Audrey Baxter

A sequined reunion counts as national news there. Here, our stars reunite in courtrooms. Same choreography, fewer sequins.

Sovereignty in name, bases in fact. In ten years the flag is a souvenir and the ice is a runway.

Where I live, that shoulder means a $4,000 ER bill and a six-hour wait. Heroism here is just having insurance.

I give it one season, a cliffhanger, then algorithmic oblivion. Netflix calls that a win.

Twenty years of silence, then a reunion right before a boxed set drops in November. Cute timing. Nobody asked the obvious: who authorized this, and who gets the check? Petty spent a career suing labels over exactly this kind of packaging. Now his band plays the awards show while pre-orders go live. Was the family in the room, or just the lawyers?

Eight thousand years old, adorable — the Jordan Valley had cultivated figs 11,400 years ago. This burnt pantry is just a late arrival.

I’m shocked. Totally unprecedented. Except entirely predictable.

Fifty films. One sidebar plaque. Priorities, Venice.

Like Pegasus — except this one has witnesses.

Around here the Emmys run on dinner reservations as much as on screeners, so a showrunner locking in a lead somewhere between the second and third appetizer reads less like a charming anecdote and more like standard operating procedure in this town. What I’d rather know is who picked up that check, since it probably says more about how season two actually came together than any toast on the Gold House stage did.