review

Between delicately assembling a pair of open-faced sandwiches in her comfortably stocked kitchen and carefully picking her wardrobe for an incoming visitor, Ruth (Kathleen Chalfant), an elegant older woman with intelligent eyes and a wry smile, looks like someone who enjoys hosting. Flirting too, if the hand she gently places on her lunch companion’s knee is any indication.

But there are signs that Ruth, an accomplished cookbook author, exists apart from the reality of the moment. Polite, patient, nervous Steve (H. Jon Benjamin) is not a date — he’s actually Ruth’s son, there to take her to a well-appointed retirement community where she’ll live under the observation of caregivers who specialize in memory care. But also, thanks to the power of “Familiar Touch,” it’s a place where she’ll be affectionately dimensionalized through the encouraging eyes of the filmmaker who created her, Sarah Friedland.

Friedland’s acute debut feature, drawn from her experience in the memory-care field, is a small miracle of realigned empathy, turning away from the condescension and easy sentiment of so many narratives about late-in-life adaptation. Instead it finds something infinitely more layered and meaningful, especially where Chalfant’s utterly commanding characterization is concerned.

Friedland doesn’t waste time letting us know she has more on her mind than rote family drama or a spotlight on medical suffering. The quiet car ride to the senior living home is marked by a closeup of Ruth’s hand turning on her lap as it’s warmed by the sun — a moment meant to prioritize Ruth’s sensorial experience. In the facility’s lobby, where we meet kindly caregiver Vanessa (Carolyn Michelle) and Ruth realizes she’s not at a hotel for a rendezvous but rather to be admitted to a new group home by a grown child she doesn’t recognize, the moment is as tension-filled as it needs to be.

Yet even that is offset by the composed normality of Friedland’s unhurried, attentive direction, seeding an understanding that what is new for Ruth (or new once more, since we learn that she herself had chosen the place in less-confused times) is, in practically every other way, a common occurrence. This is a rite of passage happening all the time everywhere and deserving of compassion.

Ruth’s awareness is fluid as she becomes accustomed to a life of assistance, tests, activities, neighbors and the unique connection between resident and caregiver. As the process unfolds, “Familiar Touch” reveals itself as a social procedural about a demanding healthcare profession, often staffed by people who can’t afford to place their own loved ones in such facilities. The movie demystifies what’s hard and rewarding about caregiving, thanks largely to Michelle’s incredible, nuanced turn as Vanessa. That thread is exquisitely interlocked with a sensitive, sharp portrait of the interiority of someone searching for agency while in the throes of dementia.

Friedland never ignores what’s upsetting about Ruth’s condition, especially the loneliness that might replace sleep in an unfamiliar bed, or the despair that triggers a nighttime escape. But by sticking to Ruth’s perspective, the camera attuned to every emergence of childlike glee, adult pleasure or sharp-witted flash of authority, we come to see a person, not a patient. Ruth’s swings of emotion and identity are multitudes to be uncovered and respected.

The mystery of Ruth’s mindfulness — which ebbs and flows — is at the core of Chalfant’s brilliant, award-worthy performance. Hers is a virtuosity that doesn’t ask for pity or applause or even link arms with the stricken-but-defiant disease-playing headliners who have gone before her. Chalfant’s Ruth is merely, momentously human: an older woman in need, but no less expressive of life’s fullness because of it. It’s a portrayal to remember, for as long as any of us can.

Marlee Matlin has a word tattooed on each of her wrists. On the left is “perseverance,” on the right is “warrior.”

“After 37 years, I’m still hustling,” she says by way of explanation in “Marlee Matlin: Not Alone Anymore.” Referring to the ink on her left wrist, she adds, “I look at this all the time. Every day.”

“Not Alone Anymore” is hardly the first celebrity documentary to salute its subject’s tenacity. But if the contours of this story are familiar — the rise, the fall, then the rise again of an Oscar winner — director Shoshannah Stern’s affectionate portrait is all the richer for the layers it reveals about both Matlin and the larger struggles of the Deaf community she embodies. The 59-year-old actor’s legacy may indeed be one of perseverance, but “Not Alone Anymore” touchingly details just how much more challenging her battles with addiction and sexual abuse have been than those of other famous people.

The film’s inventiveness starts with its opening frames, in which closed captioning describes the sounds that accompany the production companies’ logos: “[low humming],” “[dramatic, echoey flutters].” These descriptions occur throughout the documentary, as do subtitles for every talking head, including the Deaf participants. Obviously, these creative decisions allow Deaf and hard-of-hearing viewers to more easily experience “Not Alone Anymore.”

But it’s also a subtle acknowledgement of Matlin’s trailblazing work in the late 1980s, when she used her newfound fame to convince lawmakers to require televisions to include closed captioning — a groundbreaking development for a community who had been deprived of a fuller engagement with the media they were watching.

This wasn’t the only way in which Matlin has left her mark. In “Not Alone Anymore,” she breezily recounts how, at 19, she was plucked from relative obscurity to star in her first film, the 1986 adaptation of “Children of a Lesser God,” based on Mark Medoff’s acclaimed play, about a love affair between Sarah, a Deaf janitor, and James, a hearing teacher. Matlin won the Oscar, becoming the first Deaf actor to do so. (Nearly 40 years later, she remains the youngest lead actress recipient.) At the time, her victory was hailed not just as a coronation of a promising talent but also a triumph for the Deaf, who too often feel marginalized and underestimated. But, as the documentary reveals, real progress would prove trickier to achieve.

Matlin and Stern, who is also a Deaf actor, have been friends for decades, and their interviews are mostly conducted sitting together on a couch, the conversations exuding the cozy intimacy of old chums chatting. Making her directorial debut, Stern deftly draws out her subject. Audiences will learn about Matlin’s past history of drug abuse and her fraught romantic relationship with her “Lesser God” costar William Hurt, whom she has accused of sexual and physical abuse. (Hurt died in 2022.)

But “Not Alone Anymore” gently probes the unique difficulties Matlin’s deafness created as she navigated those traumas. When she went to rehab, the facility was ill-equipped to treat a Deaf patient. And during a poignant discussion about Matlin’s sexual abuse, she explains growing up with no understanding of the phrase “domestic violence.”

“Deaf people only have their eyes to rely on for information,” she tells Stern. It’s an illuminating illustration of the dangers of what the Deaf community refers to as language deprivation.

Despite her Oscar win, Matlin would repeatedly have to advocate for herself in an industry seemingly uninterested in Deaf characters. Stern uses 2021’s best-picture-winning “CODA,” which costarred Matlin, as a happy ending of sorts for her film, without denying the ongoing movement for greater Deaf visibility. But if “Not Alone Anymore” can sometimes lean too heavily on uplifting sentiment, Matlin’s story possesses a bittersweet aftertaste.

As evidenced by Matlin’s years of striking, engaging performances, she is a winning presence in the documentary — funny, charming and open — even while we sense the lingering wounds from a difficult upbringing exacerbated by sexual abuse she endured in childhood. Beyond being a spokesperson for the Deaf, Matlin has also emerged as a voice for survivors, even when the world wasn’t receptive to what she had to say. “Not Alone Anymore” notes, with pointed irony, that Matlin published her candid memoir “I’ll Scream Later” in 2009, years before #MeToo, so her accusations against Hurt didn’t carry the same weight in the media as the ones that would later stop powerful predators such as Harvey Weinstein.

It was hardly the first time Matlin waited for society to catch up with her. When she first arrived in Hollywood, she couldn’t have possibly imagined how much of a warrior spirit she would need. “Not Alone Anymore” honors a woman who learned how to fight.

Certain elements of Jules Verne’s 1870 novel “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea” have become a TV series, “Nautilus,” premiering Sunday on AMC, which picked up the show after Disney+, which ordered and completed it, let it drop. Created by James Dormer, it’s not an adaptation but a prequel, or an origin story, as the comic book kids like to say, in which Nemo, not yet captain, sets sail in his submarine for the first time.

Verne’s imaginative fiction has inspired more and less faithful screen adaptations since the days of silent movies. (Georges Méliès 1902 “A Trip to the Moon,” based partially on Verne’s 1865 “From the Earth to the Moon,” is accounted the first science-fiction film.) For a few midcentury years, perhaps inspired by the success of Disney’s own “20,000 Leagues” — a film they continue to exploit in its theme parks — and Mike Todd’s “Around the World in 80 Days,” it was almost a cottage industry: “Journey to the Center of the Earth,” “In Search of the Castaways,” “Five Weeks in a Balloon.” I grew up watching these films rerun on TV; they are corny and fun, as is “Nautilus,” with fancier effects, anticorporate sentiments and people of color.

We have seen Nemo played by James Mason, Michael Caine, Patrick Stewart, Ben Cross and Robert Ryan, but in “The Mysterious Island,” Verne’s sort-of sequel to “Twenty Thousand Leagues,” he identified Nemo as an Indian prince, as he is shown here, played by Shazad Latif, deposed by an imperial power, his wife and child murdered. The character is usually a bit of a madman, and this Nemo — pigheaded, bossy — is not wholly an exception, though he is also a young, smoldering, swashbuckling hero and a man more sinned against than sinning. We meet him as a prisoner of the British East India Mercantile Company, “the most powerful corporation to ever exist, more powerful than any country,” which is building the Nautilus in India with slave labor, in pursuit, says villainous company director Crawley (Damien Garvey), of “prying open and exploiting the Chinese market.” I’m not sure how a submarine is supposed to do that, but, eh, it’s a reason.

Nemo has been collaborating with the submarine’s inventor, Gustave Benoit (Thierry Frémont), who had accepted the corporation’s money under the promise that it would be used for exploration — scientists can be so dense. Nemo, whom the professor credits as the mind behind the ship’s engine, has his own use for the Nautilus and executes a hasty escape with a half-random crew of fellow inmates in a deftly staged sequence that borrows heavily from “Indiana Jones,” an inspirational well to which the series returns throughout.

And we’re off. On the agenda: escaping, revenge and finding buried treasure to finance revenge.

Joining the Nautilus crew are Loti (Céline Menville) and Humility (Georgia Flood).

(Vince Valitutti / Disney+)

When the Nautilus, hardly on its way, cripples the ship they’re traveling on — under the impression that the sub is under attack — the crew is joined, unwillingly, by Humility Lucas (Georgia Flood), a science-minded British socialite with super engineering skills, who is being packed off to Bombay to marry the abominable Lord Pitt (Cameron Cuffe). She’s accompanied by a chaperone/warder, Loti (Céline Menville), a Frenchwoman who has a mean way with a dagger, and cabin boy Blaster (Kayden Price). And a little dog too. Sparks obviously will fly between Nemo and Humility — bad sparks, then good sparks, as in an Astaire and Rogers movie — and there are actual sparks from a bad electrical connection Humility works out how to fix.

Apart from Benoit, Humility and Loti, a big fellow named Jiacomo (Andrew Shaw), who hails from nobody knows where and speaks a language no one understands, and a British stowaway, the crew of the Nautilus are all people of color — South Asian, Asian, Middle Eastern, African or Pacific Islander. Few are really developed as characters, but the actors give them life, and the supporting players carry the comedy, of which there’s a good deal. One episode inverts the tired old scenario in which white explorers are threatened with death by dark-skinned natives; here, the captors are Nordic warrior women. The show is anticolonial and anti-imperialist in a way that “Star Wars” taught audiences to recognize, if not necessarily recognize in the world around them, and anticapitalist in a way that movies have most always been. (The final episode, which has a financial theme, is titled “Too Big to Fail.” It is quite absurd.)

It can be slow at times, which is not inappropriate to a show that takes place largely underwater. But that its structure is essentially episodic keeps “Nautilus” colorful and more interesting than if it were simply stretched on the rack of a long arc across its 10 episodes. It’s a lot like (pre-streaming) “Star Trek,” which is, after all, a naval metaphor, its crew sailing through a hostile environment encountering a variety of monsters and cultures week to week; indeed, there are some similar storylines: the crew infected by a mystery spore, the ship threatened by tiny beasties and giant monsters, encounters with a tinpot dictator and semimythological figures — all the while being pursued by a Klingon Bird of Prey, sorry, a giant metal warship.

The greatest hits of underwater adventuring (some from Verne’s novel) are covered: volcanoes, giant squid, giant eel, engine trouble, running out of air and the ruins of a lost civilization (Is it Atlantis? Benoit hopes so). Less common: a cricket match on the ice. Apart from a pod of whales outside the window (and, later, a whale rescue), not a lot of time is devoted to the wonders of the sea — the special effects budget, which has in other respects been spent lavishly, apparently had no room left for schools of fish. But these submariners have other things on their minds.

The odds of a second season, says my cloudy crystal ball, are limited, so you may have to accommodate a few minor cliffhangers if you decide to watch. I did not at all regret the time I spent here, even though I sometimes had no idea what was going on or found it ridiculous when I did, as there was usually some stimulating activity or bit of scenery or detail of steampunk design to enjoy. I mean, I watched an episode of “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea” recently, a 1960s submarine series, in which guest star John Cassavetes created a superbomb that could destroy three-quarters of the world, and almost nothing in it made any sense at all, including the presence of John Cassavetes. “Nautilus” is actually good.

WASHINGTON — The Supreme Court Monday again made it harder for Death Row inmates and other criminals to challenge their convictions in a federal court by claiming their constitutional rights were violated by state courts.

The pair of 6-3 rulings, including one in a California case, could speed the pace of executions around the nation. Many inmates have kept their legal cases–and themselves–alive by contesting their convictions in prolonged battles in federal courts.

In one decision, the justices reinstated a death sentence against a Sonoma County man who in 1975 shot and killed his wife. The second ruling involved a Virginia case.

Together, the rulings send a now-familiar message: Convicted criminals should not routinely get a second chance to contest their cases in a federal court.

About 95% of criminal cases nationwide are handled in the state courts. During the 1960s and ‘70s, however, the Supreme Court encouraged federal judges to closely review state cases to make sure that a defendant’s rights under the U.S. Constitution were protected. Inmates took advantage of this protection by filing a petition of habeas corpus to transfer their cases from a state to a federal court.

But under Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist, the high court has stressed the opposite. Federal judges should not casually meddle in state court matters, the conservative majority has said.

The California case concerned whether an inmate should get a second chance to contend that he was unfairly induced to incriminate himself.

The defendant in the case, Owen Duane Nunnemaker, was sentenced to death for the 1975 slaying of his estranged wife, Alice. Nunnemaker went to her home in Sebastopol, Calif., shot her at close range and cut a phone cord to prevent her children from calling for help. She died of her wounds.

He later claimed he loved her, but was temporarily deranged. Prosecutors, however, sent a police psychiatrist to interview Nunnemaker, who found him calm and rational. During the trial, the psychiatrist gave damaging testimony against the defendant, who was convicted and sentenced to death.

In his appeal in state courts, Nunnemaker said his Miranda rights were violated because the psychiatrist never warned him his statements could be used against him. The California appellate courts ruled that it was too late for Nunnemaker to raise this Miranda issue. His lawyer should have objected during the trial, the judges said.

Without giving a reason, the California Supreme Court declined to hear his appeal.

But he fared better in the federal courts. Last year, the U.S. 9th Circuit of Court Appeals ruled that Nunnemaker was entitled to a hearing before a federal judge to see whether his constitutional rights had been violated.

The Supreme Court said the 9th Circuit erred in the case, Ylst vs. Nunnemaker, 90-68. The majority opinion, written by Justice Antonin Scalia, said the federal appeals court should have presumed that the California courts declined to hear Nunnemaker’s appeal for procedural reasons, and the federal courts have no power to second-guess those procedural rules.

In their dissent from the ruling, Justices Harry A. Blackmun, Thurgood Marshall and John Paul Stevens said, “The Court today continues its crusade to erect petty procedural barriers” to raising constitutional claims in the federal courts.

Monday’s other death penalty case ruling was written by Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, herself a former state judge. She rejected the claim of a Virginia Death Row inmate that his initial appeal of his conviction still should be considered by that state’s court system, even though his lawyer was three days late in filing it.

The case “concerns the respect the federal courts owe the states,” O’Connor said. Because the state rules forbid the consideration of a late appeal, the federal courts must do the same, she said in Coleman vs. Thompson, 89-7662.

Law enforcement spokesmen praised the rulings for upholding valid criminal convictions. The decisions mean that an old legal challenge “cannot be resuscitated by some sympathetic federal judge,” said Charles Hobson of the Criminal Justice Legal Foundation in Sacramento. But Rep. Don Edwards (D-San Jose), whose House subcommittee is considering the federal habeas corpus laws, lambasted the court. The decisions “force innocent prisoners to pay the ultimate price for the errors of their lawyers in a state court,” Edwards said.

We checked in to this popular central London hotel to see why it’s so popular – with celebrities and ‘regular’ travellers alike – and discovered spacious rooms and amazing views

First impressions when you enter London Hilton on Park Lane, on the edge of Hyde Park, are certainly grand ones, with a glitzy lobby filled with velvet sofas and human-sized bouquets of fresh flowers to greet you.

Despite this clearly being a big corporate hotel (there was at least one conference going on when we stayed), the service is super friendly and personal, from the welcome at reception to the cute note from housekeeping on our pillow with the turn down. Lots of guests were obviously repeat visitors, and staff greeted them – and first-timers like us – like old friends. We’re told Academy Award-winning actor Susan Sarandon recently stayed here, as did Maura Higgins to get ready before this year’s TV BAFTAs.

READ MORE: ‘I found a stylish five-star London hotel next to The Ritz but a fraction of the price’

READ MORE: ‘I found London’s coolest party house where rock stars stay and with fascinating past’

The rooms at London Hilton on Park Lane

We were lucky enough to be put in the recently refurbished Executive Park Lane Suite, a huge space on the 25th floor featuring a lounge area, separate bedroom and dressing room, and incredible views out over Hyde Park, with the Serpentine twinkling in the middle. We were particularly taken by the window seat and super-comfy bed, and the large marble bathroom with two sinks, separate bath and shower, and Molton Brown toiletries. If your budget stretches to it, it’s a real luxury to have so much space in the city centre, and feels like London’s version of a luxury apartment in New York City, overlooking Central Park.

One big perk for those staying in an Executive Room or any of the 56 suites is access to the hotel’s Executive Lounge, where breakfast is served in the mornings, and drinks and snacks between 5pm-7pm in the evenings – and there’s a wide selection, with no limits on the wines, beers, soft drinks and snacks. You could basically dine out here if you so wished.

The food atLondon Hilton on Park Lane

Instead, however, we headed downstairs for dinner at the hotel’s Park Corner Brasserie, a modern British eatery serving elevated classics. Although not a huge number of options for vegetarians, we loved our cabbage and sweetcorn frittata, and there were loads of grill dishes to choose from. Our personal highlight came at the end of the meal with a trio of creme brulées, each one more delicious than the last.

How much does it cost to stay atLondon Hilton on Park Lane?

Rooms at London Hilton on Park Lane start from £459 for a Twin Guest Room.

For a stay that costs a little less, take a look at Citizen M’s four London hotels, which start from £208.80 per night, or browse hundreds of other options on Booking.com.

Antler Discovery backpack

Durable, lightweight and surprisingly spacious, this combines the ease of carrying of a backpack with the capacity of a cabin case.

It’s a favourite with our editorial commercial content director Michelle Darlow, who packed it on a recent Ryanair flight to Italy to save money on luggage fees.

Kipling Art M multi-use medium tote with trolley sleeve

£107

£53.50

Kipling

Buy here

Another tested-and-tested favourite with our shopping team, this is a good choice if you’re after something a bit softer and less structured. It’s available in a huge number of colours and a handy trolley sleeve if you are travelling with a larger case.

Amazon underseat foldable travel duffel bag

£15.99

£9.99

Amazon

Buy here

For value, nothing much beats this duffle bag from Amazon, which also looks smart and timeless. Available in 28 colours, it measures 40 x 19 x 25cm and fits perfectly under the plane seats, it complies with Ryanair’s strict travel luggage rules which allows you to take a free cabin bag measuring 40 x 20 x 25cm.

Agnes (Eva Victor) has the face of a classical Hollywood movie star but she dresses like an old fisherman. Her expressions are inscrutable; you never know what’s going to come out of her mouth or how. When asked on a written questionnaire how her friends would describe her, she puts down “smart,” crosses it out, then replaces it with “tall.” She is all of those things: tall, smart, striking, endearingly awkward, hard to read. And she is an utterly captivating, entirely unique cinematic presence, the planet around which orbits “Sorry, Baby,” the debut feature of Victor, who not only stars but writes and directs.

Agnes’ backstory, revealed in time, is a distressingly common one of sexual assault, recounted with bursts of wild honesty, searing insight and unexpected humor. Victor’s screenplay earned her the Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award at the Sundance Film Festival this year, where the film had its premiere. As a writer and performer, Victor allows Agnes to relay what happened in her own way while keeping the most intimate horrors protected.

Set in the frigid environs of the English department at a rural Massachusetts university, “Sorry, Baby” carries a literary quality, emphasized by nonchronological titled chapters (e.g., “The Year With the Baby,” “The Year With the Bad Thing,”) carefully establishing our protagonist, the world she inhabits and a few nagging questions.

Agnes is a professor of English at the university where she completed her graduate studies, but we first meet her as the best friend of Lydie (Naomi Ackie), who arrives for a winter weekend visit. Two codependent besties reunited, they snuggle on the couch and laugh about sex. Lydie delights at the mystery man who turns up on her friend’s doorstep — a friendly, familiar neighbor named Gavin (Lucas Hedges).

But Lydie’s quiet concern for her friend is also palpable. When she reveals her pregnancy to Agnes, she says, “There’s something I need to tell you about my body,” as if Agnes is a child who needs gentle explanation. And in a strange way, Agnes seems to take to this childlike role with her friend. Lydie carefully probes her about her office and its previous occupant. She presses her about remaining in this town. Isn’t it “a lot”? “It’s a lot to be wherever,” Agnes replies. Lydie requests of her, “Don’t die” and Agnes reassures her she would have already killed herself if she was going to. It’s cold comfort, a phrase that could capably describe the entire vibe of “Sorry, Baby.”

Victor then flips back to an earlier chapter, before their graduation, to a time when Agnes seems less calcified in her idiosyncrasies. Their thesis advisor, Preston Decker (Louis Cancelmi), handsome and harried, tells Agnes her work is “extraordinary” and reschedules a meeting due to a child-care emergency. They both end up at his home, where dusk turns to night.

What ensues is what you expect and dread, though we only hear about it when Agnes recounts the excruciating details of the incident to Lydie later that night. The fallout renders Agnes emotionally stunted, running alternately on autopilot and impulse. Lydie fiercely protects (and enables) her friend until she has to move on with her life, leaving Agnes frozen in amber in that house, that office, that town, that night.

There’s an architectural quality to Victor’s style in the film’s structure and thoughtful editing, and in the lingering shots of buildings standing starkly against an icy sky, glowing windows beckoning or concealing from within: a representation of a singular kind of brittle, poignant New England stoicism. Victor captures Agnes the same way.

Thanks to the profound and nuanced honesty Victor extracts from each moment, “Sorry, Baby” is a movie that lingers. Even when Agnes does something outlandish or implausible — turning up on foot at Gavin’s door in a tizzy is one of her curious quirks — it feels true to the character.

But Agnes is a mystery even to herself, it seems, tamping down her feelings until they come tumbling out in strange ways. She goes about her daily life in a never-ending cycle of repression and explosion, cracking until she shatters completely. Her most important journey is to find a place to be soft again.

The only catharsis or healing to be found in the film comes from the titular apology, more a rueful word of caution than anything else. We can never be fully protected from what life has in store for us, nor from the acts of selfishness or cruelty that cause us to harden and retreat into the protective cocoon of a huge jacket, a small town, an empty house.

Life — and the people in it — will break us sometimes. But there are still kittens and warm baths and best friends and really good sandwiches. There are still artists like Victor who share stories like this with such detailed emotion. Sometimes that’s enough to glue us back together, at least for a little while.

“M3GAN 2.0” is another shiny display case for its violent antiheroine, an artificially intelligent doll with little regard for human life. In the new movie, there are two of them: Meet AMELIA, a lithesome blond who opens the film decimating a bunker somewhere near the border of Turkey and Iran. The robot babe’s name stands for Autonomous Military Engagement Logistics and Infiltration Android, and one can imagine the real White House asking if we can actually build her.

This fledgling franchise has rewired itself from horror to action-comedy. Bigger and goofier than the 2022 hit, “M3GAN 2.0” is content to be this summer’s fidget spinner: an amusement soon forgotten. You can easily accuse returning director Gerard Johnstone (who’s taken over screenwriting duties too) of assembling it from other movies’ nuts and bolts. He’s not hiding his influences, including “The Terminator,” “Metropolis” and the head-spinning theatrics of “The Exorcist.” It’s a magpie movie that’s happy to give audiences the tinselly things they want — i.e., two robots clobbering the Wi-Fi out of each other. But Johnstone creates openings for his own shaggy sense of humor. I’m excited to keep tabs on the promising New Zealander.

The snippy robot begins the film with her body destroyed but her ego as big as ever. M3GAN, voiced by Jenna Davis and embodied by both an animatronic puppet and the young dancer Amie Donald, will be reconstructed and built back better — and taller, as the physically gifted Donald has herself aged from 12 to 15. As an interim step, M3GAN gets temporarily placed in a tiny teal bot with flipper hands named Moxie, who seems adorable unless you know that Moxie was a real AI emotional support doll launched in 2020 that was abruptly bricked last year, teaching kids a sad lesson in startup funding and, in essence, death. (You can find videos online of people saying goodbye to their comatose friend.)

Meanwhile, M3GAN’S creator Gemma (a droll Allison Williams) is out of prison and rebranding herself as an anti-technology crusader. “You wouldn’t give your child cocaine — why would you give them a smartphone?” she hectors, while her bland do-gooder boyfriend Christian (Aristotle Athari) enlists the United Nations to fight back against the creeping omnipotence of AI. Cady (Violet McGraw), Gemma’s 12-year-old orphaned niece, wants a career in computer science. Gemma prefers that she concentrate on soccer.

Smartly, these films don’t create a phony dichotomy between tender humans and cold machinery. Gemma’s interpersonal skills could use an update. She can’t connect to her young charge. Hilariously and hypocritically, she orders Cady around with zero respect for the child’s free will. When Cady insists that she’s not sleepy enough to go to bed, Gemma snaps, “Take a melatonin.”

What interests Johnstone here is how biological and synthetic beings blend together. Gemma and her colleagues Cole and Tess (Brian Jordan Alvarez and Jen Van Epp) are designing a mechanized exoskeleton that would allow a human worker to toss around concrete blocks as breezily as a penny (although when it glitches, Cole can’t get out of the suit to use the bathroom). Their billionaire potential investor, Alton (Jemaine Clement, whose oily lecherousness may remind you of a recent government employee), has a neural chip in his temple that’s layered an invisible computer screen over his retinas. Blinking his eyes to take photographs, this repellent tech bro appears so ridiculous that you half-wonder if his innovation is fake, — the emperor’s new code. But when AMELIA (Ivanna Sakhno) uses his eyeballs against him, we enjoy Alton realizing how pitiful he looks.

The plot here is the same one we’re going to keep repeating until today’s technofeudalist geeks quit inventing things that the majority of people don’t want. (So, probably forever.) AMELIA wants access to the computer cloud that controls every facet of our existence, from the power grid to the financial markets. There’s a cool, if truncated, car chase in which AMELIA treats humans like roadblocks, flinging us into traffic by freezing scooters and releasing cash from sidewalk ATMs.

On a more intimate scale, Gemma and Cady’s new Bay Area rental is a smart house where everything is a potential poltergeist, from the ice dispenser to the vacuum. They thought M3GAN was dead; turns out, she’s the ghost in their machines. The movie isn’t scary in the slightest. But afterward, it’s terrifying to count how many things you own that aren’t truly under your control — and, scarier, how hard it’s getting to stop this home invasion. Does anyone really need their refrigerator authorized to order more eggs?

“M3GAN 2.0” is at heart a B-movie about a technological arms race fought by femmebots with literal swinging arms. It’s dopey by design. At least Johnstone punches up the premise. There’s not just one secret lair — there are three! — and each has its own playful reveal. Later, he finagles a physical comedy beat in which Gemma is delighted to realize she’s more like M3GAN than she thinks. I was never that moved by M3GAN’s girl-power-y argument that she has a soul (“I’m nobody’s plaything,” she growls.) And the scene in which she and Gemma bond starts off like a groaner but gets us howling when the doll goes too far and begins to sing another cringey pop song, a great gag recycled from the last movie.

Most of the other obvious yuks are flashy and hollow: Of course M3GAN will dance. Of course M3GAN will zip into a flying squirrel suit and go soaring over the trees. Of course a souped-up smart sports car will blare the theme music from “Knight Rider.” That gets a reflexive chuckle, but it mostly reminds us that today’s so-called genius inventors just wish their childhood toys were real.

But what intrigues me about Johnstone are the jokes that barely involve M3GAN at all. The most surprising laugh in the first movie came when a detective giggled as he described a little boy’s murder. Killer dolls, we get. Yet, this was the stock cop character seen in every genre flick acting fundamentally against his programming. Here, that humor has gone viral — it’s now in every scene — insisting that humanity itself is fundamentally strange and unpredictable.

The robot is the draw, but I’d watch “M3GAN 2.0” for the people. And stay for the end credits disclaimer: “This work may not be used to train AI.” Good luck with that.

TV Columnist Sara Wallis reviews Squid Game 3, as TV’s most stressful show returns to Netflix today for its third and final season…

*Warning: Some plot reveals, no major spoilers*

Surely the most stressful TV experience of all time, dystopian horror-show Squid Game is back today for its third and final flourish – and you won’t want to miss it. The South Korean mega hit, which will send your blood pressure soaring within minutes, somehow manages to become even more messed up and sinister than before. Millions of viewers across the globe have been hooked by the plot so far, which sees desperate, broke ‘losers’ compete in a series of children’s games for quick cash. What they don’t realise until it’s too late is that there’s a violent twist. Win these menacing games, win millions. Lose and get shot in the head by a soldier in a mask and red jumpsuit. The fewer players left, the more money for each one. As you can imagine, they all become completely unhinged and begin to turn on each other. It’s thrilling, popcorn-eating TV.

After season one became a cultural phenomenon, Director Hwang Dong-Hyuk admitted he was stressed out (his teeth fell out) as he faced the difficult Second Album Syndrome, with expectations through the roof. Three years later, season two saw our anti-hero Gi-hun (Lee Jung-jae), aka winning Player 456, re-enter the game with the intention of bringing down the bad guys.

By the end he was leading a rebellion, hoping to take them down from within. But the evil Front Man (Lee Byung-hun) always seemed to be one step ahead. It ended on a brutal cliffhanger, with Gi-hun witnessing the death of his friend at the hands of the Front Man, who was disguised as Player 001.

We’ve only had to wait six months this time for these final six, nail-biting episodes. Picking up exactly where we left off, the first episode is titled Keys and Knives, which sets us up for the first new game. It’s hide and seek, but no one’s laughing. Some players get keys, some get knives, you can guess the rest. As ever, the gigantic set-pieces, made to make the players feel small like children, are visually stunning and creative. The stage is set, classical music blares out, shrill voices sing-song the instructions, and we watch as the players try to outrun death at every turn.

This season gives the actual games more airtime, meaning the edge-of-seat moments are longer, making everything more disturbing. Episode two, The Starry Night, is entirely one game played out, where bonds are tested, dynamics shift and you can expect plenty of shock-horror moments. Next another frantic childhood game results in a bloodbath, before ultimately the remaining players reach the grand finale, called Sky Squid Game.

Watching the whole thing on screens are the VIPs, a group of wealthy, masked foreigners (American and British accents among them), who all place bets, moving little numbered chess pieces, while smoking and drinking. Though this part is no doubt supposed to be a caricature of a corrupt society, it’s all so cartoony with terrible acting that it jars with the excellence of the main scenes.

If you can get over groaning at these hammed-up villains, you will at least appreciate the social commentary on class, capitalism and immorality. While they enjoy this gladiator-style bloodsport as entertainment, as the players themselves become more deranged by greed, it holds up a mirror to the worst of humanity. By the time we reach the final episode, titled Humans Are…, we have also become numb to the violence. Seasons two and three could never have quite the same impact as season one. However, with the new games designed to cause even more division among the players than before, and a callous, unguessable twist early on that changes the whole dynamic, Squid Game becomes monstrous in a different way.

Watch out for drama outside of the main arena, as police officer Jun-ho (Wi Ha-jun) mounts a desperate search for the island, knowing his brother is the Front Man. What he doesn’t realise is that his plan is being sabotaged from within. Organs are still being harvested, and one soldier defects and tries to escape, while there are plenty of players, such as a mother and son and pregnant girl, to get emotionally attached to – and plenty to hate. Some of the side plots feel a bit muddled and some player hallucinations are confusing, but for the central characters there is a lot of heart to be found amid the trauma. Ignoring rumours of spin-offs and more seasons (and a glorious final wink), it feels right to end this show now. Squid Game has been an brilliant television hammer-blow, but surely no one has the stomach for more…

*Squid Game 3 is now streaming on Netflix

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FX on Hulu has asked that a spoiler alert head any detailed reviews of the new, fourth season of “The Bear.” And while this review is not really detailed, everyone has their own idea of what constitutes a spoiler. So, read on, if you dare.

Most television series, and not just the best ones, are organic. You can plan in a vague way, but you learn as you go along — what the actors can do, what characters are going to demand more screen time, what unexpected opportunities present themselves, what the series is telling you about itself. This can make a show feel inconsistent across time, but often better in the end, as much as it may irritate viewers who liked how things were back at the beginning.

Early in the fourth season of “The Bear,” premiering Wednesday on FX on Hulu, the staff of the series’ eponymous restaurant finally sees the Chicago Tribune review they were anticipating throughout much of Season 3, and when it comes, it contains words like “confusing,” “show-offy” and “dissonant.” (It’s beautiful to see the review represented in a physical newspaper.) The show’s third season was accused by some fans and critics of similar things, and whether or not creator and showrunner Christopher Storer is drawing a comparison here, it’s true that “The Bear” doesn’t behave like most series — the recent shows it most resembles are “Atlanta” and “Reservation Dogs,” both from FX, and going back a little, HBO’s “Treme,” which, like “The Bear,” are less invested in plot than in character, place and feeling.

For all the series’ specific detail and naturalistic production, the eponymous Bear is a fairy-tale restaurant, staffed by people who not long before were hustling to get beef sandwiches out the door but, encouraged by Jeremy Allen White’s brilliant chef Carmen, have revealed individual superpowers in relatively short time. (Carmy asks Marcus, a genius of dessert played by Lionel Boyce, how he achieved a certain effect in a new sweet; “Legerdemain,” Marcus replies.) If you want to see real restaurants in operation, there are plenty of options, from Netflix’s “Chef’s Table,” to Frederick Wiseman’s “Menus-Plaisirs — Les Troisgros,” a four-hour film about a Michelin three-star restaurant in central France. (It streams from PBS.org; you have until March 2027 to catch it there, and should.) But this invented place, which is real enough for its purposes, is primarily a stage for human striving, failure and success — and love. Come for the food, stay for the people.

After the first two seasons, which involved transforming the Beef, the sandwich shop Carmy inherited from his late brother Mikey, and creating the Bear, the third looked around and over its shoulder, flashing back and stretching out and developing themes that are taken up again in Season 4, which begins so hot on the heels of three they might as well be one. (They were filmed back-to-back.) The chaos and expense created by Carmy’s “nonnegotiable” decision to change the menu every night; the prospect of the Tribune review; and a participation agreement for sous-chef-turned-creative partner Sydney (Ayo Edebiri) are still working their way through the story. It begins more prosaically, certainly when compared with the impressionistic montage that occupied the whole of last season’s opening episode. And, apart from an opening flashback in which Carmy tells Mikey (Jon Bernthal) of his vision for a restaurant (“We could make it calm, we could make it delicious, we could play good music, people would want to come in there and celebrate … we could make people happy”), it stays in the present, facing forward.

Once again, we get a ticking clock to create pressure; installed by the “uncle” they call Computer (Brian Koppelman), it’s timed not as before to the opening of the restaurant but to the point at which backer Uncle Jimmy (Oliver Platt) will pull out and the Bear will “cease operations.” (It’s set to 1,440 hours, or 60 days.) But deadlines come and go on this show, and though we’re treated to repeated shots of the countdown clock, it doesn’t create much actual tension. There is always something more immediately concerning, in the kitchen or out in the world.

Ticking clocks remain a motif in Season 4 of “The Bear.” Ayo Edebiri, left, with Liza Colón-Zayas in a scene from this season.

(FX)

For all his messing with the menu in search of a Michelin star, Carmy is stuck in a rut — cue clip from “Groundhog Day” — and has also become maddeningly inarticulate, almost beyond speech; much of what White does this year is listen and react, doing subtle work with his face and fingers, interjecting an occasional “Yeah,” while family or colleagues unburden themselves or take him to task. “Is this performative?” Richie asks a moping Carmy. “You waiting for me to ask if you’re OK?”

Some of his self-flagellation feels unearned — which I suppose is often the case with self-flagellation. (“You would be just as good … without this need for, like, mess,” says Syd.) Carmy can be a handful, but he’s led his team into this land of milk and honey, and if the Bear is dysfunctional, it nevertheless manages to put food on the table, create delight and pay its people. Still, this is a season of apologies — even Uncle Jimmy is saying he’s sorry, through a closed door, to his teenage son — and reconciliations. (You didn’t suppose you’d seen the last of Claire, Carmy’s on-again, off-again romantic interest, played by Molly Gordon?)

Some developments can seem abrupt, possibly because so many of these characters are bad at communicating or lie about how they’re feeling, saying that everything is OK when everything is not OK. But in the long view, the view that extends even beyond the end of the series, whether it comes sooner or later, everything will be OK. Whatever Emmy nitpickers might have to say about its category, “The Bear” is most definitely a comedy; there’ll be obstacles, but everyone’s on a road to happiness. A double-wide episode, set at the wedding of Richie’s ex-wife, Tiffany (Gillian Jacobs), mirrors the calamitous “Fishes” Christmas-dinner episode from Season 2, with most of that extended cast present again. But here, there is dancing.

Richie, running the front of the house, continues on his journey of self-improvement, crafting inspirational addresses to the staff, meditating on a photo of a Japanese Zen garden and dealing in an adult way with his soon-to-be-remarried ex-wife and daughter; the Bear has become his lifeline. Gary (Corey Hendrix, getting some deserved screen time) is being educated as a sommelier; Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas) is working to put pasta on the plate in under three minutes; Ebraheim (Edwin Lee Gibson) is killing it at the sandwich window and looking to “create opportunity” with a new delivery app, a robot called Chuckie and a business mentor (Rob Reiner). Come for the food, stay for the people.

Above all, this is Syd’s year, which is, of course, also to say Edebiri’s. She’s got decisions to make and has been given long, often intense, two-person scenes, not only with Carmy but with Jimmy and Claire and an 11-year-old girl she suddenly finds herself babysitting, and with whom she spends most of an episode; Syd describes her dilemma in terms an 11-year-old might understand and receives the blunt advice an 11-year-old might give.

Carmy, for his part, thinks he knows how to fix things, which he will finally get around to sharing. Is it a good idea? Will it work? Will we ever know, and do we need to know? Is this the final season? (No one has said.) It closes on what is not quite an end — that not everything ties up feels very on brand for the series, and like life, which doesn’t run on schedule — and a sort of beginning. (I would just point out that R.E.M.’s “Strange Currencies,” or as I have called it, “Love Theme From ‘The Bear,’” playing very quietly in a scene behind Richie and highly evolved Chef Jessica [Sarah Ramos] may be a gentle nod to their unseen future.)

It can be corny, it can be obvious. It indulges in gestures as grand and unlikely as creating snow for a guest, and as small as a sandwich being cut to make it a little more friendly, a little more fancy. Both are moving.

Good restaurants serve a reliable version of familiar food, food anyone can like. Great ones do something peculiar that won’t be to everyone’s taste, won’t even make sense, but might inspire love. So it is with television shows.

When an author decides to tackle the story of a popular and important band like Talking Heads, the contours of which are familiar to many of its fans, the remit should be to illuminate the unexplored corners, the hidden details and anecdotes that provide a more full-bodied narrative and ultimately bring the band into sharper relief than ever before. Unfortunately, Jonathan Gould has almost completely ignored this directive in “Burning Down the House,” his new Talking Heads biography. This lumpy book, full of redundant stories and unnecessary detours that provide little illumination but plenty of needless bulk, lacks participation by the group’s members and is not the biography that this great and important band deserves.

As fans of the Heads already know, three of the four members met as students at the Rhode Island School of Design in the mid-’70s, children of privilege with artsy aspirations and not much direction. David Byrne came from Baltimore by way of Scotland, a socially awkward dabbler in conceptualist experiments with photography and a veteran of various mediocre cover bands. It was drummer Chris Frantz who enlisted Byrne to join one such band; bassist Tina Weymouth, Frantz’s girlfriend and the daughter of a decorated Navy vice admiral, played bass. They were an anti-jam band and pro-avant; the first decent song they came up with was a shambolic version of what became “Psycho Killer,” with Weymouth contributing the French recitatif in the song’s bridge.

For the emergent Heads, timing was everything. When Frantz signed the lease on a spacious loft on Chrystie Street in East Village in October 1974, he had unwittingly found the practice space where the three musicians would hone their craft. The loft was also a short walk to CBGB, soon to become the proving ground of New York’s punk revolution and the Heads’ primary live performance venue at the start of their career.

In March 1975, Byrne, Weymouth and Frantz attended a gig by Boston’s Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers at the Kitchen, an arts collective space in Soho, and it showed them a new way to approach their music. Richman, “who dressed like a kid that everyone laughed at in high school,” influenced the band’s preppy visual template and Byrne’s clenched singing voice. Within a year of moving to the city, Talking Heads had found its look, sound and favored club. When Frantz bumped into Modern Lovers bassist Ernie Brooks in a West Village Cafe, Frantz inquired about keyboardist Jerry Harrison; Brooks gave him Harrison’s number, Harrison joined the band and the classic Talking Heads lineup was complete.

What followed was a contract with Seymour Stein’s label Sire and the band’s collaboration with producer Brian Eno, beginning with its second album, “More Songs About Buildings and Food.” By the time the band released 1980’s groundbreaking “Remain in Light,” Eno’s role had expanded beyond his production duties. He was now writing songs with Byrne, which created friction within the band. When Byrne allegedly reneged on songwriting credits (the album listed “David Byrne, Brian Eno and Talking Heads,” rather than the individual band members), it created a rift that never healed, even as the band was selling millions of copies of its follow-up “Speaking in Tongues” and the soundtrack to the Jonathan Demme concert film “Stop Making Sense.” The final act was recriminatory, as Byrne commanded an ever greater share of the spotlight while the other members quietly seethed. The band’s final album, “Naked,” was its weakest, and Talking Heads dissolved in 1991, after Byrne removed himself from the lineup to explore outside projects.

Author Jonathan Gould

(Richard Edelman)

Gould does a serviceable job of telling the Heads’ story in a book that arrives 50 years after the band’s first gig at CBGB. Curiously, for someone who has tasked himself with explaining Manhattan’s late ‘70s downtown renaissance, Gould regards many of the key players in that scene with derision bordering on contempt. Gould refers to Richard Hell, a prime architect of New York punk, as a mediocrity whose “singing, songwriting and bass playing remained as pedestrian as his poetry.” Patti Smith’s music “verged on a parody of beat poetry,” while the vastly influential Velvet Underground, a band that made New York punk possible, is hobbled by its “pretensions to hipness, irony and amorality.” Even Chris Frantz’s drumming is “exceptionally unimaginative.” Gould is also careless with his descriptors. Jonathan Richman’s band displays a “willful lack” of commercial instinct, the Heads assert a “willful conventionality” to their stage appearance, Johnny Ramone is a “willfully obnoxious” guitarist and so on.

It’s hard to fathom how a biographer intent on cracking the code of one of rock’s seminal bands can do so with so much contempt for the culture that spawned it. An inquiring fan might want to go to Will Hermes’ 2011 book “Love Goes to Buildings on Fire” for a more nuanced and knowledgeable portrait of the creative ferment that made the Heads possible. As for a biography of Talking Heads, we are still left with a lacuna that Gould has unfortunately not filled.

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

Amy Bloom’s exquisite “I’ll Be Right Here” is a slim volume spanning close to a century. While it’s tempting to label the novel a family epic, that description would fail to capture how Bloom reconstitutes “family” on the page, or how her chapters ricochet forward and backward from decade to decade or year to year, shifting perspective not only from character to character, but from first- to third-person point of view.

These transitions, while initially dizzying, coalesce into a rhythm that feels fresh and exciting. Together they suggest that memory conflates the past, present and future, until at the end, our lives can be viewed as a richly textured tapestry of experience and recollection, threaded together by the people we’ve loved.

The novel opens with a tableau: Siblings Alma and Anne tend to their longtime friend, who’s dying. They tenderly hold Gazala’s hands in a room that “smells like roses and orange peel.” Honey — once Anne’s sister-in-law and now her wife — massages Gazala’s thin feet with neroli oil. “Anne pulls up the shade. The day is beautiful. Gazala turns her face away from the light, and Alma pulls the shade back down.” Samir “presses his hand over his mouth so that he will not cry out at the sight of his dying sister.” Later in the novel, these five will come to be dubbed “the Greats” by their grandchildren.

The scene is a foreshadow, and signals that the novel will compress time, dwelling on certain details or events, while allotting mere lines to other pivotal moments, or allowing them to occur offstage, in passing. At first this is disorienting, but Bloom’s bold plot choices challenge and enrich.

In 1930 Paris, a young Gazala and her adopted older brother, Samir, await the return of their father from his job at a local patisserie, when they hope to sample “cinnamon montecaos, seeping oil into the twist of paper,” or perhaps a makroud he’s baked himself. In their cold, tiny apartment, Samir lays Gazala “on top of his legs to warm us both, and then, as the light fails, our father comes home.”

The Benamars are Algerians, “descended from superior Muslims and Christians both, and a rabbi,” their father, M., tells them. He delights in tall tales of a Barbary lion that has escaped Northern Africa and now roams the streets of Paris. Years elapse in the course of a few pages, and it’s 1942 in Nazi-occupied France. One night before bed, M. Benamar shreds the silk lining from a pair of worn gabardine pants to craft a belt for his daughter. Then,“he lies down on the big mattress he shares with Samir and turns his face to the wall.” He never awakens.

Now orphans — we don’t know exactly how old they are — the pair must conceal that they are on their own. Samir lines up a job where their father worked, while the owner’s wife finds Gazala a position as companion to a renowned writer, offering her “up to Mme. Colette like a canape.” Colette (yes, that one!) suffers from arthritis, and is mostly bedridden. She hides her Jewish husband upstairs, while entertaining guests below. Gazala observes that her benefactor’s “eyes are slanted under the folds of her brows, kohl-rimmed cat’s eyes in a dead-white face, powder in every fold and crack.”

Soon, the sister and brother’s paths diverge, and Gazala makes her way to New York City.

It’s 1947. Through Colette, Gazala has found work at a shop on Second Avenue, and sleeps in the storeroom above. Enter Anne and Alma Cohen, teenage sisters who take an instant liking to Gazala and her French accent; in short order, they’ve embraced her as a third sibling. Months later, there is a knock on the bakery door, and it’s Samir, returned from abroad, in search of Gazala. For the rest of their lives, the nonblood-related siblings will conceal that they are lovers.

Going forward, the plot zigs and zags, dipping in and out of each character’s life. It’s 2010 in Poughkeepsie, N.Y., where Samir and Gazala have lived together in a rambling old house for decades, maintaining appearances by keeping separate bedrooms. They are old, and Samir “brushes her silver hair away from his lips.” She tells him she doesn’t mind that he smells of the shallots in their garden.

It’s 1968, and Anne, by now a wife, mother and lawyer, has fallen in love with her husband Richard’s sister, Honey. We glimpse their first sexual encounter after years of simmering emotions. Alma — who receives minimal attention from her author — marries a bighearted chicken farmer named Izzy, and later grieves the early loss of her husband, and the absence of children.

As they grow older, the circle consisting of Gazala, Samir, Anne, Alma and Honey will grow to include Lily, Anne’s daughter, and eventually Lily’s daughter, Harry. Gazala and Samir take in Bea, whose parents were killed in a car accident; she becomes the daughter they never had. This bespoke family will support each of its members through all that is to come.

It’s 2015 in Poughkeepsie, and Gazala’s gauzy figures float through her fading consciousness. Beneath the tree outside her window — ”huge and flaming gold” — sits her father, reading the paper. “Madame pours mint tea into the red glasses.” The other Greats are gathered round. One last memory, the most cherished of all: It’s 1984 and Gazala and Samir are in their 50s. He proposes a vacation in Oaxaca. “Let’s go as we are,” he whispers. At their hotel, “they sit beneath the arches, admiring the yellow sun, the blue sky, the green leaves on the trees, all as bright as a children’s drawing.” There, they freely express their love for each other.

As Bloom has demonstrated throughout her stellar literary career, which began in 1993 with the publication of her acclaimed story collection, “Come to Me,” she can train her eye on any person, place or object and render it sublime. Her prose is so finely wrought it shimmers. Again and again she has returned to love as her primary subject, each time finding new depth and dimension, requiring us to put aside our expectations and go where the pages take us. As readers, we’re in the most adept of hands.

Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.

Dispatches from northern China, Jia Zhangke’s movies constitute their own cinematic universe. Repeatedly returning to themes of globalization and alienation, the 55-year-old director has meticulously chronicled his country’s uneasy plunge into the 21st century as rampant industrialization risks deadening those left behind.

But his latest drama, “Caught by the Tides,” which opens at the Frida Cinema today, presents a bold, reflexive remix of his preoccupations. Drawing from nearly 25 years of footage, including images from his most acclaimed films, Jia has crafted a poignant new story with an assist from fragments of old tales. He has always been interested in how the weight of time bears down on his characters — now his actors age in front of our eyes.

When “Caught by the Tides” premiered at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, critics leaned on a handy, if somewhat inaccurate, comparison to describe Jia’s achievement: “Boyhood,” which followed a young actor over the course of 12 years, a new segment of the picture shot annually. But Richard Linklater preplanned his magnum opus. Jia, on the other hand, approached his film more accidentally, using the pandemic shutdown as an excuse to revisit his own archives.

“It struck me that the footage had no linear, cause-and-effect pattern,” Jia explained in a director’s statement. “Instead, there was a more complex relationship, not unlike something from quantum physics, in which the direction of life is influenced and ultimately determined by variable factors that are hard to pinpoint.”

The result is a story in three chapters, each one subtly building emotionally from the last. In the first, it is 2001, as Qiaoqiao (Zhao Tao) lives in Datong, where she dates Bin (Li Zhubin). Early on, Qiaoqiao gleefully sings with friends, but it will be the last time we hear her voice. It’s a testament to Zhao’s arresting performance that many viewers may not notice her silence. She’s so present even without speaking, her alert eyes taking in everything, her understated reactions expressing plenty.

Young and with her whole life ahead of her, Qiaoqiao longs to be a singer, but her future is short-circuited by Bin’s text announcing that he’s leaving to seek better financial opportunities elsewhere. He promises to send word once he’s established himself, but we suspect she may never see this restless, callous schemer again. Not long after, Bin ghosts Qiaoqiao, prompting her to journey after him.

“Caught by the Tides” richly rewards viewers familiar with Jia’s filmography with scenes and outtakes from his earlier movies. Zhao, who in real life married Jia more than a decade ago, has been a highlight of his movies starting with his 2000 breakthrough “Platform,” and so when we see Qiaoqiao at the start of “Caught by the Tides,” we’re actually watching footage shot around that time. (Jia’s 2002 drama “Unknown Pleasures” starred Zhao as a budding singer named Qiaoqiao. Li also appeared in “Unknown Pleasures,” as well as subsequent Jia pictures.)

But the uninitiated shouldn’t feel intimidated to begin their Jia immersion here. Those new to his work will easily discern the film’s older footage, some of it captured on grainy DV cameras, while newer material boasts the elegant, widescreen compositions that have become his specialty. “Caught by the Tides” serves as a handy primer on Jia’s fascination with China’s political, cultural and economic evolution, amplifying those dependable themes with the benefit of working across a larger canvas of a quarter-century.

Still, by the time Qiaoqiao traverses the Yangtze River near the Three Gorges Dam — a controversial construction project that imperiled local small towns and provided the backdrop for Jia’s 2006 film “Still Life” — the director’s fans may feel a bittersweet sense of déjà vu. We have been here before, reminded of his earlier characters who similarly struggled to find love and purpose.

The film’s second chapter, which takes place during 2006, highlights Qiaoqiao’s romantic despair and, separately, Bin’s growing desperation to make a name for himself. (This isn’t the first Jia drama in which characters dabble in criminal activity.) By the time we arrive at the finale, set during the age of COVID anxiety, their inevitable reunion results in a moving resolution, one that suggests the ebb and flow of desire but, also, the passage of time’s inexorable erosion of individuals and nations.

Indeed, it’s not just Zhao and Li who look different by the end of “Caught by the Tides” but Shanxi Province itself — now a place of modern supermarkets, sculpted walkways and robots. Unchecked technological advancement is no longer a distant threat to China but a clear and present danger, dispassionately gobbling up communities, jobs and Qiaoqiao’s and Bin’s dreams. When these two former lovers see each other again, a lifetime having passed on screen, they don’t need words. In this beautiful summation work, Jia has said it all.

French Cambodian director Rithy Panh has often cited the genocidal regime of the Khmer Rouge, which killed his family and from which he escaped, as the reason he’s a filmmaker. His movies aren’t always directly about that wretched time. But when they are — as is his most memorable achievement, the Oscar-nominated 2013 documentary “The Missing Picture,” which re-imagined personal memories using clay-figurine dioramas — one senses a grand mosaic being assembled piece by piece linking devastation, aftermath and remembrance, never to be finished, only further detailed.

His latest is the coolly observed and tense historical drama “Meeting With Pol Pot,” which premiered last year at Cannes. It isn’t autobiographical, save its fictionalization of a true story that happened concurrent to his childhood trauma: the Khmer Rouge inviting a trio of Western journalists to witness their proclaimed agrarian utopia and interview the mysterious leader referred to by his people as “Brother No. 1.” Yet even this political junket, which took place in 1978, couldn’t hide a cruel, violent truth from its guests, the unfolding of which Panh is as adept at depicting from the viewpoint of an increasingly horrified visitor as from that of a long-scarred victim.

The movie stars Irène Jacob, whose intrepid French reporter Lise — a perfect role for her captivating intelligence — is modeled after the American journalist Elizabeth Becker who was on that trip, and whose later book about Cambodia and her experience, “When the War Was Over,” inspired the screenplay credited to Panh and Pierre Erwan Guillaume. Lise is joined by an ideologically motivated Maoist professor named Alain (Grégoire Colin), quick to enthusiastically namedrop some of their hosts as former school chums in France when they were wannabe revolutionaries. (The character of Alain is based on British academic Malcolm Caldwell, an invitee alongside Becker.) Also there is eagle-eyed photojournalist Paul (Cyril Gueï), who shares Lise’s healthy skepticism and a desire to learn what’s really happening, especially regarding rumors of disappeared intellectuals.

With sound, pacing and images, Panh readily establishes a mood of charged, contingent hospitality, a veneer that seems ready to crack: from the unsettlingly calm opening visual of this tiny French delegation waiting alone on an empty sun-hot tarmac to the strange, authoritarian formality in everything that’s said and shown to them via their guide Sung (Bunhok Lim). Life is being scripted for their microphones and cameras and flanked by armed, blank-faced teenagers. The movie’s square-framed cinematography, too, reminiscent of a staged newsreel, is another subtle touch — one imagines Panh rejecting widescreen as only feeding this evil regime’s view of its own righteous grandiosity.

Only Alain seems eager to ignore the disinformation and embrace this Potemkin village as the real deal (except when his eyes show a gathering concern). But the more Lise questions the pretense of a happily remade society, the nervier everything gets. And when Paul manages to elude his overseers and explore the surrounding area — spurring a frantic search, the menacing tenor of which raises Lise’s hackles — the movie effectively becomes a prison drama, with the trio’s eventual interviewee depicted as a shadowy warden who can decide their fate.

Journalism has never been more under threat than right now and “Meeting with Pol Pot” is a potent reminder of the profession’s value — and inherent dangers — when it confronts and exposes facades. But this eerily elegiac film also reflects its director’s soulful sensibility regarding the mass tragedy that drives his aesthetic temperament, never more so than when he re-deploys his beloved hand-crafted clay figurines for key moments of witnessed atrocity, or threads in archival footage, as if to maintain necessary intimacy between rendering and reality.

Power shields its misdeeds with propaganda, but Panh sees such murderous lies clearly, giving them an honest staging, thick with echoes.

How much can you strip away from the war film and still have a war film?

That question invigorates “The Damned,” the new movie from Roberto Minervini, an Italian-born director who has spent the last 25 years living in America, our worrying cultural undercurrents seeping into his portraits of the marginalized and the discontent, usually documentaries.

“The Damned” represents his first foray into more traditional narrative storytelling, yet this existential drama bears all the hallmarks of his earlier work, less concerned with incident than conjuring a sense of place, time and, most important, a state of being. In his latest, Minervini brings viewers into the thick of the Civil War, only to find the same dazed souls and gnawing uncertainties that have always been his focus. It’s a war film with very little combat, but it’s about a war that still rages today.

Minervini’s naturalistic, observational style is on display from the film’s first scene, which lingers on a pack of wolves meticulously digging into an animal carcass. “The Damned” stays on the images just long enough for them to grow discomforting — when will Minervini cut away? — before introducing us to his anonymous protagonists, a collection of volunteer soldiers in the U.S. Army who have been sent out west in the winter of 1862.

The specifics of the mission are as mysterious as these men’s names as we watch them carry out the minutiae of military busywork. They set up tents. They play cards. They do target practice. Are they meant to represent the hungry wolves from the movie’s opening? Or are they the prey?

To call “The Damned” an antiwar film would be to assign an arbitrary value to what is really a series of offhand episodes consisting of only modest activity. In Minervini’s recent stellar nonfiction projects “The Other Side” and “What You Gonna Do When the World’s on Fire?,” the director collaborated with his subjects to create unvarnished glimpses of everyday lives, sometimes working from prearranged scenarios. Although Minervini is credited as “The Damned’s” screenwriter, his new film draws from a similarly close relationship with his cast, the actors drawing on aspects of their real lives to inform their roles, scenes developing from a loosely sketched-out plot.

In such an intimate, pensive atmosphere, characters emerge gradually out of the rugged landscape like windswept trees or weathered stones. The man identified in the end credits as the Sergeant (Tim Carlson, one of the subjects of Minervini’s 2013 documentary “Stop the Pounding Heart”) is ostensibly the leader, but as the untamed Montana wilderness goes from barren to snowy over an unspecified period of time, the more apparent it becomes that no commanding officer is necessary. The skeletal score by Carlos Alfonso Corral, who doubles as the film’s cinematographer, hints at an elemental menace just over the horizon. But real danger rarely occurs. Instead, these men are trapped in their own heads, their tender, confessional musings about God, war and manhood so rudimentary that they never aspire to the heights of folksy poetry. These soldiers are nothing special — as unimportant as their assignment.

Because Minervini avoids the tropes of the antiwar film — no big speeches, no ponderous metaphors — it’s almost a shock that he allows for one convention, an actual battle scene, which occurs about halfway through the 88-minute runtime. But even here, “The Damned” refuses to follow formula, resulting in an intentionally haphazard sequence as the soldiers are ambushed, the characters fleeing and shooting in every direction, the camera trailing behind them, desperate to keep them in frame. Whether it’s enemy forces or some random buffalo, the movie’s shallow depth of focus ensures that we only see our troops. Everything else resides in a permanently fuzzy, unsettled background, a constant middle distance that traps the characters in their spiritual purgatory.

There are limitations to Minervini’s spartan approach. Whereas his documentary films crackle thanks to his unpredictable interactions with his subjects, “The Damned” cannot help but feel slightly overdetermined, the outcomes predestined rather than organically unearthed. And yet, the concerns he brought to those earlier movies ripple here as well. “The Other Side,” his somber 2015 study of racist drug addicts and gun-toting militia members in rural Louisiana, remains the definitive warning of our modern MAGA age, while 2018’s “What You Gonna Do” prefigures the Black Lives Matter movement.

Now, for the first time, this prescient filmmaker visits America’s distant past, subtly pinpointing the economic inequalities, senseless brutality and thwarted masculinity that will bedevil the nation for the next 160 years. The Civil War is long over, but the country’s divisions remain, those core tensions naggingly unresolved.

Don’t think of “The Damned” as an antiwar film — consider it an origin story for Minervini’s perceptive, understated exploration of an America still in conflict.

Zombies were dormant when screenwriter Alex Garland convinced director Danny Boyle to resurrect the undead — and make them run. The galloping ghouls in their low-budget 2002 thriller “28 Days Later” reinvigorated the genre. There’s now been so many of them that they’ve come to feel moldy. So Garland and Boyle have teamed up again to see if there’s life in these old bones.

There is, albeit sporadically and spasmodically. “28 Years Later,” the first entry of a promised trilogy, has a dull central plot beefed up by unusual ambition, quirky side characters and maniacal editing. It’s a kooky spectacle, a movie that aggressively cuts from moments of philosophy to violence, from pathos to comedy. Tonally, it’s an ungainly creature. From scene to scene, it lurches like the brain doesn’t know what the body is doing. Garland and Boyle don’t want the audience to know either, at least not yet.

The plot picks up nearly three decades into a viral “rage” pandemic that’s isolated the British Isles from the civilized world. A couple hundred people have settled into a safe-enough life on Lindisfarne, an island that’s less than a mile from shore. The tide recedes every day for a few hours, long enough to walk across a narrow strip of causeway to the mainland. Jamie (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) and Isla (Jodie Comer) were young when normality collapsed, roughly the same age as the kids in the film’s cheeky opening flashback who are watching a VHS tape of “Teletubbies” while hearing the screams of their babysitters getting bitten. But these survivors have managed to grow up and become parents themselves. Given their harsh circumstances, Jamie and Isla have called their son Spike.

Name notwithstanding, 12-year-old Spike (Alfie Williams) is a sweet kid. When his father slips him a precious ration of bacon, he gives his share to his mother, who now lies weak and confused in an upstairs bedroom. The script pushes too hard to make Spike naive — blank and moldable — instead of what narrative logic tells us he is, the hardscrabble child of two stunted children. His career paths are hunter, forager or watchtower guard, but he seems more like the product of a progressive Montessori school, even with his dad urging him to cackle at shredded deer intestines. When the boy’s not looking, Jamie’s shoulders sag as he trudges up the stairs to Isla’s sickbed, showing us a hint of adult complexities he alone understands.

Spike’s storyline is a fairly simple coming-of-age journey. Once he’s slayed his first infected (“The more you kill, the easier it gets,” his dad gloats), Spike decides to sneak his sick mother to the mainland in search of a mythological being: a general medical practitioner. But straightaway, the movie’s editing (by Jon Harris) starts having a fit, seizing our attention as it splices in herky-jerky black-and-white archival footage of earlier generations of kids marching to protect their homes, both in newsreels and classical retellings including Laurence Olivier’s 1944 film of “Henry V.” The chilling electronic score by the Scottish group Young Fathers blurps and drones while an unseen voice recites Rudyard Kipling’s “Boots,” a poem about the grinding Boer War that was first published in 1903, but whose sense of slogging exhaustion sounds just as relevant to us as it would to Beowulf. These theatrics sound fancy, but they play deliberately abrasive and confounding. “28 Days Later” forced the audience to adapt to the ugliness of digital cameras, and despite the years and prestige that Garland and Boyle have accumulated since, they’ve still got a punk streak.

The filmmakers seem to be making the point that our own kinder, gentler idealism is the outlier. Humankind’s natural state is struggle and division. In this evocative setting, with its crumbling castle towers and tattered English flags, we’re elbowed to think of battles, from Brexit to the Vikings, who first attacked the British on this very same island in 793. A 9th century account describes the Lindisfarne massacre as nightmarish scenes of blood and trampling and terror, of “heathen men made lamentable havoc.” Those words could have been recycled into “28 Years Later’s” pitch deck.

As a side note, Lindisfarne remains so small and remote that it doesn’t even have any doctors today. The one we meet, Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), doesn’t show up until the last act. But he’s worth the wait, as is the messianic Jimmy (Jack O’Connell), who appears three minutes before the end credits and successfully gets us excited for the sequel, which has already been shot. (Jimmy’s tracksuits and bleached hair are evidence that his understanding of pop culture really did stop at Eminem.) Their characters inject so much energy into the movie that Boyle and Garland seem to be rationing their best material as strictly as Spike denies himself that slice of pork.

This confounding and headstrong movie doesn’t reveal everything it’s after. But it’s an intriguing comment on human progress. The uninfected Brits have had to rewind their society back a millennium. When a Swedish sailor named Erik (Edvin Ryding, marvelous) is forced ashore, he talks down to all the Brits like they’re cavemen. They’ve never even seen an iPhone (although the movie was itself shot on them). Upon seeing a picture of a modern Instagram babe plumped to a Kardashian ripeness, Spike gasps, “What’s wrong with her face?”

The infected ones have regressed further still and they’ve split into two sub-species: the grub-like “slow-low” zombies, who suck up worms with a vile slurp, and the Neanderthalish sprinters who hunt in packs. The fast ones even have an alpha (Chi Lewis-Parry) who is hellbent on taking big strides forward. One funny way he shows it is he’s made a hobby of ripping off his prey’s heads to use their spines as tools, or maybe even as décor.

Dr. Kelson, a shaman, sculptor and anthropologist, insists that even the infected still share a common humanity. “Every skull has had a thought,” he says, stabbing a freshly decapitated one with his pitchfork. He’s made an art of honoring death over these decades and his occasionally hallucinatory sequence is truly emotional, even if Fiennes, smeared with iodine and resembling a jaundiced Colonel Kurtz, made me burst out into giggles at the way he says “placenta.” Yet, I think we’re meant to laugh — he’s the exact mix of smart and silly the film is chasing.

So who, then, are the savages? The infected or us? The film shifts alliances without taking sides (yet). I’m unconvinced that sweetie pie Spike is the protagonist I want to follow for two more movies. But whatever happens, it’s a given that humans will eventually, stubbornly, relentlessly find a way to tear other humans to pieces, as we do in every movie, and just as we’ve done since the first homo sapien went after his rival with a stick. That’s the zombie genre’s visceral power: It reveals that the things that make us feel safe — love, loyalty, civility — are also our weaknesses. “28 Years Later” dares us to devolve.

Leave it to Megan Abbott to tap into the American zeitgeist and play on her readers’ fears like a conductor leading a doomsday orchestra. As high school and college graduates across the country celebrate the completion of a major milestone, they — and their nervous parents — are looking ahead to a future marked by political uncertainty and economic insecurity.

In an eerie echo, Abbott begins “El Dorado Drive,” her 11th novel, with a graduation party at the beginning of the Great Recession. Though the party is not a lavish affair — just a gathering for friends and family in the backyard of a rental property on El Dorado Drive in Grosse Pointe, Mich. — it’s more than Pam Bishop can afford, and every one of her guests knows it.

Any party, no matter how modest, reminds Pam and her two older sisters, Debra and Harper, of all that they’ve lost. Born into a world of wealth and privilege thanks to Detroit’s automotive-fueled postwar prosperity, the Bishop sisters — along with their parents, their peers and their children — watched it all disappear during the decline of the American automobile industry.

Pam’s ramshackle rental on El Dorado Drive, though several steps down from the home she grew up in or the mansion she moved into when she got married, is a symbol of the reckless pursuit of wealth that destroys those who can’t see through the illusion.

“When you grow up in comfort and it all falls away — and your parents with it — money isn’t about money,” Abbott writes. “It’s about security, freedom, independence, a promise of wholeness. All those fantasies, illusions. Money was rarely about money.”

For Pam’s ex-husband, Doug Sullivan, money is a game to be played in order to get what he wants, and he will stop at nothing to get it. But when Pam is brutally murdered in the opening pages, he emerges as a prime suspect. The first half of the novel backtracks from the discovery of Pam’s body to the graduation party nine months prior, when each Bishop sister is struggling with serious financial hardship.

Locked in an acrimonious divorce with no end in sight, Pam doesn’t know how she’s going to pay her son’s college tuition or handle her rebellious teenage daughter alone. The oldest sister, Debra, is buried under a mountain of medical bills while her husband suffers through another round of chemotherapy and her son slips away in a cloud of marijuana smoke. Harper, the middle child, struggles to make ends meet while rebounding from a relationship that ended in heartbreak.

The solution to their money problems arrives in the form of a secret investment club called the Wheel. Run for and by women who have fallen on hard times, the program is simple but sketchy. It costs $5,000 to join, but once the new members recruit five new participants, they are “gifted” five times their initial buy-in.

If this sounds too good to be true, you have more sense than the Bishop sisters. Such is their desperation they don’t quite allow themselves to see this is a fairly basic pyramid scheme that depends on fresh blood — and their bank accounts — to keep the Wheel turning.

The novel follows Harper, the outsider in the family, due to the fact that she’s never married nor had children. She’s not part of the community, either, because she’s recently returned to Grosse Pointe after time away to mend her broken heart. The first half of the novel concerns the Bishops’ dynamics and their found family in the Wheel, which operates like a combination of a cult and a recovery group for women who’ve lost everything.

At a moment of vulnerability, Harper is buttonholed by an old classmate named Sue. “It’s called the Wheel because it never stops moving,” Sue said. Twice a month, we meet. A different member hosts each time, and the meetings were just parties, really. And at these parties, they took turns giving and receiving gifts to one another. To lift one another up. As women should, as they must.”

Behind the rhetoric of sisterhood lurks avarice and greed. When Harper asks Pam if anyone ever left the group after just one turn of the Wheel, Pam — a true believer — can’t fathom backing out of the group. “Why would anyone do that?” she asks.

The answer proves to be her undoing, and the second half of “El Dorado Drive” follows Harper as she tries to solve her sister’s murder. It’s a classic whodunit story with Harper — who has plenty of secrets of her own — playing the role of the reluctant detective.

Despite the book’s suggestive title, the landscape is anything but illusory for Abbott, who grew up in Grosse Pointe and spent the first 18 years of her life there. Evoking a rich setting has never been a weakness of Abbott’s stories. Her novels have a hyperreal quality and are often populated by characters churning with desires they cannot manage.

Abbott is especially adept at rendering the hot, messy inner lives of young people and at making a book’s backstory as suspenseful as the narrative engine that drives the plot. In “El Dorado Drive,” however, the focus is on adults, and the past mostly stays in the past. The result is a novel in which the story is straightforward and the stakes are low. Nevertheless, true to her penchant for shocking violence, Abbott delivers a revolting revelation that sets up a series of twists that propels the story to its inevitable, but no less satisfying, conclusion.

But then there’s the matter of the Wheel. When we watch a video of people in a boat who are drinking, carrying on and disobeying the rules of the road, we don’t feel badly for them when they end up in the water, no matter how spectacular the crash, because they brought it on themselves.

The same logic applies to the participants in the Wheel. We can empathize with the calamities that prompted these characters to take such foolish chances, but we would never make those choices ourselves.

Or would we?

One could argue that our era will be defined not by whether the American dream lives or dies but by the questionable choices of our political leaders and, by extension, the people who elected them. We may not know where we’ll be tomorrow, but Abbott knows wagering that the wheel of grift, greed and corruption will keep on turning is always a safe bet.

Ruland is the author of the novel “Make It Stop” and the weekly Substack Message from the Underworld.

Kevin Williamson, whose previous screen creations include teen romantic drama (“Dawson’s Creek”), meta slasher horror (“Scream”) and teen supernatural gothic (“The Vampire Diaries”), has thrown his hat into the popular dysfunctional-family-doing-crimes ring with “The Waterfront,” premiering Thursday on Netflix. Set in North Carolina, like “Dawson’s Creek,” it’s a soap opera with drug smuggling.

Welcome to Havenport. As crime families go, the Buckleys are not the Corleones, although their involvement with the darker side of life is generational. (Legitimately they run fishing boats and a fancy restaurant and are sitting on a prize piece of undeveloped seafront property.) Grandpa (deceased) was some kind of troublemaker; father Harlan (Holt McCallany), who fondly remembers the cocaine trade of his younger days, when people dressed well and were polite, has checked out of all family affairs after a heart attack or two in favor of drinking and cheating on his unusually understanding wife, Belle (Maria Bello).

Meanwhile, without telling Harlan, Belle and son Cane (Jake Weary), a disappointed former high school hero, have been providing boats to idiot drug smugglers in order to pay off mortgages and loans that might cause them to lose their aboveboard businesses and cherished identity as the Buckleys of Havenport. When things go south, they get drawn in deeper — Cane, reluctantly, and Harlan, almost enthusiastically. It makes him feel like his old self again and gives him a reason to bully Cane — in order, he imagines, to toughen him up. But he’s basically a bully — imposing yet somehow bland.

Cane had a chance to play college football in Miami, but his father undercut his confidence; he is still waiting for it to return.

“I’m really good at almost,” he tells high school girlfriend Jenna (Humberly González), whose unexpected return to town has him emotionally unsettled, in spite of having a perfectly lovely wife, Peyton (Danielle Campbell), and a young daughter. “Almost good enough. Almost a good guy. I’m almost a good husband, father, son. Just not quite, you know.” (Jenna is nominally a journalist, working in Atlanta. “I read some of your articles online,” says Cade. “You’re a good writer!”)

Maria Bello stars as Belle Buckley in “The Waterfront.” (Dana Hawley/Netflix)

Holt McCallany plays patriarch Harlan Buckley. (Dana Hawley/Netflix)

The remaining Buckley, younger sister Bree (Melissa Benoist), is not currently doing any crimes, though she earlier burned her family’s house down and is now permitted to see her sulky teenage son, Diller (Brady Hepner), only in the presence of a court-appointed chaperon. Not that Diller wants to see her at all; she did burn his house down. (“No one was hurt,” Bree points out. “Physically,” Diller replies.) But manners are manners, whatever your mother’s done, and she was an addict, after all. Now she’s out of rehab, going to meetings and working in the family restaurant, though asking to get back into the front office. Perhaps she has an ulterior motive; so many of these characters do.

Also in the intertwined mix: Gerardo Celasco as too-buff-by-half Drug Enforcement Administration agent Marcus Sanchez; Michael Gaston as dangerous Sheriff Clyde Porter, an old frenemy of Harlan, seething with class resentment; and Rafael L. Silva as Shawn, the new bartender at the Buckleys’ restaurant, whose poor knowledge of mixology raises alarms. Topher Grace is on the cast list for a future appearance.

Given that Williamson grew up where the series is set and is the son of a fisherman, one might have hoped for more local color and a little insight into the fishing business, rather than concentrating on the criminal shenanigans and sexy stuff that could happen anywhere and does. (Yes, I have odd hopes.)

Instead, everything’s a little fuzzy, lacking in detail. Characters put on attitudes and get in and out of trouble — there are shootings and scrapes, surprising reveals and shocking events — but few are, or seem about to develop into, interesting people. (Only three episodes of eight were out for review, so something might well pop; still, that’s three hours of television down.) They’re a little bland, even, and what happens to any of them, though of idle interest, is never really a compelling question. Belle stands out by virtue of being played by Bello and given at least one scene in which she seems like a regular, empathetic person, and Bree can be sympathetic, given how much her son hates her. I would counsel Peyton, one of the few without an agenda — so far, anyway — to take her daughter and leave town, but I’m guessing that won’t happen.

If in some ways “The Waterfront” feels assembled off the shelf, there’s enough activity that some viewers, possibly a lot of them, will dig in just to see how this thing caroms into that. That’s the engine that runs no small amount of television. It’s easy enough to watch. And sometimes “just OK” equals “good enough.”

Fire changes whatever it encounters. Burns it, melts it, sometimes makes it stronger. Once fire tears through a place, nothing is left the same. Kelly Ramsey wasn’t thinking of this when she joined the U.S. Forest Service firefighting crew known as the Rowdy River Hotshots — she just thought fighting fires would be a great job.

But fire changed her too.

In her memoir, “Wildfire Days: A Woman, a Hotshot Crew, and the Burning American West,” Ramsey takes us through two years of fighting wilderness fires in the mountains of Northern California. She wrote the book before January’s deadly Altadena and Pacific Palisades fires, and what she encountered in the summers of 2020 and 2021 was mostly forests burning, not city neighborhoods. But at the time, the fires she and her fellow crewmen fought (and they were all men that first year) were the hottest, fastest, biggest fires California had ever experienced.

“My first real year in fire had been a doozy, not just for me but my beloved California: 4.2 million acres burned,” she writes, in the “worst season the state had endured in over a hundred years.” That included the state’s first gigafire — more than 1 million acres burned in Northern California.

The job proved to be the hardest thing she’d ever done, but something about fire compelled her. “At the sight of a smoke column, most people feel a healthy hitch in their breath and want to run the other way,” she writes. “But all I wanted to do was run toward the fire.”

Ramsey’s memoir covers a lot of ground, skillfully. She learns that being in good shape isn’t enough — she has to be in incredible shape. She learns how to work with a group of men who are younger, stronger and more experienced than she is, and she figures out how to find that line between never complaining and standing up for herself in the face of inappropriate behavior.

She also writes about the changes in her own life during that time: coming to terms with her alcoholic, homeless father; pondering her lousy record for romantic relationships; searching for an independence and peace she had never known.

“It wasn’t fire that was hard; it was ordinary life,” she concludes.

Sometimes her struggles with ordinary life threaten to take over the narrative, but while they humanize her, they are not the most interesting part of this book. What resonates instead is fire and all that it entails — the burning forest and the hard, mind-numbing work of the Hotshots. They work 14 days on, two days off, all summer and fall, sometimes 24-hour shifts when things are bad. They sleep rough, dig ditches, build firebreaks, set controlled burns, take down dead trees and, in between, experience moments of terrifying danger.

Readers of John Vaillant’s harrowing 2023 book “Fire Weather” — an account of the destruction of the Canadian forest town of Fort McMurray — might consider Ramsey’s book a companion to the earlier book. “Wildfire Days” is not as sweeping or scientific; it’s more personal and entertaining. It’s the other side of the story, the story of the people who fight the blaze.

Ramsey’s gender is an important part of this book; as a woman, she faces obstacles men do not. It’s harder to find a discreet place to relieve herself; she must deal with monthly periods; and, at first, she is the weakest and slowest of the Hotshots. “Thought you trained this winter,” one of the guys tells her after an arduous training hike leaves her gasping for breath. “I did,” she said.

“Thinking you shoulda trained a little harder, huh,” he said.

But over time she grows stronger, more capable, and more accepted. In the second year, when another woman joins the crew, Ramsey is torn between finally being “one of the guys” and supporting, in solidarity, a woman — but a woman whose work is substandard and whose attitude is whiny.

“Was I only interested in ‘diversity’ on the crew if it looked like me?” she asks herself. “Had I clawed out a place for myself, only to pull up the ladder behind me?”

But competence is crucial in this dangerous job, and substandard work can mean deadly accidents.

For centuries, natural wildfires burned dead trees and undergrowth in California, keeping huge fires in check. White settlers threw things out of whack.

“The Indigenous people of California were (and still are) expert fire keepers,” Ramsey writes. “Native burning mimicked and augmented natural fire, keeping the land park like and open.”

But in the 20th century, humans suppressed fires and forests became overgrown. “Cut to today,” she writes. “Dense forests are primed to burn hotter and faster than ever before.”

Ramsey’s descriptions of the work and the fires are the strongest parts of the book.

“We could hear the howl — like the roar of a thousand lions, like a fleet of jet engines passing overhead — the sound of fire devouring everything,“ Ramsey writes.

Later, she drives through a part of the forest that burned the year before to see “mile upon mile of carbonized trees and denuded earth, a now-familiar scene of extinguished life.”

But she also notes that the burned areas are already beginning to green up. “New life tended to spring from bitterest ash,” she writes.

“The forest wouldn’t grow back the same, but it wouldn’t stop growing,” she observes earlier.

There is a metaphor here. Ramsey’s memoir is a moving, sometimes funny story about destruction, change and rebirth, told by a woman tempered by fire.

Hertzel’s second memoir, “Ghosts of Fourth Street,” will be published in 2026. She teaches in the MFA in Narrative Nonfiction program at the University of Georgia and lives in Minnesota.

The accomplished mother that photographer-writer Rachel Elizabeth Seed never knew is the star of her deeply affecting “A Photographic Memory,” one of last year’s best documentaries, finally making its way to Los Angeles theaters. This poetic gem is a journey from the weight of absence to the serenity of presence, thanks in no small part to the inquisitive, gifted woman pulled from obscurity: Sheila Turner-Seed, whose life was short but full and worth revitalizing.

Turner-Seed, a journalist, was 42 when she died in 1979, leaving behind an 18-month-old daughter, a bereft photographer husband (Brian Seed) and a legacy of wide-ranging, globe-trotting reportage that culminated in a renowned oral and visual history called “Images of Man.” The project was anchored by Turner-Seed’s groundbreaking interviews with the world’s best living photographers at the time, including Henri Cartier-Bresson, Cecil Beaton, Lisette Model and Gordon Parks. And though she only ever referred to herself as an amateur with a camera, Turner-Seed once saw a photo of hers land on the cover of the New York Times.

That her daughter also pursued photography and nonfiction storytelling could be viewed as the manifestation of a deeply felt connection. Was following her mother’s passion the most readily available way to process a personal loss the director essentially had no memory of? Seed only began exploring the true breadth and emotion of her mother’s legacy when she herself reached the age that her mom died, a milestone fraught for many grown, parentless children.

What the younger Seed found, accompanied by memories from her mother’s colleagues, was a rich archive of adventurous work and personal expression: photos, journals, contact sheets, Super8 film, audio pieces and a trove of interviews. These discussions reveal a soulful, probing mind that not only kept her subjects on their toes, but warmly elicited thoughtful answers about the nature of their moment-in-time art.

Turner-Seed’s own writing lays bare a struggle for self-fulfillment, to reconcile the traditional values pushed by her Jewish immigrant parents with a restless need to discover and make her own way. In an especially revealing journal entry from 1972, she wonders if she’ll grow in her chosen fields if she marries and has a child — but also, will she want to? A lanky, warm presence with a sociable smile, Turner-Seed is never far from a keenly observed thought or ambivalent feeling.

Why “A Photographic Memory” stands out, however, is her daughter’s handling of this precious life. It’s a heartbreakingly imaginative conjuring of the parent-child connection that never came to be, but which Seed and her editors (including documentary cutting legend Maya Daisy Hawke) finesse to life.

With melancholy and playfulness both, Seed threads in her own introspective voice-over and contemporary footage (poring over material, visiting her dad, sparring with a boyfriend). She also adds grainy period re-creations of her mom’s interviews, Seed playing her own parent in these 8mm snippets. Eventually, technology allows these distant intimates to share a frame.

Biographical and essayistic, “A Photographic Memory” suggests both a woman interested in locating her remarkable mother, gone too soon, and an artist exploring her own place. Of the impulse to take a photo, to grab the moment, we hear Cartier-Bresson excitedly tell Turner-Seed, “Life is once, forever.” Her future daughter’s marvelous movie embodies that idea beautifully.

Politicians typically don’t mind campaign documentaries, because a race is a road show and the camera is a practice run for the performance part of the gig. Having a lens on what postelection governance looks like, however, is a rarity in nonfiction, which makes “Prime Minister” something of a unicorn: an intimate view inside the consequential, galvanizing five-year administration of New Zealand’s progressive leader Jacinda Ardern, who also became a first-time mother simultaneous to taking her country’s highest seat of power.

Of course, partnering with someone who has behind-closed-doors access is a terrific asset, and co-directors Michelle Walshe and Lindsay Utz have a key one in Ardern’s partner and now husband Clarke Gayford, one of the film’s cinematographers (and sometimes its most humorously hesitant interviewer, especially when your formidable girlfriend has had a tough day). Despite the laughable scrutiny Ardern endured from critics about whether a new mom could govern (or whether a head of state should “mommy”), “Prime Minister” makes clear in its many relatable domestic scenes featuring new daughter Neve (who’s adorable) that such questions are ridiculous.

The point made by the filmmakers is that the job of looking after a country’s people — and the mix of love and steel required to personally care for a child — might just go hand in hand. We certainly know which looming responsibility triggered the most reluctance in Ardern, as early on we watch the special minority coalition circumstances in 2017 that thrust a then-37-year-old Ardern from opposition-party leader to prime minister in only two months.

For Ardern, an articulate spokesperson of heart and mind, it was an unexpected chance to effect change on a platform of issues that mattered to her. That opportunity was greater than any personal doubts she may have had, including a nagging sense of impostor syndrome. As she says, “I could only be myself.”

Which means: compassionate, wry and unbowed. Ardern was quick-witted enough to sparkle on Stephen Colbert and shrewd enough to pass effective climate change legislation and protect a woman’s right to choose. “Prime Minister” is not be that interested in wrangling, dealing and lawmaking, or even the nuts and bolts of her progressive views. (You crave more scenes of her debating — she seems especially strong at it.) But in the fleet, pacey manner of the editing, toggling between private and public moments with highlight-reel efficiency, the film is a stirring glimpse of top-down kindness as a winning leadership style. After the Christchurch tragedies, twin shootings that took 51 lives, she showed the most heartfelt empathy, then knuckled down and got assault weapons off the streets. Tears beget toughness.

Ardern is so appealing, her manner so purposeful despite her admitted anxieties, that her struggle to respond forcefully and humanely to the pandemic — then endure threatening protests fueled by American-grown disinformation — is hard to watch. She became a rageful minority’s easy target, exemplary COVID management statistics be damned. Stepping down in 2023, Ardern sacrificied power for her own sanity. (One wonders if 21st-century leadership is just too chaotic for thoughtful people — and only suited to megalomaniacs.)

“Prime Minister” is an essential political portrait in how it seeds optimism and concern, leaving you with hope that more Jacinda Arderns are in the wings ready to enshrine common sense, despite the risks. There’s no doubt that when it mattered most, her high-wattage sensitivity was a towering strength. As showcased in this film, it’s a precious resource we could use a lot more of.