The Hollywoodland Revue

Hollywood enters the second weekend of May with one of the year’s more eclectic lineups, offering audiences everything from brutal video-game combat and prestige literary drama to fashion-world nostalgia and giant singing sheep. The current theatrical landscape continues to reflect the fractured modern audience: franchise fans still dominate the box office, but studios are increasingly relying on counterprogramming—adult dramas, concert films, and quirky specialty pictures—to lure viewers away from streaming and back into theaters. Whether moviegoers want spectacle, comfort, sentiment, horror, or escapism, this weekend’s releases provide an unusually broad range of choices.

Ted Turner's passing marks the end of one of the most revolutionary and impactful lives in modern media. Mercurial, brash, visionary, divisive and frustratingly undefinable at times, Turner revolutionized television news, redefined cable television, disrupted media ownership models, and cultivated a public image so wild that, for a time, he became as famous as the outlets he established. Launching CNN in 1980, Turner didn't just alter how we consume news, he reshaped how we witness history unfold.

Hollywood in the 1930s was built as much on illusion as it was on labor, and nowhere was that more evident than in the world of child actors. For every recognizable face who carried a scene, there were others — smaller, quieter presences — who stood just outside the frame, ready to step in when needed. Among them was Alan Howard Hirst, a boy whose brief life intersected with one of Hollywood’s most beloved comedy traditions and whose story, though largely forgotten, remains etched into the margins of film history.

In an era when the meaning of “home” is often filtered through screens and carefully composed images, the story of Benji Le—known to a growing audience as benjiplant—and his partner, Chris Middendorf, stands apart for its quiet authenticity, its emotional candor, and, ultimately, its perseverance. Their journey, from college freshmen to creative partners documenting a shared life in Los Angeles, unfolds not as spectacle but as something more intimate: a living record of how two people build, lose, and begin again.

At 6439 Hollywood Boulevard, just steps from the long-vanished Warner Hollywood Theatre, stands a relic from a time when the boulevard was not yet defined by souvenir stands and passing crowds, but by elegant storefronts, glowing marquees, and a civic-minded sense that even the most ordinary object could be rendered with beauty and purpose. The William Stromberg Clock, installed around 1928, is one of the last surviving emblems of that era—a stately street clock that has silently observed Hollywood’s cycles of glamour, decline, and reinvention for almost a century.

Two decades after changing how fashion looked on film forever, The Devil Wears Prada 2 (2026), arrives not simply as a sequel to the wildly popular film, but as a reflection on time—time that has passed, time that was lost and time that won't stop for even the greats. Written again by Aline Brosh McKenna and directed by David Frankel, the cast from the original returns featuring Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci along with a host of new talent. The story acknowledges from its opening frames, that the world of glossy magazines—and the power structures behind them—has fundamentally changed.

Long before Hollywood immortalized its stars in marble and memory, humanity had already begun its oldest and most enduring ritual: the careful tending of the dead. Burial, in its many forms, is among the earliest expressions of civilization itself—a quiet but profound declaration that a life mattered, that it should be remembered, and that something of it must endure beyond the final breath.

There are few figures in the history of motion pictures whose artistry seems as inseparable from the very evolution of the medium as Lon Chaney. Known to generations as “The Man of a Thousand Faces,” Chaney was more than a performer—he was a pioneer who transformed the possibilities of screen acting, makeup, and emotional expression at a time when the cinema itself was still learning how to speak.

Hollywood moves into May with a slate that reflects the industry’s enduring balancing act—nostalgia-driven sequels, literary adaptations, genre fare, and a scattering of independent voices hoping to break through the noise. It’s a weekend that offers audiences a little of everything: glamour revisited, allegory reborn, psychological unease, and smaller, more intimate stories fighting for attention alongside bigger titles. Whether you’re drawn to star power or something more off the beaten path, the choices this weekend reveal, once again, the many directions modern filmmaking continues to take.

Hollywood’s silent era was filled with young actresses who rose quickly, shone brightly, and vanished almost as fast—some by choice, others by circumstance, and a tragic few by death. Among them was Lillian Webster, a motion picture actress whose career unfolded during the industry’s most volatile years and whose life ended abruptly in 1920, just as her screen future appeared to be taking shape.

The extent to which the American electorate and Congress’ work habits are at odds with one another is apparent—and widening every day. Congressional schedules—especially during election years—paint a picture lawmakers will soon struggle to defend. Few accomplishments will outweigh the reality of congressional calendars filled with repeated weeks-long recesses, bloated “district work periods” and what feels like an obsession with legislating off session. In 2026, Congress took roughly a two-week vacation for Easter and Passover. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Both chambers went home for recess from the last week of March until the middle of April. Only to come back into town for three days, kick off a month filled with short work weeks, long weekends and more breaks on their never-ending summer vacation.

In the shifting social landscape of early 1930s Hollywood, where image and illusion were currency and privacy, a rare and guarded luxury, Miriam Hopkins found herself inhabiting not only a new role in her personal life, but a house already steeped in mystique. Recently separated from screenwriter Austin Parker, Hopkins was, as one contemporary account observed, living in that peculiar state so often assigned to women of her era—socially independent, yet publicly scrutinized, a “young divorcée” navigating both freedom and expectation. Her solution, at once practical and symbolic, was to retreat into a residence whose very architecture seemed to echo her condition: a house of glass, open to the sky, yet shielded from the world.