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The autumn chill at Toronto’s Princess of Wales Theatre couldn’t compete with the heat of flashbulbs as Angelina Jolie — Hollywood’s perpetual sphinx — swept onto the red carpet Sunday evening. At 50, she’s still serving lessons in star power, this time wrapped in a brown maxi coat that played peek-a-boo with a thigh-high split. Classic Jolie, really. Some things never change, and thank heaven for that.

“Couture” — the latest from French director Alice Winocour — promised a serious dive into fashion’s glittering pool. No “Zoolander” antics or Altman-style satire here, darlings. Though perhaps they should’ve kept a few sequins in their pocket for lighter moments.

The film weaves through Paris Fashion Week like a dropped strand of pearls, scattering storylines in its wake. Jolie plays Maxine, an indie-horror director somehow caught in haute couture’s web. It’s impossible not to see shadows of reality here — whispers about Jolie’s potential farewell to Hollywood have been swirling faster than a Dior ballgown, with sources hinting she’s house-hunting abroad once her twins hit 18 next year.

Winocour attempts to stitch together quite the tapestry: a South Sudanese model’s rise, a makeup artist’s behind-the-scenes poetry, a seamstress’s dedication to her craft. But it’s Jolie’s plotline — complete with a rather heavy-handed cancer diagnosis — that threatens to pull focus like a sequined gown at a funeral. Even scenes with the magnificent Vincent Lindon can’t quite balance the weight.

The film’s rain-soaked runway finale? Gorgeous, naturally. But even with Filip Leyman and Anna Von Hausswolff’s haunting score, this particular collection feels more ready-to-wear than haute couture.

Mind you, there are moments. Jolie and Louis Garrel crackle with the kind of chemistry that can’t be manufactured — rather like a perfect vintage find. Critics have noticed, with one particularly astute observer noting how she “brings palpable life to the role, complicating her otherworldly magnetism with a dawning dread and sorrow.”

The premiere itself became something of a metaphor — Jolie’s graceful red carpet pirouettes providing the glamour while more substantial fare beckoned nearby. Russell Crowe and Rami Malek’s “Nuremberg” held court at Roy Thomson Hall, while Guillermo del Toro lurked about with his “Frankenstein” adaptation (and honestly, who doesn’t love a good monster story?).

Still seeking U.S. distribution, “Couture” floats somewhere between art house ambition and mainstream appeal — rather like its star, eternally dancing between Hollywood goddess and serious artist. The end result? Like last season’s must-have bag, it’s gorgeous to look at but perhaps not quite as functional as one might hope. Sometimes beauty really is only skin deep, darling.

Russell Crowe’s haunting transformation into Nazi leader Hermann Göring left TIFF audiences spellbound Sunday night — and perhaps a bit unsettled. The premiere of “Nuremberg” didn’t just earn a standing ovation; it sparked the kind of stunned silence that speaks volumes about cinema’s power to confront humanity’s darkest chapters.

Twenty-odd years after “Gladiator,” Crowe hasn’t lost an ounce of his commanding screen presence. If anything, the years have added layers of complexity to his craft that make this possibly his most unnerving performance yet.

“You can’t play a character like this and not walk away… feeling things that maybe shake you,” Crowe admitted on the red carpet, his characteristic Aussie directness softened by what seemed like genuine disquiet. The weight of portraying Hitler’s right-hand man had clearly left its mark.

Based on Jack El-Hai’s “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist,” the film pairs Crowe with Rami Malek in what’s shaping up to be 2025’s most intense psychological showdown. Malek brings a controlled intensity to American psychiatrist Douglas Kelley, tasked with determining whether Nazi prisoners were mentally fit for trial. What unfolds isn’t just a battle of wits — it’s a masterclass in sustained tension.

Director James Vanderbilt took some fascinating creative risks. He withheld archive footage of concentration camp victims from his actors until filming the courtroom scenes, a choice that paid off in raw, gut-punch reactions that’ll likely have Oscar voters reaching for their ballots come awards season.

The stellar ensemble — Michael Shannon, John Slattery, Leo Woodall, and a particularly sharp Richard E. Grant — creates what Deadline’s calling “urgently important” cinema. But let’s be real: this is Crowe’s show through and through.

Crowe’s approach to the role? Well, that’s complicated. “We’re going to have to get together tomorrow morning,” he quipped to festival-goers. “It’ll probably take about two hours to answer that question, so bring some sandwiches and something to drink.” Classic Crowe deflection, but the performance speaks for itself — he went all in, mastering German dialogue and diving deep into the psyche of a man whose ego convinced him he could control history’s narrative.

The November 7 release date isn’t random — it’s strategically positioned ahead of the trials’ 80th anniversary. Sony Pictures Classics clearly sees awards potential, and honestly? They might be onto something.

Behind the scenes, the project nearly flatlined multiple times. “The money dropped out three times,” Crowe revealed, though Vanderbilt’s “magnificent” screenplay (co-written with El-Hai) kept drawing talent back like moths to a particularly dangerous flame.

As Hollywood continues wrestling with how to portray historical atrocities — especially in our current climate of rising extremism — “Nuremberg” seems to have found that sweet spot between unflinching honesty and compelling storytelling. It’s a reminder that some stories need telling, even when — especially when — they make us squirm in our seats.

The film industry’s got a spotty track record with historical dramas (looking at you, 2024’s “Napoleon”), but “Nuremberg” might just raise the bar for what thoughtful, challenging cinema can achieve. Time will tell if audiences are ready for its particular brand of truth-telling.

Toronto’s crisp autumn breeze carried whispers of anticipation through the Princess of Wales Theater lobby. Rian Johnson’s latest mystery had just unspooled, and the buzz was electric. “Wake Up Dead Man” – less Christie, more Poe – marks an unexpectedly gothic turn for the Knives Out franchise, and thank goodness for that.

The film’s two-hour-plus runtime flies by in what feels like moments. Johnson, sporting his trademark thick-rimmed glasses and easy smile, introduced the screening with characteristic humility. “This is my favorite place to be in the world,” he told the crowd, before launching into a brief evolution of his mystery trilogy. From cozy manor houses to Mediterranean yachts, and now – somewhat improbably – to shadowy church crypts.

Josh O’Connor steals scenes as Father Jud Duplenticy, a young priest whose crisis of faith forms the story’s emotional backbone. His delivery of “young, dumb, and full of Christ” drew nervous laughter from the premiere crowd – the kind of laugh that comes when something’s both funny and uncomfortably true.

Daniel Craig’s Benoit Blanc doesn’t show up for a good thirty minutes (a bold choice that pays off beautifully). When he finally appears, declaring himself a “heretic” while standing in a centuries-old church, the audience collectively leaned forward. Craig’s post-screening quip about managing his co-stars being “literally like herding cats” felt particularly apt given the powerhouse ensemble.

Speaking of which – what a cast. Josh Brolin brings menacing charm to Monsignor Wicks, while Glenn Close’s Martha provides the film’s moral center. Kerry Washington’s fierce turn as lawyer Vera proves she’s still criminally underused in Hollywood. The way these veterans weave through Johnson’s labyrinthine plot feels less like acting and more like a masterclass in character work.

The film tackles heavy themes – disinformation, blind faith, manipulation – without getting preachy. Andrew Scott’s MAGA-adjacent author (complete with an honest-to-god moat) could’ve been cartoonish. Instead, he’s disturbingly believable. Maybe that’s what makes the film so unsettling – how familiar these extremes feel in 2025.

But here’s the thing: despite the darker territory, Johnson hasn’t forgotten how to entertain. The mystery clicks along with precise timing, each revelation landing like a well-timed punch. There’s something almost musical about how he orchestrates the chaos, never losing sight of the human drama at the core.

When “Wake Up Dead Man” hits select theaters November 26 (before its December Netflix debut), audiences might be surprised by its ambition. This isn’t just another whodunit – it’s a meditation on belief itself. What makes people accept the unacceptable? How does truth become negotiable? Heavy stuff for a franchise that started with Chris Evans in a sweater.

Johnson has done something remarkable here. By marrying Poe’s gothic sensibilities with modern anxieties about truth and manipulation, he’s created something that feels both timeless and urgently current. The result? A mystery that doesn’t just ask who committed the crime, but makes us question what we’re willing to believe – and why.

Not bad for a movie that includes a chase scene through a church bell tower.

What a difference a year makes at the Venice Film Festival. As Jim Jarmusch’s “Father Mother Sister Brother” claims 2025’s Golden Lion, it’s hard not to recall last year’s festival — when the Lido transformed into something closer to a Hollywood tabloid circus than a celebration of cinema.

Jarmusch’s latest masterwork, featuring Cate Blanchett in what might be her most nuanced performance yet, weaves together three distinct narratives across different continents. The film’s triumph marks a refreshing return to form for both the director and the festival itself. Gone are the social media storms and conspiracy theories that dominated last year’s headlines — replaced by thoughtful discussions about cinematography and narrative innovation.

Speaking of storms — who could forget the “Don’t Worry Darling” saga? The film’s premiere became less about Olivia Wilde’s psychological thriller and more about an increasingly bizarre series of events that felt like they’d been scripted by a particularly imaginative gossip columnist.

There was the now-legendary “spit-gate” incident (did Harry Styles really aim saliva at Chris Pine’s lap during the premiere? Pine’s team certainly didn’t think so). Then came Florence Pugh’s fashionably late arrival, Aperol Spritz in hand, dressed in show-stopping purple — a moment that spoke volumes about reported behind-the-scenes tensions.

Harry Styles, bless him, provided some of the most memorable press conference quotes in recent memory. His earnest observation that the movie “feels like a movie” somehow managed to be both endearing and slightly baffling — rather like watching a puppy discover its own reflection.

This year’s ceremony has thankfully steered clear of such theatrics. Kaouther Ben Hania’s “The Voice of Hind Rajab” earned the Silver Lion Grand Jury Prize, while Benny Safdie’s direction of “Smashing Machine” secured him the Silver Lion. These victories remind us what Venice does best: celebrating bold, innovative filmmaking that pushes boundaries without requiring social media investigations.

Chris Pine perhaps summed up last year’s chaos best when he noted that if there was drama, he “absolutely didn’t know about it, nor really would have cared.” His measured response feels particularly poignant now, as Venice reclaims its identity as cinema’s most prestigious showcase.

The success of “Father Mother Sister Brother” serves as a fitting bookend to this tale of two festivals. While last year’s drama proved irresistibly entertaining, there’s something deeply satisfying about watching Venice return to its roots — even if part of us might miss the memes.

After all, isn’t that the magic of cinema? Sometimes it’s the carefully crafted narrative that moves us, and sometimes it’s the unexpected drama that unfolds when the cameras stop rolling. Venice, it seems, has room for both — though perhaps not in the same year.

Detroit’s sporting landscape hit a fever pitch this Saturday, serving up a triple-header of excitement that had Motor City fans glued to their screens and seats. From contract extensions to home run heroics — and yeah, even some wrestling drama thrown in for good measure — the day packed enough action to fill a highlight reel.

The Lions, clearly not content with just making waves, decided to make a splash. Just hours before their season opener against those pesky Packers, they locked down speedster Jameson Williams with an eye-popping three-year, $83-million extension. Talk about timing. Williams, fresh off a 1,001-yard season (with seven trips to the end zone), joins forces with Amon-Ra St. Brown — who’d already secured his own massive payday with a four-year, $120-million deal earlier.

Detroit’s aerial attack? Let’s just say opposing defensive coordinators won’t be sleeping easy anytime soon.

But wait — there’s more. Over at the ballpark, something special was brewing. The Tigers, in what started as a classic pitcher’s duel between Tarik Skubal and Zack Wheeler, turned into an unexpected slugfest. Four bombs later (who saw that coming?), Detroit walked away with a 7-5 victory that had Phillies fans scratching their heads. Baseball, right? Just when you think you’ve got it figured out…

And then there’s the wrestling scene. Because apparently, Detroit needed more drama on Saturday. AEW’s Collision show delivered exactly that — with MJF pulling a classic heel move that would’ve made the old-school wrestlers proud. Picture this: Mark Briscoe’s going toe-to-toe with Konosuke Takeshita when suddenly, from beneath the ring (yeah, that old chestnut), emerges MJF.

The aftermath? Pure chaos. Officials scrambling everywhere, Don Callis trying to play peacemaker (there’s a first time for everything), and Takeshita looking like someone had stolen his lunch money. MJF’s challenge to Briscoe — “name the time, place, and stipulation” — sets up what’s bound to be a barn-burner at All Out in Toronto.

Look, Detroit’s been through its share of ups and downs. But Saturday? That was something else. From the gridiron to the diamond, with a dash of wrestling theatrics thrown in, the Motor City’s sporting pulse is beating stronger than ever. And hey, with the way things are shaping up, 2025 might just be the year Detroit reminds everyone why they call it the City of Champions.

Not bad for a Saturday, eh?

Scotland’s political landscape has taken a particularly dark turn this winter, as twin crises — one systemic, one deeply personal — cast long shadows over Holyrood’s marble halls. The nation’s housing emergency has reached catastrophic proportions, while a disturbing scandal involving a suspended MSP has left many questioning the very foundations of parliamentary privilege.

Let’s talk numbers — though they’re enough to make anyone’s head spin. Scottish councils have burned through an astounding £100 million on temporary accommodation in the past year. That’s not a typo. It’s a 128% increase in just four years, and if that doesn’t set off alarm bells, nothing will.

Glasgow City Council’s spending on temporary housing has hit an almost unfathomable £54,387,214 for 2024-25. Edinburgh’s not far behind, hemorrhaging £26,381,593. Behind these cold figures lies an even colder reality: 480 children currently call hostels or B&Bs home. Think about that for a moment.

And then there’s the Smyth affair.

Labour MSP Colin Smyth — now suspended and stripped of parliamentary access — continues to enjoy his taxpayer-funded Edinburgh flat. The charges he’s facing are deeply troubling: allegations involving hidden cameras in Parliament toilets and possession of indecent images of children. Yet somehow, he’s still claiming £865 monthly for his flat, plus £2,308 yearly for council tax and utilities.

The timing couldn’t be more grotesque. While Smyth maintains his comfortable lodgings (courtesy of the public purse), thousands of Scottish families face housing insecurity. Mark Griffin, Labour’s housing spokesperson, put it rather bluntly: “These miserable conditions were banned for a reason, but hundreds of children are still being subjected to the insecurity and instability of living in a hostel or B&B.”

Housing Secretary Mairi McAllan recently unveiled what she’s calling an emergency plan — £4.9 billion over five years for affordable housing. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it? Until you realize it’s rather like trying to extinguish a forest fire with a garden hose. Sure, the government claims this could provide “up to 24,000 children with a warm, safe home,” but with 10,000 children currently homeless, the math feels a bit… optimistic.

Graham Simpson, Central Scotland MSP, didn’t mince words about the Smyth situation: “If there is no prospect of Colin Smyth returning to Holyrood any time soon then he should be seriously considering giving this up as he has no need for it.” Well, quite.

The contrast is stark enough to make even the most hardened political observer wince. On one side, families desperate for stable housing; on the other, an accused politician maintaining his cushy taxpayer-funded residence. It’s the sort of thing that might seem heavy-handed if you wrote it as fiction.

As winter 2025 settles in and energy costs continue their relentless climb, the question becomes unavoidable: How can Scotland justify maintaining the privileges of those who’ve betrayed public trust while failing to house its most vulnerable? The answer — or lack thereof — might well reshape Scottish politics for years to come.

Well, darlings, Venice just threw us the most delicious curveball of 2025. Who would’ve thought that Jim Jarmusch — yes, that silver-haired prince of indie cinema — would waltz away with the Golden Lion? His “Father Mother Sister Brother” (could the title be any more Jarmusch?) beat out the usual suspects, proving that sometimes the quietest voices make the loudest splash on the Lido.

The festival’s glittering finale turned into something of an indie love story. Jarmusch’s intimate family portrait — featuring a dream ensemble of Cate Blanchett, Adam Driver, and the eternally magnificent Charlotte Rampling — managed to outshine the more politically charged heavyweights. Shot across New Jersey’s worn diners, Dublin’s rain-soaked streets, and Paris’s café-lined boulevards, the film whispers rather than shouts. And honey, sometimes a whisper is all you need.

“We’re not motivated by competition,” Jarmusch drawled at the podium, trademark sunglasses firmly in place despite the evening hour. Classic Jim — acting like he just happened to stumble into one of cinema’s most prestigious honors. But there’s no denying his mastery in capturing those awkward family dinners and loaded silences that speak volumes about who we are.

The political undercurrent at Venice couldn’t be ignored, though — especially with the ongoing reverberations of the Gaza crisis. Kaouther Ben Hania’s “The Voice of Hind Rajab” claimed the Silver Lion, earning that rare 24-minute standing ovation that had even the most jaded critics reaching for their handkerchiefs. Ben Hania’s acceptance speech? Pure electricity.

Now, here’s the twist nobody saw coming: Dwayne Johnson — yes, our beloved Rock — proved he’s got more than just those famous biceps. His transformation into MMA legend Mark Kerr in “The Smashing Machine” helped secure Benny Safdie the best director trophy. Who’d have thought 2025 would be the year The Rock became a serious contender for awards season?

The acting prizes painted their own fascinating picture. Italy’s Toni Servillo (still serving looks and talent at 65) nabbed best actor for “La Grazia,” while China’s rising star Xin Zhilei claimed best actress for her tour de force in “The Sun Rises On Us All.”

But darlings, let’s talk about the elephants that left the room empty-handed. Netflix’s triple threat — Bigelow’s “A House of Dynamite,” del Toro’s “Frankenstein,” and Baumbach’s “Jay Kelly” — all departed the Lido without so much as a consolation prize. Even Park Chan-wook and Yorgos Lanthimos (despite Emma Stone apparently turning water into wine) couldn’t crack the winners’ circle.

Venice 2025 might’ve kept its glamorous facade — the Champagne flowed, the gowns sparkled, and the paparazzi remained relentless — but this year proved that substance can trump spectacle. With the festival’s recent track record of launching Oscar campaigns (90+ nominations in four years isn’t too shabby), all eyes are on whether Jarmusch’s quiet family drama can transform that Lion’s roar into Academy gold.

But then again, in this industry, darlings, anything’s possible. Even The Rock making us cry.

Awards season has exploded onto the scene with enough star power to light up Times Square — and honestly, who doesn’t love a good dose of Hollywood glamour? Between the Creative Arts Emmys and Toronto’s latest cinematic spectacle, the entertainment world is serving up drama both on and off screen.

The Creative Arts Emmy Awards — think of it as television’s dress rehearsal before the main event — delivered some genuinely surprising moments this year. Apple TV+’s “The Studio” (that delightfully sharp workplace comedy everyone’s been buzzing about) nabbed the Casting for Comedy Series trophy. Not to be outdone, Netflix’s “Adolescence” claimed its own victory in Limited Series casting, though HBO Max’s “The Pitt” might’ve stolen the whole show with an unexpected win in drama casting that had industry insiders reaching for their martinis.

Speaking of unexpected… Shawn Hatosy’s acceptance speech for Outstanding Guest Actor was pure gold. The veteran actor, clearly caught off guard, dropped an unfiltered “Holy S—” that had the audience howling. Sometimes the best moments in Hollywood are the ones nobody rehearsed.

Then there’s Rian Johnson’s latest masterpiece making waves up in Toronto. “Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery” premiered at the Princess of Wales Theatre — because where else would you debut a film that’s practically dripping in star power? The red carpet looked like someone had emptied out the Chateau Marmont’s most exclusive guest list: Daniel Craig, Glenn Close, Josh Brolin, Mila Kunis… the list goes on.

Craig, ever the charmer, couldn’t resist a quip about the cast size. “Putting this many stars into one film is literally like herding cats,” he mused, while Jeremy Renner (still riding that new-cast-member high) compared his casting to a lottery win. Though let’s be real — the lottery’s the one that got lucky here.

Johnson’s taken his mystery franchise down a darker path this time around. The film weaves through church corridors and existential questions like a noir detective through rain-slicked streets. “We’re going to go by way of Poe into some John Dickson Carr,” Johnson explained, proving that even three films deep, this series refuses to get comfortable.

The release strategy’s particularly interesting — a limited two-week theatrical run starting November 26 before hitting Netflix. It’s the kind of hybrid approach that’s become increasingly common in 2025, as studios try to keep both traditional cinema buffs and streaming devotees happy. Rather like trying to please both your vegan friends and your carnivorous relatives at a dinner party, really.

Back in Emmy-land, the tea leaves are starting to form some fascinating patterns. That Limited Series casting award? It’s been practically joined at the hip with the main category winner for five straight years — a correlation that would make any statistician weak at the knees. The comedy category’s playing harder to get, though. Recent years show that a casting win doesn’t guarantee the big prize like it used to.

As the industry holds its breath for the main Emmy ceremony, “Severance” sits pretty with its 27 nominations. But don’t sleep on “The Pitt” — with that surprise casting win and 14 nominations, it’s giving serious dark horse energy. After all, in Hollywood, sometimes the best stories are the ones nobody saw coming.

The music world dimmed a little darker this past Friday when Mark Volman, the spirited soul behind The Turtles’ sunshine-pop classics, took his final bow in Nashville. At 78, the curly-haired musician who gave us “Happy Together” left behind more than just chart-topping hits — he carved out a legacy that speaks to the very heart of rock ‘n’ roll’s golden age.

Born into the buzzing landscape of 1947 Los Angeles, Volman’s story reads like a classic American dream with a psychedelic twist. From jamming in high school bands to crafting some of the ’60s most memorable harmonies, his journey embodied the wild spirit of an era when anything seemed possible.

The Turtles — Volman’s brainchild with Howard Kaylan — started their climb with an unlikely choice: a Bob Dylan cover. But it was their original hit “Happy Together” that would become their calling card, soaring to Billboard’s top spot and embedding itself in the cultural consciousness. Even now, nearly six decades later, those opening notes still trigger smiles across generations.

When The Turtles’ run ended in 1970, Volman didn’t miss a beat. He and Kaylan morphed into Flo & Eddie, becoming rock’s go-to harmony specialists. Their voices decorated T. Rex’s glam-rock anthem “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” and added depth to Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart.” A stint with Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention proved they could hang with rock’s most experimental crowds.

But perhaps Volman’s most surprising encore came in middle age. While many rockers were content to ride the nostalgia circuit, he hit the books. Armed with fresh degrees from Loyola Marymount University — including an M.F.A. — he transformed into Professor Volman at Belmont University, sharing hard-won wisdom with music’s next generation.

Life threw its final curveball in 2020: a diagnosis of Lewy body dementia. Yet Volman faced it with characteristic optimism. “This was going to create a whole new part of my life,” he mused to People magazine last year. Even as tremors and hallucinations became unwanted touring partners, he kept performing on the Happy Together tour, refusing to let illness write his ending.

His 2023 memoir, “Happy Forever,” arrived just in time to capture his remarkable tales — from chance encounters with Lennon to adventures with Hendrix. These weren’t just stories; they were firsthand accounts from someone who’d lived through rock’s most colorful chapters.

Volman leaves behind his partner Emily, ex-wife Pat, daughters Hallie and Sarina, and brother Phil. But his real family extends far beyond blood relations — it includes countless musicians he’s inspired, students he’s mentored, and fans whose lives were brightened by his infectious melodies.

In an age of manufactured pop stars and algorithm-driven hits, Volman’s passing reminds us of a time when music felt more like magic than mathematics. His voice may be silent now, but those harmonies? They’ll keep ringing out, happy together with the soundtrack of American music history.

The fall of 2025 promises a musical renaissance that nobody quite saw coming. Between unexpected comebacks and genre-bending innovations, the entertainment landscape feels electric with possibility — and perhaps a touch of nostalgia.

LL Cool J’s return to the VMAs stage as host couldn’t feel more perfectly timed. The hip-hop legend brings his magnetic presence back to a show he’s helped define for decades, from that unforgettable ’91 performance of “Mama Said Knock You Out” (still gives goosebumps) to his groundbreaking Video Vanguard Award win in ’97.

“The VMAs have become the ultimate playlist,” he muses, reflecting on the show’s evolution into what he calls “a melting pot of all kinds of music.” There’s something poetic about Mariah Carey — who handed him that Video Vanguard Award back in the day — now stepping up to receive the same honor. Full circle doesn’t begin to cover it.

But wait till you hear what Taylor Swift’s cooking up. Fresh off her record-shattering Eras Tour (seriously, who hasn’t heard about those friendship bracelets by now?), she’s taking an unexpected detour with “The Life of a Showgirl.” Crafted during those rare tour breaks, this collaboration with Swedish hitmakers Max Martin and Shellback promises to capture the dizzying reality of superstardom. Arena-ready anthems? Count on it.

Speaking of surprises — Mariah Carey’s “Here for It All” showcases the icon’s knack for reinvention. Her collaboration with Anderson .Paak crackles with chemistry, while clever lyrics nod to her own legacy: “Harry Winston diamonds and some Louis XIII / I ain’t checked the price since ‘Emancipation of Mi.’” Classic Mariah, serving both vocals and wit.

Over in the alternative sphere, Radiohead’s doing something fascinating. Their new release “Hail to the Thief (Live Recordings 2003-2009)” captures the raw electricity of their global performances. The crowd’s reaction to “There, There” — particularly that Sydney show from ’04 — sounds like pure lightning in a bottle.

Then there’s jazz master Wynton Marsalis, pushing boundaries with “Afro!” His collaboration with Ghanaian percussion virtuoso Weedie Braimah and the sublime Shenel Johns digs deep into the roots connecting jazz with African rhythms. The result? Something entirely new yet somehow timeless.

This fall’s musical landscape reads like a love letter to both tradition and innovation. While established artists reinvent themselves, newcomers carve out fresh sonic territories. In an industry that never stops evolving, that’s exactly how it should be.