The Hollywoodland Revue

For decades, the 61st Academy Awards has occupied a notorious place in Hollywood lore—an evening whispered about with the same mixture of disbelief and theatrical shudder usually reserved for colossal box-office bombs. It was the night Snow White flirted with Tom Hanks, Rob Lowe crooned “Proud Mary,” and producer Allan Carr’s bold, glittering dream came crashing down in full view of a bewildered global audience. The evening was swiftly branded a fiasco, a cautionary tale in how not to produce the Oscars.

Terence Edward Kilburn—forever “Terry” to film lovers who met him first as a wide-eyed Victorian waif—was born November 25, 1926, in West Ham, Essex, then a working-class pocket of greater London that produced more grit than glamour. Yet the story of Terry Kilburn is not merely the story of a child actor plucked from Britain and set down beneath the klieg lights. It is also the quieter, longer story that followed: the one in which an MGM juvenile player grew into a serious stage artist, a director, and a shaping force in American regional theatre—an “after” chapter many former child stars never get to write.

The show long known as the SAG Awards walked onto the Shrine Auditorium stage this year with a new name—The Actor Awards—and, fittingly, a renewed sense of momentum. SAG-AFTRA’s leadership has framed the rebrand as a clearer, more globally legible identity now that the ceremony streams on Netflix, but the night’s real headline wasn’t branding. It was volatility. A season that had begun to feel neatly prewritten suddenly took a hard left, as Ryan Coogler’s Sinners roared in like a late-arriving storm and reminded everyone why actors’ awards matter: because performers, voting for performers, will sometimes choose the work that felt most alive in the room—even if the prediction markets said otherwise.

Paul Colm Michael Mescal emerged from the small town of Maynooth in County Kildare, Ireland, to become one of the most compelling and sought-after actors of his generation, a performer whose blend of introspective intensity and emotional vulnerability has earned both critical acclaim and a loyal global following.

Hollywood has always been good at hiding its bodies. Long before the neon sins of Sunset Strip hardened into cliché, men drank too much, stayed up too late, and settled arguments with their fists—or worse—behind respectable doors. One such door closed forever on the morning of July 31, 1944, when Harry Lucenay, a thick-shouldered, middle-aged gambler and dog owner, fell dead on the floor of the Hollywood American Legion Post 43, shot down after an all-night poker game curdled into accusation, fear, and gunfire.

When Neil Sedaka died on February 27, 2026, at the age of 86, the world lost one of its most gifted and enduring musical storytellers — a pop auteur whose melodies became the emotional currency of teen life, heartache, celebration and nostalgia across more than half a century. Tributes poured in almost instantly from fans, fellow musicians, and those whose personal soundtracks had been fashioned by his piano-driven hooks and sunny vocal style. “Our family is devastated by the sudden passing of our beloved husband, father and grandfather,” his family said in a statement. “A true rock and roll legend, an inspiration to millions, but most importantly … an incredible human being who will be deeply missed.”

Lauren Bacall has been written about so frequently— mythologized, quoted, imitated—that any new biography presents itself almost as an implicit dare: prove you can tell us something true about the woman underneath the lacquer of “cool.” In Lauren Bacall: The Queen of Cool, film historian Anthony Uzarowski (following his excellent biographies of Ava Gardner and Jessica Lange) rises to meet that challenge head on with a brisk, photo-rich portrait of Bacall as both icon and working actress: ambitious, watchful, sometimes insecure, and above all else, keenly aware of how an adopted persona can become a prison. Published by the University Press of Mississippi as part of its ongoing Hollywood Legends Series, this compact 192-page hardcover packs in an impressive amount of substance along with its sleek style—substantial supporting apparatus like source notes and an index, plus a treasure trove of black-and-white illustrations that give the book the satisfying heft and layout of a well-curated exhibit as much as a straight narrative life.

Originating as industry competition and online speculation nearly a decade ago, this conflict has evolved into one of the most prominent rivalries in contemporary hip-hop culture. The ongoing saga recently resurfaced during Saturday Night Live rehearsals, where Cardi B allegedly responded angrily to a joke referencing her long-standing adversary.

As February draws to a close, theaters offer a surprisingly wide-ranging slate of new releases, from legacy horror and concert spectacle to intimate indie drama, off-beat comedy and anime adventure. Whether audiences are in the mood for Ghostface’s latest rampage, a big-screen immersion into Elvis Presley’s electrifying stage presence, a provocative cross-border romance, or a colorful animated sports fantasy, this weekend’s lineup delivers choices that span genres and sensibilities. In short, it’s a frame that reflects the current theatrical landscape itself — franchise familiarity sharing space with bold independent voices and niche crowd-pleasers.

America was introduced to Lauren Chapin as the youngest of the Anderson children, Kathy – forever “Kitten” – on the hit 1950s sitcom Father Knows Best. Chapin was born May 23, 1945, in Los Angeles and began her entertainment career as a child actress alongside her brothers Billy and Michael Chapin, who were also child actors. Growing up in Hollywood, Chapin’s family knew well the seduction of the camera. On television during this time period the country was sold a weekly dose of hope that all would be okay by the end of the show, and Chapin’s Kathy was pure-hearted adorable. Inquisitive and refreshingly honest she could always be counted on to steal the scene with her childish wisdom and impeccable timing.

In every generation of Hollywood, there is a moment when a young Black actor stops being described as “promising” and begins being discussed as inevitable. The industry rarely announces that shift in advance. It happens quietly—after a run of serious performances, after directors begin circling, after critics start using words like “precision,” “restraint,” and “interiority.” Watching Kelvin Harrison Jr. over the past several years, one senses that the hinge may already be turning.

Few Hollywood myths have been so tenacious—or so false—as the legend of actress Alice Brady’s “stolen” Academy Award. Recounted breathlessly each Oscar season for decades now, the story routinely pops up in trivia volumes and online listicles and catalogs of “stuff you didn’t know” about film history. It plays wonderfully. Intrigue! A stolen Oscar! A glamorous star robbed of her trophy! But like so many Hollywood stories, it’s irresistible because it isn’t true.