łuczywo begin printing a scant newsletter whose “main job was just to exist” and remind people they weren’t alone.

The book is gripping, but it doesn’t quite deliver on its subtitled promise to “win the Cold War with forbidden literature.” The story English has researched and put together focuses almost entirely on Poland’s fight for freedom from the USSR. Of course, the CIA’s funding of smuggling illicit literature into the Eastern Bloc is an important story, and a nearly forgotten one. As English mentions in the epilogue, while “the book program’s latter-day budget stood at around $2 million to $4 million annually, [the Afghan operation] by 1987 was running at a cost of $700 million a year, taking up 80 percent of the overseas budget of the clandestine service.” Apparently, an operation costing nearly 200 times the other deserves nearly 200 times the credit as well. The result is that the power of inexpensive books was swept under the rug in favor of expensive shows of force.

Still, the impressive power of the book club might have been better elucidated if details about its impact in other Eastern Bloc countries were brought into the story. The focus on Poland obscures what was happening in the USSR. English focused on Poland because the country had a long history of underground revolutionary culture; when the USSR turned independent Poland into a client state known as the People’s Republic of Poland, the Poles already knew how to go underground to fight back. The lifestyle doublespeak people used to survive under successive dictatorships in Eastern Europe came a little more easily to Poles, who had practiced it before. When the CIA offered funding, they were ready. Still, it would have been nice to see how “1984” inspired people in Ukraine or Moldova or Kyrgyzstan. If books are an answer to dictatorships — and as strong as “an organization packed with spooks and paramilitaries who fought in warzones” — it would be inspiring to see more of that. Hopefully a sequel is in the planning stages.

What this book does incredibly well is document an oral history of Polish resistance that has, until now, only been told in bits and pieces. There is archival research in here, but it is in the nature of dictatorships to destroy evidence of their crimes. Fortunately, English talked to many of the people who were there, publishing underground newspapers and smuggling in illicit literature. What information has been declassified — and much of it hasn’t been — bolsters the memories of survivors.

One of the most interesting details of “Book Club” is not that books inspired a nation but which books did. Philosophical tracts and political satires were smuggled in, of course; Poland received its share of “Animal Farm” and “1984” and “Brave New World.” But just as important to the Poles living under Soviet dictatorship were art books, fashion magazines, religious texts, lighthearted novels and regular newspapers. More influential than anti-Communist diatribes were the reminders that there was a world outside Soviet propaganda; each book read was a bid to avoid brainwashing, to not become a tool of the state.

This literary history is a prescient one. As book bans increase around the United States and peaceful protests are met with state violence here in Los Angeles, a tale of when stories saved the day is inherently hopeful. This book is a reminder that words are powerful and that stories matter. Sometimes the most rebellious thing one can do is read a book.

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.”