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COVID Strikes Again: Steve Martin’s Comedy Tour Hit with Temporary Setback

The entertainment world got a reminder this week that COVID hasn’t quite left the building. Comedy legend Steve Martin announced he’s temporarily stepping away from his current tour after testing positive for the virus — though in classic Martin style, he couldn’t resist finding the humor in an otherwise frustrating situation.

Breaking the news on Instagram Tuesday, Martin shared a perfectly on-brand photo: a dejected-looking pup wearing Mickey Mouse ears. “Dear Virginia Beach and Richmond. Sadly, I have come down with Covid,” the comedian wrote, before adding a characteristically thoughtful note about not being able to deliver “the shows that you deserve.”

The timing feels particularly cruel. Martin and his longtime partner-in-comedy Martin Short have been absolutely killing it on their “Dukes of Funnytown” tour, which kicked off back in ’86 with “Three Amigos!” and has been going strong ever since. The cancelled shows — at Virginia Beach’s The Dome and Richmond’s Allianz Amphitheater — were meant to be highlights of their early spring run.

And speaking of timing… this isn’t the duo’s first COVID-related dance this year. Short caught the bug earlier in 2024, supposedly after that wild SNL 50th Anniversary Special (remember that Maya Rudolph moment?). Martin dubbed it “The SNL 50th COVID curse” at the time — though he later walked that back when rumors started swirling about Rudolph being patient zero.

The comedy community hasn’t missed a beat in rallying around Martin. His “It’s Complicated” co-star Rita Wilson sent well wishes, while Josh Gad and Brad Garrett joined the chorus of support. Not surprising, given Martin’s recent renaissance with “Only Murders in the Building” — those Emmy nods weren’t just handed out for nothing.

For folks holding tickets to the Virginia shows, refunds are available. Small consolation, sure, but the tour’s scheduled to pick back up at Hollywood’s Seminole Hard Rock on October 4th. That should give Martin plenty of time to recover and get back to what he does best.

Here’s the thing about COVID in 2025 — just when you think it’s finally taking a backseat, it pops up to remind everyone it’s still hanging around. The entertainment industry’s been doing this dance for years now, trying to balance that old “show must go on” spirit with keeping everyone healthy and safe.

Those Virginia shows will join February’s rescheduled Durham and Knoxville dates (now set for October 17 and 18) in the “better luck next time” category. But hey — at least Martin’s keeping his sense of humor about the whole thing. His follow-up post showing his COVID test results came with the classic quip: “Hey! No flu!”

That’s probably why Martin remains one of Hollywood’s most endearing figures. Even when dealing with less-than-stellar circumstances, he manages to keep that signature wit sharp while showing genuine concern for his audience. Not a bad trick for a guy who’s been making us laugh since some of us were in diapers.

Dreams take flight in peculiar ways at Barcelona’s sun-soaked training grounds. Just ask Hansi Flick, who recently made the kind of bold prediction that turns heads in the football world. Standing there, amid the pristine grass and Mediterranean breeze, he declared that young Lamine Yamal — barely 18 — would someday hoist the coveted Ballon d’Or.

Such prophecies aren’t tossed around lightly in football circles. But then again, Yamal isn’t your typical teenager. The kid (if we can still call him that) has already etched his name into Barça lore, playing a crucial role in their domestic double last season. La Liga title? Check. Copa del Rey? You bet. And let’s not forget that memorable run to the Champions League semis.

“One day we will see this, that Lamine gets this trophy,” Flick mused during Saturday’s presser. There’s something almost poetic about the timing — with Monday’s Ballon d’Or ceremony in Paris looming like a golden promise on the horizon.

Sure, Yamal’s name sits among the 30 nominees, alongside teammates Raphinha, Pedri González, and the ever-reliable Robert Lewandowski. But it’s PSG’s Ousmane Dembélé who’s captured the spotlight this time around, riding the wave of that historic Champions League victory that had Paris dancing in the streets last spring.

The nomination list? Well, it reads like a who’s who of football royalty. Yet there’s something particularly special about seeing Yamal’s name there — a teenager who hadn’t even voted in an election when he helped Spain clinch the European Championship back in July 2024. Talk about precociousness.

Flick himself earned a nod for the best coach award, though his response speaks volumes about the man. “For me it’s respect to be there,” he reflected, displaying the kind of humility that’s become increasingly rare in modern football. “I want to enjoy it. I want also to show respect to the winners. For me it’s crucial.”

The ceremony itself has evolved into quite the spectacle — part celebration, part political theater. Remember last year’s drama when Real Madrid notably skipped the show? Word had it they’d caught wind their star Vinícius Júnior wouldn’t be taking home the prize. Manchester City’s Rodri ended up claiming the honor, but the absence left an awkward gap in football’s glitziest night.

On the women’s side, Barcelona’s dominance continues unabated. Aitana Bonmatí, fresh off back-to-back wins, leads a powerful contingent of six Barça players nominated for the Women’s Ballon d’Or. Some things never change, eh?

As Paris prepares to roll out the red carpet once more, Flick’s words about Yamal hang in the air like a tantalizing possibility. In this beautiful game, where tomorrow’s legends often announce themselves today, who’s to say the Spanish wonderkid won’t make good on that prophecy? After all, football’s greatest stories are written in the ink of dreams realized.

In a revelation that’s both shocking yet depressingly familiar, “Gavin and Stacey” star Joanna Page has stepped forward with yet another tale of workplace harassment from the entertainment industry’s darker corners. Her story — detailed in the upcoming memoir “Lush!: My Story – From Swansea To Stacey And Everything In Between” — reads like a pitch for a black comedy that nobody should ever have to live through.

The most jarring aspect? Not the harassment itself (though that’s plenty disturbing), but rather the matter-of-fact way it was presented as just another day at the office. Before a shoot, a female producer pulled Page aside with what amounts to the world’s most twisted heads-up: the TV host she’d be working with was “very handsy” and would “probably start touching you, but that’s just him.”

Let that sink in for a moment.

Picture being told, essentially, “Hey, heads up — workplace harassment incoming!” as casually as someone warning about a wonky coffee machine. Page, understandably rattled, describes sitting there “waiting for him to spring on me” — a situation no performer should face while simply trying to do their job.

And spring he did. Right on cue, like some twisted prophecy fulfilled, the host began groping her mid-filming. Page’s response? Pure Welsh fire: “What do you think you’re bloody doing? Keep your f***ing hands to yourself!” She even managed to inject some gallows humor into the nightmare, quipping that she felt like she was “in Bristol Zoo being mauled by the lions.” The host backed off — proving that such behavior isn’t actually inevitable when confronted — but the whole episode speaks volumes about the industry’s long-standing tolerance of the intolerable.

The story doesn’t end there. Page shares another telling incident from 2009 involving an FHM photo shoot. Despite explicitly agreeing she wouldn’t pose in underwear, she arrived to find — surprise, surprise — a collection of bras and knickers waiting. Her compromise? “Big pants and a vest.” Because heaven forbid a woman’s boundaries be respected without negotiation.

“I’m a tomboyish person,” Page explains, cutting through the industry’s often narrow view of female performers. “In private, I feel sexy, I don’t have any hang-ups there, but on screen I want to play the quirky, kooky ones. I can’t do the sexy poses and faces.” It’s a statement that shouldn’t need making in 2025, yet here we are.

These incidents, separated by years but linked by a common thread of disrespect, paint a damning picture of an industry where women’s boundaries were — and sometimes still are — treated as mere suggestions. The fact that a female producer would warn about rather than prevent harassment tells you everything you need to know about how deeply rooted these problems were (and in some corners, still are).

Page’s revelations carry extra weight coming from someone known for her role in one of Britain’s most beloved comedies. As the entertainment industry continues its glacial crawl toward actual accountability, stories like these serve as stark reminders that we’re not quite as far along as we’d like to think. The journey toward genuine workplace safety and respect isn’t over — it’s just finally being acknowledged as necessary.

The NFL’s latest crusade against joy has claimed new victims, and this time it’s hitting players right where it hurts — their wallets. In a move that would make the fun police proud, the league office just dropped the hammer on Cowboys receivers CeeDee Lamb and George Pickens for the apparently heinous crime of… celebrating touchdowns with too much enthusiasm.

Let that sink in for a moment.

These players, who electrified fans with spectacular plays, now find themselves $14,491 lighter — each — for making finger-gun gestures that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at your average backyard pickup game. The league, in its infinite wisdom, labeled these celebrations as “unsportsmanlike conduct/violent gestures.” Because nothing says violence quite like a playground move that’s been around since kids first played cops and robbers.

But wait — because the NFL’s dedication to micromanagement knows no bounds. Pickens caught a second fine for the earth-shattering transgression of removing his helmet before leaving the field. Lamb, not to be outdone in this carnival of penalties, racked up an additional $11,593 for what the league deemed “taunting.” The kicker? Not a single yellow flag hit the turf during the actual game for any of these supposed infractions.

“That man don’t got to fit in, he stands out,” Lamb said about Pickens, displaying exactly the kind of personality the NFL seems hellbent on scrubbing from its sanitized version of football. “GP is a hell of a player, man. And there’s plenty more excitement where that’s coming from.”

The timing couldn’t be more ironic. While the league ties itself in knots over finger guns, it’s simultaneously wrestling with the Philadelphia Eagles’ “tush push” controversy — a play that’s causing more headaches than a stadium full of vuvuzelas. NFL vice president of officiating training Ramon George recently admitted they’re struggling to maintain consistency, noting that “the offensive team has to be perfect in every aspect.” Perfect, it seems, is the operative word in today’s NFL.

The league’s relationship with celebrations has morphed into something resembling a corporate HR handbook — complete with approved fun activities and strictly regulated expressions of joy. This August, NFL officiating rules analyst Walt Anderson highlighted a stunning 133% increase in what the league considers “unsportsmanlike gestures.” Heaven forbid players express genuine emotion in the heat of victory.

“There are plenty of ways for players to be able to celebrate,” Anderson explained, though the NFL’s version of “plenty” seems about as generous as a defensive coordinator’s blitz package. The message rings clear as a referee’s whistle: celebrate, but make sure it’s boardroom-approved enthusiasm. Be yourself, but only if your authentic self matches our marketing strategy.

For dynamic playmakers like Lamb and Pickens, these fines probably feel like spare change found in the couch cushions. But they represent something more insidious — the steady corporatization of spontaneous joy in professional sports. In the NFL’s quest for perfect order, they’re slowly squeezing out the very personality that makes the game worth watching.

Perhaps it’s time for the league to remember that football isn’t just about precise execution and controlled celebrations — it’s about the raw, unscripted moments that turn players into legends and games into memories. Until then, players better keep their touchdown celebrations as vanilla as a preseason playbook.

Farewell to Hollywood’s Reluctant Prince: Robert Redford’s Final Bow

The mountains of Utah — not the star-studded boulevards of Beverly Hills — served as the fitting finale for Robert Redford’s remarkable 89-year journey. How perfectly on-brand for cinema’s most gloriously contradictory icon to bid his final adieu far from the spotlight he so often dodged.

Those impossibly perfect features that launched a thousand magazine covers (and countless crushing teenage crushes) masked a restless soul who’d rather champion unknown filmmakers than bask in Tinseltown’s adoration. Darling, that’s what made him absolutely magnetic — the way he wore fame like an ill-fitting designer suit, always looking for the nearest exit even as the cameras clamored for more.

The industry that made him a golden boy never quite knew what to make of their prodigal son. Here was a matinee idol who’d rather trudge through snow at 7,000 feet elevation than schmooze at Spago. A box office titan who used his clout to build a scrappy little film festival that would revolutionize independent cinema.

“He didn’t want to be where elite breeds eliteness,” notes John Cooper, Sundance Festival veteran of 32 years. Honey, if that isn’t the perfect encapsulation of Redford’s delicious duality — the reluctant prince who built his own kingdom in the mountains, far from Hollywood’s gilded cage.

His on-screen legacy? Simply divine. From that heart-stopping chemistry with Paul Newman in “Butch Cassidy” to the crusading journalist perfection of “All the President’s Men,” Redford didn’t just act in classics — he defined them. But it’s the Sundance Institute, that little indie film incubator he conjured up in 1981, that truly showcases his rebel heart.

Think about it: The man who once sneered “image is crap” to The New York Times became the architect of independent cinema’s entire image. The delicious irony would not be lost on him. Through Sundance, he played fairy godfather to an entire generation of cinematic revolutionaries — Tarantino, Coogler, DuVernay, darling, the list goes on.

Even in his twilight years, Redford kept us guessing. One minute he’s popping up in Marvel blockbusters, the next he’s crafting intimate character studies. His final role choices speak volumes — taking on “Pete’s Dragon” simply because “he wanted to make a movie his grandchildren could watch.” Now that’s what you call going out on your own terms.

As we bid farewell to this magnificent contradiction — this movie star who loathed stardom, this industry titan who preferred mountain solitude — his legacy feels more vital than ever. In today’s era of streaming wars and AI-generated content, Redford’s unwavering commitment to authentic storytelling and artistic risk-taking seems downright revolutionary.

The door he opened for emerging artists still stands wide, welcoming bold new voices to that thin mountain air where dreams take flight. Somewhere up there, beyond the reach of paparazzi flashes and red carpet fanfare, cinema’s reluctant prince has found his peace. And darling, that’s exactly how he would have wanted it.

Broadway’s about to get a whole lot more fabulous. In a groundbreaking casting announcement that’s got theater kids and drag aficionados buzzing, Bob the Drag Queen is stepping into the dazzling world of “Moulin Rouge! The Musical” — and honey, this isn’t just another casting update.

Starting January 27, the Al Hirschfeld Theatre will welcome Bob (known offstage as Christopher Caldwell) for an eight-week limited engagement as Harold Zidler, the larger-than-life impresario who runs Paris’s most notorious nightclub. The role — a delicious blend of showmanship and desperation — seems tailor-made for Bob’s particular brand of theatrical magic.

“Being on Broadway has always been a dream of mine,” Bob shared, with the kind of raw honesty that’s become their trademark. “I moved to NYC almost 17 years ago to pursue it. Some roads take a while.” There’s something beautifully poetic about that journey — from dreaming teenager to RuPaul’s Drag Race champion to Broadway debut.

The Great White Way has seen its share of boundary-pushing Zidlers. Wayne Brady brought his five-time Emmy-winning charm to the role. Boy George infused it with punk-rock glamour. Tituss Burgess served up his signature sass. Now Bob’s about to add their name to that illustrious roster, and theater fans are practically vibrating with anticipation.

Since snatching the crown on Season 8 of Drag Race back in 2016, Bob hasn’t exactly been sitting around waiting for Broadway to call. They’ve been busy hosting HBO’s Emmy-nominated “We’re Here,” dropping the New York Times bestseller “Harriet Tubman: Live in Concert,” and most recently, commanding stages as the emcee for Madonna’s Celebration Tour. Talk about range.

“Moulin Rouge!” itself feels like the perfect vehicle for Bob’s Broadway debut. The show — which casually collected 10 Tony Awards including Best Musical — transforms Baz Luhrmann’s beloved 2001 film into something even more spectacular. Its innovative score spans over 160 years of music, mashing up classical compositions with pop hits from Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, and just about everyone who’s ever topped the Billboard charts.

At its glittering heart, though, “Moulin Rouge!” remains anchored by “Lady Marmalade” — that sultry slice of R&B heaven that’s evolved from Labelle’s 1974 original to the Grammy-winning 2001 powerhouse featuring Pink, Christina Aguilera, Mya, Lil’ Kim, and Missy Elliott. The song’s journey mirrors the show’s own ability to reinvent itself while keeping its soul intact.

As we look ahead to 2025’s theatrical landscape, Bob’s Broadway debut feels like more than just another casting announcement. It’s a meaningful step forward in Broadway’s ongoing evolution — proof that talent, perseverance, and authenticity eventually find their spotlight. The Moulin Rouge’s famous windmill keeps turning, and this time, it’s ushering in a fresh wave of fabulous.

The worlds of art and politics have collided spectacularly in a controversy surrounding Irish rap group Kneecap — and the fallout just keeps getting messier.

The Belfast-based trio isn’t taking their recent Canadian entry ban lying down. They’ve launched legal proceedings against MP Vince Gasparro, turning what might’ve been just another border dispute into a fascinating clash between artistic expression and political boundaries.

Gasparro, who serves as Parliamentary Secretary for Combating Crime, didn’t mince words when he dropped a bombshell video on X (formerly Twitter) this September. “These are not expressions of art,” he declared, painting the group’s work as something far more sinister — “dangerous endorsements of violence and hate.”

But here’s where things get interesting. Kneecap — who’ve played numerous shows across Canada without incident — aren’t exactly known for backing down from a fight. They’ve branded Gasparro’s accusations as “wholly untrue and deeply malicious,” while emphasizing their message of “solidarity and love.”

The timing couldn’t be more charged. One of the group’s members, Mo Chara, is currently tangled up in terrorism charges back in the UK — something about a Hezbollah flag at a London show last November. The band’s dubbed that whole situation a “carnival of distraction,” with the next court date looming on September 26.

Yet amid all this political drama, Kneecap’s star seems to be rising. They recently packed London’s OVO Wembley Arena — their biggest English show to date — and walked away with a glowing five-star review from NME. “You don’t pull off a gig like that on controversy alone,” the review noted, cutting through the noise to highlight what really matters: “You need bangers and you need a culture to fill this room.”

Their response to the Canadian ban? Pure Kneecap. They’ve promised their fans across the pond that while they “cannot be with you next month,” they’re not about to pipe down. And that legal challenge to Gasparro? They’ve added an extra punch — pledging to donate any court winnings to help child amputees in Gaza.

The controversy has sparked broader conversations about where art ends and activism begins. Kneecap’s joined forces with over 400 artists — including heavy-hitters like Fontaines DC and Amyl & The Sniffers — in the No Music For Genocide campaign, showing they’re not alone in using their platform to push for change.

What’s unfolding here isn’t just about one rap group’s border troubles — it’s a snapshot of our times, where artists increasingly find themselves navigating the treacherous waters between creative expression and political activism. And sometimes, as Kneecap’s story shows, those waters can get pretty rough.

Sometimes life has a peculiar way of adding authenticity to our roles. Just ask Henry Cavill, whose recent training injury for the upcoming Highlander reboot feels almost poetically aligned with the warrior saga he’s preparing to bring to life.

The former Superman star — who’s carved quite a niche in sword-wielding territory lately — took to Instagram with what might be the most on-brand injury update in recent memory. There, alongside his bandaged leg and foot (and an adorably scene-stealing French bulldog), Cavill shared lines from William Ernest Henley’s “Invictus” — you know, that defiant Victorian-era poem about resilience that’s probably gracing someone’s office wall right now.

Amazon MGM Studios has consequently pushed principal photography to early 2026, which feels like an eternity for fans who’ve already waited through fifteen years of development hell. Then again, what’s another year when you’re dealing with immortal warriors?

The delay might actually be a blessing in disguise for Chad Stahelski’s vision of the project. The John Wick mastermind has been remarkably candid about his determination to avoid the franchise’s previous missteps — particularly that infamous sequel we’d all rather forget. “We love it so much, we’re trying to treat it with a lot of care,” he told Entertainment Weekly back in 2019, hinting at broader ambitions that could spawn a TV series or expanded universe.

The assembled cast reads like a Hollywood heavyweight reunion. Russell Crowe’s stepping into Sean Connery’s considerable shoes as Ramirez, while Dave Bautista’s taking on the intimidating mantle of The Kurgan. Karen Gillan joins as Heather, Connor MacLeod’s mortal wife, and Djimon Hounsou brings his gravitas to an unnamed African immortal warrior. Marisa Abela and Max Zhang round out what’s shaping up to be a genuinely international ensemble.

Despite the setback, Cavill’s plate remains fuller than a holiday buffet. He’s set to return as everyone’s favorite deductive older brother in Netflix’s Enola Holmes 3, and he’s teaming up with Jake Gyllenhaal and Rosamund Pike for Guy Ritchie’s latest action-packed venture, In the Grey. His recent social media update — complete with a glimpse of his Warhammer collection — suggests he’s taking the forced downtime with characteristic good humor.

Look, even immortal Highland warriors occasionally need to hit pause. Between Cavill’s injury, his choice of poetry, and that scene-stealing pup, there’s something refreshingly human about this whole situation. Maybe that’s exactly what this reboot needs — a reminder that even in stories about eternal life, it’s our mortal moments that make us interesting.

For now, the clash of immortal steel will have to wait. But if Henley’s poem is any indication, Cavill’s spirit remains unbroken — even if his body needed a quick timeout. Besides, what’s another year of anticipation for a story that’s quite literally about eternal patience?

Talk about a plot twist worthy of Hollywood itself — Pamela Anderson’s taking another swing at Barb Wire, but this time she’s calling the shots from behind the scenes. Twenty-nine years after that leather-clad debut that earned her a not-so-coveted Razzie Award, Anderson’s stepping into an executive producer role alongside her sons for a fresh take on the cult classic.

The launch of And-Her-Sons Productions (clever name, right?) marks a fascinating new chapter in Anderson’s ever-evolving career. Together with Brandon Thomas Lee and Dylan Jagger Lee, she’s partnering with UCP and Dark Horse Entertainment to resurrect the comic book character that, let’s face it, became more famous for its marketing campaign than its storytelling back in ’96.

Remember that original film? Pure ’90s excess wrapped in leather and attitude — think “Casablanca” meets “Mad Max” after a few too many energy drinks. Sure, it bombed harder than a lead balloon (that 28% Rotten Tomatoes score still stings), but somehow it’s managed to claw its way into cult classic territory. Funny how time has a way of transforming yesterday’s critical punching bags into today’s guilty pleasures.

The new series promises to dig deeper into Barbara Kopetski’s story. Dark Horse’s pitch positions her as “the baddest bounty hunter on the mean streets of Steel Harbor” — which, honestly, sounds exactly like the kind of gritty anti-hero tale that’s been crushing it on streaming platforms lately. While Anderson won’t be suiting up this time around (probably for the best), her executive producer role alongside Brandon feels like a perfectly timed torch-passing moment.

Brandon’s enthusiasm for the project practically jumps off the screen. His social media announcement hit all the right notes, acknowledging both the project’s personal significance and its campy heritage with that iconic “DON’T CALL ME BABE!” callback. Smart kid — he knows exactly what the fans want to hear.

The timing couldn’t be more perfect for Anderson. Fresh off her Golden Globe nod for “The Last Showgirl” and that surprisingly sharp turn in the “Naked Gun” reboot (who knew she had such killer comic timing?), she’s proving there’s way more to her arsenal than those “Baywatch” slow-motion runs would suggest.

With the series set to launch alongside Dark Horse’s comprehensive “Barb Wire Compendium” in 2026, it’s shaping up to be more than just another reboot in Hollywood’s endless recycling bin. There’s something deliciously meta about a former sex symbol executive producing a reimagining of the very role that once typified male gaze cinema. The industry’s come a long way since ’96, and Anderson’s career trajectory might just be the perfect measuring stick for that evolution.

Now that’s what you’d call a comeback story with some bite to it. Who says you can’t rewrite your own script in Hollywood?

Hollywood’s latest plot twist doesn’t involve CGI or elaborate stunts — just an unexpected pause in production for the hotly anticipated Highlander remake. Henry Cavill, our favorite brooding action star, has temporarily hung up his sword after a training mishap that’s left him nursing an injury. Talk about timing.

The 42-year-old actor — whose career practically demands he spend half his life in a gym — shared the news via Instagram with characteristic grace. Two photos told the story: one showing Cavill alongside his adorably concerned bulldog Baggins, the other revealing his left leg wrapped and elevated like a warrior’s battle wound. Because nothing says “temporarily sidelined action hero” quite like a faithful canine companion and some strategic bandaging.

Rather than dropping a simple update, Cavill went full thespian on us. He chose to quote “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley — you know, that poem about being unconquerable that your high school English teacher probably made you memorize. “Out of the night that covers me / Black as the pit from pole to pole…” Dramatic? Perhaps. But somehow perfectly fitting for an actor who’s made a career out of bringing larger-than-life characters to the screen.

The irony isn’t lost on anyone who caught Cavill’s bold declaration at CinemaCon 2024. “If you thought you’d seen me do sword work before, you haven’t seen anything yet,” he promised. Well… seems the universe had other plans. Production’s now pushed to early 2026, affecting an absolutely stacked cast that reads like someone’s fantasy dinner party guest list — Russell Crowe, Dave Bautista, Marisa Abela, Karen Gillan, and Djimon Hounsou.

Chad Stahelski and Michael Finch (yeah, the John Wick masterminds) are steering this ship, promising to breathe new life into the 1986 cult classic. Remember that one? Christopher Lambert and Sean Connery fighting through time with questionable special effects but undeniable charm. The franchise refused to die — fitting for a story about immortals — spawning sequels and a TV series that somehow kept finding audiences.

Despite this setback, Cavill’s schedule remains packed tighter than a Hollywood parking lot during awards season. He’s already graced screens this year in “Argylle” and “The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare,” with “In the Grey” (his second Guy Ritchie collaboration) on the horizon. Oh, and let’s not forget that deliciously meta cameo in “Deadpool & Wolverine” as an alternate Wolverine — because apparently one iconic role per decade isn’t enough for some people.

Look, setbacks in Hollywood are about as common as juice cleanses and creative accounting. But if anyone knows how to bounce back from a career curveball, it’s Cavill. Remember that whole Superman saga? This pause might just be setting up the perfect comeback story. After all, in both Hollywood and Highland lore, it’s not about how many times you fall — it’s about how dramatically you rise again.