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Well, darlings, the indie film world just got infinitely more interesting. Jim Jarmusch — that delightfully enigmatic master of cinematic cool — is making his grand return to the silver screen, and it’s absolutely not what anyone expected.

His latest creation, “Father Mother Sister Brother,” has just claimed the coveted Centerpiece Selection spot at the New York Film Festival. And honestly? The timing couldn’t be more perfect, especially as we’re drowning in a sea of CGI-heavy superhero franchises that seem to multiply faster than TikTok dance trends.

Jarmusch hasn’t graced us with a feature since that oddly charming zombie romp “The Dead Don’t Die” back in 2019. Now he’s crafted what’s being called an “anti-action film” — a description that feels both perfectly Jarmusch-ian and deliciously contrarian in 2025’s blockbuster-saturated landscape.

The film unfolds as a triptych (because why tell one story when you can weave three?), exploring the complicated dance between adult children and their parents across three continents. The casting? Simply divine. Adam Driver and Mayim Bialik venture into the wilds of New Jersey to check on Tom Waits’s hermit father figure — a combination that sounds so bizarre it might just work brilliantly. Meanwhile, Vicky Krieps and Cate Blanchett share screen time with Charlotte Rampling in Dublin, creating what’s bound to be a masterclass in refined acting. Rounding out the global narrative, Indya Moore and Luka Sabbat tackle family tragedy in Paris, bringing fresh energy to the City of Light.

Here’s a delicious bit of industry drama: after supposedly being passed over by Cannes (their loss, darling), the film’s making its world premiere at Venice. MUBI, showing remarkable savvy in these streaming-saturated times, snatched up distribution rights faster than a designer sample sale.

Behind the camera, it’s essentially a dream team. Frederick Elmes and Yorick Le Saux are handling cinematography duties, while editor Affonso Gonçalves is presumably working his magic in the cutting room. The result? Well, we’ll have to wait until October 3rd at Alice Tully Hall to see — but early whispers suggest something rather special.

Jarmusch himself seems particularly moved by this homecoming to NYFF, calling it “the chosen church of my religion.” Leave it to him to make even a press statement sound like poetry. The festival’s Artistic Director, Dennis Lim, practically gushed (in that restrained, film-world way) about the project, declaring it “wise, generous, slyly funny, and enormously moving.”

The 63rd New York Film Festival runs September 26 through October 13, opening with Luca Guadagnino’s “After the Hunt.” But let’s be honest — Jarmusch’s latest might just be the jewel in this year’s crown.

In an age where cinema seems to be shouting ever louder for attention (looking at you, summer blockbuster season), there’s something utterly refreshing about Jarmusch’s characteristically measured approach. Sometimes the quietest voices have the most profound things to say — and darling, this one’s practically whispering sweet nothings to cinephiles everywhere.

They’re back, and honestly? It’s about time. The long-awaited return of NCIS power couple Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David isn’t just another nostalgia cash grab — at least, that’s what the newly dropped trailer for “NCIS: Tony & Ziva” suggests. And yeah, that chemistry we all remember? Still absolutely electric.

Paramount+ seems to know exactly what they’re doing with this one. Set against the backdrop of contemporary Europe (complete with those gorgeous location shots we’ve been missing since COVID restrictions lifted), the series picks up with our favorite former special agents juggling parenthood, past romance, and — because this is NCIS we’re talking about — a hefty dose of international intrigue.

The setup’s deliciously complicated. Tony’s got €150 million mysteriously dumped in his account (talk about inflation since 2025, right?), Interpol’s not exactly thrilled about it, and suddenly our dynamic duo is back doing what they do best: running from danger while trading those trademark quips that made us fall in love with them in the first place.

“We’re like a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde with better snacks,” Tony declares in the trailer, sporting what can only be described as a questionable attempt at a Magnum P.I. mustache. Ziva’s response? Pure gold — comparing him to Groucho Marx instead. Some things never change, thank goodness.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Rather than just serve up the expected happily-ever-after, the show seems to be diving into messier territory. These two are sharing custody of their daughter Tali while maintaining what Ziva describes as a strictly co-parenting relationship. Right. Because that always works out exactly as planned.

The action sequences look properly slick — clearly, Paramount+ didn’t skimp on the budget. There’s something refreshingly old-school about watching these two navigate European streets in what appears to be a mix of classic spy thriller meets modern tech paranoia. And did anyone else catch that reference to “self-driving murder cars”? Feels like somebody in the writers’ room’s been watching too many Tesla videos on TikTok.

De Pablo and Weatherly’s involvement as executive producers adds an interesting layer of authenticity to the project. They’ve clearly got skin in the game, and their joint statement about “lies, spies, danger, desire” reads less like typical PR speak and more like two actors genuinely stoked to revisit characters they clearly love.

For those who somehow missed the original saga (where have you been?), Tony and Ziva’s relationship has more twists than a pretzel factory. The whole “presumed dead but actually alive” thing from seasons past? That’s practically a warm-up compared to what this new series seems to be throwing at them.

“NCIS: Tony & Ziva” kicks off September 4th on Paramount+ with a three-episode drop. Given the streaming wars’ current state and viewers’ increasing pickiness about what gets their subscription dollars, this feels like a smart play. Whether it’ll live up to a decade of fan expectations… well, that’s the real cliffhanger, isn’t it?

Culture wars and artistic freedom are colliding in spectacular fashion this spring, as renowned artist Amy Sherald’s withdrawal from a landmark Smithsonian exhibition sends ripples through America’s art world. The controversy — centered around her groundbreaking work “Trans Forming Liberty” — has sparked heated debates about creative expression in our nation’s most hallowed cultural institutions.

Sherald, who shot to prominence with her striking portrait of Michelle Obama back in 2018, wasn’t just planning another exhibition. “American Sublime” would’ve marked a historic first: the National Portrait Gallery’s first solo showcase of a Black contemporary artist. Now that milestone will have to wait.

The painting at the heart of this cultural earthquake? A bold reimagining of Lady Liberty through a transgender lens. While the piece has found temporary refuge at the Whitney Museum of American Art, its absence from the Smithsonian speaks volumes about the current state of institutional courage — or lack thereof.

In what might be described as the most eloquent “thanks, but no thanks” letter of 2025, Sherald didn’t mince words when addressing Smithsonian Secretary Lonnie G. Bunch III. Her message cut straight to the bone: what started as a good-faith collaboration crumbled under the weight of institutional anxiety and political pressure.

The Smithsonian’s response? Well… let’s just say their carefully crafted statement about fostering “greater and shared understanding” reads like it was workshopped by a committee of nervous lawyers. Not exactly profiles in courage.

Meanwhile, across town (metaphorically speaking), another American institution is taking a dramatically different approach to public engagement. The Ryder Cup at Bethpage Black is transforming into something that sounds suspiciously like a golf tournament crossed with a rock festival — minus the crowd surfing, presumably.

Picture this: 25,000 fans descending before sunrise, creating what organizers are breathlessly promoting as “the loudest opening shot in Ryder Cup history.” It’s almost comical how one American institution retreats while another gleefully embraces spectacle.

The timing couldn’t be more pointed. As art spaces navigate increasingly treacherous political waters, sports venues are supersizing their ambitions. Championship director Bryan Karns isn’t wrong when he notes the unprecedented demand — though one might wonder about the implications of these shifting cultural priorities.

Recent changes at the Smithsonian — from dismantling its Office of Diversity to the departure of key figures like National Portrait Gallery director Kim Sajet — paint a troubling picture. White House staffer Lindsey Halligan’s description of these changes as a “principled and necessary step” feels about as convincing as a three-dollar bill.

Perhaps the most telling aspect of this cultural moment isn’t what’s being shown or celebrated, but what’s being hidden away. As thousands prepare to cheer golf shots into the morning mist, somewhere in a quiet storage room, artworks that challenge and provoke gather dust — waiting for a different kind of courage to prevail.

The contrast is stark, almost painfully so. While some venues prepare to welcome hundreds of thousands for athletic spectacle, others are quietly calculating which voices they can afford to amplify — and which they’ll allow to fade into silence. Welcome to 2025’s version of American culture, where the volume of the crowd sometimes drowns out the whispers of conscience.

In a moment that captured the raw essence of sisterhood in the music industry, Kesha’s recent Madison Square Garden performance transformed into something far more profound than just another tour stop. The “Tik Tok” singer, whose resilience has become legendary in its own right, found herself overcome with emotion after receiving an unexpected gesture from fellow artist Cassie Ventura.

Pink roses — simple yet loaded with meaning — arrived just before Kesha took the stage. “Thank u Cassie. Love you sweet girl. My good luck angel for MSG,” she shared on social media, her words carrying weight far beyond their simplicity.

The gesture resonated particularly deeply given the parallel paths these artists have walked. Both women have emerged from battles that shouldn’t have been theirs to fight — Kesha’s prolonged legal struggle with Dr. Luke, and Cassie’s recent confrontation with Sean “Diddy” Combs. Their shared experiences have forged an unspoken bond, one that manifested powerfully on that New York stage.

During her show (aptly named “The Tits Out Tour”), Kesha’s performance of “Praying” hit differently. The song — already an anthem for survivors — took on new meaning as she addressed the packed arena. “All of this love is not only for me,” she told the cheering crowd, voice thick with emotion, “it’s for anyone who survived any pain that they shouldn’t have had to survive.”

Perhaps most telling was Kesha’s bold revision of her breakthrough hit. That familiar opening line “Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy” transformed into something more defiant — a change that spoke volumes about where she stands in supporting fellow survivors.

Meanwhile, whispers of Cassie’s potential comeback have started circulating through industry channels. Her debut single “Me & U” peaked at No. 3 on Billboard back in 2006, showcasing talent that many believe never got its full due under Bad Boy Records. Word has it there’s a treasure trove of unreleased material — nearly 100 tracks — just waiting in the wings.

Some diehard fans still rave about her self-titled first album. “Musical gold, even to this day,” as one Reddit user put it, noting that her 2012 mixtape earned critical acclaim despite flying under the mainstream radar.

The timing feels right for both artists. As we move through 2025, the entertainment industry’s long-overdue reckoning with power dynamics continues to unfold. Sometimes it takes a simple bouquet of flowers to remind us that the biggest changes often start with small acts of solidarity.

In the end, this wasn’t just about two artists sharing a moment. It was about survivors recognizing each other’s strength, about women lifting each other up in an industry that hasn’t always had their backs. And maybe — just maybe — it’s about writing a new chapter where support trumps silence, and solidarity becomes the norm rather than the exception.

The jazz world fell silent this week as Chuck Mangione, the maestro who made the flugelhorn sing like no other, took his final bow. The legendary musician passed away peacefully in his sleep Tuesday morning at his Rochester home, leaving behind a legacy that spans nearly six decades. He was 84.

Anyone who lived through the late ’70s knows that distinctive melody — the one that seemed to float through every radio station, every department store, every moment of daily life. “Feels So Good” wasn’t just a song; it became part of the American soundscape, as familiar as a friend’s voice. The instrumental piece, originally crafted as a sprawling 9-minute journey, somehow managed to climb to No. 4 on the Billboard Hot 100. Not bad for a jazz composition in an era dominated by disco and rock.

Born into a musical Italian family in Rochester back in 1940, young Chuck found his calling early. What began as childhood piano lessons at age eight evolved into something far greater — a love affair with jazz that would shape not just his life, but the sound of an era. The Eastman School of Music beckoned, and soon enough, Mangione was running with the giants, including a stint with Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers that helped forge his distinctive style.

The late ’70s saw Mangione’s star rise meteorically. Two Grammy Awards landed in his collection — first in ’77 for best instrumental composition, then another for his hauntingly beautiful work on “The Children of Sanchez” soundtrack. His music reached even loftier heights when it echoed through Olympic venues: “Chase the Clouds Away” at the ’76 Montreal Games, “Give It All You Got” at Lake Placid in 1980.

Perhaps most surprisingly, Mangione found an unexpected second act as an animated version of himself on “King of the Hill,” where that signature felt hat and gentle demeanor became as recognizable to a new generation as his music had been to their parents. Looking back now, in 2025, it seems almost prophetic — a jazz artist crossing boundaries that few others dared to traverse.

Behind the accolades — 14 Grammy nominations and 30 albums — was a musician who remained remarkably grounded. “I felt in my heart that I had something to share,” he once mused during a ’99 interview, “and all I needed was a stage.”

Life wasn’t always melodic, though. In 2009, tragedy struck when two beloved band members, Gerry Niewood and Coleman Mellett, were lost in the Continental Airlines Flight 3407 crash near Buffalo. The loss left an indelible mark on Mangione’s soul, evident in his heartbroken response: “I’m in shock over the horrible, heartbreaking tragedy.”

Before stepping away from the spotlight in 2015, Mangione made sure his legacy would endure. That iconic brown felt hat — as much a part of his identity as the flugelhorn — found a permanent home at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, along with the original score of “Feels So Good.” Fitting tributes to an artist whose melodies had become woven into America’s cultural fabric.

Some musicians leave behind songs. Chuck Mangione left us moments — countless instances where his music transformed ordinary days into something extraordinary. In these early months of 2025, as we bid farewell to this gentle giant of jazz, his legacy reminds us that sometimes the most profound statements don’t need words at all.

Hollywood’s latest scheduling shuffle has raised more than a few perfectly groomed eyebrows. The Michael Jackson biopic “Michael” — that glittering jewel in Lionsgate’s crown — is taking yet another spin around the release calendar, landing with a theatrical flourish on April 24, 2026.

Third time’s the charm? Perhaps. But this latest pirouette speaks volumes about what’s really brewing behind those polished studio doors.

The Graham King production, directed by Antoine Fuqua and featuring Jackson’s nephew Jaafar in an inspired bit of casting, isn’t just another paint-by-numbers musical biopic. With a current runtime that would make Lawrence of Arabia blush — we’re talking three and a half hours of moonwalking magnificence — “Michael” is clearly aiming for epic status. The studio’s choice of a pre-summer release slot practically screams “awards contender,” bringing to mind King’s previous chart-topper “Bohemian Rhapsody,” which strutted away with both Oscar gold and a cool $910 million worldwide.

But darlings, let’s cut to the sequined chase. This delay from the original April 2025 premiere isn’t just about perfecting those iconic dance moves. Word from the cutting room suggests there’s some delicate choreography happening around certain controversial elements — particularly regarding Jordan Chandler and that $20 million settlement from ’94. The Jackson estate has made their position crystal clear: that particular chapter needs to vanish faster than a magician’s assistant.

The casting of Jaafar Jackson feels almost too perfect — like finding a vintage Thriller jacket at a thrift store. Add three-time Oscar nominee John Logan’s screenplay to the mix, and you’ve got yourself a creative cocktail that could either soar like “Man in the Mirror” or crash like, well, let’s not go there.

Speaking of timing, “Michael” has carved out quite the cozy spot for itself. Nestled between New Line’s mummy makeover and Liam Neeson’s latest (“4 Kids Walk Into a Bank” — sounds like the setup to a joke, doesn’t it?), with “The Devil Wears Prada 2” and Warner’s “Animal Friends” bringing up the rear in May. Talk about threading the needle.

The distribution strategy reads like a love letter to global audiences. Universal’s handling the international heavy lifting, while Kino Films takes charge in Japan — where MJ’s star power never needed a comeback tour.

Let’s be real: this isn’t just another trip down memory lane with a beloved musician. It’s Hollywood attempting its most ambitious moonwalk yet — trying to capture lightning in a bottle while tip-toeing through a minefield of controversies. Will audiences embrace this complex portrait of pop royalty? We’ll find out in 2026 — assuming this release date actually sticks.

Jessica Chastain’s latest venture isn’t just another addition to her already dazzling repertoire — it’s a haunting glimpse into the digital abyss. Apple TV+’s “The Savant” (dropping September 26) might just be the most unsettling must-watch of 2025, and darlings, this one’s got teeth.

Let’s dish about what makes this eight-episode thriller particularly delicious. Chastain — who’s never met a challenging role she couldn’t absolutely devour — trades in her signature red-carpet glamour for something decidedly more dangerous. The transformation is, quite frankly, startling. Gone are the perfectly coiffed locks and designer ensembles we’ve grown accustomed to seeing her sport at premieres. In their place? A stripped-down intensity that’s impossible to look away from.

The story behind “The Savant” reads like something straight out of a Patricia Cornwell novel, except — and here’s the kicker — it’s frighteningly real. Based on Andrea Stanley’s gut-punch of a Cosmopolitan article, the series follows an investigator (inspired by the mysterious “K”) who infiltrates online extremist groups. Think “Homeland” meets “Black Mirror,” but with way more real-world implications.

Speaking of real world — the casting department deserves a round of applause for reuniting Chastain with Nnamdi Asomugha. Their chemistry in “The Good Nurse” was electric, and honey, lightning seems to have struck twice. The supporting ensemble isn’t too shabby either, with Cole Doman, Jordana Spiro, and — wait for it — Pablo Schreiber in a guest role that’s bound to set Twitter (or X, or whatever we’re calling it these days) ablaze.

Behind the scenes, the creative team reads like a Hollywood power lunch guest list. Melissa James Gibson (the mastermind who gave us “House of Cards” and “The Americans”) is running this show, and if that doesn’t get your pulse racing, check your wrist. Chastain herself is producing through Freckle Films, because apparently being an acting powerhouse wasn’t enough of a flex.

But here’s what’s truly fascinating about “The Savant” — its ripped-from-the-headlines authenticity isn’t just marketing speak. The real “K” (whose identity remains more closely guarded than Anna Wintour’s morning routine) actually helped prevent genuine threats, including a planned bombing that could have devastated Illinois’ Paul Findley Federal Building back in ’09.

Apple TV+ is rolling this one out weekly through November 7, bucking the binge-watch trend that’s become streaming’s bread and butter. Smart move, honestly. Some shows deserve to simmer, to be digested slowly like a fine meal rather than devoured like last night’s takeout.

In an era where true crime has become as commonplace as celebrity skincare lines, “The Savant” feels different. More urgent. More necessary. It’s the kind of show that’ll have you side-eyeing your social media feed and wondering what’s really lurking beneath those seemingly innocent comment threads.

For Chastain, it’s another bold stroke in a career painted with them — though perhaps her most timely yet. As online extremism continues to dominate headlines and creep into our daily lives, “The Savant” isn’t just must-see TV; it’s a chilling reminder of the heroes working in digital shadows to keep our increasingly connected world from spinning off its axis.

The cricket world’s recent loss of Graham Thorpe has opened raw wounds about mental health in professional sports — while simultaneously shattering the myth that success somehow shields against personal demons. Fresh details emerging from an ongoing inquest paint a devastating portrait of how quickly someone’s world can unravel, even when they’ve reached the pinnacle of their sport.

Thorpe’s story hits particularly hard. Here was a man who’d notched 16 Test centuries, who’d been the backbone of English cricket through some of its most challenging periods. Yet behind the statistics and accolades lay a person grappling with what his wife Amanda described as “major depression and anxiety” — a battle that would ultimately claim his life at just 55.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. As the world lurched through COVID-19 lockdowns, Thorpe found himself increasingly isolated. The pandemic’s suffocating impact — something millions worldwide can relate to — proved “very difficult” and “stressful,” according to Amanda’s testimony. Then came the professional gut-punch: his dismissal from the English Cricket Board in 2022, following a controversial drinking session video in Tasmania.

“He never really recovered,” Amanda revealed during the inquest. The sacking seemed to trigger an irreversible spiral.

Perhaps the most poignant observations came from Thorpe’s father, Geoff, who addressed the elephant in the room — toxic masculinity in sports. “What you’ve got to realise is, sometimes us chaps are a little bit macho… we [say] we can cope [but] in fact we can’t.” His words echo through locker rooms and boardrooms alike, challenging the outdated notion that vulnerability equals weakness.

The family’s decision to speak openly about Thorpe’s suicide carries immense weight. His daughter Kitty’s words cut through the usual sanitized press releases: “There is nothing to hide and it is not a stigma.” Their candor offers a stark contrast to the often-superficial conversations about mental health in professional sports.

Watching someone fade away — especially someone as vibrant as Thorpe — leaves permanent scars. Kitty’s description of her father’s transformation haunts: “He had loved life and he loved us but he just couldn’t see a way out. It was heartbreaking to see how withdrawn he had become. He was not the same person. It was strange to see this person trapped in the body of dad.”

The cruel irony? Thorpe was “renowned as someone who was very mentally strong on the field.” Yet Amanda’s revelation that he “really did believe that we would be better off without him” underscores how mental illness can distort reality, regardless of someone’s apparent strength or success.

Beyond the boundary rope, Thorpe’s legacy extends far beyond his playing days. As a coach, he helped shape modern cricket giants like Steve Smith and David Warner during his stint in New South Wales. His impact on the sport reverberates through the techniques and mindsets of today’s players.

As cricket grapples with this loss — and as the inquest continues — Thorpe’s story serves as more than just a cautionary tale. It’s a wake-up call for better support systems, more nuanced understanding of mental health, and recognition that achievement offers no immunity against personal struggles. In an era where sports increasingly acknowledges mental health challenges, Thorpe’s story reminds us how much work remains to be done.

Who knew golf could use a rebrand quite like this? In what might be the most effective recruitment campaign for the sport since Tiger Woods’ heyday, the Efron brothers have somehow managed to make whacking tiny white balls across perfectly manicured lawns look absolutely captivating — and their actual golf skills have precisely nothing to do with it.

The internet nearly short-circuited last week when Zac Efron, 37, and his younger brother Dylan, 33, transformed an ordinary afternoon at the links into what’s arguably become the most viewed golf content since Adam Sandler donned that iconic Happy Gilmore costume. Their Instagram post — cheekily captioned “Sticks” (seriously, guys?) — features the siblings in what can only be described as the world’s most unnecessarily attractive game of golf.

Let’s be real here. The video plays out like some sort of fever dream where fitness influencers decided to take over a country club. Opening with the elder Efron’s golf swing (and really, who actually noticed the technique?), the clip prompted one particularly honest viewer to comment, “Stop it. Golf isn’t supposed to be hot.” But hot it became, as Zac — sporting glasses that somehow channeled both professor and posterboy — flashed what can only be described as the smirk that launched a thousand shares.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect, really. As traditional golf clubs struggle to attract younger members in 2025’s increasingly digital-first world, here come the Efrons, turning a sport associated with plaid pants and hushed voices into something that belongs on a fitness app’s premium tier. The brothers, both sporting physiques that suggest they’ve never skipped a gym day in their lives, alternated between casual golf cart cruising and taking swings that would make any traditional club member clutch their membership card in horror.

Shot during golden hour — because naturally, these two understand lighting better than most cinematographers — the video has sparked a social media frenzy that’s lasted well beyond the typical 24-hour cycle. “So happy there’s not a limit on how many times Instagram allows me to replay a video,” wrote one particularly enthusiastic viewer, while another pondered the existential question, “So is this what heaven looks like?”

Mind you, this isn’t the Efron brothers’ first rodeo in breaking the internet. Their social media presence has become something of a masterclass in what marketing pros might diplomatically call “strategic shirtlessness.” Just weeks earlier, they blessed their followers with snapshots from a lake day that featured wakesurfing, boat steering, and cowboy hat modeling — all activities that, wouldn’t you know it, apparently required minimal upper body coverage.

For those keeping tabs (and let’s be honest, who isn’t?), Dylan — despite his equal contribution to the collective swooning — remains firmly off the market, having been with his high school sweetheart Courtney King since 2016. This revelation prompted one fan to lament, “My god there are two of them,” followed by the crushing realization that only one Efron remains theoretically available for dating consideration.

The whole spectacle serves as a rather stark reminder of just how far we’ve come from Zac’s High School Musical days — though one might argue he’s still very much in the business of making hearts race, albeit with a different kind of choreography. Perhaps this is exactly the kind of rebranding golf needs in 2025 — though local country clubs should probably keep their shirt requirements firmly in place. For everyone’s sake.

Hollywood’s latest high-profile biopic just hit another speed bump. “Michael,” the much-anticipated film about pop legend Michael Jackson, won’t be moonwalking into theaters until April 24, 2026 — marking the project’s third release date shuffle.

The delay speaks volumes about the monumental task of capturing the King of Pop’s legacy on screen. Word from inside the production suggests director Antoine Fuqua’s first cut ran well over three hours — hardly surprising given Jackson’s meteoric rise from child prodigy to global phenomenon.

But there’s more to the story than just runtime challenges. The Jackson estate’s involvement has sparked some fascinating behind-the-scenes drama. Sources close to the production reveal that early versions included references to Jordan Chandler and the notorious 1994 settlement — content that didn’t sit well with the estate’s gatekeepers. The resulting negotiations have led to additional filming and careful recalibration of the narrative.

Despite these hurdles, “Michael” boasts some serious creative firepower. Three-time Oscar nominee John Logan’s handling the screenplay, while Graham King (fresh off the massive success of “Bohemian Rhapsody”) sits in the producer’s chair. Perhaps most intriguingly, Jaafar Jackson — Michael’s own nephew — will step into those iconic penny loafers. Talk about keeping it in the family.

The new release window looks pretty smart, actually. Sandwiched between a Blumhouse horror revival and a questionable “Devil Wears Prada” sequel, “Michael” should have plenty of breathing room to find its audience. Plus, that IMAX treatment promises to make those legendary dance sequences absolutely pop.

Sure, some folks might raise eyebrows at another delay, but complex productions often benefit from extra polish. The continued backing of both Lionsgate and Universal (with Universal handling global distribution except in Japan) suggests the suits aren’t sweating the timeline.

Here’s where things get really interesting — rumor has it another Jackson project’s brewing somewhere in Hollywood. Details are scarce, but the mere existence of a potential competing vision underscores the endless fascination with Jackson’s story.

Let’s face it — condensing the tale of a musical genius who transformed pop culture, faced serious allegations, and lived a life stranger than fiction… well, that’s no small feat. Whether “Michael” can thread the needle between celebration and honest examination remains one of next year’s most compelling entertainment questions. The extended timeline might just be exactly what this complicated story needs.