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Pippa Bailey is the New Statesman’s deputy head of production.
Before my grandpa was my grandpa, he was a child, born – as my grandmother was some years after him, and later their child, my mother – into the Exclusive Brethren, a Christian sect, in 1921.
Mansplain, snowflake and bae: there’s a pleasure to be found in watching a living language grow and wrestle with itself.
Until recently, I had never seen the Shelby brothers stalk, Reservoir Dogs-style, through the streets of Birmingham. And I certainly didn’t believe that a Brummie accent could be sexy.
From the comfort of my sofa, I’ve peered over dizzying drops, reached to find purchase where there is none to be seen, and balanced precariously over seemingly bottomless abysses.
David Fincher's skill lies in his ability to tell gripping, violent stories without exploiting the victims at their centre.
Yes, butterflies are extinct, men have sex with robots, and phones are transplanted into hands; but also, life goes on – spouses cheat, teenagers struggle to accept themselves.
The BBC’s latest offering, Sally Wainwright’s Gentleman Jack, reveals everything that is wrong with colour-by-numbers costume dramas – because it isn’t one.
The real motivation is the emotional buy-in. The film brings together at least 25 much-loved characters from all corners of the Marvel universe, each demanding a fitting character arc.