Sir Patrick Stewart, the eminent British actor whose magnificent voice, Shakespearean background and instantly recognizable persona made Captain Jean-Luc Picard one of the most iconic characters in the history of television, passed away on October 28, 2026, at his home in Los Angeles. He was 86. His spokesperson Kelly Bush Novak confirmed that he died as a result of a period of illness which included Alzheimer's and Lewy body dementia (neither of which had previously been made public). His wife Sunny Ozell was with him at the time of his death, surrounded by family and friends. For so many fans of Star Trek, the passing of Sir Patrick Stewart is the passing of something much more than just an actor. It is the loss of a friend you've known for a very long time.

Elke Sommer, the German-born actress known for her beauty, European style, and playful humor, was one of Hollywood's most popular international stars in the 1960s. She died on October 28, 2026, at her home in Bel Air, California, at age 85. Her family and longtime friends said she died of heart failure after a long period of declining health, just three months after her husband, Wolf Walther, passed away. She was just days away from her 86th birthday on November 5.

Even before Hollywood developed its present-day obsession with haunted hotels, ghost tours, and paranormal television, one of America's most famous houses was already known for things that occurred at night. Pickfair, the country house in Beverly Hills belonging to Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, was intended to show off Hollywood at its most glamorous. Presidents, princes, writers, actors and members of royalty all passed through its rooms. Among the famous visitors who were entertained there were Albert Einstein, Charlie Chaplin, George Bernard Shaw, H. G. Wells, Amelia Earhart and members of European royal families. Pickfair was at one time said to be the second most well-known private residence in America after the White House.

Warner Bros. has spent nearly a century manufacturing ghosts. They have drifted through Gothic mansions, crept along shadowed corridors, rattled doors, whispered from darkened rooms, and terrified generations of moviegoers. Most disappeared the moment a director called “Cut.” But according to a persistent strain of studio folklore, not every ghost on the Warner Bros. lot was created for the cameras. Some, employees have quietly suggested over the years, may never have left.

Wow! Sometimes a movie completely surprises me. I went into the theater expecting one thing and left not sure what I had just seen. You Can See Everything, the new documentary from Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim, is one of those rare films. I barely knew anything about it, except that critics loved it and there was already Oscar buzz. I hadn’t even heard of Elizabeth Holmes, the main subject, or the scandal that landed her in prison. In hindsight, not knowing much was probably the best way to see it.

Susan Saint James, the Emmy Award-winning actress known for her lively spirit, warm smile, and unique charm, died on October 26, 2026, after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She was eighty. A representative confirmed her passing, and her family remembered her for her generosity and warmth that reached far beyond television. For over twenty years, Saint James was a familiar face in American homes. She became a star in The Name of the Game, entertained viewers with Rock Hudson in McMillan & Wife, and later found new success with Jane Curtin in Kate & Allie.

Hollywood in the 1920s was a place where almost anything seemed possible. Fortunes appeared overnight, unknown actors became international idols, orange groves became movie studios, and painted scenery could turn Southern California into ancient Rome before lunch. Perhaps it was inevitable that a town devoted to creating illusions would also become fascinated by another invisible world—the realm of spirits, séances, astrologers, clairvoyants, reincarnation and messages from the dead.

Hollywood has always been a place where people come to look for stars. Some go along the Walk of Fame; some go to the forecourt of Grauman's Chinese Theatre and try to place their hand in the impression of a star who's been there for decades. For those who want a more personal connection with Hollywood history there's another option entirely: the cemeteries where the men and women who made the movies have all finally found their graves. Arthur Dark, filmmaker and historian, has just published a new book, Hollywood Graveyard: The Guide (Plum Hollow Press, 2026), which takes you to those cemeteries and brings the stars of old back to life.

Walter Koenig, the actor whose portrayal of Ensign Pavel Chekov on the original Star Trek made him a familiar face to generations of television viewers, died on October 26, 2026, at his home in North Hollywood, California. He was 90. His death, attributed to natural causes, was confirmed by his representative, Zachery McGinnis. With his passing, another beloved member of the original Star Trek company was gone, leaving behind a career that extended well beyond the bridge of the starship Enterprise.

When The Exorcist opened on December 26, 1973, audiences were in no doubt as to what they were in for. What they weren't expecting was the sheer sense of something genuinely terrifying having been let loose. They queued for hours, some of them fainted or went sick during the screenings, there was a considerable amount of protest from the religious organizations, and the film very quickly became a media phenomenon. The story of the making of The Exorcist is just as astonishing as the film itself. It was a production that involved very difficult casting, a lot of practical effects, injuries, a major set fire, several deaths and a whole host of bizarre coincidences which have created one of Hollywood's most enduring "cursed movie" myths.

Long before Elvira, long before the televised horror host became a genre in itself there was Vampira. She was pale, impossibly thin, black-haired and utterly unlike anything that had ever been seen on television. Behind the character was Maila Nurmi, a very intelligent, very eccentric and fiercely independent woman who created one of the most enduring of all television icons of the 1950s and then spent the rest of her life both in the shadow of and defending that icon.

Believe it or not, until this afternoon, I had never seen Stanley Kubrick's The Shining (1980). For more than four decades, I somehow managed to avoid one of the most celebrated horror films in movie history. Of course, I was familiar with its reputation and had seen occasional clips over the years, particularly the famous sequence in which Jack Nicholson smashes through a bathroom door and announces, “Here's Johnny!” But beyond that, I knew surprisingly little about the story. When the opportunity came to see it on the big screen at the American Cinematheque, I decided it was time to discover what all the excitement was about.