All the bleak tenderness from the musician’s novel makes it into this heartbreaking screen adaptation of a father-and-son road trip where the dad relentlessly pursues sex. It will undo you

The travelling salesman used to be a stock figure – a centrepiece for jokes about man’s priapism, the untameable wanderlust of the peen once free of its domestic shackles. The Death of Bunny Munro, adapted from Nick Cave’s 2009 book of the same name by Pete Jackson and keeping all its bleak tenderness and unforgiving brutality, gives us the tragedy that lies the other side of any comic character worth its salt.

Cosmetics salesman Bunny (Matt Smith, a brilliant and still underrated actor, plus the best Doctor of modern times, please send an SAE for my monograph on this subject) is out on the road, sampling another young lady’s wares, when we meet him. His wife, Libby (Sarah Greene, perfectly cast as a fierce, loving woman broken by depression and her husband’s choices) calls him. He dismisses her and returns to his sampling. When he returns the next day he finds that she has killed herself. They have a nine-year-old son, Bunny Jr, played by Rafael Mathé, who gives an absolutely wonderful, heartbreaking performance, treading the thinnest of lines between knowing everything and nothing about his father and about his own likely future. At first, Bunny Sr tries to palm him off on Libby’s mother (Lindsay Duncan), who, in a harrowing post-funeral scene, refuses. But when social services arrive to take the boy into care, Bunny’s pride or conscience is pricked. The pair light out of the window and head off on a road trip along the south coast, and a father-son bonding experience. Traditionally, these are good things. But Cave is not a traditional writer and this is not a traditional tale.

His love of ‘good northern soul and funk’ was always in evidence and had a lasting impact on alternative music

• Gary ‘Mani’ Mounfield dies aged 63

• Mani: a life in pictures

By any metric, the rise of the Stone Roses was a sudden and remarkable thing. It took place over the course of 12 months. At the start of 1989, they were just a local cause of excitement in Manchester, largely ignored by the traditional outlets for alternative rock in Britain. John Peel wasn’t a fan. The music press had barely mentioned their most recent single, Elephant Stone. They were barely able to fill even a more modest London venue such as Dingwalls. But by November they were huge. Their single Fools Gold had entered the charts at No 8 and their performance was the big attraction on that week’s Top of the Pops – a barely imaginable state of affairs for most indie bands in the late 80s.

In retrospect, you can find any number of reasons why the Stone Roses cut such an extraordinary path, clearly attracting a far bigger and broader audience than usually displayed an interest in alternative rock at the time. They were set apart by their look – which seemed to align them more to the burgeoning acid house scene – their cockily belligerent attitude and the skill of the guitarist John Squire, unashamedly virtuosic in a world of distorted thrashing downstrokes.

The tale of Prof Sarah Blagden’s attempt to find a treatment that stops the disease is the rarest of things – TV that makes you dare to hope

Cancer Detectives: Finding the Cures should come with a rare warning: may make you feel hopeful for humanity and marginally less convinced that we are all willingly leaping into a handcart and smoothing our own paths to hell.

This is an hour that outlines the work being done to create vaccines against cancers. Lung cancer, specifically, at the moment – 50,000 cases of which are diagnosed each year in the UK and which is the most common cause of cancer-related death – but with the potential to prevent many more types in the future.

Turner Contemporary, Margate
The artist’s complete control of colour and space ensnares and mesmerises, leaving you lost in a reverie of wonder and surprise. You just can’t look away

Sometimes a smaller exhibition is more effective than a full-blown survey. Bridget Riley: Learning to See at Margate’s Turner Contemporary brings us an invigorating and magical ensemble, juxtaposing 26 works from the 1960s to the present and shuttling between large canvases, studies and works painted directly on the wall. Learning to See concentrates the mind and sharpens the eye.

Riley’s paintings come at you all at once. They arrest you and they still you. The longer you look, the more they reveal and the more they seem to change. As they ensnare you, the more rewarding they become. “How does she do that?”, might be a first thought. How are the colours ordered, what’s the logic of their construction? But there’re also the things they do to your nervous system, in that unknowable gulf between eye and brain, between perception and its after-image. The colour values of Dancing to the Music of Time (2022), a big wall drawing made originally for a museum in Canberra, go dun-coloured as you first approach, until each painted disc begins to glow with a silvery penumbra. Comparing colours, you can’t remember the last as you come to the next. I pinball back and forth, getting lost in the music. Angel, a smaller wall drawing, has discs whose stately turning alignments have the kind of brevity and apparent simplicity and inevitability of a few piano phrases by Erik Satie. It’s simple. It’s complicated. It’s mesmerising.

The daughter of the British composer Samuel made controversial choices that took her on a different path to her father’s activism. Ahead of the premiere recording of her piano concerto, its soloist looks at a musician who learned the hard way about ‘belonging’

Avril Coleridge-Taylor always felt the weight of her father’s legacy. As the daughter of Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, one of the most famous British composers of the early 20th century, Avril’s was a name enveloped in the long shadows of history.

Earlier this year, I sat with these shadows as I prepared to make the world premiere recording of Avril’s 1936 piano concerto with the BBC Philharmonic. With its impassioned harmonies, soulful lyricism and valiant rhythms, Avril’s work will grant new listeners fascinating insight into how she – a wartime composer, born in 1903 – conceived of her world as a woman of colour.

★★★★★ / ★☆☆☆☆
Sadie Coles HQ and Frankie Rossi Art Projects, London
The two artists, friends, are paired in this joint show that juxtaposes Lucas’s precise and witty sculptures with Hambling’s semi-abstract dollops

Thirty-five years ago the Young British Artists crashed into Britain’s senescent art world and dumped two fried eggs and a kebab on its top table. Or at least that was the myth. Now Sarah Lucas, toughest of the YBAs, is 63, her fried eggs and kebab are art history, and she’s besties with Maggi Hambling, 80, one of the last of the old-school painters. Lucas admires Hambling not just as an artist but a woman, and in Maggi the Maggi, she has created a loving, heroic image of Hambling’s face made entirely of cigarettes. Hambling returns the compliment with Sarah at Work which, like all her paintings here, is a slapdash mess. But it’s hard to pay much attention to Hambling’s daubs when your eyes are full of balloon breasts (by which I mean boobs moulded on party balloons), shiny red bums thrust in the air, floppy phallic ears and spindly pipe cleaner legs wearing shoes Lucas must have bought in bulk from a fetish shop.

In the latest iteration of her Bunny sculptures, laughable yet tragic creatures that render the Playboy Bunny absurdly literal, Sarah Lucas creates orgiastic hilarity and aesthetic mayhem. Limbs, eyes, nipples are everywhere as these poor things pose on concrete chairs in a style you might find in an exclusive sex club, or a male fantasy of some such place. It’s the stuff of the manosphere’s wildest dreams, a lurid monument to hyped-up internet-driven porn. Yet furious feminist satire is just one dimension to Lucas’s extraordinary works.

As she releases music from her upcoming soundtrack to Wuthering Heights, we count down the best of her frank, futuristic tracks

Such was the extent of fan involvement in the How I’m Feeling Now album that the title of Claws was decided by online vote. The opposite of the album’s more fraught depictions of lockdown, it celebrates being trapped with someone you love, although the clanking rhythm track adds a vague sense of unease.

Barclays Center, New York City

A rescheduled date, after an accident earlier this year, sees the 77-year-old take on sparkling form, regaling fans with tales and fan favourite anthems

Stevie Nicks would like to get the matter of her possible near-death experience out of the way as soon as possible. A few months ago, the Fleetwood Mac singer and rock legend suffered an accident that forced her to postpone a string of tour dates, including this show in Brooklyn which was rescheduled from August to November. “I was airborne,” she recalls of the incident around five minutes after hitting the stage tonight. “I thought: ‘Is it over?’” A voice at the back of the arena lets out an animalistic yell. “No!!!!”

It’s a safe bet that everyone in the 17,000-capacity Barclays Center arena shares the sentiment. Tonight, a noticeably varied audience of fans has shown out for Nicks’s rescheduled date, ranging from witchcore-styled teens to longtime fans who retain a love for the 70s’ bohemian style as well as the decade’s social consciousness: the venue is sold out of veggie burgers.

As the veteran actor turns 100 he reveals that he was approached to play the British spy in the 60s, but realised his accent wouldn’t have been up to scratch

For more than six decades, the actor Dick Van Dyke has been pilloried for his attempts at a British accent in Mary Poppins (1964). Now, the actor who has since apologised for the “most atrocious cockney accent in the history of cinema” as chimney sweep Bert in the Disney classic has revealed he was in the running to play another UK icon on screen: James Bond.

Speaking on the Today TV programme in the US, Van Dyke, who turns 100 next month, said that Bond producer Albert Broccoli approached him after his performance in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang in 1968 to ask if he fancied being a successor to Sean Connery.

Musician’s Brixton and Dublin performances go viral after she performs Sinéad O’Connor’s anti-racism anthem Black Boys on Mopeds

The UK and Ireland are entering a “dark time”, according to the singer Joy Crookes, who said the influence of far-right ideology on mainstream politics was comparable to the 1970s when the National Front was at its peak.

Crookes, who has just played two sold-out shows at the O2 Academy in Brixton, said the recent wave of nationalism and the far-right march through central London in September made her feel unsafe in the UK.

Actor praises co-star in abominably reviewed Ryan Murphy legal drama, and claims show deserved more appreciation

Glenn Close has hit back at the critical mauling for her recent series All’s Fair. The actor stars in Ryan Murphy’s legal drama, which has received a string of zero-star reviews. In her appraisal, the Guardian’s Lucy Mangan described it as: “Fascinatingly, incomprehensibly, existentially terrible.” The series currently holds a 3% rating on reviews site Rotten Tomatoes.

According to Close, the main issue was the choice to air the worst three episodes first. “I personally think that the first three episodes were the weakest,” she told Variety. “That was a tough way to start. I’ve seen all nine episodes, and I think it actually adds up to something.”

Motown star denies allegations, in addition to four existing sets of allegations against him

Two more former employees of the soul music star Smokey Robinson, both male and female, have alleged he sexually assaulted them, which he denies.

Robinson is already facing similar allegations from four other former employees, who filed a joint lawsuit in May. This week, lawyers for the accusers filed a motion to have two further accusers added to the lawsuit, both anonymously.

French government withdraws funding after claims of toxic management and dismissal of staff member who lodged rape complaint

One of the world’s most prestigious comic book festivals is under threat of cancellation after leading graphic novelists and publishers announced they would boycott the event and the French government withdrew a tranche of its funding.

In the biggest crisis in its illustrious history, the Angoulême festival of la bande dessinée (comic strip) may not take place in 2026 after claims of toxic management and the dismissal of a member of staff who had lodged a rape complaint.

True to his irreverent style, author of The True True Story of Raja the Gullible (and His Mother) thanks his psychiatrist, his gastrointestinal doctors and his drug dealers

Rabih Alameddine has won the National book award for fiction for The True True Story of Raja the Gullible (and His Mother), a darkly comic saga spanning six decades in the life of a Lebanese family.

The novel, which traverses a sprawling history of Lebanon including its civil war and economic collapse, is told through the eyes of its titular protagonist: a gay 63-year-old philosophy teacher confronting his past and his relationship with his mother and his homeland.

Lucia Braham has spent 10 years documenting women in motorcycle culture in Australia and the US. Her new exhibition in conjunction with the 2025 Head On photo festival’s Open Program is on now until 30 November at the Enmore Hotel, Enmore

Magnum photographer Lúa Ribeira worked intensely with young people – shooting them in dystopian landscapes on city limits to reflect their feelings of disconnection

We would like to hear your favourite characters whose gamechanging arrivals lifted the shows they were in

From Brienne of Tarth in Game of Thrones to the Hot Priest in Fleabag, we have picked our favourite 18 TV characters whose gamechanging arrival in later seasons have lifted their whole show. Now we would like to hear yours. Who is your favourite late-arriving TV character and why?

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This heart-stopping Danish investigation about a mob lawyer turned whistleblower is more dramatic than Scandi-noir as it drops one huge revelation after another. It’s easy to see why it absolutely rocked Denmark

As film-maker Mads Brügger explains at the outset of this four-part documentary series, a black swan is the name given to an event so extraordinary that you could never have seen it coming. In this case, Brügger’s black swan isn’t an event so much as a person: a lawyer named Amira Smajic, a “once in a lifetime” source for a journalist and the person who – he says – could “force us to rethink Danish society”. Smajic has spent years acting on behalf of some of the country’s most infamous criminal gangs, and is now exposing their activities as part of this major investigation for the state-owned broadcaster TV 2. Crucially, it’s not just the criminal underworld that Smajic is laying bare, but also their white-collar accomplices – the seemingly respectable businesspeople and lawyers unfazed by escapades involving dirty money and fraudulent invoices. It’s a co-dependent arrangement – one section of society “is feeding the other, and vice versa”, says Smajic.

It would be an understatement to say that The Black Swan made an impact on Danish viewers. Half of all Danes watched it when it aired in 2024, and it sparked a string of police investigations, as well as a tightening of laws around money laundering and gang activity. It has also turned the country’s almost prelapsarian vision of itself on its head. Brügger – a steely, often sandpaper-dry compere who has previously gone undercover in North Korea for the film The Red Chapel – claims making The Black Swan has shown him that the country could be “grim and dark”. Simply put: something was rotten in the state of Denmark.

After a decade, the Netflix hit is bowing out. Ahead of its last episodes, the show’s creators and cast talk about big 80s hair, recruiting a Terminator killer – and the birds Kate Bush sent them

How do you finish one of the biggest and most popular TV series of the last decade? Three years after season four came out, the fifth and final season of Stranger Things is about to make its way into the world. Millions of viewers are getting ready to find out what happens to the Upside Down and whether the plucky teens of Hawkins, Indiana can fight off Vecna for good, but it is early November 2025, and its creators Matt and Ross Duffer are finding it difficult to talk about. It’s not just because they’re feeling the pressure, or because the risk of spoilers and leaks is so dangerously high. It’s because the identical twin brothers from North Carolina are just not ready. “It makes me sad,” says Ross. “Because it’s easier to not think about the show actually ending.”

A decade ago, hardly anyone knew what the Upside Down was. Few had heard of Vecna, Mind Flayers or Demogorgons. In 2015, the brothers – self-professed nerds and movie obsessives – were about to begin shooting their first ever TV series. Stranger Things was to be a supernatural adventure steeped in 80s nostalgia, paying tribute to Steven Spielberg and Stephen King. Part of their pitch to Netflix was that it would be “John Carpenter mashed up with ET”. Winona Ryder and Matthew Modine were in it, so it wasn’t exactly low-key, but it was by no means a dead-cert for success, not least because it was led by a cast of young unknowns. The first season came out in the summer of 2016, smashed Netflix viewing records, and almost immediately established itself as a bona fide TV phenomenon.

The Death of Bunny Munro is based on a Brighton-set novel about a sex-addict salesman. Plus: Celebrity Race Across the World hits El Salvador. Here’s what to watch this evening

9pm, Sky Atlantic
Matt Smith is at his most grotesque in an unsettling drama based on Nick Cave’s scandalous novel of the same name (Cave also executive produces). It’s set in Brighton in 2003, with Smith playing Bunny Munro – a hedonistic sex-addict salesman who manages to charm many around him while enraging others. After the death of his wife, Libby (Sarah Greene), he takes in his sweet, curious nine-year-old kid Bunny Jr (Rafael Mathé). But when social services call in to a flat littered with drugs, booze and cigarettes – plus a naked woman in the hallway – Bunny legs it with his son and together they embark on a wild road trip across southern England. Hollie Richardson

There are shades of Gossip Girl, Desperate Housewives and everything Nicole Kidman has appeared in for the last five years. Put your brain aside, and enjoy

That its ultra-wealthy characters live in a place called Richford Lake tells you almost everything you need to know about the glossy new thriller Wild Cherry. Yes, it’s another entry in the increasingly popular eat-the-rich genre. Yes, it has shades of The White Lotus and everything starring Nicole Kidman for the past five years. Yes, most of the budget has gone to wardrobe, with any woman over the age of 30 apparently allergic to synthetic fibres and every actor seemingly cast primarily for her ability to carry off swagged silk and cashmere in warm beige tones. Yes, you should have bought shares in the colour camel years ago but it’s too late now. Yes, the insular community and soapy vibe suggests an ancestry that includes Desperate Housewives and Gossip Girl. Yes, in short, it’s trash with pretensions. But trash with pretensions is as fun a way to spend the long winter evenings as any, so why not set your brain aside and enjoy it?

We begin with the obligatory the-future-as-prelude scene, which here involves four women – two older, two younger – standing in a well-appointed bathroom in their underwear scrubbing blood off their hands. We then flashback to begin the six-part journey to finding out what the jolly heck is going on.

One of the most prolific and popular actors of his generation, he reflects on therapy, homophobia, why he suspects now is the worst time in history for trans people, and his secret life as a geek

Russell Tovey’s best characters often seem to have it all together, typically as a barrier to further interrogation. Take his recent projects: in surreal BBC sitcom Juice, Tovey plays Guy, a buttoned-up therapist with a seemingly perfect life, hobbled by an aversion to recklessness. Then there’s the closeted Andrew Waters in award-winning American indie film Plainclothes, a well-respected married man of faith who secretly cruises New York shopping mall toilets. Even in the forthcoming Doctor Who spin-off, The War Between the Land and the Sea, Tovey’s character, Barclay, is an ordinary office clerk who is swept up into a planet-saving mission while trying to keep his family from falling apart. In each performance, Tovey anchors his characters with a beguiling mix of strength, empathy and vulnerability.

In interviews, the immaculately put together Tovey, 44, often seems similarly well-adjusted, speaking eloquently about his acting, his passion for art (he co-hosts the successful podcast Talk Art and has co-written three books on the subject) and his advocacy for the LGBTQ+ community. Flaws, if there are any, are carefully stage-managed.

Mortified documentarian James Blake meets young men who have drifted towards misogynist influencers – and finds them lonely, heartbreaking and on ‘semen retention journeys’ to control their sex drives

Just as you can accurately measure the quality of a documentary about pornography by the number of examples of its subject that it does not show, so too you can judge a programme about “incel” culture/the manosphere/toxic masculinity by the amount of time it does not devote to the noxious leaders of the subculture. Porn documentary makers often seem to use their commission to indulge their own murky fascinations, or at the very least fill the screen with naked women as an easier way to hook viewers than constructing a decent programme. Similarly, stuffing any programme with footage of the poster boys’ diatribes, generally about pussies (female, metonymically; males metaphorically), power and the need for men to wield one over the other is a titillating opportunity and an easy shortcut to engagement.

Belfast broadcaster James Blake admirably avoids this trap in his hour-long film Men of the Manosphere. It has snippets of the loudest, vilest voices, doing their loudest, vilest thing, telling young, disaffected, vulnerable men what they want to hear: that the problems in their lives are the fault of women, feminism, woke society, beta men and anyone who is not full of ambition, independent spirit and willing to subscribe to the influencer’s latest course on how to be a successful man. If you have spotted any inconsistencies here, you are probably a blue-pilled cuck and not the target market, so please move along.

Rebecca Lowman narrates a superb, claustrophobia-inducing plunge into a relationship descending from bad to worse

Halfway through Liars, the story of a new relationship that becomes a marriage, our protagonist, Jane, is asked by a neighbour: “Why are you with him?” It’s a question that has been on the listener’s mind for some time.

Jane’s partner, John, lies about his feelings, his financial status, where he is going and where he has been. He is chaotic, lazy, resentful, entitled and given to getting drunk and spending money he hasn’t got. At the start of their marriage, Jane’s career as a writer and academic is on the up, while John – a visual artist and aspiring film-maker – has hit a professional wall. Time and time again, he insists they move cities for better work opportunities, which soon puts a spanner in his wife’s working life. It comes as no surprise that, after their son is born, Jane is left to do the parenting while her husband absents himself from his responsibilities.

Available via Picador, 6hr 7min

The author of Palestine turns his attention to the legacies of Indian partition in this brilliant portrait of the 2013 Muzaffarnagar riots

Joe Sacco is one of a very small number of graphic novelists who have smashed through into the mainstream. His masterwork is Palestine, a collected volume of single-issue comic books he created in the 1990s, documenting the violence in Gaza. His technique is to embed as a journalist in a war zone and interview people on the street, telling their stories with pictures. Lessons on global politics emerge from ultra-local conflict and depictions of day-to-day life.

Palestine propelled Sacco to fame, drawing comparisons with Maus, Art Spiegelman’s two-volume saga about Polish Jews during the Holocaust with Nazis portrayed as cats, and Jews as mice. These works are sold prominently in bookshops, not in musty basements packed with racks of polyethylene-sheathed superhero comics. Alongside a couple of others, Maus and Palestine signalled that graphic novels, as they became known, could be serious works of fiction, nonfiction and journalism. Palestine itself is as depressingly relevant today as it was in the 1990s. In December 2023, it was reprinted for the first time in a decade, after selling out following the 7 October attacks.

An intimate soiree builds to a horrific climax in this visceral novel about a young woman tasked with hosting a meal for her fiance

Literature loves a dinner party. From Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway to more recent offerings such as Sarah Gilmartin’s The Dinner Party and Teresa Präauer’s Cooking in the Wrong Century, an intimate soiree provides the perfect recipe of claustrophobia and choreography into which a novelist can sink their teeth. The preparations are usually unduly stressful, the guest list dynamic unpredictable, the quantity of alcohol borderline obscene – in short, as a device it has all the ingredients for total, delicious carnage.

The latest entrant to this literary Come Dine With Me is Viola van de Sandt, whose debut The Dinner Party centres on Franca, a shy young woman from the Netherlands tasked with hosting a meal for her English fiance Andrew and his two male colleagues. To make matters more challenging, it is the hottest day of the year, the menu is rabbit (despite Franca’s vegetarianism) and her sous chef is their often violent pet cat.

As the author publishes a new story collection, we rate the work that made his name – from his dazzling Booker winner to an account of the 2022 attack that nearly killed him

“It makes me want to hide behind the furniture,” Rushdie now says of his debut. It’s a science fiction story, more or less, but also indicative of the sort of writer Rushdie would become: garrulous, playful, energetic. The tale of an immortal Indian who travels to a mysterious island, it’s messy but charming, and the sense of writing as performance is already here. (Rushdie’s first choice of career was acting, and he honed his skill in snappy lines when working in an advertising agency.) Not a great book, but one that shows a great writer finding his voice, and a fascinating beginning to a stellar career.

Book publishing websites in Australia, the UK and New Zealand appear to be using fake testimonials and AI staff pages to lure aspiring writers into handing over their money

An aspiring Australian writer met an apparent scammer face-to-face before realising she may have become a victim of a suspicious international publishing venture.

Australia’s National Anti-Scam Centre is now investigating the case of a website luring people seeking a foothold in the increasingly crowded space of vanity and self-publishing. The Guardian has uncovered similar suspicious websites operating in the UK and New Zealand, as well as two others operating within Australia.

Toxic male behaviour of David Szalay’s protagonist reflects real-world concerns about a ‘crisis of masculinity’

In the immediate aftermath of David Szalay’s book Flesh winning the Booker prize, one feature of the novel stood out: how often the protagonist utters the word “OK”.

The 500 times István grunts out the response is part of a sparse prose style through which the British-Hungarian Szalay gives the reader few insights into the inner workings of a man whose fortunes rise and fall.

Flesh by David Szalay (Vintage Publishing, £18.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.

Benedict Cumberbatch gives an honest performance, but this is too self-conscious to challenge or work through loss with same power as the book

This is a painful movie in both the right and the wrong ways; I found something fundamentally unpersuasive and unhelpful in its contrived, high-concept depiction of grief. Adapted by writer-director Dylan Southern from Max Porter’s novella Grief Is the Thing With Feathers, it stars Benedict Cumberbatch who gives an honest and well-intentioned performance as a children’s author and graphic novelist. Living a middle-class existence in London, he is suddenly widowed; one of the movie’s off-target qualities is its refusal to specify the cause of death or even show us clearly what his wife looked like, which in real life would be unbearably vivid facts. Sam Spruell has a quietly sympathetic role as Cumberbatch’s brother.

Left to look after their two young boys, he succumbs to a kind of breakdown, and hallucinates a giant nightmarish crow, which after a while the boys can sense too. The crow is derisively voiced by David Thewlis, and resembles the Ted-Hughes-ish illustrations Cumberbatch was working on. It sneeringly, ruthlessly mocks and jeers at his “sad dad” anguish; while everyone else is walking on eggshells around him, perhaps making things worse, the brutal crow jabs its beak into his psychic wound.

Cotillard plays a movie actor starring in a production of The Snow Queen in Lucile Hadžihalilović’s unwholesome story of yearning

An eerie and unwholesome spell is cast in this film; it is a fairytale of death-wish yearning and erotic submission. It wittily fuses the real and the fictional into a trance-state – and that’s the state that I’ve sometimes found a little static in previous films by Lucile Hadžihalilović, but not here. Dreamily strange it might be (and in fact, on the face of it, entirely preposterous) this movie had me gripped with its two outstanding lead performances – from Marion Cotillard and newcomer Clara Pacini – and a clamorous musical score.

Cotillard plays a diva-ish movie actor called Cristina, who is the lead in a new adaptation of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Snow Queen being filmed on a soundstage which is in a remote and snowy spot in late 60s France; she is gorgeously costumed in a sparkling white form-fitting gown and crown, a look she carries off with great unsmiling hauteur. Pacini plays Jeanne, a teenage girl in a foster home nearby, stricken with memories of the death of her mother, whose bead necklace she keeps. In her loneliness and grief, Jeanne has projected her feelings into an obsession with the story of the Snow Queen, an obsession further displaced at another remove into idolising the teen girls who ice-skate at the local rink. One day she runs away, stealing the ID of an older girl called Bianca and breaks into the film studio to sleep overnight; she somehow gets a job as an extra, astonished to realise what story is being filmed, and it is here that her gamine prettiness and air of demurely sensitive adoration for the queen catches Cristina’s eye.

The streamer continues its annual onslaught of forgettable festive films with a mostly charmless romance set in France

At the risk of sounding like the Grinch, I must once again bemoan the release of Christmas movies before Thanksgiving; the temperatures may be dropping at long last, but it’s still too close to the gloominess of daylight savings and too far from the belt-loosening of the actual holidays to fully indulge in Netflix’s now-annual buffet of cheap Christmas confections. Nevertheless, their content conveyor belt rolls on, offering treats about as substantial and enduring as cotton candy beginning in mid-November.

Like American chocolates that no longer, in fact, contain real chocolate but sell like gangbusters on Halloween anyway, the Netflix Christmas movie, like rival holiday movie master Hallmark, is relied upon, even beloved, for its brand of badness, for its rote familiarity (nostalgic casting, basement-bargain budgets, Styrofoam snow, knowingly absurd premise) and uncanny artificial filler, for its ability to deliver hits of sugary pleasure while still somehow under-delivering on expectations. At worst, these films are forgettable train wrecks (last week’s A Merry Little Ex-Mas); at best, they are forgettable fun, such as the Lindsay Lohan comeback vehicle Falling For Christmas, of which I remember nothing other than cackling with my friend on her couch. (Actually, at best they are memorably ludicrous, such as last year’s impressively unserious Hot Frosty.)

As Gore Verbinski’s AI-apocalypse film Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die hurtles towards us, it’s clear from the over-caffeinated trailer that we won’t be getting another ponderous parable about robot souls, digital enlightenment or the hubris of man

It’s easy to forget, given the current glut of robot-uprising doom flicks, that Hollywood has been doing the artificial intelligence thing for decades – long before anything resembling true AI existed in the real world. And now we live in an era in which a chatbot can write a passable sonnet, it is perhaps surprising that there hasn’t been a huge shift in how film-makers approach this particular corner of sci-fi.

Gareth Edwards’ The Creator (2023) is essentially the same story about AIs being the newly persecuted underclass as 1962’s The Creation of the Humanoids, except that the former has an $80m VFX budget and robot monks while the latter has community-theatre production values. Moon (2009) and 1968’s 2001: A Space Odyssey are both about the anxiety of being trapped with a soft-voiced machine that knows more than you. Her (2013) is basically Electric Dreams (1984) with fewer synth-pop arpeggios.

Punchy, old-school stunt work, inventive baddie-splattering and a simple plot as our grizzled Finish prospector finds a new foe in his Soviet-occupied homeland

In 2022, the Finnish indie action movie Sisu had the look of a one-hit wonder. Pitting a grizzled prospector against an entire platoon of Nazis, writer-director Jalmari Helander heeded the lessons of George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road, principally that there is serious cinematic value in going pedal-to-the-metal along a single, straight narrative line. That profitable sleeper hit now yields this choice follow-up, which somehow feels more expansive while still clocking in under 90 minutes.

Having seen off the SS, indomitable hero Aatami (Jorma Tommila) gains a tragic backstory and a new, vicious postwar foe in the tremendously named Red Army butcher Igor Draganov, played by wily James Cameron favourite Stephen Lang. Again, the economy of Helander’s approach proves striking and thrilling. No unnecessary obstacles have been placed between the audience and a good time at the movies: we get one scene of Aatami dismantling his family home beam by beam and one scene of Draganov being sprung from jail before the pair intersect in the back roads of Soviet-occupied Finland. Cutting to the chase grants Helander time to craft set pieces in which Aatami outthinks and outflanks the Red Army’s might; in this respect, Sisu 2 is a more-of-the-same sequel. The good news is that it remains terrific: punchy, old-school stunt work, crisply uncluttered cutting, and varied, inventive baddie-splattering from the moment Aatami deploys one of those beams to take down a jet fighter.

Wojciech Has’s slice of 1960s surrealism is set in 18th-century Spain, as an officer careens through farcical encounters and erotic episodes in a wild ride that could be a series of Monty Python sketches

This epic picaresque comedy from 1965 is a head-spinning period-costume adventure of 18th-century Spain from Polish film-maker Wojciech Has. It is a surrealist film whose surrealism resides not merely in the bizarre parched landscape of the Sierra Morena mountain range with its bleached skulls, hanged bandits, crows and mysterious inns in which seductive encounters are to be had, but also simply in the bewildering juxtaposition of individual tales and anecdotes, stories which grow out of each other. The surrealist effect (and the comedy) is in the jolt from one micro-narrative to the other, and the realisation that the overall story is thwarted and undermined.

The premise is that in the Spanish town of Saragossa during the Napoleonic wars, one officer tries to arrest another, who is apparently reading an old book – but is then distracted by the fact that this book is about his own grandfather, the nobleman Alfonse Van Worden. (Later we discover that the passages about this grandfather have been added by hand, in pen-and-ink, hence Saragossa Manuscript.) Then we flash back to this preening aristocrat-soldier himself, played by prominent Polish actor Zbigniew Cybulski.

A searing documentary on the laundries sees a determined young human rights lawyer join survivors and campaigners in a fight for truth and accountability

At least 10,000 women and girls were imprisoned in Ireland’s Magdalene laundries, forced into unpaid labour and subject to cruelty and suffering. This documentary narrated by Imelda Staunton tells the story of the campaign to hold the Irish government to account for its role in the laundries, mother and baby homes and industrial schools for children. A key figure in that campaign is Maeve O’Rourke, an impressive young Irish human rights lawyer whose master’s thesis at Harvard Law School served as a key legal submission in the legal fight for justice.

O’Rourke had plans for a career in international human rights law until she watched a survivor speaking in a debate on Irish television. We see that footage here, of Michael O’Brien, a former mayor and survivor of rape and torture by priests at a residential school, as he blasts a government minister, white-hot with fury, his trauma raw. It takes your breath away. This thorough documentary hears from campaigners, historians and survivors – including Philomena Lee, forced to give up her son, who was trafficked and sold to rich Americans. Lee was later portrayed on screen by Judi Dench.

Southwark Playhouse Elephant, London
A rollercoaster accident leaves six choristers in limbo, each having to make their case for a second chance on Earth in this eccentric show

Well, this is a peculiar musical. Jacob Richmond and Brooke Maxwell’s cult hit, which began life in a fringe theatre in Canada in 2009, has the spirit of the circus woven into its fabric. It arrives in London, quirks and all, in a wonderfully eccentric production directed by Lizzi Gee.

A story about six high-school choristers sent spiralling to their demise from a rollercoaster is hardly the most conventional ground for an all-singing, all-dancing show. But as we travel with them into a space between life and death, where they are forced to compete for a second chance on Earth, the narrative gradually slips away from its morbid trappings and celebrates life.

New Diorama, London
Two stories, centuries apart, are used to chart climate disaster in this ambitious musical with bitty scenes and cumbersome lyrics

This climate disaster musical takes place in a tower block overlooking the Thames. The setting is central because the dystopia has been caused by a biomedical waste dump in the river. London is flooded and this flat on the 16th floor is the safest place to live.

Or so it seems, because things are very opaque in this experimental production. Devised by director Adam Lenson, Stu Barter, Rachel Bellman, Annabelle Lee Revak, Darren Clark and Shaye Poulton Richards, it brings an electro-folk sound to bitty storylines in two timezones. There are the tower block survivors – it is unclear which century they are living in until close to the end when they mention the year 2425 – and a second storyline in the past which might be the 1990s (there is talk of DVDs) in which a couple moves into a luxury high-rise overlooking the Thames (the same 16th-floor flat?).

Royal Court theatre, Liverpool
Paul Duckworth’s sweary Scrooge has romantic history with Marley’s widow in a pun-heavy festive show

Whether it’s Paul Hilton at London’s Old Vic this winter or Marti Pellow in Glasgow next year, you’re never far from a Scrooge during the festive season. Only one of them, however, will strip down to his long johns as he sings I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred.

At Liverpool’s Royal Court they do things differently. With his brushed back mane of silvery hair, Paul Duckworth’s Scrooge is not just miserly, he is also libidinous and foul-mouthed, not to mention being a hot shot on the harmonica.

At Royal Court theatre, Liverpool, until 24 January

From Chicago to Stan & Ollie, the Oscar-nominated actor has sung on screen for years. Now he arrives on stage – inside a trunk – to serenade the audience

In one of Hollywood’s nicer ironies, character actor John C Reilly finally made it big with a song about being invisible. His Oscar-nominated performance as the duped and devoted schmuck Amos Hart in Kander and Ebb’s Chicago was defined by his solo, Mister Cellophane. Director Rob Marshall had him sing it in an empty theatre so Amos doesn’t even get an audience for his big number.

More than 20 years later, Reilly has dusted off a not dissimilar tailcoat and rouged his cheeks once more under a new moniker, Mister Romantic, and this time there’s a full house. Backed by a four-piece band he is here to win our hearts with 90 minutes of jazz standards and popular songs, plus the odd chanson and comic verse. After a dozen or so dates in the US, the show has a short run this week in London at Soho Theatre Walthamstow, whose beautifully restored interior and history as a music hall fits Mister Romantic like a glove.

Its 1981 New York premiere was a disaster but this told-in-reverse musical became a Tony award-winning hit with Daniel Radcliffe. The film version is a tear-jerking joy

I have made enough mistakes as a critic to feel mildly chuffed when a verdict is vindicated. In 1981 I wrote excitedly about a new Stephen Sondheim musical, Merrily We Roll Along, that I had seen in preview in New York; reviled by reviewers and shunned by the public, it then closed two weeks after opening. In 2023-24 the very same musical ran for a year on Broadway, won four Tony awards and was hailed by the critics. Fortunately a live performance of that Maria Friedman production was filmed and I would urge you to catch it when it’s released in cinemas next month.

I say “the very same musical” but that is not strictly accurate. Based on a 1934 play by George S Kaufman and Moss Hart, it is still the same story, told in reverse chronological order, of dissolving relationships: a success-worshipping composer and movie producer, Franklin Shepard, looks back over his life and sees how time has eroded both his creative partnership with a dramatist, Charley, and their mutual friendship with a novelist, Mary.

Royal Court theatre, London
Sophia Chetin-Leuner’s drama toggles between digital and physical worlds as it traces a scholar’s grim compulsion

‘It’s not that deep,” Ani’s friend assures her. Who cares if she watches a lot of extreme pornography? But after the light is switched off, Ani can’t get through their impromptu sleepover without masturbating to porn on her phone. The friend wakes up next to her and exits in disgust.

The same scenario has already led Ani, a 30-year-old academic, to break up with her partner. Like Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, she was using porn next to her boyfriend in bed. Fleabag darkly regaled us with her voracious YouPorn habit but Ani, despite her robust reasoning in their argument, is deeply troubled by her behaviour. So, too, is her father when Ani hides away in her old childhood bedroom with her laptop.

(Deutsche Grammophon)
Olafsson’s account of Beethoven’s Op 109 is one of the most beautiful on record, the centrepiece of a recording that links the composer to Bach and Schubert

Disinclined to follow the herd and record Beethoven’s three final piano sonatas as a job lot, Víkingur Ólafsson has chosen to circle one of them, No 30 in E major, Op 109, locating it in a musical timeline that reflects both the composer’s past and the Viennese milieu of the early 18th century.

For Ólafsson, looking backwards means turning to Bach, whose musical fingerprints he detects all over late Beethoven. The latter’s uninhibited invention, he argues, has its roots firmly in the baroque with its improvisatory elements and enthusiasm for the dance.

EFG Jazz festival, Royal Festival Hall, London
The pioneering 81-year-old vibes player, keyboardist and percussionist creates a controlled whirlwind of experimentation and excitement

Absolutely nothing about this set feels predictable: at 81, Mulatu Astatke is still pushing the boundaries of genre. Even on his farewell tour, there is no easing in, either. The father of Ethio-jazz and his band immediately play Tsome Diguwa as if conjuring a thunderstorm, which in turn crashes straight into Zèlèsègna Dèwèl, a piece written in the 4th-century Ethiopian tradition, its harmonic minor tonality sounding almost Arabic.

Astatke has a serious demeanour. Unsentimental, he speaks only to introduce songs or instruct the band like a schoolteacher. But he views his vibraphone with care and bewilderment, playing with intense familiarity yet almost as though discovering it for the first time. His fascination with his instrument holds the audience captive in turn. During Yèkèrmo Sèw – which fittingly translates to “a man of experience and wisdom” – Astatke’s solo fills the room, water-like in its shapeshifting.

As she prepares to release No Lube So Rude, her first album in a decade, the Canadian dance-punk icon will answer your questions

Whether crowdsurfing inside a giant condom or singing alongside a vulva-headed dancer, Peaches has left us with some indelible on-stage images over the years – and there are set to be a few new ones as she goes on tour and releases her first album in a decade. As she does so, she’ll join us to answer your questions.

Peaches, AKA Merrill Nisker, emerged from Toronto’s underground scene in the late 1990s – her peers included Feist, her flatmate above a sex shop – but really came to fame in the early 00s after she moved to Berlin. Her debut EP, Lovertits, was a cherished item on the era’s electroclash scene but it was the a joyous, profane dance-punk track Fuck the Pain Away, from her debut album The Teaches of Peaches, that really took her into the mainstream.

With his murder conviction overturned, the Jamaican star is back performing. He talks about his illness, regrets, and how he felt about dancehall going global while he was behind bars

There’s a moment when I’m interviewing Vybz Kartel in the courtyard of the Four Seasons hotel in Tower Bridge, London, and the UK government emergency alert test rings on my phone. He is panicked by it and jumps up. “Me ready fi run you know!” he says, which has us both laughing.

It is a funny moment, but also a jolting one considering that it arrives in the middle of him discussing the lasting psychological effects of prison. Kartel, 49, real name Adidja Palmer, had been incarcerated across different institutions in Jamaica following his conviction for the 2011 murder of his associate Clive “Lizard” Williams. Following a lengthy appeal process, he was released in July last year after the ruling was overturned by the UK privy council (which is the final court of appeal for Jamaica due to the nation being a former British colony).

Official Trump social media accounts have been using The Life of a Showgirl snippets to promote his agenda. Why has Swift, who once wanted ‘to be on the right side of history’, said nothing?

In the last two weeks, the Trump administration has used music from Taylor Swift’s latest album, The Life of a Showgirl, in three posts on social media. The first, shared by the official White House account on TikTok, was a patriotic slide show of images set to lead single The Fate of Ophelia. As Swift sings “pledge allegiance to your hands, your team, your vibes”, the video cuts to pictures of the US flag, President Trump, the vice-president, JD Vance, and the first and second ladies. The second and third were posted by Team Trump, the official account for the Trump Campaign. One, set to Father Figure, riffs on the lyric “this empire belongs to me” with the caption “this empire belongs to @President Donald J Trump”, while the other, celebrating Melania Trump winning something called the Patriot of the year award, is soundtracked by Opalite.

The Trump administration has found itself in dicey waters for using popular music in the past. The White Stripes and the estate of Isaac Hayes have both attempted to sue the administration for using their music without permission, while artists including Celine Dion, Beyoncé, Rihanna, Abba and Foo Fighters have released statements demanding Trump stop using their songs at campaign rallies and public appearances. Most recently, Olivia Rodrigo condemned the administration after the official Department of Homeland Security and White House Instagram account used her song All-American Bitch on a video promoting its controversial deportation efforts (the song was later removed by Instagram).

(Young)
After 2018’s mellow Honey, the beloved Swede’s heady comeback pairs production worthy of Daft Punk and Moroder with deep romantic realism

At the end of last year, during her triumphant gig at the O2, Charli xcx brought Robyn out onstage. In a sense, it was just the latest in a series of guest appearances on the Brat tour: a string of collaborators from the album and its ensuing remixes – Lorde, Billie Eilish, Troye Sivan and Addison Rae among them – had turned up at different shows to perform their parts live. But as well as contributing her verse to their remix of 360, Robyn also took centre stage, performing her peerless 2010 single Dancing on My Own. Released when at least some of Charli xcx’s audience were still in nappies, it didn’t sound remotely like a throwback even in the context of a gig based around one of 2024’s most acclaimed and agenda-setting pop albums: the star of the show’s willingness to cede the spotlight to her felt like evidence of Robyn’s influence over contemporary pop.

You can see why the Swedish singer-songwriter carries so much clout among pop stars of the mid-2020s. When she opened an album with a track called Don’t Fucking Tell Me What to Do, she wasn’t joking: after launching as a 90s teen-pop star produced by Max Martin, she rejected the usual strictures placed on female pop – walking away from not one but two major label deals due to lack of artistic control – and seemed intent on following a more idiosyncratic, complex, messy path. She never saw being in the centre of mainstream pop as antithetical to making music with depth, or that touched on contentious issues. Despite the worldwide success of her debut, Robyn Is Here, her second album, My Truth, went unreleased outside Sweden because her US-based label baulked at Giving You Back, a song about an abortion she’d had in 1998: when asked to remove the song, Robyn refused.

Fuelled by a loathing of Trump, the war in Gaza and anger at ‘the same old chauvinistic crap’, the 75-year-old – who cut her teeth with Dizzy Gillespie, Sonny Rollins and more – has no plans to stop protesting

When I speak to Dee Dee Bridgewater, the jazz singer is preparing for a concert that evening in Des Moines, Iowa, performing classy selections from the Great American Songbook. But even though she has also recorded this material for her recent album Elemental, Bridgewater is not really in the mood. “I just don’t feel like it’s the time to be doing love songs and whimsical songs from the 1920s and 30s,” she says. “They’re beautiful, but there’s some kind of spirit and energy pushing me to sing songs saying: people, we have to protect our democracy.”

Bridgewater is one of American jazz’s foremost voices. Capable of crooning and confronting, the two-time Grammy winner has a career that spans six decades and has never stopped evolving. She cut her teeth sharing the stage with several of jazz’s greatest band leaders – Sonny Rollins, Max Roach, Dizzy Gillespie, Dexter Gordon – before branching out into acting; singing pop and disco; and working out of France, the UK and Mali, always with a determination to create on her own terms.

Symphony Hall, Birmingham
Soprano Helena Juntunen brought Sibelius’ vocal works to dramatic life in a remarkable concert that paired the Finnish composer with late Shostakovich

Sibelius and Shostakovich shared a gift for lyric storytelling, lending cohesion to this evening of musical narratives at Symphony Hall, from the frosty myths and legends of Finland to the gnomic utterances of the Soviet composer’s final symphony.

Osmo Vänskä has decades of experience where Sibelius is concerned, so it was unsurprising that these meticulous interpretations felt lived in. What was remarkable, however, was the way the Finnish conductor drew out the groundbreaking qualities in some of the more conventional works. This was particularly apparent in the central movement of the Karelia Suite where the warmth of the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra’s strings was underpinned by a folk-inflected harmonic pungency, or in the outer movements where intricate countermelodies that sometimes go unnoticed were revealed.

Choreographers hear, somehow, a larger heartbeat; it’s fascinating and revelatory to have them reinterpret your compositions, writes the US musician, ahead of a triple bill featuring his music coming to Sadler’s Wells.

When I’m writing music, one of the primary challenges is figuring out how to notate rhythm in a way that is clear to the interpreters. When I hear a phrase in my head it is free of the confines of bar lines, but, in practical application, eventually it needs to get squeezed into recognisable shapes and containers. Every composer has their own strategy (some eschew bar lines entirely, or use alternative notational strategies outside the traditional western systems), but it’s always a negotiation: does the way the composer notates the rhythm correspond to how it should best appear on the flute player’s music stand?

I have distinct memories of being 13, hearing a piece (specifically, Stravinsky’s Symphony in Three Movements), basically memorising it from the recording, and then being absolutely shocked when I finally saw the score. “That’s where the downbeat is?!” Stravinsky’s sense of time and my understanding of the same were at variance in a way I still find exciting: the idea that there are infinite superimpositions of a practical system (notation) over a medium (sound) most often experienced by an audience without the score. Understanding that notating rhythm is artificial yet crucial requires both personal precision and empathy with future interpreters.

He played china mugs, bells, rattles and car horns for everyone from Alfred Hitchcock to Benjamin Britten – and once got Laurence Olivier to bang a broomstick. We go behind the scenes of a Radio 3 celebration

Saturday night and the Britten Studio at Snape Maltings is filling up with 300 chattering punters. We are about to record a show that will go out “as live” on BBC Radio 3. This is a one-shot wonder: for one night only, in this drama-documentary, we are exploring the work of percussionist James Blades. Our setup neatly combines the most stressful elements of a live show, plus the key aspect of audience participation which we have – obviously – no proper chance to rehearse. Nerves are fraying. How did it get to this? And who is James Blades anyway?

Born in 1901, Blades was one of the great percussionists of the 20th century, whose life spanned the century itself – he died in May 1999. His blazing talent combined with a startling capacity for hard work took him to the top of his profession and later made him a mentor to music stars as varied as rock drummer Carl Palmer, percussionist Evelyn Glennie and a young Simon Rattle.

(Château de Versailles Spectacles)
Vincent Dumestre and his radiant ensemble bring theatrical flair and exquisite detail to a joyous celebration of England’s patron saint of the baroque

It’s heartening to see European ensembles exploring the work of Henry Purcell, Britain’s very own baroque national treasure. This album, by crack French ensemble Le Poème Harmonique and conductor Vincent Dumestre, centres on one of his absolute masterpieces: Hail! Bright Cecilia, a lavish, celebratory ode to the patron saint of music.

Composed in 1692, its spirited text is full of allusions to musical instruments, including the idea that St Cecilia invented the organ. Purcell’s fertile imagination responded with a dazzling array of illustrative arias, duets and choruses full of sprightly violins, cooing flutes and martial kettledrums. With added harp in the continuo and richly characterful woodwind, Dumestre leads one of the most luxuriant accounts on disc, full of felicitous detail and theatrical flair.

The use of AI in the surprise game-of-the-year contender has sparked a heated cultural and ethical debate, and raised existential questions for artists, writers and voice actors

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Arc Raiders is, by all accounts, a late game-of-the-year contender. Dropped into a multiplayer world overrun with hostile drones and military robots, every human player is at the mercy of the machines – and each other. Can you trust the other raider you’ve spotted on your way back to humanity’s safe haven underground, or will they shoot you and take everything you’ve just scavenged? Perhaps surprisingly, humanity is (mostly) choosing to band together, according to most people I’ve talked to about this game.

In a review for Gamespot, Mark Delaney paints a beguiling picture of Arc Raiders’s potential for generating war stories, and highlights its surprisingly hopeful tone as the thing that elevates it above similar multiplayer extraction shooters: “We can all kill each other in Arc Raiders. The fact that most of us are choosing instead to lend a helping hand, if not a sign that humanity will be all right in the real world, at the very least makes for one of the best multiplayer games I’ve ever played.”

Forty years ago, the Nintendo Entertainment System dominated the markets in Japan and the US. But in Europe, a technologically superior rival was making it look like an ancient relic

There’s an old maxim that history is written by the victors, and that’s as true in video games as it is anywhere else. Nowadays you’d be forgiven for thinking that the Nintendo Entertainment System was the only console available in the mid-to-late 1980s. If you were brought up in Nintendo’s target markets of Japan and North America, this chunky contraption essentially was the only game in town – the company had Mario after all, and its vice-like hold on third-party developers created a monopoly for major titles of the era. But in Europe, where home computers ruled the era, the NES was beaten by a technologically superior rival.

The Sega Master System was originally released in Japan in the autumn of 1985 as the Sega Mark III. Based around the famed Z80 CPU (used in home computers such as the Spectrum, Amstrad and TRS-80) and a powerful Sega-designed video display processor, it boasted 8kb of RAM, a 64-colour palette and the ability to generate 32 sprites on screen at one time – making the NES (based on the older 6502 processor) look like an ancient relic.

Activision; PlayStation 4/5, Xbox, PC
With a deafening onslaught of massive shootout set-pieces in exotic locations, an evolving campaign mode and excellent multiplayer offerings, this maximalist instalment of crazed carnage is a hoot

It seems like an anachronism now, in this age of live service “forever games”, that the annual release of a new Call of Duty title is still considered a major event. But here is Black Ops 7, a year after its direct predecessor, and another breathless bombard of military shooting action. This time it is set in a dystopian 2035 where a global arms manufacturer named the Guild claims to be the only answer to an apocalyptic new terrorist threat – but are things as clearcut as they seem?

The answer, of course, is a loudly yelled “noooo!” Black Ops is the paranoid, conspiracy-obsessed cousin to the Modern Warfare strand of Call of Duty games, a series inspired by 70s thrillers such as The Parallax View and The China Syndrome, and infused with ’Nam era concerns about rogue CIA agents and bizarre psy-ops. The campaign mode, which represents just a quarter of the offering this year, is a hallucinogenic romp through socio-political talking points such as psychopathic corporations, hybrid warfare, robotics and tech oligarchies. The result is a deafening onslaught of massive shootout set-pieces in exotic locations, as the four lead characters – members of a supercharged spec-ops outfit – are exposed to a psychotropic drug that makes them relive their worst nightmares. Luckily, they do so with advanced weaponry, cool gadgets and enough buddy banter to destabilise a medium-sized rogue nation. It is chaotic, relentless and stupidly pleasurable, especially if you play in co-operative mode with three equally irresponsible pals.

Borough Yards, London
This immersive riot of giant ferns, vine-tangled tree-trunks and sun-struck foliage dissolves in front of your eyes, but leaves you none the wiser about the natural world

Is it me, or is it hot in here? A jungle floats in the darkness on three big screens. Each depicts a riot of giant ferns, vine-tangled tree-trunks and sun-struck foliage in layered, dank profusion. With their jumbles of weathered rock, mossy wetness and tropical vegetation, you can lose yourself in these scenes. But, as I look, mist wafts over a patch of dense greenery as if someone out-of-shot were making with the plant spray.

I’m reminded of those unconvincing jungles in movies and on TV, where the plants have been trucked-in from some garden centre warehouse and arranged on set. Only the camera angles and clever editing stop us from recognising the artifice of it all. In the foreground on one of the screens, you can see rivulets crossing what appears to be a floor of waterproof matting. A small puddle is also forming at my feet. Either the film is leaking, though that seems unlikely, or water is dripping from the ceiling. Through the day, I’m told, the water slowly inundates the sheets of metal that cover portions of the floor, but I arrived too early for the flood.

From flood protection and encouraging wildlife to fixing doors and reducing fuel bills, a new initiative aims to empower residents and make their homes more comfortable

Link Road is home to an unassuming row of Victorian terrace houses in Edgbaston, but inside one of these two up, two downs, a domestic revolution is happening.

At No 33 Link Road, a property bought by community group Civic Square and named Retrofit House, it’s open week. Events include a series of talks, classes and performances – there’s a timetable pinned by the front door so you know when to head to the back bedroom to learn about biomaterials or into the garden for a workshop on mending doors.

Former commissioner for culture Neil Mendoza says the sector must acknowledge the support it gets from all parties

Helen Marriage, a hugely respected cultural leader, writes that “there is no political party that will commit to the kind of investment needed to keep a living art and culture ecology alive” (Durham’s Lumiere festival was a beacon of hope and togetherness – we cannot let the lights go out on the rest of the arts, 11 November). But she also places the responsibility on all of us. She wants the culture sector to make a better case. But can it?

As commissioner for culture in the last government, I remain surprised that large funding decisions directed at culture have been forgotten, devalued and ignored, perhaps because the sources were then from a Conservative government.

The Frattini Bivouac is part of a Bergamo gallery’s experiment to ‘think like a mountain’. But in the thin air of the Italian alps, curatorial ideas are challenged in more ways than one

At 2,300 metres above sea level, Italy’s newest – and most remote – cultural outpost is visible long before it becomes reachable. A red shard on a ridge, it looks first like a warning sign, and then something more comforting: a shelter pitched into the wind.

The structure stands on a high ridge in the municipality of Valbondione, along the Alta Via delle Orobie, exposed to avalanches and sudden weather shifts. I saw it from above, after taking off from the Rifugio Fratelli Longo, near the village of Carona – a small mountain municipality a little over an hour’s drive from GAMeC, Bergamo’s Galleria d’Arte Moderna e Contemporanea – the closest access point I was given for the site visit.

Stephen Friedman Gallery, London
Is the pranksy artist’s latest show a worrying comment about Britain’s discarded rope problem – or a joke at the expense of the buy-anything art world?

How long is a piece of string? David Shrigley can’t answer that, but he can tell you how much it weighs: 10 tons, apparently. His latest installation is literally an exhibition of 10 tons of old rope, accumulated by him over months, and left in towering mounds in this swanky gallery in London’s Mayfair. Most of it is marine rope, destined for landfill. It’s hard to recycle this stuff, it seems, and there’s an endless supply of it dumped around the world. So Shrigley scooped up as much of it as he could find, piled it up and put a massive price tag on it.

The work can be yours for £1m. And that’s the point of the show: this is literally money for old rope. It’s not that deep – it’s just an idea taken to its logical conclusion, an idiom taken too far, a pun taken too literally.

Hambling and Lucas join forces, Roger Fry gets a rare show and an aerial daredevil captures stormy Scotland – all in your weekly dispatch

Maggi Hambling and Sarah Lucas
These two very different artists became friends after meeting at the Colony Room (where else?) and now show together in an encounter of British art generations.
• Sadie Coles HQ, London, 20 November to 24 January

After serving time in jail, actor Allison Mack opens up about her experiences in a group with links to sex trafficking. Plus, a deep dive into Jane Austen

Margot Robbie’s company to make movie based on Northern Ireland academics’ stories of poverty and prison

It started as a trawl of dusty archives for an academic project about female Irish emigrants in Canada and the US by two history professors, a worthy but perhaps niche topic for research.

The subjects, after all, were human flotsam from Ireland’s diaspora whose existence was often barely recorded, let alone remembered.