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Stuart Heritage revisits Hacks as its final season rolls out on Sky Atlantic, Now, HBO Max and Stan, asking whether the series can recapture the brilliance that earned it an Emmy for Best Comedy in 2024.When the show first burst onto the scene, it was hailed as the pinnacle of comedy, outshining drama‑heavy series like The Bear. Its early acclaim rested on the razor‑sharp chemistry between Jean Smart (Deborah Vance) and Hannah Einbinder (Ava), a dynamic that felt both vicious and hilarious.That reputation has been challenged by newer satire such as The Studio, which swept the 2025 Emmys with bigger stars and slicker production. In contrast, Hacks managed only supporting trophies for Smart and Einbinder, prompting the question: can the show rally in its swan song?The latest run marks a noticeable upgrade from the muddled third and fourth seasons, where Vance’s late‑night talk‑show stint exposed the series’ structural cracks. This season, Vance is slapped with a Conan O’Brien‑style gag order that bans her from public jokes, giving her a fresh, if absurd, source of conflict.Early episodes burst with energy as Vance concocts wild schemes—pursuing an EGOT, penning a memoir, even eyeing a Madison Square Garden gig. The momentum feels promising, yet the show’s signature venomous satire is muted.Where Hacks once thrived on Vance’s bitter, anti‑heroic edge and her hostile banter with Einbinder’s Ava, the current tone has softened into a more amicable camaraderie. This shift defangs the series, making it feel less like the cutting industry critique it once was.The finale lands as a bewildering, almost ChatGPT‑generated one‑act play, delivering an unearned climax that feels more like a stunt to secure another Emmy for Smart than a satisfying narrative closure.Despite uneven seasons, the core performances remain the show’s strongest asset. Smart and Einbinder continue to deliver compelling, powerhouse portrayals that will likely be the lasting memory of Hacks for its fans.In the end, the final season offers moments of fun but ultimately signals the end of the series’ once‑sharp satire, leaving viewers to mourn the loss of its original bite.

Chris Evans’ attempt to resurrect the 1990s chatshow juggernaut TFI Friday began quietly on Virgin Radio’s YouTube channel earlier this year. The lo‑fi series, titled TFI: Unplugged, featured a handful of high‑profile guests – Danny Dyer, Chris Hemsworth, Bono and Noah Wyle – and quickly attracted enough viewers for Channel 4 to commission six late‑night episodes. While the media spotlight has been on Claudia Winkleman’s foray into celebrity interviewing, Evans’ revival arrives with far less fanfare and pressure. The new format is deliberately stripped back: a cramped studio, casually dressed staff, and a budget that Evans himself jokes is “only 1% of the original”. Channel 4 commissioning editor Cimran Shah pitched the show as “personality‑led, stripped‑back chat”, positioning it as a precursor to today’s visual podcasts. In practice, the production feels more like a video‑recorded audio interview than a full‑blown TV spectacle. The episode lineup mixes legacy and fresh talent. Vintage performances from Sleeper, The Cure and Garbage provide a nostalgic soundtrack, while contemporary guests such as Jack Savoretti – who Evans repeatedly hails for a recent chart‑topping album – and Indian star Shreya Ghoshal, who covers Coldplay’s “Fix You”, aim to broaden appeal. A promised appearance by Gemma Arterton and Peter Capaldi never materialised; instead, singer‑songwriter Sam Ryder appeared despite having lost his voice. One of the few moments that truly harkens back to the original is a splice of Evans’ 1999 interview with David Bowie, in which the legendary musician bizarrely claims to have contracted gastroenteritis from eating monkey meat. The clip underscores Evans’ desire to remind viewers of the show’s storied past, even if the anecdote feels more odd than iconic. Critics note that the new Unplugged version lacks the “laddish, often cruel humour” that defined the 1990s TFI Friday, including infamous segments like the “Fat Lookalikes”. The original’s chaotic energy and Britpop‑fuelled vibe have been replaced by a more restrained, if still frenetic, studio atmosphere. In terms of relevance, the series appears out of step with current trends. Unlike interview podcasts that create an intimate, off‑camera feel, Evans’ format retains the sweaty, over‑the‑top live‑TV aesthetic without delivering the depth or novelty that modern audiences expect. Overall, TFI Friday Unplugged may not reshape the UK chatshow landscape or outshine Winkleman’s high‑profile debut, but it does carve out a modest niche for nostalgia‑driven viewers. Its inexpensive production model proves sustainable, even if the show remains a modest footnote in the broader revival of British talk‑show culture.

Olivia Rodrigo returns with “Drop Dead,” a single that instantly grabs listeners with a razor‑sharp lyric about online stalking and instant infatuation. The opening couplet—“One night I was bored in bed / And stalked you on the internet”—sets a tone of modern romance that feels both playful and unnervingly catchy.The 23‑year‑old, who burst onto the global stage in 2021 after a Disney Channel stint, has built a reputation for “acute, obsessive” love songs that balance self‑awareness with raw emotion. Her debut “Drivers License” cemented her as a heartbreak anthem, while the pop‑punk edge of her first album Sour and the riot‑grrrl‑infused follow‑up Guts displayed her versatility.“Drop Dead” marks a decisive pivot from the punk‑kiss‑off expectations that surrounded her recent breakup. Instead of a straightforward revenge track, the song delivers a “gorgeous rush of romantic intensity,” aiming to freeze a fleeting moment before plunging back into it with relentless momentum.The track’s production, helmed by longtime collaborator Dan Nigro, layers lush strings and bright power‑pop guitars, creating a sound that feels “one bauble short of festive.” Critics note a vocal delivery that stays in Rodrigo’s highest register throughout the chorus, with melodic bends that echo both Chappell Roan’s maximalism and Taylor Swift’s signature style.Visually, the music video—directed by Petra Collins and filmed at the Palace of Versailles—portrays Rodrigo as a runaway figure reminiscent of Sofia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette” and Emma Corrin’s Diana in “The Crown.” The lavish setting amplifies the song’s theatricality.Adding a rock pedigree, the single includes a subtle nod to Rodrigo’s friendship with The Cure’s Robert Smith, referencing his classic “Just Like Heaven.” Their rapport, highlighted in a recent Vogue cover story, underscores Rodrigo’s expanding artistic circle.Overall, “Drop Dead” blends maximalist pop production, romantic lyricism, and rock‑infused credibility, delivering a track that feels both instantly addictive and deliberately chaotic—mirroring the messy emotions it portrays.

The Chisenhale Gallery in London greets visitors with an unsettling aroma that oscillates between sweet butter and a harsh, chemical perfume, immediately signalling that the exhibition is designed to disturb both mind and nostrils.At the heart of the show stands a massive mobile health unit – a former US‑British field ambulance acquired at a military auction. Its presence transforms the pastel‑painted gallery into a simulated triage zone, complete with faded chemical warnings, triage forms and evacuation maps. Among the discarded paperwork, a single sheet reveals that the vehicle participated in decontamination after the 2018 Novichok attack on double‑agent Sergei Skripal, adding a chilling historical layer to the installation.The surrounding walls are coated in Baker‑Miller pink, the hue once tested in US jails to calm aggressive inmates. This “drunk‑tank pink” juxtaposes the sterile pink of the health unit, blurring the line between soothing and coercive environments.Beyond visual cues, the exhibition assaults the senses with a bespoke scent concoction. Crowther blends substances derived from powdered milk – a symbol of industrialised sustenance – with hexadecanal, a naturally occurring skin compound known to dampen aggression in men while provoking it in women, and famously emitted by newborns. The result is a “sweetly putrid” odor that feels both familiar and alien, prompting visitors to question whether they are inhaling rubber, milk, or something more sinister.Through this multisensory tableau, Crowther frames colour and smell as potential psy‑ops, probing how basic human experiences can be industrialised and militarised. She asks: What does health mean when it is administered by the state or corporate entities? Who truly benefits when care becomes a tool of surveillance and control?Visitors navigate a space that oscillates between comfort and exploitation, leaving them to wonder whether they are being nurtured or manipulated. The exhibition runs at Chisenhale Gallery until 14 June 2026, inviting the public to confront the uneasy overlap of medical aid, military apparatus and sensory manipulation.

Mr Cobra arrives as the latest statement from Korean‑American experimental musician Lucy Liyou, translating her solo music‑theatre piece into a full‑length album that confronts the corrosive nature of desire. From the opening track, listeners are greeted by a fractured piano motif that feels like shattered glass against an empty canvas, immediately setting a tone of tension and vulnerability.The record refuses to settle into any single genre. Liyou’s soundscapes swell into glossy disco bursts, dissolve into a tongue‑in‑cheek Taylor Swift skit, and even collapse into farmyard noises and text‑to‑speech monologues. This kaleidoscopic approach mirrors the emotional volatility of the central character, Babygirl, who oscillates between yearning and revulsion as she navigates a predatory romance.Key moments illustrate the album’s thematic focus on shame and power dynamics. On “Constrictor (Haha)”, Babygirl’s submissive cravings are drenched in cold‑water imagery, only to be abruptly repelled in the whimsical “Old MacDonald Had a Charm”. By the close of the track she is once again flirting, underscoring the cyclical trap of abusive attraction. Liyou also toys with celebrity culture; the track “Romeopathy” reworks Swift’s “Love Story” into a desperate plea for validation, repeatedly urging Mr Cobra to “just say yes”.While the album’s nursery‑rhyme hooks and disco interludes can momentarily distract from its darker undercurrents, they are integral to the smart, playful chaos that defines Liyou’s artistic vision. Mr Cobra stands as a daring, semi‑autobiographical exploration of how desire can both enthrall and erode, offering listeners a richly layered experience that rewards repeated, attentive listening.

Angelina Jolie leads the new fashion‑driven drama Couture, bringing a rare level of personal honesty by confronting a storyline that mirrors her own double mastectomy performed to prevent breast cancer. While her performance is undeniably courageous, the film’s overall execution falls short of its ambitions.The plot follows Maxine, an American indie filmmaker (Jolie) who arrives in Paris to direct the opening short for a prestigious runway show. She discovers, through a compassionate doctor played by Vincent Lindon, that a recent biopsy confirms she has breast cancer, forcing her to consider postponing or abandoning her next project. Jolie conveys the shock and denial with subtlety, yet the script, penned by director Alice Winocour, often lapses into glib dialogue that undermines the emotional weight of the situation.Supporting characters include Ada, a fledgling South Sudanese model (Anyier Anei), makeup‑artist‑turned‑writer Angèle (Ella Rumpf), and the brooding first‑assistant director Anton (Louis Garrel). Their subplots—most notably Ada’s ankle injury that threatens the runway performance—remain underdeveloped, serving more as decorative set‑pieces than integral narrative threads.Visually, the film captures the glamour of Parisian haute couture with polished cinematography, yet this sheen accentuates the story’s lack of depth. The fashion world is presented with a “precious” aesthetic that feels specious, offering little insight beyond surface‑level allure.Despite these shortcomings, Jolie’s star power shines through. Her willingness to align a fictional role with a deeply personal health battle adds a layer of authenticity that the surrounding screenplay fails to sustain. ‘Couture’ will be available on digital platforms from 20 April, offering audiences a chance to appreciate Jolie’s performance even if the film’s broader ambitions remain unfulfilled.

Caro Claire Burke's Yesteryear had all the makings of a thought-provoking novel: a tradwife protagonist who wakes up in the pioneer days and finds that traditional wifedom is not as glamorous as her social media persona had suggested. The premise is genius, and the protagonist Natalie's biting and occasionally hilarious voice makes the novel zip along.However, as the story progresses, it becomes clear that Burke has failed to create a convincing mother figure in Natalie, and the novel's exploration of pronatalism and traditional Christian values feels shallow and cliched. The author's decision to remove politics almost entirely from the narrative is also a major omission, particularly given the current cultural climate.The novel's main drive becomes resolving the mystery of Natalie's situation - has she really time travelled, or is this an awful reality TV show? - to the detriment of more profound concerns. Burke's treatment of birth injury and child disability as a plot point is also shockingly cack-handed and feels cynical and underresearched.Overall, Yesteryear is a disappointing novel that fails to live up to its promise. Despite its talented author, the book feels like a lesson in not allowing a fun premise to get in the way of a good story.

Big Mood returns for a second season on Channel 4, aiming to blend a serious look at bipolar disorder with broad‑scale comedy. Lead actress Nicola Coughlan reprises Maggie, now emerging from a harrowing episode of lithium poisoning that left her hallucinating and confused. The debut series introduced Maggie in the throes of a manic episode, followed by a depressive crash after she stopped her medication to protect her creative output. While the first season earned praise for its insightful depiction of mental illness, the new installment quickly pivots toward slapstick scenarios – from a militant maid of honour to a secret‑husband extortion plot – that dilute the original emotional weight. Central to the drama is Maggie’s strained bond with best friend Eddie, played by Lydia West. Their friendship, already intense in season one, becomes increasingly implausible as Eddie abandons London for California without explanation. In season two, Eddie resurfaces under the control of a dubious wellness guru named Whitney, who has siphoned her finances and seeks to erase any lingering connection with Maggie. Rather than deepening the exploration of mental health, the series now focuses on a far‑cical showdown between the two women. Maggie, now in a “stable girl” routine of retinol and Hello Fresh meals, obsessively attempts to expose Whitney as a fraud, enlisting Eddie’s friend Will – a character described as “incorrigibly nice” yet treated with contempt by both protagonists. The tonal shift raises questions about the show’s core ambition. While Coughlan delivers an empathetic performance that captures Maggie’s inner turmoil, the surrounding plotlines feel disjointed and at times toxic, especially in the portrayal of the once‑intoxicating platonic romance that now appears more destructive than supportive. Humor, inherently subjective, may still resonate with viewers who appreciate the series’ millennial‑centric chaos. However, the blend of “knockabout farce” with moments of genuine drama feels uneven, suggesting that the show’s initial promise of a heartfelt, realistic bipolar narrative has been eclipsed by over‑reaching comedic contrivances. In conclusion, Big Mood season two struggles to reconcile its dual aims. The ambitious premise that once offered a nuanced look at mental illness now feels buried beneath a barrage of gimmicks, leaving audiences to wonder whether it’s time for the characters – and perhaps the series itself – to move on.

The second season of Beef has arrived on Netflix, but it seems to have lost the magic that made the first season so compelling. Critic Lucy Mangan argues that the show has become an unlovable White Lotus rip-off, with a similar premise but lacking the depth and nuance that made The White Lotus so impactful. The new season stars Carey Mulligan and Oscar Isaac as a married couple who oversee the running of a luxury country club. Their characters, Josh and Lindsay, are frustrated with where life has led them – close to wealth but far from achieving it. They are joined by their employees, Austin and Ashley, who become entangled in their problems. As the season progresses, the plot becomes increasingly convoluted with too many characters and complications introduced. The tension, which was so expertly ratcheted up in the first season, becomes diluted. Much is gestured towards but nothing is satisfactorily interrogated, including themes of racial tension, ageing, and the precarity of jobs. The characters themselves are also criticized for being hard to care about. Lindsay is described as a 'cold, hard spoilt brat', while Josh is weak and unconvincing. Austin is a cipher, and even Ashley, who is better served, has actions that feel forced. Overall, Beef season two feels like an entertaining but shallow potboiler rather than the dark march towards truth that the original was. It seems that the show has failed to live up to the standard set by its predecessor and The White Lotus.