Education Secretary Linda McMahon praised the growing use of artificial intelligence in classrooms Sunday, even as she acknowledged there is little evidence yet showing how the technology affects student learning.

During an interview with CNN’s Dana Bash, McMahon pointed to Alpha School in Austin, Texas, where students spend the first two hours of their school day wearing headphones and learning in front of computers with teachers monitoring their progress.

“The beauty of that is that a student almost has a one-on-one tutor,” McMahon said, explaining that AI programs can adjust instruction based on how quickly individual students are learning.

Her comments come just days after the Education Department issued new guidance telling schools to evaluate educational technology based on evidence that it improves student outcomes.

But when Bash noted that generative AI is too new for comprehensive long-term studies and asked whether students were effectively becoming “guinea pigs for chatbots,” McMahon acknowledged the evidence is still developing.

“There aren’t a lot of metrics available now,” McMahon said.

Still, she praised what she witnessed at the Austin school. “Oh, it’s working wonderfully and they’ve been doing it now for a few years,” she said.

Schools across the country are already wrestling with how much artificial intelligence belongs in education.

Thirty-seven states have issued guidance on AI in schools while districts that initially focused on preventing students from using chatbots to cheat are increasingly introducing AI literacy programs designed to teach students both how to use the technology and recognize its limitations.

Those limitations can be significant. During a recent AI training session for educators in South Carolina, an AI-generated world map misspelled Mali as “Mail,” labeled Egypt “Sopth” and replaced Libya with a country simply called “Africa.”

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McMahon said schools should monitor whether AI tools actually improve student outcomes and remove those that don’t. She also emphasized that AI should not replace human teachers.

“Nothing should replace that one-on-one teacher interaction with students,” McMahon said, calling for “AI with guardrails.”

The question facing schools may increasingly be where those guardrails should go. McMahon said parents should be able to object when they believe AI isn’t helping their children, while acknowledging schools are still learning what effective AI education looks like.

“It’s how effective are the teachers being able to interact with the students and work with them,” she said. “Students need to be able to communicate with each other.”

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At least once while watching “The Great American Road Trip,” I found myself wondering what the Founding Fathers would make of all this. It happened in the Philadelphia episode, after Transportation Secretary and “Real World: Boston” alumnus Sean Duffy herded his family past the Liberty Bell, but just before he took them into the National Constitution Center.

Before going inside, Duffy pauses to hype up his brood by sharing that none other than Ken Griffin bought one of the original copies of the Constitution to put on public display. “And I think it’s so cool because we have American patriots who love the country, who love history, that are willing to invest their money to buy these copies and not hide them away,” he said.

Duffy’s wife, Fox News personality Rachel Campos-Duffy, along with a few of his nine kids who fit into the shot, listen attentively as he says this, ostensibly appreciating the sacrificial solemnity of a billionaire financier’s highly publicized $43.2 million transaction.

As for me, I had to wonder why Duffy felt the need to drop the name of a man whose net worth exceeds $52 billion in proximity to those of the Continental Congress members who walked the floorboards of Independence Hall.

Our Founders were not poor men, but they weren’t Griffin-rich by a long shot – that’s British monarchy levels of money. What would they have thought about an American government official being hailing a hedge fund manager as a “patriot,” simply for buying one of the few remaining copies of the foundational document they painstakingly crafted and generously making it available for the Great Unwashed to gawk at? Didn’t they circulate scores of drafts for everyone to see?

And just as importantly – how many people, let alone children, know or care who Ken Griffin is? Who, exactly, is “The Great American Road Trip” for?

Asking that means I’m overthinking it, which is the opposite of what it takes to appreciate this . . . whatever this is.

“The Great American Road Trip” was conceived as a travelogue, after a fashion, celebrating the 250th anniversary of America’s founding. The six-episode series caught flak from the moment its first trailer was released in May, more than two months after President Donald Trump launched his wildly unpopular war with Iran. By then, a gallon of gas averaged around $4.50, according to AAA.

Now that I’ve seen the show – me, and the few thousand other unfortunates rubbernecking at this terrible accident – I’m here to assure you that this was never about us. It’s about the Duffys fulfilling their prescribed content creation roles in Trump’s reality TV cabinet.

Wring your hands, if you must, over the impropriety of the U.S. Department of Transportation attaching itself to a series paid for by companies it regulates, including United Airlines, Chase Travel, Toyota, Boeing and Royal Caribbean.

Not to worry, though, since those corporations and others funneled their contributions into Great American Road Trip, Inc, a nonprofit 501(c)(4) organization that hasn’t yet appeared in the usual IRS search engine people employ to find information on such entities.

In May, Politico obtained the GART pitch deck listing proposed sponsorship levels for the series ranging from $100,000 to $1 million. But that’s all totally fine, America. “No taxpayer dollars were spent for the participation of Secretary Duffy’s family,” an opening title card assures us. Except for Duffy’s paycheck, but it’s not as if that’s worth mentioning.

Another widely discussed subplot is tied to where Paloma Duffy should attend college. She wants to go to Harvard University, about which Duffy claims, “[T]hey have professionalized figuring out how they can take good young girls like you and, I think, corrupt their minds.” He also voices his fear that Harvard perverts and contorts young minds.

If this administration weren’t chockablock with ethical violations and other morally repugnant horrors, the thought of a government official claiming that a private Ivy League university older than the country, in a series sponsored by a governmental department, should be horrifying.

Then again, look around.  

“The Great American Road Trip” is what happens when a president is more concerned with creating memes and spinning a version of America that is free of conflict, devoutly Christian, and cheerily patriarchal, rather than traveling with its historical complexity in all its fullness.

The Duffys may line dance through Texas, but you will learn more about that state’s history and culture by watching “Landman” or “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure.”

They spend plenty of time visiting the “Real World: Boston” house where Duffy reconnects with his erstwhile housemate, Montana McGlynn, and next to none discussing Boston’s pivotal role in igniting the American Revolution.

The great state of Arizona is home to the Grand Canyon and hundreds of Waymo autonomous cars (made by Google, another proud sponsor of this American adventure!), but it’s also where Grandpa lives.  Charlotte, S.C., is home to the restaurant of one of Campos-Duffy’s oldest friends, who happens to be the kind of smoke show Trump would wife if she only had an Eastern European accent. 

The Duffys also visit the Free States of Taylor Sheridania, aka Wyoming and Montana, in an episode where their young son, Patrick, is taken to the hospital after suffering abdominal pain. What appears to be appendicitis turns out to be severe constipation, a public announcement I’m sure his schoolmates will handle with grace and maturity. And since things take a turn for the medical, Duffy’s oldest daughter, Evita, and her husband, Wisconsin Republican congressional candidate Michael Alfonso, enlist an ultrasound tech to reveal their unborn child’s gender.  

In addition to their Grand Canyon visit, the Duffys swing by Yellowstone National Park, rounding out their looks at two of the most photographed destinations in existence. There is no mention of the Trump administration’s defunding of our National Parks system, including siphoning some $90 million from visitor entry fees to places like, hello, Yellowstone, toward preparations for the nation’s semiquincentennial celebrations, including relining the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool. Money well spent!

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Even if you don’t try to wrap your brain around the moral dissonance of this project, there’s no getting around the disservice it does to our national image.  “The Great American Road Trip” is Acceptably American Content, promoting America as an ahistorical nation full of fun stops for the kids and nice hotels. The Duffys would like us to believe that America belongs to wealthy white people who outfit their lives in neutral colors and pray that their daughters will be spared from liberal perversion. Worst of all, it makes the United States look boring.

The fact that it came out following scores of delightful social media posts made by awestruck international visitors who crisscrossed the country to enjoy the World Cup doesn’t help. On YouTube, the very same platform hosting Duffy’s vapid post-vacation slideshow, content abounds showing soccer lovers’ appreciation for our fast-food joints, rowdy dance clubs and ranch dressing. These videos depict a fun-loving land that welcomes foreigners and embraces friends at 250 years old despite all the advertised assaults on its social fabric. Those are the stories sustaining our joy during America’s anniversary. The rest, we can dump at one of our many overflowing roadside rest stops.

The post Sean Duffy’s Great American Road Grift appeared first on Salon.com.

Once audio technology caught up with moving pictures, many of his peers embraced the “talkies” or bowed out. But Chaplin continued to intentionally make primarily silent films throughout the 1930s, both as a matter of artistic philosophy and in recognition of marketplace realities.  

( Movie Poster Image Art via Getty Images) Charlie Chaplin in “Modern Times”

Chaplin was a master of blending political and social commentary with broad comedy. He argued that if characters like his signature, the Tramp, suddenly showed up with a voice, they would lose their universal appeal. Thus, he enjoyed great success with films like 1934’s “Modern Times,” which softly transitioned into the new era by preserving much of silent filmmaking’s expressiveness while incorporating synchronized audio.

By the time “The Great Dictator” came out in 1940, Chaplin had fully embraced cinematic sound. But his performance still emphasizes full-bodied emoting as much as his dialogue delivery, if not more. His intentional balance of silence and audio amplifies one of the movie’s most famous moments, Adenoid Hynkel’s gibberish speech, into a bombastic, hilarious aural onslaught.

 

 

I’m guessing that among today’s burgeoning cinephiles, silent movies evoke an ancient vibe that is, in its own way, a little hardcore.

Silents aren’t entirely lost to modernity, of course. In 2011, “The Artist,” a delightful dialogue-free black-and-white feature, won Oscars for best picture, best director and best actor.

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 Still, I can only imagine that the earliest silents are both awe-inducing and challenging to endure for someone who came of age in a noisy world of digital shorts.

But show me a city with a vibrant film community and I can almost guarantee it has a regular silent film showcase. In my hometown, Seattle, our Paramount Theatre hosts Silent Movie Mondays quarterly, accompanying each screening with a live performance on the venue’s original Mighty Wurlitzer organ.

Then there are Silents Synced events, which tour the world and bridge the classics to modern musical acts. Past pairings married F.W. Murnau’s 1922 film “Nosferatu” to Radiohead’s hits, and 1925’s “A Woman of the World” to Pearl Jam.

Silent filmmaking has even found its place among up-and-coming directors. Earlier this month, the New York Times profiled the Modern Silent Shorts festival, which has annually showcased short films it commissions from select filmmakers since 2024. The festival’s founders boast quite an industry lineage, having met on the set of a Sofia Coppola movie, where they were production assistants. Their inaugural fest took place on Isabella Rossellini’s Mama Farm in Brookhaven, New York.

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This ongoing appreciation of silent movies speaks to a common craving for simple communal appreciation of analog pleasures.

(Courtesy of Independent Film Company.) Lionel Boyce, Alan Ritchson and Amar Chadha-Patel in “Motor City.”

“Motor City” and movies like it — think “Sisu,” “Silent Night” and other screen explosions — are the opposite all that. By deemphasizing dialogue, their stunt work and visual effects seize the spotlight. Most aren’t entirely silent, either; although Ritchson and his co-stars say next to nothing, the film’s sound department makes sure we hear every grunt, scream, propulsive bang and metallic knife slice.

But reducing or omitting speech from a movie’s audio tracks forces viewers to give the screen their full attention, which Netflix and other streaming services assume is a lost cause in the second-screen era.

Silent performance can be an actor’s dream and a real challenge, since it relies on physical performances and visual execution to communicate with the audience. When pulled off successfully, the power of silence raises the volume on everything else that matters. In a theatrical economy defined by divided and shortened attention spans, that can be serious currency.

“Motor City” will be available for purchase or rental on digital platforms Tuesday, Aug. 25.

Read more

from Salon’s Culture newsletter, The Swell

• The lost art of playful opening credits
• “Fargo” and the impact of Minnesota nice
• David Bowie’s Goblin King still casts the longest spell

 

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If you’ve never heard of the band Black Marble, that should change, and today’s as good a day as any for that to happen, because their new album, “Life in Small Spaces,” was just released on Sacred Bones. 

Since I first discovered the band in 2012, when they released their debut album, “A Different Arrangement” on Sub Pop’s sister label, Hardly Art, I’ve followed them from release to release and label to label as they hopped from Hardly Art to Ghostly to, as of 2019’s “Bigger Than Life,” Sacred Bones. And as each of their five full-length albums replaced their previous as my new favorite record, I’ve been consistently surprised that more people aren’t constantly talking about this band and how amazing they are. And by “they,” I mean Chris Stewart, who is the man behind the marble, as it were. 

In 2016, I was lucky enough to be asked by Stewart to write the album bio for their Ghostly release, “It’s Immaterial,” and I’ll quote myself now in describing the band’s sound on that album, which remains true for their latest, “Life in Small Spaces”: Soaring and muted all at once. It’s a collection of songs pieced together from perfect-seeming snippets heard while passing open doors. It’s a framework in which your imagination creates its own version of what you need to hear but didn’t have a way to describe – like a favorite song heard on an unlabeled mixtape by a band you can’t uncover.

Then, and now, songs like “Anything,” “Guess” and “Life Without,” off of the new album, take me back to being a pre-teen in the ’80s, when my little boyfriend’s older sister gave him a cassette of Depeche Mode‘s first album and we sat in my driveway, huddled around a boombox while playing it over and over, as though we’d discovered music made just for us. 

The post The best band you’re probably not listening to yet appeared first on Salon.com.

Even if you aren’t old enough to remember the heyday of Columbia House, you’re probably familiar with the scam at its center. The mail-order club would offer customers eight to 12 CDs, tapes, records — and, in later years, DVDs and blu-rays — for a penny. By agreeing to the arrangement, users were signed up for a scheme where they agreed to purchase a certain number of products over a specific amount of time at full price. Each month, they were sent a mailer promoting the “Selection of the Month,” and if the customer failed to return the rejection form, Columbia House would send them the new release and charge their account.  

The practice of requiring customers to opt-out or be charged is called negative-option billing, and it inspired no end of complaints from customers. Columbia House drew further claims of bad business by allegedly refusing to acknowledge payments, discounting items so that users’ purchases fell just below the agreed-upon threshold and being a notoriously difficult subscription to terminate.

Columbia House was a bum deal for musicians as well, selling the CDs at a reduced price and offering the artists a smaller royalty percentage, the argument being that the cut paid for the mail-order club’s marketing. That Columbia House was owned by massive record labels for much of its existence, and that the club manufactured their own cheaper versions of the releases to cut costs, gave the whole process an even more corrupt odor. Pearl Jam protested the practices of Columbia House, and the bum deal it gave artists, but made little headway as the club boomed to 16 million members in the 1990s. 

Given all that, I was somewhat surprised to see heartfelt eulogies for the mail-order racket when Columbia House announced it was ceasing operations later this year. Social media buzzed with stories about how “magical” it was to get CDs in far-flung locations. One academic who immigrated to the United States said junk mail from the retailer helped convince her that she’d really become an American. Others lamented the death of a “part of their childhood.” 

Most of the rosy posts made some mention of the fact that Columbia House’s operation was unethical at best, but that the customer-service runarounds, unwelcome bills and general scuzziness had all faded with time. Where the company was once the best-known name in media rip-offs, it now leaves behind only mass-produced plastic and fuzzy memories. 

Like Blockbuster, which was decried in its time as a killer of mom-and-pop video stores that ripped off customers with steep late fees, Columbia House died long after the average music consumer ceased doing business with it. That can account for at least some of the paeans to building a music collection on the cheap, or paying extortionate prices for movies once your skeevier dollar-video-shop was run out of town, but it’s far from the whole story. Awash in constant robot spam callers seeking sensitive information, in a country where the president is running his own cryptocurrency grift, the Columbia House swindle feels quaint.

In part, this is thanks to the technology at the heart of Columbia House. In an era before widespread tracking technology followed everyone’s consumption habits around the internet, Columbia House was remarkably easy to scam back. People signed up their pets, used aliases and played games with mailing addresses to bilk the company out of new releases for less than the cost of a penny. The ads, which came as paper mailers — in contrast to soon-to-be popular malware, pop-up ads and phishing emails — were decidedly less invasive and easily ignored. (After all, their easy-to-miss nature was a key part of the Columbia House business model.) 

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And unlike the bank-draining, generative AI-boosted rip-offs of 2026, you did actually get something for your trouble. Customers who forgot to send a postcard saying they wanted nothing to do with ‘90s Steven Tyler can still point to a copy of “Nine Lives” on their shelves. My own classic-rock-loving father ended up with copies of Whitney Houston and Alanis Morissette albums that he, left to his own devices, wouldn’t have sought out. But “Heartbreak Hotel” and “You Oughtta Know” were regularly spun in the car.  

Nowadays, the taboo around scamming has fallen out of fashion with Gen Z, who see devious business models as a way to get ahead in a rigged economy. Amazon and other online marketplaces created a boom for drop-shippers to mark up products without providing any further value to customers. The internet-savvy and unscrupulous were quick to cash in. More than a decade after scam rap emerged from the buzzier, grimier corners of Detroit hip-hop, a scammer anthem from a South Floridian is arguably the song of the summer. 

Americans lose more than $100 billion to scams every single year. As more and more of the country’s citizens feel like they’re being had, the Trump administration doesn’t seem to be rushing to stop the con. In fact, there’s plenty of evidence that they could be in on it.

White House insiders are reportedly using privileged information to place wagers on grey-area betting platforms. Nine accounts on the platform Polymarket made millions on U.S. military actions in Iran, winning nearly all of their 80 wagers on U.S. strikes and ceasefire negotiations. The former White House teleprompter operator allegedly made tens of thousands placing bets on what words Donald Trump might use in his speeches. The president himself has spent much of his second term accepting luxurious gifts and donations that sure read like bribes in the right light. Trump has increased his net worth by more than $2 billion in his second term, largely through the launch of a crypto firm operated by his sons. He accepted a $400 million jet from the royal family of Qatar and has pardoned multiple people after their families made large donations to his campaign. Former White House ethics czar Norm Eisen told the Washington Post that Trump had “fully monetize[d] the Oval Office” and was carrying out “corruption on a scale that . . . has few rivals in world history.”

What’s paying full price for an Ugly Kid Joe CD you never wanted compared to all that?

The post Columbia House closure sparks nostalgia for a bygone music scam appeared first on Salon.com.

There can be many reasonable reactions to the surprising news that Prince Harry and his wife, Meghan, along with their children, Prince Archie and Princess Lilibet, are returning to Britain.

But when it comes to the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, reasonable went out the window a decade ago.

Thursday’s initial responses to “Megxit II: Montecito’s Revenge,” as the Page Six newsletter branded the move, were typically caustic. It and other rags insinuate the problem, As Ever, is the royal formerly known as Meghan Markle. One anonymous industry well-wisher claims, “She was the more thirsty of the two of them.” Add a few more nuanced takes citing all the ways Harry and Meghan (but mostly Meghan) failed to conquer Hollywood, and you would think the Duchess had laced her famous jams with chicken poop.

A more plausible reason for the Sussexes’ unexpected English retreat may be related to the health of Prince Harry’s father, King Charles III, with whom Harry reunited in July. In 2024, Buckingham Palace made Charles’ cancer diagnosis public without specifying the severity of his illness. It’s common for people to move closer to ailing relatives. The Sussexes are many things, but if their time in the spotlight showed us anything, it’s that they are human.

Harry and Meghan’s U.K. return comes as British and American press are being scrutinized for their skewed coverage of Jason Arday, the youngest Black professor in Cambridge history. An online smear campaign accused him of having plagiarized parts of his 2015 doctoral thesis. NewsCord, a media analysis site, found that 229 articles about Arday were published in the United Kingdom in 22 days, with 188 appearing in the nine days between his resignation and his death.

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In Netflix’s 2022 docuseries “Harry & Meghan,” the couple candidly described the role that Meghan’s vicious treatment in the press played in her depression and suicidal ideation. Much of it, they say, was orchestrated by The Firm, the business arm of the British royal family.

It isn’t hard to predict what their welcome home will be like. Then again, as social media personality Mrs. Betty Bowers put it: “You know the United States is an unpleasant place when Prince Harry and Meghan Markle would rather live in a country with newspapers and relatives that hate them.”

The post Harry and Meghan’s UK return tests a press under fire appeared first on Salon.com.

In 2015’s “Jurassic World” — the first of the “Jurassic Park” franchise’s largely interminable bastard step-children — there’s a moment of action that briefly suggests the film might exist for reasons other than to extend its source material and make oodles of cash. In the scene, which occurs just as things fall apart (as they always seem to do in these films), dinosaurs break loose and attack all of the theme park’s patrons. 

In the ensuing chaos, a woman is snatched up by a flying Pteranodon and swooped into the air, where others of its species take turns throwing her between their beaks. She’s then dropped into the water, where the winged creatures swarm her once more. Just as the dinosaurs pluck her out of the depths, a Mosasaurus leaps from the water and swallows both the woman and the dino attacking her. It’s downright cruel and undeniably entertaining. But namely, this sequence of dino-terror suggests that “Jurassic World” might actually provide audiences something they’d sorely lack for the next decade: fun. 

That was, of course, not the case. In the years that followed, three more “Jurassic World” films saw the light of day, and none of them came close to reaching that first movie’s brief, brutal height. A swath of other summer blockbusters would be released alongside them; A “Spider-Man” here, a “Mission: Impossible” there. But finding a popcorn movie that could entertain beyond nostalgia alone was rare. (Though not entirely inconceivable.) Perhaps, in an ironic twist of fate, the truly original summertime creature feature went extinct before the onscreen dinosaurs could.

(Warner Bros. Pictures) “The End of Oak Street”

Cue Anne Hathaway, stepping into frame sensible sandals first, pointing a shotgun at her own ancient adversary in David Robert Mitchell’s delightful “The End of Oak Street.” That alone is the kind of image powerful enough to make any viewer believe that mainstream cinema is still kickin’. Everything that follows is simply further confirmation. 

Mitchell’s film, which follows a family of four in 1982 as they realize their entire quaint suburban neighborhood has somehow been transported back to the Mesozoic era, has understandably swept audiences off their feet. “The End of Oak Street” has everything a viewer could want — especially a viewer fatigued by the Hollywood sequel system and all its shortcomings. There’s action, romance, suspense, creatures, creatures having sex, large piles of excrement, interdimensional portals, pizza, a comical amount of split-diopter shots, and what looks to be a pleasantly well-funded public library. What’s more, Mitchell’s film is feisty and unpredictable, always managing to stay one step ahead of the viewer. 

“The End of Oak Street” has all the elements that Hollywood studio executives love to pluck from box-office hits of the past in their never-ending attempts to Frankenstein a decent modern blockbuster out of spare parts. Yet, here, there are no visible stitches, no scars or seams. Mitchell’s film succeeds where others have failed because it runs on its feelings rather than its features. It’s still pastiche, but unbeholden to the nostalgia-obsessed, highly referential style that has plagued so much contemporary media, like “Stranger Things,” “Super 8” and “Wonder Woman 1984.” The more Mitchell conjures joy and fear from thin air with the snap of his fingers, the more frustrating it becomes that audiences seldom get to experience summer fun at this caliber anymore. But as depressing as that may be, “The End of Oak Street” could very well be a blueprint for a fresh era in popcorn movies. They might not make ‘em like this anymore, but that doesn’t mean they can’t.

But that will require some convincing. For a few years now, studios have had it in their heads that the ideal way to merge art and commerce is to hire stylish, auteur-minded filmmakers to helm their franchise movies. Think Chloé Zhao taking on Marvel’s “Eternals,” or Amazon MGM tapping Denis Villeneuve to pilot “James Bond” into its next era. By and large, this formula has not worked because studios demand accessibility, even from the artistes. That cool camera setup isn’t worth it because viewers don’t care about that kind of stuff, executives say. Unless you’re Steven Spielberg, with enough money and success to have final-cut privilege, everything in a franchise blockbuster is bound to look flat, feel drab, and be nauseatingly overexplained.

That’s a big part of why “The End of Oak Street” feels like a break in the pattern from the jump. Mitchell is the film’s sole screenwriter and director, working with a clear reverence for the kinds of story-first features produced under Spielberg’s Amblin Entertainment label — the movies that sprang from big, bold ideas, not financial bottom lines. The story has elements similar to popular summer blockbusters, but they’re so finely remixed and retooled that they don’t bear such exhausting resemblance to their forebears. 

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Perhaps best of all: The movie has a gritty, charming meanness to it; a stickiness that’s hard to shake off. Where “Jurassic World” balked at doubling down on its single cruel sequence, “The End of Oak Street” has at least 10 stomach-dropping thrills. With a PG-13 rating that gets away with quite a bit, the action harkens back to the days of “Poltergeist,” a PG-rated film that had whole families walking out of the theater traumatized and silent. “Poltergeist” was, notably, a summertime Amblin release that similarly riffed on classic creature scares — updating dusty, old ghost tropes with new ideas — much like Mitchell does with his dino-time-travel extravaganza.

But Mitchell wants you to make those correlations, too. When the film opens at Oak Street’s idyllic summer block party, complete with cookouts and kids happily pedaling together on their bikes, he purposefully evokes the atmosphere of the movies he covertly cites. There’s some bickering between the Platt parents, Denise (Hathaway) and Greg (Ewan McGregor), that their kids, Brian (Christian Convery) and Audrey (Maisy Stella), pick up on. But Mitchell cleverly avoids setting any tone in stone. When a storm followed by a flash of blinding light sends their house and the surrounding neighborhood back in time, the entire Platt family quickly understands that they’re in deep sh*t — or, more precisely, dinosaur feces, of which a large amount has accumulated in the neighbor’s backyard.

(Daniel McFadden/Warner Bros. Pictures) Christian Convery, Anne Hathaway and Maisy Stella in “The End of Oak Street”

From here, Robert carefully stacks a Jenga tower of suspense-laden set pieces and surprisingly moving family drama, without so much as letting the structure teeter. Where other filmmakers would painstakingly elucidate every thematic detail to make their silly popcorn movie “say something,” Mitchell restrains himself. “The End of Oak Street” doesn’t need to be “about” anything, which is the best way to make a film feel like it’s actually about several things. 

On one hand, “The End of Oak Street” exists to be entirely what it is and nothing more. It’s a piece of delicious, fluffy cotton candy, sweet and quick-dissolving. On the other hand, when a director isn’t trying so hard to convey a message, that’s typically when they can conjure an emotion to fill the space left empty by thematic contrivance. This movie is about family dynamics and love, sure. It’s even got a dash of trauma. But Mitchell says so much more by saying nothing overt about those things, and instead, depicting a family who wants nothing more than to get out of the bind they’ve found themselves in. It’s as if he recognizes that so much recent blockbuster filmmaking has been about embedding heart-wrenching pathos into the nostalgic elements we know and love. But more often than not, the combination comes off forced; corny at best, insipid at worst. 

(Warner Bros. Pictures) Ewan McGregor and Anne Hathaway in “The End of Oak Street”

Mitchell’s self-imposed moderation might not look radical at first. But in a blockbuster landscape like the one we’re in now, thoughtful constraint is welcome and needed. I’m reminded of “The Odyssey,” which felt, to me, crushed by its own ambition, hoping to be everything at once simply because it could be. “The End of Oak Street” couldn’t be more different. It’s just as ambitious and loaded with ideas and surprises, but Mitchell isn’t trying to make this story anything more than it needs to be. 

As with his last two films, “It Follows” and “Under the Silver Lake,” Mitchell has found a winning, thrilling formula in throwing ordinary people into extraordinary situations and searching for the resonance in the results, even if the answer is simple. That’s the real key in making something feel nostalgic, without nostalgia-farming. His latest film succeeds because it’s not trying to make audiences say, “I like this, because it reminds me of that.” Rather, “The End of Oak Street” recalls a time when both life and the movies seemed simpler, but were really much more complex than most people remember. They just didn’t feel the need to spell it out for us, allowing the movies to do the talking instead.

The post “The End of Oak Street” does pastiche right appeared first on Salon.com.

It’s difficult to get one’s hopes up when it comes to the dicey state of Hollywood filmmaking, and even more difficult to keep them there. Mergers and consolidations threaten to dictate which films can get made. Theatergoing is only starting to boast consistent numbers again, taking six years to bounce back from its pandemic freefall. And Netflix has a Rolodex of movie stars trapped in terrible roles. But when things get tough, and our spirits wane, there’s no better pair to summon than Mulder and Scully, who are returning (technically) to the feature-length format with “The X-Files: I Want to Believe — Vrach Frankenshteyn.”

This version of Mulder and Scully’s widely panned 2008 outing has more gore, more grit and more gothic delights, courtesy of its director and “X-Files” series creator, Chris Carter, returning to clean up the mess left by Fox 18 years ago. Following the FBI duo as they search for a missing colleague, Carter’s director’s cut is for the most staunch sci-fi fans, those who crave every little bit of “X-Files” lore they can get.

Carter says that when the original film was in production, he faced intense pressure to cut enough grisly material to get a PG-13 rating so the movie could reach as many people as possible. That’s not an uncommon phenomenon, especially when working with a big, financially successful, well-loved property, but it is frustrating. And more often than studios realize, fans and even the average moviegoer can sense when a studio has tampered with a film. 

But, notably, Carter’s director’s cut arrives on Hulu on the heels of Ryan Coogler finishing an “X-Files” reboot pilot for the streamer. Coogler’s recent deal with Warner Bros. to regain ownership rights to his smash hit “Sinners” was a boon for filmmakers who’ve long been frustrated with studio greed and meddling. That Carter’s been able to release the film he always intended to make, and Coogler’s helping to turn Hollywood in favor of artists, movie fans may finally have enough proof to believe again — though Scully, as always, would be skeptical.

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Chatbots like ChatGPT and Claude are quickly changing the healthcare landscape. An estimated one in seven people have used AI for a health-related question instead of seeing a general practitioner. One in ten people have used AI for mental health support. Within the Venn diagram of people using AI for health-related information lies a cohort for whom access to accurate information is of the utmost importance: those seeking information on abortion care. In an era when the internet is already rife with abortion-related misinformation, LLMs entering the chat have complicated the landscape — and abortion rights advocates are fighting back.

“Unfortunately, we live in a world where it feels like some days you need a law degree to even understand abortion policy and legality on any given day,” Kelly Baden, Guttmacher Institute’s vice president of policy and communications, told Salon. “And the presence of AI has complicated that even further.”

On June 24, 2022, the SCOTUS ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization — a case that challenged a Mississippi ban on abortion at 15 weeks of pregnancy — overturned Roe v. Wade, which effectively ended the federal constitutional right to choose to have an abortion in the United States. As a result, many states enacted so-called “trigger bans.” Since then, it’s already been difficult for people searching for information on abortion care as they’ve had to wade through misinformation and anti-abortion propaganda online. Today, organizations with dedicated staff and resources to share accurate information are feeling the effects of AI’s presence. Baden said, for example, that Guttmacher Institute has an interactive abortion policy map, which is a popular resource for people to understand the laws in all 50 states. Now, with AI summaries and LLMs, Baden and her colleagues have to be creative with how they write updates to this map to ensure LLMs aggregate the information accurately.

“Our job now is to also think about how the information that we share is getting translated by other tools that didn’t exist, or weren’t on our radar, a few years ago,” Baden told Salon. “And now, these tools are a big part of how people understand their rights and their ability to get abortion care.”

While published data on how many people are using AI to access abortion-related information falls short, many organizations are seeing referral traffic from AI. Amy Merrill, co-founder of Plan C Pills, told Salon her organization — which provides resources for self-managed, at-home abortions with pills— has seen spikes of traffic from ChatGPT to her website. Rebecca Nall, founder of I Need an A, which is a free website that helps people find abortion providers, telehealth services, financial support and travel information, said they’ve also seen referral traffic from ChatGPT.

“We see in our data the referrals from AI assistants,” Nall said. “Referrals have been increasing over the last two years pretty significantly.”

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The mirage of privacy and convenience could be causing more people to turn to AI for health-related information. However, when it comes to abortion care, there are concerns about AI’s ability to provide unbiased, accurate information. 

“It feels like you’re dialoguing with your healthcare provider,” Merrill said. “Whereas you’re actually just talking to a tech company and giving them all your personal data, and that’s a real concern within the movement.”

In July, Open Democracy’s team of international investigative journalists found that AI chatbots were “nudging” pregnant women to anti-abortion resources. In 2025, a team of healthcare providers and researchers concluded that only 65% of ChatGPT-3.5’s responses to abortion questions were “acceptable.” A separate 2024 study found that ChatGPT was actively spreading misinformation about self-managed medication abortions. “The chatbot’s tendency to perpetuate health misinformation and associated stigma regarding self-managed medication abortions poses a threat to public health and reproductive autonomy,” the researchers wrote. This can have real-world impacts on patient care. 

“Any day that you are delayed in getting the care that you need because you might have gotten confusing information, conflicting information, or wrong information potentially puts you out of reach of getting the care that you need,” Baden said. She gave an example of someone living in Louisiana, a state that prohibits in-person abortion care at all stages of pregnancy without exceptions. However, that person can still seek abortion care in Florida or Georgia before six weeks of pregnancy. “If you, for some reason, got misleading information or wrong information because of an AI model, and miss that cutoff, then you are that much farther away geographically and financially from getting an abortion that you need after six weeks.”

Nall, from I Need an A, said one of the biggest pieces of misinformation that they see come from AI is a lack of a comprehensive overview of a person’s options. While some states like Louisiana have highly restrictive laws, people can still choose to self-manage an abortion at home by receiving medication abortion pills in the mail. Abortion pills being shipped to states with bans are becoming more common. For example, in Missouri — where abortion access is highly restrictive with limited exceptions for medical emergencies— the number of medication abortions has quadrupled since 2023. “Many people are getting pills by mail in every single state,” Nall said. Nall added that they’ve seen LLMs recommend crisis pregnancy centers in restricted states as well. 

The good news is that AI is currently influenced by SEO strategies. “We have been changing our language and encouraging other reproductive activists to change language on their websites,” Nall said. Advocates encourage media outlets reporting on abortion restrictions to keep in mind how their articles will affect how LLMs aggregate abortion-related information as well. Specifically, the use of the word “ban.”

“We’ve been talking about this with colleagues and journalists, but when the words ‘abortion ban’ are used, like ‘abortion is banned in Texas,’ some AI tools will interpret that to mean that there is no abortion available in any form, and factually, that’s just incorrect,” Merrill told Salon. “There’s a risk of oversimplifying, and that’s what we saw happening with the word ‘abortion ban.’”

Merrill emphasized it’s important to communicate that “in-person care is restricted,” but that people are still accessing pills by mail. When it comes to navigating the abortion landscape in the U.S. in the age of AI, she recommends website directories like PlanCPills.org, INeedAnA.com, or the Repro Legal Helpline if someone wants to talk to a human.

Nall said while she is hesitant to use the word “optimistic,” she has been seeing improvements in AI’s answers since they’ve been doubling down on their efforts to influence LLMs. However, Nall said, she wouldn’t recommend AI as a go-to source. “I highly recommend skipping Google, skipping ChatGPT, and going straight to INeedAnA.com.”

The post AI’s abortion misinformation problem appeared first on Salon.com.

NBC’s “Heroes” made Hayden Panettiere a household name by making us believe she was unstoppable. Not her, of course, but Claire Bennet — the Odessa, Texas high school cheerleader who couldn’t be killed.

In the series premiere, Claire throws herself off an oil derrick’s rusty platform, plummeting at least 70 or 80 feet in a fall that should have broken her body. Instead, she stands up, pops her dislocated shoulder back into its socket and grimly declares to the shocked classmate filming her, “This is Claire Bennet, and that was attempt No. 6.” Later, in that same episode, she runs into a burning building to rescue a man trapped inside. He suffers horrible burns, but she dashes away unscathed.

Claire wears her cheerleader uniform in both scenes — the identifying outfit that generated the first season’s catchphrase, “Save the cheerleader, save the world.”

There are so many dark stories about child stars that make us wonder what might have been, if only. Panettiere, who died on Sunday at 36, lived one of them. She rocketed to stardom with starring roles on “Heroes” and “Nashville,” where she played up-and-coming country star Juliette Barnes opposite Connie Britton.

Both productions also transgressed personal boundaries that pushed Panettiere to lows no one should endure, but so many stars growing up in the spotlight unfortunately do. During her time on “Heroes,” she wrote in her recently published memoir “This Is Me: A Reckoning,” someone in her orbit began slipping her pharmaceuticals to amp up her energy for public appearances.

Later, the writers on “Nashville” mined Panettiere’s private battles for her character’s storylines: Her postpartum depression and struggles with substance dependency began turning up in scripts. Since she was raised to be a good soldier, she took it all in stride. Privately, Panettiere spent time in and out of rehab to treat her addictions to alcohol and prescription drugs.

When emergency responders in Greenville, S.C., found Panettiere in an apartment on Sunday, she was unresponsive and in cardiac arrest. An anonymous source told The New York Times that the cause was an apparent drug overdose.

It is easy to regard a former child star’s troubles as an inevitability of the profession. From the looks of where Panettiere was steering her life, it didn’t have to be. Yes, she grew up in front of TV cameras, landing her first regular roles on soap operas, including ABC’s “One Life to Live” and CBS’ “Guiding Light.” Four seasons on “Heroes” launched her to a level of celebrity few child actors achieve.

But she also defied the industry tendency to pigeonhole performers based on the breakout success of characters like Claire Bennet. Panettiere’s high school hero emerged on TV during the “sheroes” era of the aughts, arriving in the wake of Sydney Bristow on “Alias” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,”  another cheerleader turned supernatural brawler.

But where Jennifer Garner and Sarah Michelle Gellar struggled to shake the action-hero personas that made them stars, Panettiere followed “Heroes” with ABC’s “Nashville,” a series created by “Thelma & Louise” writer Callie Khouri that showcased the full range of her acting ability. Playing Juliette earned Panettiere two Golden Globe nominations, and her performances of the character’s songs landed her on Billboard’s Hot Country Songs charts 11 times.

What we saw onscreen, along with the catchy music she made, was, in her telling, the fruit of a creative yield achieved by pressing beyond her breaking point.

In “This Is Me,” she describes spending time in and out of rehab, losing custody of her child and rebuilding her life to a place that, as of this year, included plans to produce and direct new projects, as she mentioned in a recent New York Times profile.

“This is Me” also depicts her mother, former soap actress Lesley Vogel, as demanding her daughter’s absolute best at every step in her career and leaving her with no alternative path. Panettiere’s first national TV gig came at 11 months old with a Playskool toy train commercial, the start of around 50 advertising appearances she’d rack up before she was 5 years old.

Her feature film debut came in 1998, when she voiced Princess Dot in “A Bug’s Life.” She was 9. After that, she became one of the youngest Grammy nominees ever in the best spoken word album for children category thanks to her voice work on “A Bug’s Life Read-Along.”

As Panettiere told Jay Shetty on a May episode of his podcast “On Purpose,” those early achievements came at the cost of enjoying a normal childhood. By the time she was 11, she’d already acted alongside Denzel Washington in “Remember the Titans,” which led her teachers and classmates to treat her differently. Vogel bought an apartment for her daughter when she was 16, Panettiere recalled, and the whole family lived in it. She parted ways with Vogel professionally when she was 19.

Her father, Alan “Skip” Panettiere, worked for New York City’s fire department and was the parent she leaned on for emotional support. “That has kind of continued in my life,” she told Shetty, “just wanting to know that if I found myself in a terrible position, that I could call somebody to help me. I could rely on somebody . . . I wasn’t the person that everybody else was relying on, and therefore nobody was there for me.”

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Panettiere was 17 when “Heroes” became a breakout hit and made her and co-stars Milo Ventimiglia, Masi Oka and Zachary Quinto sought-after talents. But she was the one that the paparazzi hounded most fiercely, feeding malicious tabloid coverage focused on her body image and weight.

The news that she was dating Ventimiglia kicked the frenzy into overdrive, especially since he was 30 years old at the time while she was 18.

Not long ago, she told The Messenger that, overall, she looks back on her career with a sense of curiosity. “Because [‘Nashville’] took six years of my career when I was at my physical prime, my mental, my everything, I just wonder what it would have been like in the hiatuses, [if I] did one project or film, or was encouraged to do that,” she remarked. “Where would I be today?”

The post Hayden Panettiere lived out TV’s myth of the indestructible girl appeared first on Salon.com.

The fame machine is a distinctly American invention. In what other country is it wired into people’s heads from the moment they can coherently string together five words that they, too, can be a star if they work hard enough and dream big enough? Here, “fame” doesn’t merely suggest flashy movie-star celebrity; it’s a status you can attain in any industry, so long as you climb to its upper ranks. Fame is a bedfellow of the newer, more modern American dream, which promises not only contentment, but success, as a reward for ambition, ravaging the lifestyles of millions of people in the process. It’s getting harder to be happy with what one has, and even more difficult to stop destroying ourselves — either with contempt for others or regret for what we perceive as imperfection — in striving for more. America might not have a monarchy, but that doesn’t mean most of us won’t try to bow at fame’s feet at some point. Each trade has its kings and queens, its princes and princesses.

When news broke of actress Hayden Panettiere’s death at the age of 36 late last week, the immediate aftermath felt like watching the fame machine go on the fritz, rumbling and sputtering before outpouring a swath of both genuine grief and rubbernecking greed. Those who grew up watching Panettiere light up screens both big and small were devastated. Others — maybe even a subset of the same people — jumped to alarmism and misinformation. After an extended hiatus from acting, Panettiere was returning to work and primed for an even bigger comeback. Earlier this summer, she detailed her struggles with postpartum depression, abuse, child stardom, addiction and recovery in her memoir, “This Is Me: A Reckoning.” Many assumed her death was a result of any one of these. (First responders found Panettiere in cardiac arrest, but no exact cause of death is known at the time of writing.) 

Within hours, conspiracies about Panettiere being killed for speaking out about Hollywood appeared online. A TikTok search for her name brings up ghoulish videos with thousands of views: “Last video of Hayden Panettiere alive”; “Nobody realized Hayden made three unusual moves before her death.” CBS News posted audio of the 911 response call to their TikTok page just this morning. It’s as if, in the untimely death of a famous person — especially a former child star — particles of their fame dissipate into the air, leaving the desperate and discontent to try to snatch a piece of their own before it dissolves completely.

Some of Panettiere’s most notable roles point back to this phenomenon, with her TV arcs in series like “Heroes” and “Nashville,” at their cores, tracking the effects of the whole world watching and depending on you. But it’s her 2005 Disney film, “Ice Princess” — one of my first experiences with Panettiere’s work — that’s most illustrative of both fame’s pitfalls and the culture that cosigns them in the name of success. In the movie, Panettiere plays Gen Harwood, an archetypal most-popular-girl-in-school and less-than-standard teenage ice-skating prodigy. Though her form and marks in the sport are good, real success is just out of Gen’s reach. That is, until physics geek Casey Carlyle (Michelle Trachtenberg, another child star gone far too soon) begins studying the science of Gen’s skating in hopes of scoring a college scholarship. 

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Casey and Gen’s journey from competitors to confidantes is the film’s familiar emotional center, but tucked into an unfamiliar narrative. Beneath its Disney dialogue and some smoothed-over depictions of the harsher realities of competitive sports, “Ice Princess” boasts winning messages about the pressures put on young people to achieve greatness at an age when they’re too young to define personal success. That the film is led by two young women who accomplished such greatness in their childhood and teenage years at the risk of their privacy and potentially their well-being is a tragically meta asterisk that will now hang over the movie forever.

But that doesn’t mean “Ice Princess” doesn’t still come loaded with hope and pertinent themes of personal choice, active listening, and cheering young people on in whatever they choose to do (within reason). Considered alongside its stars’ tragically brief lives, “Ice Princess” conveys the critical need to give teenagers both stalwart encouragement and the tools to speak up when they need help. And while the movie’s legacy looks a little more macabre now, Panettiere and Trachtenberg’s glimmering performances are enough to push through the darkness.

Casey and Gen are, for a Disney movie, as different as they come. Casey lives with her mother, Joan (Joan Cusack), in a cozy, rural house outside of town, where Casey skates for fun on the frozen pond in their backyard. Gen is your typical blonde suburbanite who wishes she could spend her Saturday nights at parties or with her friends, instead of in intensive training on the ice, coached by her mother, Tina (Kim Cattrall). Gen and Casey aren’t enemies, but they’re not exactly friends, either. But when Casey’s science teacher encourages her to apply for a college scholarship that could change her entire life — and make the project she submits as part of her application personal — Casey’s affection for ice skating becomes a thorn in Gen and Tina’s side.

The two girls are thrown together by their mutual commitment to their passions, science and skating. What Gen and Casey want is to enjoy these things for the personal thrills they offer. Fame or excellence in either field seems to be the desire of their parents and other adult figures in their lives. “People wait their whole life to find their calling,” Casey’s teacher tells her about the scholarship, asserting that a natural fluency in science means it must be her destiny. These sentiments are reflected by Joan, who desperately wants more for her daughter than she’s been able to provide on her own teacher’s salary.

Tina, on the other hand, gets to the point with candor. “You’re not like other girls,” Tina tells Gen when her daughter asks why she can’t take a half-hour break from training to be with her boyfriend. “Winners make sacrifices.” For Gen, those sacrifices come at the expense of joy. Gen knows the exact measurements of her salad order and is strictly forbidden from eating any bread. Her practice doesn’t stop when the sun goes down. And attending a high school party is entirely out of the question. There is something genuinely quite heartbreaking about watching Panettiere, a young woman just coming to understand Hollywood industry standards, repeat the sickly refrains of a similarly demanding profession. When Gen orders cheese (in a strict one-quarter cup measurement) for her salad one afternoon, her friends poke fun at her. “It’s Saturday,” she replies, “I can pig out if I want to.”

With its focused screenplay, “Ice Princess” quickly cultivates an atmosphere that’s sympathetic to Gen and Casey. The film frames their lapses in rigor as the joys of being a teenager, rather than imperfections — or worse, weakness in the pursuit of glory. No 16-year-old should be so strictly confined to a routine that prevents them from actually living their life.

(Alli Harvey / Getty Images for Stuart Weitzman) (L-R) Hayden Panettiere and Michelle Trachtenberg attend the unveiling of Stuart Weitzman’s Young Hollywood Cares Collection in aid of ovarian cancer research during Fashion’s Night Out at Stuart Weitzman Boutique on September 8, 2011.

But that’s not the message that America is selling. The same tracks to success still exist for young people gifted in sports or science. But fame as a general concept also seems much more attainable than it did 21 years ago. Teenagers want to grow up to be influencers or TikTokers, spending a significant portion of their youth creating content about life instead of actually living it.

It’s a lifestyle not entirely dissimilar to the rigorous training of an ice-skating prodigy, putting in the work at all hours to hone their skill. But it does strike me as odd that, in the aftermath of Panettiere’s death, so much of the response was about the lack of protections offered to child stars in the film and television industries, and not the rapidly booming content creation field. How ironic that social media is the new breeding ground for the kind of toxicity that the people mining Panettiere’s death for views purport to abhor.

That dissonance is a big part of why “Ice Princess” holds up today. One could even argue that it’s now an even more critical part of Panettiere and Trachtenberg’s legacies. The film is no longer just a tender-hearted story of fame and all its drawbacks, but also a look at two women who bravely wrestled with those flaws, making a major impact in the short time they were here. When they’re on screen, Panettiere and Trachtenberg shine through all the Disney conventions, their characters pointing back to their real selves. 

Each one has her singular presence — Trachtenberg plucky and inspiring; Panettiere charming and bold — but together, they’re beautiful complements. Panettiere’s grounded presence helps untether the film from its somewhat corny conceit, giving it authentic complexity. She deviates from the one-note mean girl role, supplying Gen with dimensionality and kindness that characters like these were rarely afforded. That Gen’s growing discontent with skating is so closely linked to Panettiere’s real-life trajectory — trying to figure out where she fits in a ruthless industry — is a sour cherry on top: unexpected, but worth embracing. Though the importance of “Ice Princess” is obscured by histrionic high school drama and feel-good fluff, it remains a vital work for teaching parents and kids of all ages that success is what you make of it. And none of that would be possible without its two forever-shining stars.

The post “Ice Princess” quietly defined Hayden Panettiere’s whole career appeared first on Salon.com.

Beneath the shadows of indigo-streaked clouds, a young woman strolls through a fog-covered city, stopping at the base of a skyscraper. She looks up, eyes following every square inch of the structure until the point where it juts past the clouds and into the dark atmosphere above, beyond where she can see. She is the princess, and this is the castle she’ll be locked in, an indomitable beast of a citadel fittingly titled the Tower Hotel. 

“How hokey,” you might say, “a modern princess trapped in a luxury high-rise.” But really, everything in “Her Private Hell” is contrivance. Writer-director Nicolas Winding Refn — “NWR,” as he’s taken to branding himself — isn’t exactly known for his subtlety. His previous feature, 2016’s love-it-or-hate-it loony toon “The Neon Demon,” was a modeling industry semi-satire that featured beauties quite literally gobbling up their ingenue competition. It’s really no surprise that his first film in 10 years would arrive with its thematic commentary just as legible.

But that’s where the fun begins. Once the viewer understands where Refn is headed, they can submit themselves to his grotesque neon visions. His appeal as a filmmaker lies in his stylistic flair; the joy comes from watching him marry the aesthetically manicured with the ideologically bizarre. Whether it’s a union of love or force is another matter. NWR’s high concepts and their abrasive execution don’t always coalesce. But when they do, it’s like watching a magic trick play out before your eyes, leaving you so stunned you’re stammering, unable to utter even a single “How?”

(Neon) “Her Private Hell”

“Her Private Hell” is Refn’s greatest trick yet: A beguiling fairy tale for a lost lamb named Elle (Sophie Thatcher). In this story, Elle is the archetypal royalty figure, thrust through a kaleidoscope of Refn’s signature bright pinks and blues and spit back into the tower where she passes her days, waiting for her savior to arrive. But as she greets her fate and rides the elevator to her penthouse prison, Elle strolls past Hunter (Kristine Froseth), a real-life Sleeping Beauty, napping on the lush chairs in the hallway outside. Elle and Hunter are due to shoot a movie together, which Elle’s father, the filmmaker Johnny Thunders (Dougray Scott), will produce. “The airline lost my luggage because of the Mist,” Hunter tells Elle. Ugh. Of course. The Mist seems to be screwing up everything these days.

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In the extraordinary abstraction that follows, Thatcher finds her ideal role as one of NWR’s stilted avatars, gussied up in couture and spouting riddles. Her energy rises and falls alongside the mysterious mist, which has engulfed the city and brought whispers of a mysterious ancient entity lurking in its haze. Thatcher performs as if this was the part she was born for, and it very well may be. 

Refn’s cold, theoretical violence and Thatcher’s knack for affected, high-glamor drama are a match made in DayGlo heaven. Her work is unlike anything I’ve seen this year, a ruthless and surprising turn from someone who’s struggled to find the right type of script for her unique style and physicality. If there is a God, somewhere amid all this mist, “Her Private Hell” will be Thatcher’s entrée to a new era of hyper-ostentatious, Elizabethan — Taylor, that is — cinematic elegance, a large void in the once-plentiful pool of subgenres that only she can fill.

Thatcher has been searching for her niche for a moment, but the delay hasn’t been for lack of trying. Since her breakthrough in Showtime’s “Yellowjackets” in 2021 — where she plays the troubled teenager Natalie, fighting for survival in the Canadian wilderness alongside her high school soccer teammates after their plane crash-lands — Thatcher’s had more than a few substantive roles. In 2024’s “Heretic,” she played a Mormon missionary lured into a violent theological maze by a wicked Hugh Grant. And in 2025’s “Companion,” Thatcher scored a decent turn as a sex robot with her programming on the fritz after she’s implicated in a murder plot. If those films sound preposterous, it’s because they are. “Heretic” was underbaked and half-thought, while “Companion” tried to create big laughs and bigger action from minuscule ideas. Thatcher, though, was far and away the best part of both films, bringing a striking depth to her thinly sketched characters. 

But one gets the sense that Thatcher’s worried about being pigeonholed. “Yellowjackets,” “Heretic” and “Companion” are all horror-thrillers. And Thatcher’s other film roles in 2023’s “The Boogeyman” and a bit part in the following year’s “MaXXXine” certainly don’t help Hollywood’s perception of her as a wannabe scream queen. The perennial problem with horror, even contemporary horror, is that it’s an extremely difficult genre to migrate from. But Thatcher’s talents extend past genre confines. She conjures a bewitching onscreen presence that many of her contemporaries could only dream of, pulling the viewer’s gaze with a single glare from her steely eyes or the quiver of her chin. The same grin can look menacing or jovial, depending on how Thatcher contorts the rest of her features. What’s more, there’s an ease to all of these things — a soft tenderness that counterbalances the frigidity — as if such intensity comes casually. And maybe it does.

(Neon) Sophie Thatcher in “Her Private Hell”

With “Her Private Hell,” Thatcher has found an auteur who matches her refreshing self-assurance. Here, Refn lets it all go and indulges in his every artistic impulse, drenching a Brian De Palma-inspired deception in neon (and bringing in De Palma’s longtime collaborator, Pino Donaggio, for a resplendent score better than anything you’ve heard this decade). Thatcher isn’t so different from De Palma’s muses either. The naive exuberance of Nancy Allen, the innate sex appeal of Melanie Griffith and Michelle Pfeiffer, the informal immorality of Amy Irving; Thatcher has it all, rolled into one captivating package. When Elle and Hunter witness the brutal murder of a neighbor across the way — presumably by the mist’s fabled entity, The Leatherman — Refn completes the thread that ties his violent vapidity, where pretty girls do ugly things, to De Palma’s voyeuristic dreaminess. If you’re a fan of film and all the places it can take you, you can’t do much better than this. 

That is until Thatcher ratchets up the eerie tension tenfold while Refn builds his gorgeous fantasy around her. When Elle’s father unexpectedly departs, leaving her to finish shooting her movie in the care of her not-so-wicked stepmother, Dominique (Havana Rose Liu), the pair’s psychosexual strain further complicates matters. Before Dominique married Elle’s father, the two were the best of friends. As strange as it is, their dynamic seems to alter everything around them, as if their mutual destiny were written in the stars — not that anyone can see the stars with all this mist, that is.

For a director who’s staked a name on films and television shows that are narratively impenetrable, “Her Private Hell” may feel like a big ask for some viewers. And I get that, I do. The movie sways almost imperceptibly between Elle’s quest for the truth and the haunting story of Private K (Charles Melton), a soldier who lost everything to the mist and its monstrous entity the last time it immersed the city. It can occasionally feel as if Refn is playing a game with you, softly whispering if you’re still there. But though some have complained about what they call “a total lack of plot,” I simply must object, and not just on behalf of Thatcher, whose work is worth seeking out even if you don’t jive with Refn’s aesthetic obsessions. 

There is so much to admire with “Her Private Hell” — too much for just one go-round. It’s not only gripping, but extremely intricate if you’re brave enough to get on its level. Two women witness the strange murder of a neighbor and begin to believe that something could be lurking in the mist that’s enveloped the Earth. When they start shooting a movie together, they begin to understand their connection to this ancient evil, and their place in a cyclical inferno wrought by absent parents and bad weather. They soon understand that to be heartbroken is to be damned to know the exquisite pain of being alive. This film is not merely glittering debris, as some have posited, nor is it style over substance; it’s a campfire story told by Thatcher’s unearthly orator.

As the night grows black and the last embers start to dull, “Her Private Hell” sends you off to bed wondering if it could all be true. Thatcher’s warbly voice hangs in the air; tales of the Leatherman and lost daughters spinning around your brain as you try to fall asleep. “None of this is real,” you tell yourself, turning off your brain for a good night’s rest. But just then, a piercing pink light appears outside, and a low, opaque mist begins to creep through the seams of your tent. As it turns out, the fantastical has much more grounding in reality than we ever want to imagine.

The post “Her Private Hell” belongs to Sophie Thatcher appeared first on Salon.com.

Hayden Panettiere, the former child actor who became a household name as an indestructible cheerleader on “Heroes” before starring as a troubled country singer on “Nashville,” has died. She was 36.

Panettiere’s representative confirmed her death to ABC News on Sunday. A cause and other details surrounding her death were not immediately disclosed.

Born Aug. 21, 1989, in Palisades, New York, Panettiere began appearing in commercials before her first birthday. She went on to roles in “One Life to Live,” “Guiding Light,” “A Bug’s Life,” “Remember the Titans” and “Ice Princess.”

Her breakout role came in 2006 as Claire Bennet, a high school cheerleader with regenerative powers, on NBC’s “Heroes.” The character inspired the show’s signature slogan: “Save the cheerleader, save the world.”

Panettiere later starred opposite Connie Britton as ambitious country singer Juliette Barnes on the ABC and CMT drama “Nashville.” The six-season role showcased her acting and singing abilities and earned her two Golden Globe nominations.

Her other credits included “Bring It On: All or Nothing” and the “Scream” franchise. Her return as Kirby Reed in 2023’s “Scream VI” marked her first major screen role after a long acting hiatus.

Panettiere spoke candidly about her experiences with addiction, an abusive relationship and postpartum depression following the birth of her daughter, Kaya, in 2014. Her younger brother, actor Jansen Panettiere, died unexpectedly at 28 in 2023.

In May, she released “This Is Me: A Reckoning,” a memoir about child stardom, motherhood, addiction and recovery. She also publicly came out as bisexual while promoting the book. She was also battling back from a severe lower back injury that left her almost paralyzed last year.

Panettiere is survived by her 11-year-old daughter and her parents, Lesley Vogel and Skip Panettiere. She died just five days before her 37th birthday.

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Nicholas Brendon, the actor best known for playing Xander Harris on the late-90s cult classic tv show “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” has died at age 54. His family announced he passed peacefully in his sleep on March 20, 2026. In recent years, Brendon was plagued with medical health issues. By 2023, he had a heart attack and was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect and cauda equina syndrome, the latter led to several spinal surgeries.

We are heartbroken to share the passing of our brother and son, Nicholas Brendon. He passed in his sleep of natural causes. pic.twitter.com/DqVQfVL8Xk

— Nicholas Brendon (@NicholasBrendon) March 21, 2026

Brendon’s portrayal of Xander — the everyman of the Sunnydale crew, who navigated a world of vampires and slayers armed only with wit, loyalty, and heart — earned him a devoted following and a lasting place in television history.

Costars quickly paid tribute on social media. Sarah Michelle Gellar, who played Buffy, wrote a heartfelt post invoking one of Xander’s comforting lines, a nod to the actor’s warmth both on and off screen. Alyson Hannigan, who portrayed Willow, shared: “My Sweet Nicky, thank you for years of laughter, love and Dodgers … I love you.” David Boreanaz, Buffy’s vampire love interest Angel, praised Brendon’s authenticity and spirit, emphasizing the depth of their personal friendship beyond the show.

Just last year, the “Buffy” cast and fans said goodbye to Michelle Tractenberg, Buffy’s younger sister “Dawn” to many fans.

Fans also expressed grief online, remembering Xander as the heart of the group, a character whose vulnerability and humor made him relatable in a world of supernatural extremes. Many reflected on Brendon’s candidness about his personal struggles, celebrating his humanity alongside his talent.

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Though Brendon faced challenges in his life and career, his work on Buffy remains a testament to his ability to connect with audiences through humor, loyalty, and emotional honesty. Xander Harris may have been the “normal” one in a cast of extraordinary characters, but Brendon’s performance ensured he was unforgettable — both to fans and to the colleagues who mourn his passing.

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Back in 2007, long before the MasterClass franchise was a thing, Jane Espenson, one of television’s most respected and imaginative writers, wrote an essay/tutorial for The New Republic that breaks down the embraceable genre formula she calls the Chosen One.

It’s a catchy idea that explains why figures like Peter Parker, Luke Skywalker and Harry Potter have a lasting hold on their fans in ways that other heroes don’t.

Although each occupies a distinctly separate universe, Espenson says they all fit the same pattern. “They’re living a life, sometimes a fine one, often a troubled one, but certainly one governed by ordinary rules, when suddenly the curtain is pulled back and a whole new world, or a new set of rules of this world, is revealed,” she said. “And what’s more — and this is the important part — in that new world, they are something special.”

Once I read that simple recipe, it changed the way I thought about every kind of genre fiction, including superhero tales like HBO’s “Lanterns.”

(Courtesy of HBO Max) Aaron Pierre in “Lanterns.”

The Green Lanterns don’t neatly fit into the Chosen One mold, you see. And that may explain why they seem to be less popular than other DC heroes.

I can imagine diehard Green Lantern fans firing up their rebuttals as they read this. After all, the very nature of how Green Lanterns obtain their superhuman abilities involves cosmically empowered rings choosing their wearers. Once the selected become official members of the Green Lantern Corps, they can wield their rings to create astronomical constructs. The top members of the Lantern Corps are only limited by their imagination.

But mainstream culture’s best-known Green Lanterns aren’t orphans or troubled. Hal Jordan and John Stewart are both military men. John is also an architect. They aren’t living drab or depressing lives when the Guardians of the Universe activate them — they’re faring pretty well, all things considered.

Hal and John also stand apart from other test pilots, Marines and field experts in ways that make them not merely suitable choices for superheroic duty but worthy of it. This, I think, is the difference between Espenson’s Chosen Ones and heroes like the Green Lantern. Hal, John and the rest must work to be worthy of their power.

Worthiness is a tougher bar to clear than being chosen for greatness. The Chosen Ones Espenson cites are part of a destiny ordained either by their bloodline or some greater lineage. What makes a Chosen One common in their society marks them as extraordinary once they cross the threshold into the fantastic.  

And some heroes are Chosen at random. That radioactive spider that transformed Peter Parker into Spider-Man could have bitten the class moron just as easily. The tornado that transported Dorothy Gale from dusty Kansas to vibrant Oz might have swept up the village idiot instead.

The idea that anyone can suddenly be endowed with superhuman specialness simply by being in the right place at the right time is a little like daydreaming about winning the lottery. So it’s entirely understandable if most of us aren’t into the labor aspect of the Lanterns’ audition process.

(Courtesy of HBO Max) Kyle Chandler in “Lanterns.” Courtesy of HBO Max

If the box office is a fair, measurable indicator of how the public feels about these superhero archetypes, guess what? Espenson’s theory still holds: Chosen One stories still rule.

Looking at a BoxOfficeMojo.com ranking of all the Marvel feature films to date, the only solo act to appear twice in the “Avengers” dominated top five is Spider-Man, by way of “Spider-Man: No Way Home” and “Spider-Man: Brand New Day.”

Meanwhile, the introduction of the Worthiest of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes in “Captain America: The First Avenger” ranks #52 on a very long list.

About that. Two caveats, and they’re big ones, have to do with the quality of certain heroes’ movie introductions and America’s longstanding genuflection before elites.

Mainstream culture’s relatively lower esteem for the Green Lantern is absolutely related to cartoonish interpretations of his power in live-action depictions. Comic book versions of the Green Lantern toss around the power of the cosmos. When Lantern Corps members unite their rings’ powers, they can move planets. That has never been adequately portrayed in theatrical features.

In animated renditions streaming on HBO Max, the Green Lantern fares much better. Avid “Justice League” and “Justice League Unlimited” viewers recognize John Stewart as being held in equal esteem to the Big Three (i.e., Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman), especially in a crisis.

In the most recent “Superman” and 2011’s “Green Lantern” starring Ryan Reynolds, the way that Guy Gardner and Reynolds’ Hal Jordan toss around cartoonish CGI bubbles or massive green mallets falls short of conveying the Lantern Corps’ two-fisted punch of willpower and vision.

Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds in “Green Lantern”

Also, not all heroes neatly fit into the Chosen vs. Worthy popularity equation. Superman, Wonder Woman and Thor were born to greatness. America’s most-loved fictional titans, Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne, have bottomless wealth to fund their vigilante adventures, making them especially mesmerizing to an audience raised on rags-to-riches fables.

To a man and woman, they made themselves Earth’s protectors because they have the means and muscle to take on the job. And once Stark Industries and Wayne Enterprises bankroll their respective super-squads’ fortified headquarters, they attract the universe’s talent. By their nature, Earth’s Green Lanterns are a natural fit to serve the Justice League’s governing inner circle. They’re also the only leaders who answer to other bosses. (Boo.)

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But what some perceive as a negative makes the Green Lantern legend appealing to others, especially those driven to ascend through ambition and hard work.

HBO’s “Lanterns” is the first series to explore how that idea unfurls in a society that functions like our own — that is, one in which all things aren’t equal, and superheroes have a reputation for doing as much harm as good.

Maybe “Lanterns” can inspire us with its portrayal of worthiness. But it may take more than one good show to turn the tide of the Green Lantern’s reputation. Much as we respect that with great power comes great responsibility, it’s a lot dreamier to imagine what we could do with all that might if it were simply handed to us.

“Lanterns” premieres at 9 p.m. Sunday, Aug. 16 on HBO and HBO Max.

The post Here’s why we like some superheroes more than others appeared first on Salon.com.

Students returning to a Kentucky middle school this year learned something surprising on their first day of class: They don’t live in Kentucky.

Apparently, they live in “Venecky.”

The bizarre geography lesson appeared in student agendas distributed at Farnsley Middle School, part of Jefferson County Public Schools in Louisville. A U.S. map in the planner transformed Kentucky into “Venecky,” Louisiana into “Lookoong,” Alabama into “Alotome,” Illinois into “Vitoiis” and South Carolina into “Sorth Cuanto.”

The mistakes didn’t stop at state lines. The agendas also contained a distorted periodic table, unreadable phases of the moon and other garbled educational material that parents suspect may have been created using artificial intelligence.

JCPS has not confirmed whether AI was used or identified who produced the agendas.

It took a student just one day to notice.

“Mom, did you know that we live in Venecky?” Stacey Morris recalled her son joking after school, according to Louisville’s WDRB.

Morris contacted the school about the errors. Administrators later warned teachers there were a “LOT of mistakes” on pages 19 through 36 and instructed students to tear the pages out of their planners before taking them home.

For parents, however, the problem goes beyond bad geography. Families pay a $10 annual instructional fee for the agendas.

“Someone did not look at what they were handing out to the students,” Morris told WDRB.

The mishap also comes at an awkward moment for Kentucky’s largest school district.

A nearly 500-page special examination released by Kentucky State Auditor Allison Ball in June raised broader concerns about JCPS’s management and finances. The audit found the district lacked a cohesive strategic plan, had begun spending more than it brought in despite receiving hundreds of millions of dollars in federal COVID relief and suffered from a workplace culture in which employees reported fear of retaliation.

The report also identified gaps in financial and budgeting knowledge among district leaders and school board members.

New Superintendent Brian Yearwood, who took over JCPS last year, has said the district is taking the findings seriously and called the audit an opportunity to strengthen the system.

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Against problems of that scale, a $10 student planner is a tiny expense. But for families already questioning how their school district is managed, an educational resource riddled with errors obvious enough for a middle schooler to catch on his first day has become another highly visible example of failed oversight.

Whether artificial intelligence created the mangled pages remains unanswered.

The students, at least, appear to have learned one useful lesson from them: Always check the source — even when the adults hand it to you.

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In the dog days of summer, there’s no better place to escape the heat than inside the air-conditioned paradise of a movie theater. Perhaps you’ll even find yourself there with a romantic companion, their uncovered leg grazing against yours as you both tuck your feet in to make room for the annoying person who came in late and is now trying to find their seat in the dark. Your skin touches theirs, trading the dewy moisture of perspiration. How electric; erotic, even. For just a second, the spark between you two is so powerful that it melts away every care outside of that place and time. 

And then, your film — a romantic comedy or dramedy that seems like the perfect date movie — begins, and you’re quickly reminded that no amount of desire can remove you from the context of the world you exist in. The fantasy comes crashing down. Even the fluffy rom-coms are steeped in real life’s anxieties about the social and political, the wars and the wages. But the passion was there; it was real. Maybe the moment was even more charged by the knowledge, somewhere in the back of your head, that these unexpected, carnal joys arrive far less often when so much of our time is spent just trying to make it from one day to the next. Sex, even just the lingering thought of it, can feel like an extravagance. I’d wager that’s a big part of why this summer’s theatrical slate has been so overtly horny: Everyone is trying to figure out how sex fits into this strange modern life.

(Nicole Rivelli /Universal Pictures) Monica Barbaro and Callum Turner in “One Night Only”

No film makes that more clear than Will Gluck’s new romantic comedy, “One Night Only,” where, brace yourself here, premarital sex has been outlawed except for one outrageous annual holiday. Think “The Purge,” but for sex — “The Urge” was right there, but whatever — and just as dystopian, though with quite a bit more charm and fewer dead bodies. In the movie, unlucky-in-love strangers Owen (Callum Turner) and Allie (Monica Barbaro) find their paths repeatedly crossing during the 12-hour sex purge window, as both of them seek partners to get it on with. We know the pair will inevitably end up together. But it’s their journey and all the bizarre autocratic municipal rules they have to dance around that make “One Night Only” a clever, peculiar and head-scratching standout from the rom-com crowd.

“One Night Only” also happens to be the discourse darling du jour, with some suggesting that its unusual fusion of genre tropes and political overtones is an insidious embrace of our backslide toward fascism. Indeed, Owen and Allie quibble less about living under a punitive abstinence edict than one might expect, and the film doesn’t have nearly as much fun with, or fury for, the civic regime as it should. 

But like this summer’s “The Invite” and “I Want Your Sex,” Gluck’s film encourages a compelling and multilayered dialogue about the role of sex and intimacy amid terrifying political fury. How can we find the joy in all of this? Is, say, one hour of fleeting sexual pleasure enough to combat the 14-some others that we spend in waking dread? The solutions won’t, ahem, come easily, but there’s really no more appropriate time to ask these questions and search for their answers than summer, when the heat makes us alternate between f*cking furiously and f*cking furious.

Curiously, “One Night Only” is more of the former than the latter. As the film’s title card tells viewers, the movie takes place three years into “the mandate,” as the characters refer to it. “It’s been . . . a lot,” the card continues. Opaque and jokey as it is, this is the only bit of tangible backstory the film provides about the average American’s response to the forbiddance of fornication. Though a few ideological asides do provide some additional color as the night goes on. Owen’s mother (Molly Ringwald) and her partner (LeVar Burton) get into a spat about the mandate’s legislation — “That’s what happens with single-issue voters!”; “No one voted for it, it was passed by Congress!” — that soon turns hot and heavy. 

It’s a silly but reasonably shrewd way to depict how many of us have landed at some level of complacency in a political atmosphere where, most of the time, we have little direct control and negligible impact over the laws that dictate our lives, no matter how oppressive. We bicker about them, but the majority of Americans aren’t in the streets protesting. As neo-fascist as the country’s become, we still live under capitalism, and the ability to regularly protest is somewhat a luxury. But, then again, so is living in America at all (at least to some extent), even when it’s awful. 

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I realize I’m probably giving Gluck and screenwriter Travis Braun too much credit when I say these are the kinds of questions they wanted viewers to ask. But I find “One Night Only” to be a far more interesting film because it doesn’t answer everything up front or take the blanket optimist’s route. These characters know that the mandate is awful, but they’ve found screwed-up ways to live with it. Anyone who says that doesn’t reflect the modern American way has their head in the sand. And frankly, a film as pleasant but ephemeral as this isn’t going to push democracy any further into the dark.

What “One Night Only” makes so apparent is that our personal pleasure is at stake in this environment. Constant federal surveillance and deeply rooted institutional corruption are simply not sexy, even if being cognizant and fearful of them absolutely is. (Caring is still hot!) And I’ve always said that there is no better place to work out thorny, complex ideas — the kind that are sometimes difficult to devote time and energy to amid the stress of our day-to-day lives — than at the movies. 

Gluck’s film arrives on the heels of a pair of sweltering summer peers that already laid quite a bit of thematic groundwork in the sex space for audiences to traverse. The stickiest of them all, Olivia Wilde’s terrific chamber dramedy, “The Invite,” just landed on VOD after steadily working its way up from limited to wide theatrical engagements — sort of like cinematic release-schedule foreplay. The film navigates ideas large and small, moving between the casual intimacies, or lack thereof, that make up long-term relationships, and the baseline human carnality that points us toward sex even when those relationships aren’t working. 

(A24) Olivia Wilde, Seth Rogen, Penélope Cruz and Edward Norton in “The Invite”

Put simply: It’s more difficult to maintain the true intimacy than it’s ever been. The prevalence of dating apps and our ability to follow someone else’s every move on social media have zapped the honeymoon period’s lifespan. Throw in demanding jobs, expensive rugs, rapidly changing social mores, the desire to start or maintain a healthy relationship with your neighbors, and the nagging feeling that everyone in the world is having sex but you, and life gets overwhelming fast. Sex shuffles to the back burner. But though the flame might be small, it remains lit. And “The Invite” attests that it’s never too late to dial up the heat, so long as we’re honest about what we want and what we need from our partners. 

“The Invite” is all about communication and open conversation. And that’s a critical strength in both relationships and in the ways we watch and digest art. That this summer has been replete with dialogues not only about our sexual neuroses and compulsions, but real, steadfast love in all its forms, is a sure sign that love and sex are on our minds more than they have been in a few decades. Much like the influx of grief-laden horror movies that followed the 2016 election, one can trace our preoccupation with intimacy back to political rot. Our government directs so much of our lives that it’s impossible to remove its influence completely. Now, we’ve moved past grieving the lost hope and have the chance to create our own using the spark of romance and physical connection.

(Magnolia Pictures) Olivia Wilde and Cooper Hoffman in “I Want Your Sex”

As Gregg Araki’s playful comedy “I Want Your Sex” asserts, crafting the transient delights of the flesh into something stable and meaningful will take some trial and error, perhaps even some sacrifice. We’re living in a moment where people can easily choose to void sex from their lives or pursue it as a ritualistic part of their existence, and the space in the middle is murky and treacherous. If you have questions about sex and where it fits into your life, Araki’s ardent message is to explore them. The answers may come with regret or heartbreak, but they may also come with glorious satisfaction and unbelievable revelations. More often, the resulting discoveries will sit somewhere in between those two emotional polarities. We can’t live our lives to the extreme all the time, but we can do ourselves a favor and become better acquainted with exactly what we want and how to get it. 

That’s the glorious thing about going to the cinema: You’re bound to leave any movie with both questions and answers. Occasionally, one such question might be, “Does this movie covertly support fascism by making totalitarian sex mandates cute and manageable?” And those are queries that must be addressed because, whether we like it or not, even dystopian rom-coms might point us in the right — or even new — direction. The federal government certainly isn’t trying to orient us toward a brighter, more consistently pleasurable future. Why not take matters into our own hands? Or better yet, put those hands on someone we love and care for, even if only for a night.

The post “One Night Only” and the summer of rom-com sex talk appeared first on Salon.com.

If and when you find yourself in need of music that will meet you at the intersection of I love you more than oxygen and I hope you become a ghost in a house that I can burn to the ground and then build and burn again, Phoebe Bridgers will most certainly have something for you.

On “Lost Weekend,” Bridgers’ third full-length solo release and her first major release of original material since wrapping up her work with boygenius, the musician’s name is one of many in the stacked liner notes that include everyone from her partner Bo Burnham (who co-wrote seven of the album’s 16 tracks) and Maya Hawke (co-writer of two tracks) to Jack Antonoff (who produced the album), American Football’s Mike Kinsella, boygenius bandmates Julien Baker and Lucy Dacus and Conor Oberst, who adds harmonica to the song “I Can’t Wait” — but it’s still all her.

While standout tracks “I Can’t Wait,” “Kill Me” and “Haunted” are different in tone than the album’s main single, “Lost Boys,” that’s to be expected on an album that isn’t just about heartbreak or grief or the persistent search for joy, but all of that and more. In this one album, Bridgers not only mourns the loss of her father (who died in 2022) and the end of her highly publicized relationship with Paul Mescal, she sings of the everyday pain and pleasure that comes with just living. 

“I have no secrets, only feelings/And I know those go away/There is a difference/Between lying and deciding what not to say,” she sings on “Haunted,” and that just hits so hard, as her songs are known to do and do especially well here, regardless of what mood you need them to help you through, which is the sign of a musical success. 

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Before we glimpse the opening title card for “Lanterns,” co-creators Chris Mundy, Damon Lindelof and Tom King establish the stark disparity between what qualifies Hal Jordan (Kyle Chandler) to wear the Green Lantern’s ring versus what’s expected of John Stewart (Aaron Pierre). As with every comic book superhero, it’s all in their origin stories.

Hal Jordan, who became Earth’s first Green Lantern decades ago, exudes the confidence and charisma of a white man whose exceptionalism has been validated by the universe. Back when Hal was still a novelty to the public, we see 10-year-old John disobeying his father’s TV ban to watch the hero’s first-ever interview on “60 Minutes.” And Hal knows how to play to his audience – especially kids like John and his brothers.

“I’m a regular person, like you,” Hal says, gazing directly through the fourth wall at the tiny people he assumes are worshipping him from afar.

“In many ways, Hal Jordan was born for the role he would eventually play,” says his interviewer in a voiceover, listing all boxes of American heroism that he checks: Hal is an Air Force veteran. A test pilot. He’s fearless.

Then John’s father gets home, takes him outside to the family’s garage and shows us, most shockingly, that fearlessness is not inborn. It’s forged.

“Lanterns,” which unfolds across two timelines, is the boldest entry so far in James Gunn’s remade DC Universe. That must be a relief for longtime DC Comics fans, given its emergence on the heels of the lukewarm critical and audience reception for “Supergirl.” But out of all the co-creators and producers’ names listed in the drama’s credits, it’s Lindelof’s that heightens our expectations, owing to his outstanding success with his 2019 reinterpretation of “Watchmen.”

Where “Watchmen” indicted America’s addiction to white supremacy, “Lanterns” skeptically spotlights the durability of our meritocracy myth.

Lindelof’s involvement, along with that of “Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow” series author Tom King, signals a seriousness of intent amplified by the placing the series’ showrunner stewardship under “True Detective” and “Ozark” producer Chris Mundy.

And as Lindelof did with “Watchmen,” he and his co-creators place this fable in the universally recognizable framework of a cop drama, casting Chandler’s Hal Jordan as the grizzled veteran reluctantly training Pierre’s John Stewart to succeed him eventually.

Those familiar with this mythology know this trainee dynamic isn’t how the Green Lantern’s succession usually works. Those who trust these writers’ capabilities with using comic book properties as springboards to examine thornier issues can probably deduce that “Lanterns” is employing it for a specific reason.

Kyle Chandler in “Lanterns.”

Galactic power and privilege literally placed themselves on Hal’s finger simply because he answered one question correctly.  Meanwhile, John was raised knowing he must be three times as good as everyone else to get a foot in opportunity’s door, let alone a place in the front passenger seat of every vehicle Hal insists on driving. John is an ex-Marine with a reputation as one of the top snipers in the world – the best of the best. But as Hal arrogantly reminds his trainee, John won’t be ready until the ring says he is. Even then, Hal says, he doesn’t plan on giving up that piece of jewelry any time soon. And Hal taunts John about his second-class status every chance he gets.

But John knows he doesn’t have the luxury to reveal his frustrations. As his father reminds John during a venting session that occurs after Hal nonchalantly almost kills him, “They’re allowed to have tantrums. We’re not.” So it goes, even when Hal uses his ring to zip into the sky at supersonic speed from California to Rushville, Nebraska, leaving John to fly coach and rent a car to meet him there.

In Rushville —  population 1,001, says the sign on its city limits — Hal and John find a mystery that seems to be out of their jurisdiction as intergalactic law enforcers, the town’s sheriff, Kerry Kane (Kelly Macdonald), testily reminds them. But the present and possibly future Green Lanterns were summoned there for a reason best left unsaid here, and in keeping with HBO’s extensive spoiler embargo.

In Chandler and Pierre, “Lanterns” has an extraordinary pairing that sustains enough frustration, humor, passion and regret to keep us rapt through the episodes provided for review. Chandler flexes the charisma that made his “Friday Night Lights” father figure Coach Taylor such an indelible figure, while Pierre’s buttoned-down smolder slowly simmers the tension between them.

Teaming them up as a testy odd couple allows “Lanterns” to both highlight Hal’s insecurity and use the Green Lantern universe’s rules to interrogate systemic imbalances. Even when intergalactic forces take pains to make the Lantern Corps’ selection process fair, Earth’s unspoken dictates about worthiness make that impossible.

Exhibit A is Nathan Fillion’s Guy Gardner, who also appears in this season. Guy is probably the worst human to be granted the Green Lantern’s powers: He’s pompous, ill-mannered and insecure. But since the rings select their bearers by asking whether they’re afraid during an ambush designed to create dread, the test favors those for whom life never presents anything to fear.

By keeping the action and themes largely Earthbound and removing the interstellar glamour associated with flying supes and suits, “Lanterns” reignites our consideration of a superhero long written off in the live-action realm.  Among comic book readers, the Green Lantern is on par with his Justice League peers Batman, Wonder Woman, Superman and The Flash, each of whom has anchored culturally significant live-action films and TV shows over the last 50 years or so.

In contrast, Hal Jordan’s Green Lantern was immortalized on the big screen in 2011 by way of a laughable debacle that’s considered one of the worst career decisions Ryan Reynolds ever made. John Stewart’s legend fared better in the animated “Justice League” and “Justice League Unlimited” series, which established him as a favorite among newcomers to the franchise.

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Pierre’s Stewart holds the gravitas of that portrayal while also capturing the original intent of his character’s co-creator, Neal Adams, to have him evoke a young Sidney Poitier. While he’s a terrific scene partner with Chandler, he also shares a torrid chemistry with Poorna Jagannathan’s Zoe, one of the very few nonwhite Rushville residents who’s immediately drawn to John. Once we meet Rushville’s unofficial power broker, William Macon (Garret Dillahunt), we understand why. Dillahunt’s Macon embodies the sinister darkness lurking beneath the surface of any American small town, especially for outsiders.

But the writers don’t paint Macon as a simple villain, or anyone else as a cut-and-dried protagonist. Not John, certainly not Hal and not even the Guardian of the Universe tasked with watching them (played with a sunny headmistress’ formality by Laura Linney).

The world of “Lanterns” prefers to be bracingly honest about our false assumptions about heroism and whether the people we deem to be noble really are. One unquestionable element is its success in raising the low estimation of Green Lantern created by a particularly clumsy movie, simply by imagining possibilities in much bigger terms. That is what makes a Lantern a hero, and this adaptation one of the best of its kind in a long time.

“Lanterns” premieres at 9 p.m. Sunday, Aug. 16 on HBO and HBO Max.

The post HBO’s “Lanterns” questions what makes a hero—and who gets to be one appeared first on Salon.com.

I like Bright Eyes. There, I said it.

That’s no small confession for someone who prides herself on listening to serious music. I’ve evolved from preteen grunge aficionado to high school punk fan to college indie rocker and finally become a somewhat omnivorous 20-something with ears for everything from noise-rock to tropicalia. As a woman who writes about music, I’ve worked extra hard to distance myself from teeny-boppers and groupies and drippy sentimentality.

This is all to say that nothing embarrasses me more than my secret love of Bright Eyes, once the drippiest act in all of indiedom. Primarily a vehicle for singer-songwriter Conor Oberst, whose new album, “Conor Oberst,” came out this week, the ever-rotating group of musicians known as Bright Eyes formed when he was only 15. Unlike most celebrities who are supposed to have “grown up in the public eye” — child actors, teenage pop stars, offspring of the rich and famous — Oberst was the rare young artist who wrote his own songs and found a sizable audience while still in high school.

Much of that audience was made up of teenage girls. A few years younger than the now 28-year-old Oberst, I fit right into that demographic, catching on to Bright Eyes around the turn of the millennium. It wasn’t his musical talent — which consisted at the time of some rudimentary guitar arrangements — that attracted me. And while I’ll concede that Oberst’s brooding, elfin good looks didn’t hurt, it was his unmediated laments on loneliness and heartbreak that won me over. I reveled in Bright Eyes’ earliest material, “A Collection of Songs Written and Recorded 1995-1997,” “Letting Off the Happiness” (1998), “Fevers and Mirrors” (2000) and a raft of singles and EPs.

Even then I recognized Oberst’s melodramatics for what they were, but couldn’t deny that they affected me. When he feebly insisted, on “Kathy With a K’s Song,” “Love is real/ It is not just in long distance commercials,” he vocalized my own desperation to believe it was true. The summer I turned 18, I sublet a sleeping loft in midtown Manhattan and his phrase “the coffin you call your apartment,” from “Something Vague,” permeated the space. The teenage Oberst, who attended a private high school just like I did, perfectly articulated the sorrow and angst that seem trivial to the adult world but feel epic to adolescents blessed with intact, financially comfortable families.

Of course, serious indie-rock fans — a group I would have liked to belong to — dismissed Oberst as a pretentious whiner, and cooler-than-thou critics at publications like Pitchfork grouped Bright Eyes among the most syrupy and hackneyed of emo bands. At first, even I joined in trashing him, so ashamed was I to admit to my male music-nerd friends that I was yet another girl who had fallen for Bright Eyes’ self-pitying histrionics.

Around the same time, Oberst must have started to feel as embarrassed by his reputation as I was. Too smart and self-aware to stagnate among mediocre acts like Dashboard Confessional, he did some serious growing up between “Fevers and Mirrors” and his 2002 breakthrough, “Lifted, or the Story Is in the Soil, Keep Your Ears to the Ground.” Less emotionally assaultive but just as personal as his earlier albums, “Lifted” embraced American roots music with an instrumental sophistication Bright Eyes had never even hinted at before. Songs like “Lover I Don’t Have to Love” and “Let’s Not Shit Ourselves (To Love and Be Loved)” diluted the extremes of emotion with the college-age apathy and detachment that I was also growing into. Oberst had learned how to stop being a teenage train wreck and start becoming a flawed but functional human being.

With its toned-down theatrics and newfound songwriting chops, “Lifted” launched Oberst’s career. His audience widened beyond disgruntled high schoolers, and he delved deeper into country, folk and blues, expanded his lyrical repertoire to include politics (a move that earned him premature comparisons to Bob Dylan), and even unsuccessfully experimented with electronic music on 2005’s “Digital Ash in a Digital Urn.”

But just when it became socially acceptable to like Bright Eyes, I found myself falling out of love with him. Though Oberst’s intimate lyrics couldn’t have been more nuanced, surprising and uncannily accurate, his political stuff was painfully literal and disappointingly simplistic. His most famous protest song, “When the President Talks to God,” sounds more childish than even his most narcissistic teenage material. “Does he ask to rape our women’s rights and send poor farm kids off to die? … Does he ever smell his own bullshit, when the president talks to God? I doubt it,” Oberst rasps, in an obvious and futile attempt to evoke Dylan, who would surely shudder at such graceless lyrics. By the time “Cassadaga,” another foray into lefty dogma, came out last year, I could barely bring myself to listen to it.

As the first widely distributed album he has recorded under his own name, “Conor Oberst” must be yet another stab at a new beginning. I had hoped it would herald a return to introspection — a close-up portrait of the artist post-“Lifted.” Though Oberst thankfully obscures or dispenses with the grating political appeals, the persona he replaces them with is almost as annoying.

Oberst’s rootsy style has begun to bleed into his lyrics, an affectation that doesn’t work for someone who wrote an entire song (“Loose Leaves”) about prep-school summer vacation. His compositions are about what they’ve always been about (isolation, memory, love and lack thereof, fear of death), only Oberst isn’t singing in his own voice anymore — he’s weaving together scraps of Bob Dylan and Neil Young and Johnny Cash. He’s trying to sound as old as the hills when the main virtue of his lyrics has always been their youthfulness.

It isn’t that I always crave confessional music. Some of my favorite artists, such as David Bowie, have made entire careers on assuming and casting off personas. Bowie’s kind of artifice works, though, because he’s aware of it, and his talents have more to do with character creation than introspection. And at a moment when the indie buzz band of the year, Vampire Weekend, is both exploiting its upper-crust image and disguising it under layers of filched African pop, it’s easy to see why Oberst may be ambivalent about his own, privileged voice. But nothing reeks of entitlement like the unearned authenticity he attempts to assume in lines like, “And it’s such a long way back/ To all the fun I had/ When nothing ever seemed to bother me/ But what can you do?/ Sleep ‘neath the stars and toil in the sun” and “There’s nothing the road cannot heal.”

Oberst is so determined to show us that he’s no longer a self-pitying teenager that he has replaced all semblance of self with the image of a smooth-talking drifter who dispenses cowboy clichés. Only at rare moments — such as on “Danny Callahan,” a song about a boy who dies of cancer, and “Lenders in the Temple,” which pleads, “I’d give a fortune to your infomercial/ If somebody would just take my call” — does the sensitive, perceptive lyricist make an appearance.

This is frustrating because, musically, the new album may be Oberst’s best. Backed by the Mystic Valley Band, which includes several Bright Eyes alums, he balances an impressive variety of moods and styles, from sad, tranquil guitar ballad (“Milk Thistle”) to carefree foot stomper (“NYC-Gone, Gone”) to loud-quiet-loud singalong (“Get-Well-Cards”). In fact, I was so enchanted by Oberst’s melodies it took me a few listens to realize how shallow I found his lyrics. And though I’m not about to throw “Conor Oberst” out the window, it won’t join his early releases in the relatively large canon of records that have personally impacted me.

For a few years Conor Oberst was the older brother I never had — he experienced everything first and left me a detailed map of the empty apartments, serious breakups and unquenchable longings that define late adolescence. These days, my anxieties involve repaying school loans, carving out a professional life and fitting all of my responsibilties into roughly 17 wakeful hours a day. While these concerns are surely less romantic than what preceded them, I can’t help wondering what Oberst would have to say about early adulthood. If he has half the insight and descriptive power at 28 that he had at 16, I can only hope the dust and tumbleweeds clear so we can hear what’s really on his mind.

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