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The music world collectively caught its breath this week as Barry Manilow, the voice behind countless romantic anthems, announced his final curtain call. The legendary performer plans to bid farewell to nine American cities in what promises to be more celebration than goodbye — though plenty of tissues might still be needed.

Starting January 2026 (right after we’ve all recovered from our holiday festivities), Manilow’s golden voice will grace select venues for the last time. The sunshine state gets first dibs, with shows planned for Orlando and Tampa, before the tour winds its way through other cherished venues. The grand finale? Columbus’s Nationwide Arena gets that honor.

But here’s the thing about Barry — he’s never been one for quiet exits. Just as news of the farewell tour broke, he dropped a cover of “Once Before I Go,” the Peter Allen-Dean Pitchford ballad that feels almost eerily perfect for the moment. Working with Kenneth ‘Babyface’ Edmonds and Demonte Posey on production, Manilow’s taken a beloved classic and given it new depths that’ll have even the toughest critics reaching for their handkerchiefs.

Not ready to say goodbye just yet? There’s a silver lining as bright as the Vegas strip itself. Manilow’s residency at the International Theatre at Westgate Las Vegas runs through December 2026. Perfect for anyone who needs multiple chances to catch that signature smile and those soaring vocals.

Let’s talk legacy for a moment. From “Mandy” to those record-shattering runs at Radio City Music Hall, Manilow’s trophy case tells quite a story — two Primetime Emmys, a Grammy, and an honorary Tony. The Songwriters Hall of Fame made room for him back in 2002, though honestly, they probably should’ve done it sooner.

Remember that line from “It’s a Miracle” — “From Boston to Denver/ And every town in between”? Those words hit different now, don’t they? Each upcoming show feels less like a concert and more like a love letter to the cities that helped write Manilow’s story.

Want in on the farewell? Mark those calendars: tickets drop Friday, September 26, at 10 a.m. local time. Die-hard fans might want to jump on those VIP packages coming Tuesday, September 23. After all, when it’s the last dance, you might as well waltz in style.

Speaking of style, Manilow’s got staying power that’d make most artists jealous. Nearly three decades between No. 1 albums on the Billboard 200? Who does that? “Barry Manilow Live!” owned 1977, and then “The Greatest Songs of the Fifties” claimed 2006 like it was nothing. That’s not just success — that’s reinvention.

As the final tour dates approach, they stand as more than just shows on a calendar. They’re chapters in a story that’s made millions sing, dance, and feel a little more deeply. And isn’t that what great music is supposed to do?

Fame’s golden facade can crack in an instant, as two entertainment figures are discovering in courtrooms thousands of miles apart. Their stories — while vastly different in scale — share an unsettling thread about accountability in the spotlight.

Sean “Diddy” Combs’s fall from grace reads like a cautionary tale straight from a Hollywood script. The hip-hop mogul who once commanded a billion-dollar empire now sits in what his legal team describes as “one of America’s most notorious jails,” facing the music for prostitution-related charges. Gone are the designer suits and executive boardrooms, replaced by prison jumpsuits and the constant hum of surveillance cameras.

“I used to call myself a king,” Combs confessed to his probation officer. “But I didn’t act like a king. I didn’t act like a man.” Such raw admissions from the formerly larger-than-life figure paint a stark picture of humility — or perhaps calculated contrition, depending on who you ask.

The price of his downfall extends far beyond personal discomfort. More than 100 employees have lost their jobs. His seven children bear the weight of their father’s choices. Howard University yanked back his honorary doctorate, charter schools scrubbed his name from their boards, and that much-anticipated Hulu family show? Permanently shelved.

Life behind bars has forced some unexpected changes. For the first time in 25 years, Combs faces mandatory sobriety — a silver lining his lawyers eagerly highlight in their plea for a 14-month sentence (essentially time served). They’re working overtime to frame this as your typical “sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll” story gone sideways. But the evidence — including testimony about drug-fueled sex marathons and violence — suggests something far darker than standard celebrity excess.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, DJ Chloe Caillet’s legal drama unfolds with its own peculiar twist. The 33-year-old’s £100,000 compensation claim for a brick-related injury has spectacularly backfired, thanks to her own social media footprint. Those globe-trotting Instagram posts? They didn’t exactly align with claims about being unable to work.

Caillet’s defense takes some fascinating linguistic gymnastics. There’s apparently a world of difference between “performing” and “working” — who knew? Her argument that appearing at venues worldwide involved merely “passive types of work” with “pre-recorded playlists or sets” might raise eyebrows among fellow DJs who’ve spent years perfecting their craft.

These parallel stories highlight an uncomfortable truth about fame in 2025: social media leaves nowhere to hide, and courtrooms care little for celebrity status. Combs’s lawyers can paint prison as a transformative experience all they want, but prosecutors aren’t buying it. Their view? Someone with an “extensive history of violence” doesn’t change overnight.

Perhaps the most telling detail in Combs’s case is that maggot-infested prison food incident — a far cry from the champagne-soaked lifestyle he once flaunted. One particularly tense moment involved an armed standoff with another inmate over, of all things, a chair. It’s the kind of reality check that no amount of previous success can cushion.

As these legal dramas continue to unfold, they serve as sobering reminders that fame’s protective bubble is thinner than ever. In today’s world, neither clever wordplay nor star power can fully shield anyone from facing the music when the truth comes calling.

Reality TV’s carefully manufactured drama took an unexpectedly real turn when former supermodel Janice Dickinson — she of the self-proclaimed “world’s first supermodel” title — decided to take ITV Studios to court. The reason? A nighttime tumble in the South African bush that left her with more than just wounded pride.

The incident occurred during the 2023 filming of “I’m A Celebrity… South Africa,” proving that even the most seasoned reality show veterans aren’t immune to the genuine hazards of jungle living. Dickinson, now 70, sustained serious head and facial injuries during what should have been a mundane trek to the camp’s bathroom facilities. The mishap required surgical intervention — hardly the kind of screen time she’d bargained for.

What makes this legal battle particularly fascinating is its timing. Here we are, early 2025, and the case has landed in London’s High Court, transforming what might have been a forgotten footnote in reality TV history into a potentially landmark case about duty of care in television production.

The irony isn’t lost on anyone familiar with Dickinson’s career trajectory. From dominating high-fashion runways to delivering razor-sharp critiques on “America’s Next Top Model,” she’s now found herself center stage in a different kind of drama. The all-star edition of “I’m A Celebrity” was meant to be a victory lap of sorts — a chance to reunite beloved contestants including eventual winner Myleene Klass. Instead, Dickinson’s adventure came to an abrupt halt on day 11, when she was evacuated from Kruger National Park for medical attention.

Perhaps most intriguing is the evolution of Dickinson’s response to the incident. Initially, she chalked it up to her own “stupidity” — a refreshingly candid admission that seemed perfectly on-brand for the outspoken personality. But something changed. Her legal representative, Dermot McNamara, has now told BBC News that she’s “looking forward to giving her full account in due course” — the kind of carefully worded statement that suggests there’s more beneath the surface than initially met the eye.

ITV Studios has maintained a diplomatic silence — no surprise there. Yet this case could crack open wider discussions about safety protocols in reality television, especially in remote locations where immediate medical care isn’t just a quick ambulance ride away. The timing feels particularly relevant, given the industry’s recent soul-searching about contestant welfare and duty of care.

For Dickinson, who finished as runner-up in the 2007 edition of “I’m A Celebrity,” this legal wrangle writes an unexpected new chapter in her reality TV saga. One can’t help but wonder if the jungle’s real dangers might finally be getting their own unedited moment in the spotlight.

Cricket’s flair for the dramatic reached new heights at the Sheikh Zayed Stadium yesterday, where Pakistan — ever the masters of theatrical sports — turned what should’ve been a straightforward victory into the kind of nerve-wracking spectacle that sends cardiologists rushing to update their contact lists.

Let’s be real: after bundling out Sri Lanka for a measly 133, this match had all the makings of a yawner. Shaheen Afridi’s opening spell alone — a masterclass in left-arm pace bowling that claimed three vital wickets — should’ve written the evening’s script in bold, clear letters.

But Pakistan, bless their cricket-loving souls, never met a simple chase they couldn’t complicate.

The Sri Lankan spinners, sensing blood in the water, pounced like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Wanindu Hasaranga and Maheesh Theekshana turned the ball square, making Pakistan’s batsmen look like they were trying to play blindfolded on a merry-go-round. Two wickets apiece, and suddenly that tiny target of 133 looked about as achievable as climbing Everest in flip-flops.

Perhaps the day’s most delicious moment came courtesy of Abrar Ahmad. After dismissing Hasaranga, the Pakistani bowler couldn’t resist mimicking the Sri Lankan’s trademark celebration — a bit of cheeky theater that probably won’t make it into the MCC coaching manual anytime soon. Hasaranga, proving karma doesn’t clock out for cricket matches, later plucked a stunning catch to dismiss Saim Ayub and returned the celebratory favor. Social media, predictably, went absolutely bonkers.

The partnership between Hussain Talat and Mohammad Nawaz eventually steered Pakistan home, though “steered” suggests a level of control that was conspicuously absent for most of their innings. It was more like watching someone parallel park a tank while blindfolded — somehow they got there, but nobody’s quite sure how.

Lurking in the background of this subcontinental drama is India’s relentless march through the tournament. Four wins from four matches, each victory more emphatic than the last. Bangladesh’s coach Phil Simmons summed it up with refreshing candor: “Every team has the ability to beat India…” though the pregnant pause following that statement spoke volumes about the probability.

For Pakistan, this victory keeps their tournament hopes alive — technically speaking. But with India’s current form casting shadows longer than a sunset in Dubai, one might say they’re just postponing the inevitable. Then again, cricket’s beauty lies in its glorious uncertainty. After all, who’d have thought a target of 133 could produce such edge-of-your-seat entertainment?

Sometimes in cricket, as in life, the journey matters more than the destination. And boy, what a journey this was.

The lights have dimmed on one of cinema’s most radiant stars. Claudia Cardinale, the magnetic force who transformed European film and redefined Hollywood glamour, took her final bow this week at 87 — leaving behind a legacy that sparkles brighter than any Cannes premiere.

Word of her passing in Nemours, France, hit the entertainment world like the final frame of a beloved classic. Her children were by her side — a touching epilogue for an actress who somehow managed to keep family sacred in an industry that devours personal lives for breakfast.

Born Claude Joséphine Rose Cardinale in Tunisia (oh, how Hollywood loves its exotic origins), her path to stardom reads like something even the most imaginative screenwriter wouldn’t dare pitch. Picture this: a reluctant beauty queen who’d rather be anywhere else wins “Most Beautiful Italian Girl in Tunisia” in 1957. The prize? A ticket to the Venice Film Festival — and destiny had the cameras rolling.

But here’s where the fairy tale gets real. Behind those early flashbulbs lurked a darker story: teenage assault, a secret son (Patrick, raised as her “brother” until age 8), and the suffocating social constraints of the era. In today’s post-#MeToo world, as we approach 2025’s landmark legislation on entertainment industry reforms, Cardinale’s early struggles feel devastatingly relevant.

The 1960s, though? That’s when magic happened. Cardinale bloomed into something extraordinary — different from the Lorens and Lollobrigidas of her day. She brought something raw, something real. As film critic Massimo Benvegnù put it (and honestly, he nailed it), “She was less curvaceous and more girl next door. She was more real.”

Her collaboration with Luchino Visconti? Pure cinema gold. “You can learn beauty,” she wrote in her 2005 autobiography. “Visconti taught me how to be beautiful. He taught me to cultivate mystery, without which, he said, there cannot be real beauty.” Darlings, if that’s not a masterclass in star power, what is?

The roles that followed became legend: Angelica in “The Leopard,” bewitching both Alain Delon and Burt Lancaster (no small feat). The fierce Jill McBain in “Once Upon a Time in the West” — possibly the most compelling widow in western history. And let’s not forget Fellini’s “8½,” where she became Mastroianni’s ethereal muse.

Hollywood came calling, naturally. “The Pink Panther” showed her lighter side, but America’s dream factory came with fine print. Her marriage to producer Franco Cristaldi left her feeling like — in her own words — “just an office worker.” Hardly the stuff of silver screen dreams.

But darling Claudia? She didn’t just survive — she evolved. Her later years with director Pasquale Squitieri proved that second acts in Hollywood can outshine the original. Their 40-year love story (who needs marriage licenses anyway?) produced both a daughter and artistic freedom that most actors only dream about.

In her final chapter, this UNESCO goodwill ambassador and women’s rights champion kept it remarkably real. Her daughter Claudia Squitieri remembers, “She always, always, always stopped to sign autographs… She felt very blessed by her luck.”

As we bid farewell to this extraordinary woman — just months before the 2025 retrospective of Italian cinema’s golden age at Cannes — we’re left with more than memories. Claudia Cardinale didn’t just navigate Hollywood’s treacherous waters; she charted her own course, leaving behind a map for generations of artists who dare to be real in an unreal world.

Now that’s what you call a star turn, darlings. Take a bow, Claudia. The standing ovation will last forever.

Hollywood’s monster makeover season is in full swing, with two darkly delicious reimaginings set to breathe new life into beloved horror classics. The timing couldn’t be more perfect, as audiences increasingly crave fresh perspectives on timeless tales of terror.

Maggie Gyllenhaal’s “The Bride!” emerges as perhaps the most intriguing reinvention of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece in decades. Peter Sarsgaard let slip to The Independent that this isn’t your typical monster flick — rather, it’s shaping up to be a “big, romantic, deeply romantic, wild, punk monster movie.” The casting alone speaks volumes: Christian Bale brings his trademark intensity to Frankenstein’s creature, while Jessie Buckley steps into the role of his punk-rock bride. Talk about electric chemistry.

Set against the backdrop of 1930s Chicago (think Art Deco meets Gothic horror), the film promises a cocktail of “Murder! Possession!” and — wait for it — “A wild and radical cultural movement!” Annette Bening’s Dr. Euphronious pulls the strings in this bold reimagining, which seems poised to challenge everything we thought we knew about classic monster movies. The reunion of Buckley and Gyllenhaal, who previously struck creative gold in “The Lost Daughter,” feels particularly significant. Their shared artistic vision could well elevate this beyond mere genre fare.

Meanwhile, something wicked this way comes in Derry, Maine.

Bill Skarsgård is donning the infamous greasepaint once more as Pennywise in HBO’s “IT: Welcome to Derry.” The prequel series, set in 1962, delves into the cursed town’s blood-soaked history — and honestly, who hasn’t wondered about those decades of disappeared children? The recently dropped trailer practically oozes menace, serving up vintage horror with contemporary flair. “Do you think somebody could kidnap a kid and keep him underground? In the sewers?” a young voice asks, sending shivers down collective spines.

That signature red balloon? Still absolutely terrifying.

With Andy Muschietti directing four episodes of the nine-part series, expectations are understandably high. The assembled cast, featuring standouts Taylour Paige and Jovan Adepo, suggests this won’t be just another cash-grab prequel. Character development appears front and center — essential for any horror story worth its salt.

These dual projects represent fascinating shifts in how modern audiences consume and interpret classic monster narratives. Gyllenhaal’s feminist lens on “The Bride!” and Muschietti’s exploration of Pennywise’s origins prove there’s still plenty of fresh territory to explore in these well-trodden tales. As we head into 2025’s packed horror lineup, these productions might just set new standards for reimagining beloved classics.

After all, sometimes the most terrifying monsters are the ones we think we already know.

The music industry’s landscape shifted dramatically this week as Sylvia Rhone, the last remaining woman CEO among major record labels, announced her departure from Epic Records. Her exit marks more than just a corporate reshuffling — it’s the closing of a remarkable chapter that stretches from the vinyl era through the streaming revolution.

Let’s be real: breaking one glass ceiling is impressive enough. Rhone shattered three of them. As the first woman and first Black person to helm a major label owned by a Fortune 500 company, she didn’t just climb the corporate ladder — she rebuilt it entirely.

“I started when vinyl ruled, and women weren’t even considered for vice-presidential roles,” Rhone reflected in her farewell memo. That’s putting it mildly. Her journey from secretary at Buddha Records to industry titan reads like a masterclass in determination, though she’d probably brush off such grand comparisons with her characteristic humility.

Epic Records flourished under her watch. The label’s roster reads like a playlist of the 2020s’ biggest hits — Travis Scott dropping culture-shifting albums, 21 Savage redefining rap’s boundaries, Meghan Trainor and Camila Cabello dominating pop charts. But Rhone’s influence runs deeper than just Epic’s success.

Through stints at Atlantic, Elektra, and Universal Motown, she orchestrated what she describes as “a cultural renaissance.” That’s not hyperbole. Think about it: Missy Elliott’s groundbreaking videos playing alongside Metallica’s thunderous anthems? That’s pure Rhone — seeing possibilities where others saw contradictions.

Her artist roster tells its own story. From Pantera’s raw energy to Phish’s experimental jams, from Tracy Chapman’s soul-stirring lyrics to Anita Baker’s velvet vocals — each artist developed their unique voice under her guidance. In an industry obsessed with formulas, Rhone championed authenticity.

Rob Stringer, Sony Music Group’s chairman, got it right when he noted her adaptability. As the industry lurched from physical to digital to streaming (and now, in early 2025, grappling with AI-generated music), Rhone didn’t just keep pace — she helped set it.

Perhaps her most lasting impact lies in Epic’s transformed corporate culture. Under her leadership, the label achieved what many considered impossible: a staff comprising 62% women and 57% people of color. These aren’t just statistics — they’re proof that change is possible when someone’s brave enough to lead it.

Her timing feels significant. The music industry stands at another crossroads, wrestling with AI’s implications, streaming economics, and rapidly evolving consumer habits. “Right now, music’s DNA is being reimagined,” Rhone observed, capturing the mixture of challenge and opportunity that defines the current moment.

While Epic hasn’t named a successor (though rumors are swirling through industry corridors), Rhone’s influence will echo through the next generation of music executives. Her collection of accolades — from Billboard honors to Fortune’s Most Powerful Women list — tells only part of the story. As she noted herself, these achievements “pale beside what we’ve all built together.”

In an industry that often treats both artists and executives as disposable, Rhone’s departure feels different. It’s not just about losing a CEO — it’s about recognizing how one person’s vision can transform an entire industry. Her legacy isn’t just about breaking barriers; it’s about ensuring they stay broken.

Pop music’s landscape shifts constantly, but every so often, a star emerges who genuinely changes the game. Chappell Roan’s meteoric rise from Missouri songwriter to stadium-filling phenomenon feels different — more authentic, more electric, more real.

The proof? Forest Hills Stadium, New York. 13,000 souls decked out in everything from rhinestone-studded cowboy hats to full-on Lady Liberty costumes (because why not?). The venue practically hummed with anticipation before Roan even took the stage.

“I’m really hard on myself, like really hard on myself, for performing,” she admitted from her throne mid-show. There’s something disarming about an artist who can fill a stadium yet still shares their vulnerabilities so openly. Despite claiming she wasn’t feeling her best, her voice — raw, powerful, undeniable — suggested otherwise.

The Chappell Roan story reads like something dreamed up in a Hollywood writer’s room. Kayleigh Rose Amstutz, small-town girl with big dreams, transforms into a glitter-bombed force of nature who’s now breaking attendance records at Lollapalooza. Just a year and a half ago, she was playing clubs. Now? Grammy nods, viral moments, and that indefinable something that turns good performers into legends.

Forest Hills got the full treatment — gothic castle backdrop, all-female band channeling pure ’70s rock energy, and Roan herself, emerging like some fabulous musketeer-princess hybrid. The 93-minute set shouldn’t have felt intimate in a venue that size, but somehow it did. When Nancy Wilson of Heart joined for “Barracuda,” the moment felt less like a special guest appearance and more like a torch being passed between generations.

But here’s the thing about Roan — she’s created something bigger than just music. The crowd was this gorgeous mishmash of humanity: teenage girls finding their voice, queer twentysomethings living their truth, middle-aged converts who’ve seen it all but still got swept up in the magic. At one point, a burly guy in the crowd frantically texted his mom: “I love her!!!!” Four exclamation points. That says something.

The setlist? Comprehensive doesn’t begin to cover it. Every track felt like opening a different door in some fabulous mansion — here’s the room with frank sexuality, there’s the baroque feelings chamber, down the hall you’ll find lavish camp. Even when the production threatened to go over the top (looking at you, “The Subway”), Roan’s emotional core cut through like a laser.

Perhaps the night’s most powerful moment came during “California.” When she sang a cappella about stretching herself across four states, chasing dreams out west, the stadium fell so quiet you could hear hearts beating. The distance between that hopeful songwriter and today’s superstar seemed to collapse, if just for a moment.

These aren’t just concerts — they’re victory laps. Strategic stops in New York, Kansas City, and Los Angeles feel both calculated and somehow spontaneous. It’s a rare feat to make stadium shows feel like intimate pop-ups, but that’s Roan’s magic. She’s navigated the treacherous waters of sudden fame while keeping her artistic soul intact.

In an era where authenticity often feels manufactured, Roan’s the real deal. And that’s worth celebrating.

The BBC’s smash hit “The Traitors” is taking a deliciously wicked turn into celebrity territory — and honestly, who wouldn’t want to watch Stephen Fry try to deceive his way through a Scottish castle?

Set to premiere October 8th with an extended 70-minute episode that’ll probably leave viewers reaching for their phones to tweet theories, this star-studded edition transforms the Highland fortress into what might just be the poshest den of lies since Parliament. The cast list reads like someone’s fever dream after binge-watching British telly all night: Stephen Fry breaking bread with Paloma Faith, Tom Daley potentially plotting against Jonathan Ross, and Charlotte Church maybe (just maybe) planning Alan Carr’s downfall — all while claiming it’s for charity, mind you.

Claudia Winkleman, she of the magnificent fringe and razor-sharp wit, isn’t pulling any punches. “Don’t get comfortable,” she warns the celebs, delivering the kind of ominous statement that’d make even a Game of Thrones character nervous. “This game doesn’t care who you are. In here, your glamorous lives count for nothing.”

The 19-strong lineup spans entertainment’s finest — though calling it diverse might be stretching it a bit. From broadcasting royalty to Olympic medallists, we’ve got enough star power to light up Glasgow. Perhaps most intriguingly, Jonathan Ross is making his prodigal return to the BBC after that infamous “Sachsgate” mess 14 years ago. Talk about timing.

But here’s where it gets proper interesting. Social media’s already doing what it does best — wildly speculating. Joe Wilkinson’s emerged as an early suspect, mainly because the man couldn’t look more suspicious if he tried. When YouTuber Niko Omilana declared “Me? Faithful,” Wilkinson’s shifty “Me too” response was about as convincing as a chocolate teapot.

“Joe Wilkinson is definitely a traitor isn’t he,” some eagle-eyed viewer posted on Instagram, and honestly? Fair point. The way he casually removed his blindfold at the first roundtable, complete with that smirk… Well.

Then there’s Paloma Faith, whose dramatic breakfast scene gasp has set tongues wagging. Could be genuine shock, could be Oscar-worthy acting — that’s half the fun, innit?

What’s fascinating about this celebrity version is how it strips away the gloss of fame. Will Stephen Fry’s encyclopedic knowledge actually help him spot lies? Can Clare Balding’s sports commentary experience translate into gameplay strategy? And poor Alan Carr, bless him, has already admitted to having “no poker face” — which in this game is like turning up to a sword fight with a spoon.

The show’s running Wednesday and Thursday nights, with “Celebrity Traitors: Uncloaked” following on BBC Two, hosted by Ed Gamble. Because apparently, we need even more time to dissect every raised eyebrow and suspicious glance. Not that anyone’s complaining.

One fan summed it up perfectly on social media: “can’t wait to accuse everyone from my sofa.” Because let’s face it — in a world of heavily scripted reality shows, there’s something oddly refreshing about watching celebrities struggle with the same moral quandaries that had us all shouting at our screens during the civilian version.

Whether you’re tuning in to watch the strategic gameplay, celebrity dynamics, or just to see if Joe Wilkinson can keep a straight face while lying to Stephen Fry (spoiler: probably not), Celebrity Traitors promises to be properly entertaining telly. And in these rather interesting times, couldn’t we all use a bit of that?

MGM+ is taking another shot at Sherwood Forest, and this time around, they’re trading medieval pageantry for something decidedly grittier. Their new Robin Hood series — launching November 2 with a double-episode premiere — might just be the fresh take this age-old tale desperately needs.

Look, we’ve seen plenty of men prancing about in forest-green tights over the years. But this adaptation? It’s got teeth. Newcomer Jack Patten (fresh from NCIS: Sydney) steps into the iconic role, though you won’t hear anyone calling him “Robin of Locksley” — he’s just Rob here, thank you very much. In what’s surely a sign of the times, this outlaw’s crusade against wealth inequality feels remarkably relevant to our current economic climate.

The real coup here might be Sean Bean as the Sheriff of Nottingham. And yes — pause for effect — he actually survives the trailer. Bean, whose characters typically have the life expectancy of a mayfly in a windstorm, brings his trademark gravitas to the role. Though in a deliciously ironic twist, it’s our hero’s father who ends up on the wrong end of an executioner’s blade.

“Let’s be thieves with a purpose,” Rob declares in what could’ve been an eye-rolling moment. But there’s something about the rain-soaked cinematography and gritty production values that sells it. MGM+ clearly isn’t interested in serving up another helping of medieval whimsy.

The supporting cast packs some serious punch. Connie Nielsen brings her “Gladiator” credentials to the role of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, while Lauren McQueen’s Marian seems more interested in court intrigue than swooning in forest glades. Their take on the classic romance has Rob and Marian working both sides of the conflict — he’s raising hell in Sherwood while she’s playing the long game in Norman court circles.

This isn’t your grandmother’s Robin Hood, that’s for sure. We’ve had our share of interpretations over the years, from Errol Flynn’s dashing acrobatics to Kevin Costner’s peculiar attempt at an English accent (bless him). The less said about that 2018 misfire with Taron Egerton, the better. What sets this version apart is its apparent commitment to historical authenticity, particularly regarding the Norman invasion’s cultural fallout.

With showrunner John Glenn (SEAL Team) and director Jonathan English at the helm, expect more tactical forest warfare than merry men singing about their latest heist. MGM+ seems to be building on momentum from their recent success with “The Institute” — though they’re keeping those viewing numbers under wraps tighter than the Sheriff’s tax vault.

The series runs weekly through December 28, giving it plenty of time to prove its worth in television’s increasingly crowded landscape. Whether it’ll hit the bullseye or end up as another footnote in Robin Hood’s lengthy screen history remains to be seen. But at least it’s taking aim at something different — and in today’s entertainment climate, that counts for something.