Culture

The Picture of Dorian Gray begins on an unadorned note. Sarah Snook sits alone on an otherwise empty stage, facing a camera which projects her image on to a giant vertical screen. Chameleon-like, she switches instantaneously between two characters: the awkward but sincere painter Basil and his more debonair – and dastardly – friend Lord Henry. Snook may be Australian and a woman, but borne on her considerable gifts we are transported to Victorian England. With no props save a paintbrush for Basil and a cigarette for Lord Henry, Snook chops and changes between the two men: she contorts her face into nervy, painful subservience for Basil and her voice into a high, febrile whine.

Donald Trump has thrown another trade grenade. His latest idea – a 100 percent tariff on all foreign-made films – is crude, impractical and potentially disastrous for his frenemies in the Hollywood industry that he has suddenly decided to champion. Announcing the tariffs via Truth Social, Trump tried to paint movies produced overseas as a danger: not just to America’s film production industry, but national security too. “WE WANT MOVIES MADE IN AMERICA, AGAIN!" he thundered. Invoking national security to justify these tariffs is legally shaky. Practically, it’s not clear how you even impose tariffs on a complex, multi-national production like a modern movie. Films shot in Croatia, edited in the UK and funded by America pose an administrative nightmare.

When passions are aroused, all of us are liable to overstate our case. Dan Hicks, a curator at Oxford’s extraordinary Aladdin’s Cave of anthropology, the Pitt-Rivers Museum, is perhaps a case in point. A Swedish academic, Staffan Lunden, has convincingly argued that Hicks is guilty of "distortion" when writing about the British raid on Benin in 1897, which brought several thousand objects, including finely wrought brass statuettes, to museums across the world. Hicks published his uncompromising views in 2020 in a prize-winning book, The Brutish Museums: The Benin Bronzes, Colonial Violence and Cultural Restitution.

George Clooney isn’t afraid to politic. And last July he showed himself willing to speak truth to his own party’s power: by voicing the dramatic decline in Biden’s facilities in a New York Times op-ed, Clooney, a lifelong Democrat, helped force ole’ Joe out the race. Is it any surprise, then, that Clooney has chosen to make a splash on Broadway in a play that is explicitly political? Clooney’s resurrection of his critically acclaimed 2005 film Good Night, and Good Luck for the stage is timed for maximum impact. Good Night, and Good Luck dramatizes Edward R. Murrow’s historic takedowns of Joseph McCarthy on his beloved CBS show See It Now.

The critical reception to the second series of Andor has been nothing short of ecstatic. At the time of writing, it has a hugely impressive, near-unprecedented 99 percent “Fresh” rating on Rotten Tomatoes, far in excess of any other Star Wars movie or television spin-off. Its creator and showrunner Tony Gilroy, who has been open in the past about his relative disdain for fantasy in general and Star Wars in particular, has been doing the interview circuit and making it clear that he has no interest in fan service. He told the Daily Telegraph, “Some people have a problem: ‘It’s not for kids. There aren’t enough creatures in it.’ Well, I don’t make that show. Sorry.

As I write, I sit swimming in turbulence somewhere over Virginia, on the same jet as US Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth – heading to Panama City in an effort to restore the country’s critical canal to US control.But Saturday was a very different scene. A far more comfortable experience, too. In Box 3 at the Kennedy Center for the Arts, for the National Symphony Orchestra’s performance of Mozart and Mendelssohn.I hadn’t been to the Kennedy Center in a while (i.e., we are so back). Now run by Trump loyalist Ric Grenell, proudly displayed on the concessions counters are signs that read: “STANDARD STRAWS NOW AVAILABLE!”That means no more paper.

Charlie Brooker’s cautionary technological tales have now been running for well over a decade, and they are almost in danger of seeming old-fashioned. When Black Mirror began in 2011, Instagram was only a few months old, the iPhone was a new novelty just coming into the mainstream, and Elon Musk was best known for being CEO of Tesla. Now, virtually everything in the world has changed, and Big Tech plays roles in our lives that the ever-cynical Brooker could barely have imagined. There is, naturally, a residual irony that in order to afford the budgets – and starry casts – that the show continues to demand, it long since left its original home on Britain’s Channel 4 for the deeper-pocketed Netflix, which still funds it into its seventh series.

“The laughter of children is like the blossoming of a flower,” wrote French poet Charles Baudelaire. “It is the joy of receiving, the joy of breathing, the joy of opening out, the joy of contemplation, of living, of growing. It is the joy of a plant.” Conservatives and most right-wingers have a hard time understanding laughter, I’d vouch, especially the laughter of children – by which I mean the laughter of zoomers and their even younger peers, Generation Alpha. But laughter is an increasingly powerful political tool, one that has the ability to mobilize the young even as it confounds and confuses older generations. Today’s conservative establishment ignores laughter at its peril. Laughter is a vital force propelling the right to new success. Just look at Donald Trump.

The late Val Kilmer was difficult. That word is a kiss of death in Hollywood, because as soon as it’s murmured that you are hard to work with, your career declines inexorably. Kilmer had directors lining up to say how impossible he was. Joel Schumacher, who made Batman Forever with him, barely stopped kvetching about the actor, calling him “overpaid, overprivileged and psychotic.” Shortly after the film’s release, Schumacher said “He was badly behaved, he was rude and inappropriate. I was forced to tell him that this would not be tolerated for one more second. Then we had two weeks where he did not speak to me, but it was bliss.

Last year, I wrote a feature for this magazine in which, disturbed by the apparent revival in the British gangster genre, I counseled a degree of caution as to its practitioners’ apparent lack of discernment in their approach to the tropes and clichés of the tradition. “We will be left," I concluded, "with the cinematic equivalent of bald men fighting over a comb: a boot, stamping on a human face for all eternity, while someone calls someone else ‘a slag.’ It is not, perhaps, the most enticing of prospects.” If the Guy Ritchie-Tom Hardy collaboration MobLand is not as hideous a creation as this suggests, it is also something of a disappointment given the cast and creative talent involved.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the most annoying of them all? The answer, it seems, is Rachel Zegler, the new Snow White, who has managed to turn herself into an international hate figure because she can’t keep her progressive political views to herself. The upshot is that Disney’s $350 million remake of one of its most famous films is flopping at the box office. It generated $45 million in ticket sales in its opening weekend. That sounds a lot, yet it’s a lot less than other recent Disney adaptations brought in, even including other woke disasters such as 2023’s Peter Pan & Wendy. Reviews of the new Snow White have been overwhelmingly negative, too.

At one point during the part-concert film, part-documentary Hans Zimmer & Friends: Diamond in the Desert, super-producer Jerry Bruckheimer refers to Hans Zimmer as “the greatest living film composer in the world.” Zimmer, present when such flattery is offered, does not exactly nod in agreement, but nor does he laugh it off. While there are those who would argue that John Williams or Howard Shore have as great a claim to such a title – to say nothing of the equally influential Danny Elfman, Michael Giacchino or Alan Silvestri – there is one incontrovertible reply. Zimmer has a two-and-a-half hour movie dedicated to him and his work, showing in one-off engagements in theaters worldwide at the moment – and the rest of them don’t.

Burned by the backlash to Lost, Damon Lindelof went in a new direction for his following show, The Leftovers. It also had a mystery at its center: why did a rapture happen where 2 percent of the world’s population instantly vanished on a random Friday? But whereas Lost set up an expectation of answers, only to disappoint, The Leftovers made it clear that there were no answers to this mystery. Over its unfortunately abrupt three seasons, neither the viewers nor the characters would ever find out why this event happened or what it meant; why some people were taken and why others were left behind. It wasn’t a puzzle to solve but a situation to cope with and live through. It’s the greatest TV show you haven’t seen.

There’s been a murder in the White House! The chief usher is dead on the third floor, under mysterious circumstances, while a state dinner is happening below, and nobody’s allowed to leave until a world-class detective cracks the case. It’s such an obviously good premise that it’s almost shocking that Agatha Christie never got to it; and though The Residence doesn’t get up to her level, and Cordelia Cupp (played by Uzo Aduba) is no Hercule Poirot, it’s a lot closer than it has any right to be. Out today on Netflix, this eight-episode show is a love letter to the murder mystery, with constant references to other fictional detectives and the episode titles borrowed from other famous entries.

If you would like to see that rarest of endangered species — a smart, witty and original 90-minute thriller aimed at adults — then stop reading this review immediately and go and see Steven Soderbergh’s Black Bag. It is a film that is probably best enjoyed by going in entirely blind, where the bare bones of the premise, revolving around a husband-and-wife pair of British spies who find themselves under suspicion of treachery, possibly by one another, is all you need to know. Yet if you need further convincing, then rest assured that this a one-of-a-kind blend of Mission: Impossible, Private Lives and Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, with a little Mr. and Mrs. Smith thrown into the mix, to season.

When the Puerto Rican guitarist Carlos Alomar first met David Bowie, he didn’t think a man could turn a whiter shade of pale. The singer looked emaciated; his complexion teetered on translucency, and weighing only 95 pounds, the only signs of life were a pulse and a mop of orange hair. It was the mid-Seventies, and Bowie was touring America deep in the throes of addiction — the “darkest years” of his life — surviving on a paltry diet of red peppers, cigarettes, milk and cocaine. Yet somehow, through the haze of these drug-fueled years, Bowie underwent a chameleonic reinvention of self and sound — and finally broke America. Bowie had cast a sheen of suspicion over America as an aspiring artist, even admitting to hating it initially.

LOG is the name of ungraded digital video footage. It’s flat, lifeless, and dark, but that’s fine because you can tweak, tune, and adjust in a way that was never possible with film, fiddling with exposure, contrast, saturation, and so forth. In those days, everything had to look as good as possible on the film. But, with the ability to grade in post, fix visual effects in post, and change backgrounds and designs in post, directors started getting lazy. And eventually, some convinced themselves that ugliness is a distinct stylist choice. It’s not laziness; it’s an aesthetic. I say all this as, in another era — an era with more care — Dope Thief could have been a great show.

We remain fascinated, even obsessed, by the Mitfords. Collectively, their existence is the stuff of legend: the affairs, the imprisonment, the polarized politics, the wit, the beauty, and the brutality, all in one glamorous package. In uncertain times, the sisters offer a flush of eccentric characters: Nancy the Novelist, Pamela the horsewoman, Diana the Fascist, Unity the Hitler-lover, Jessica the Communist and Debo the Duchess.

Usually, when a film wins Best Picture at the Oscars, the inevitable backlash takes years, if not decades, to come to the surface. Sometimes, it’s simply because the “wrong film” won (Crash over Brokeback Mountain, Shakespeare in Love over Saving Private Ryan), and on other occasions, it is because a film’s social or sexual politics have dated incredibly badly. (Here’s looking at you, American Beauty.) Yet after what must be the most contentious and controversial Oscar season in living memory, during which no fewer than four separate films were all tipped for glory at one point, the eventual victor ludorum, Sean Baker’s Anora, is facing a vicious and sustained assault on its credentials that is without precedent.

The White Lotus, now back for a third series, could perhaps be best described as Death in Paradise for elegant people. Most obviously, this is because its plots revolve around murders in an idyllic location — only with a far bigger budget, a much starrier cast and several episodes per story. But there’s also the fact that it follows the same pattern every time. So it was that season three began this week, rather like its predecessors, with some lovely scenery, a dead body and a caption reading "One week earlier." After that, we duly watched a bunch of rich, good-looking folks arriving at a luxury White Lotus resort where they were welcomed by the resolutely smiling staff and a nervous manager, before gazing round and marveling at the beauty of it all.

Somehow the strange circumstances of the death of Gene Hackman, found dead in his New Mexico home with his wife Betsy and their dog, make the end of one of America’s finest actors all the more poignant. The full details will presumably become clear soon — but whatever happened, it is more important to remember Hackman’s legendary on-screen career than to waste time fixating on his final moments. He was an actor without sentiment, but with enormous amounts of fierce compassion — even when playing villains — and it is those qualities that should be celebrated. Hackman began his life in the Marine Corps before he became an actor, and many of his best performances have the tough, unbending quality that he developed in the military.

On my favorite Hollywood-focused podcast The Town, host Matt Belloni and his producer and guests offer predictions all the time on television ratings, relying on the Nielsen numbers for reference for what's anticipated versus what it turns out to be. Predictions for Saturday Night Live's fiftieth anniversary had it tracking above 20 million viewers — a reasonable expectation given the year-long promotional campaign and the fact that it would be on NBC, streaming on Peacock and on E! Network at the same time. The conversation on The Town was mostly a debate about whether it would hit 25 million, putting it well above expectations for the Oscars. Instead, it came in far lower, not even getting to 15 million — below the Grammy Awards, for sake of comparison.

Usually, by the time the BAFTAs — now comfortably established, along with the Golden Globes, as a dress rehearsal for the Oscars — roll around, it is fairly clear which film or films are likely to be taking gold at the Academy Awards next month. Thanks to the often frenzied behind-the-scenes lobbying and intriguing of various well-paid publicists, a storyline will emerge, and it is only in relatively rare cases that there will be a genuine surprise on the night. After all, nobody wants to spend a fortune on promoting (or celebrating) a lost cause. This year, however, is wildly unpredictable, and in fact is the first occasion since 2019 that it’s genuinely difficult to know which film is going to be triumphant.