Movies & TV The Boroughs The Boroughs Is a Charming Distraction, But Nothing You Haven’t Seen Before The delightful cast is still a treat to watch. By Lacy Baugher Milas | Published on May 21, 2026 Credit: Netflix Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: Netflix They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, a statement that sounds as if it’s meant to be mean, but can just as easily be read as a compliment in the right circumstances. So while it’s clear from its opening sequence that Netflix’s new sci-fi adventure The Boroughs is meant to feel like a cousin of its megahit streaming phenomenon Stranger Things, the eight-part drama still manages to chart its own path, as it follows a squad of quirky senior citizens who team up to investigate the bizarre goings on in their gated elder community. Our television landscape is often reluctant to tell stories about older characters and the concerns of aging, often defaulting to unfortunate stereotypes or refusing to deal with the difficult everyday realities of older adults. The Boroughs, no matter what else may be said about it, treats its characters as three-dimensional people, all with emotional arcs and personal histories of their own.  Many viewers will undoubtedly tune in because of the involvement of the Duffer Brothers, the Stranger Things creators who also served as executive producers on the painfully ponderous yet strangely popular horror series Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen. The Duffers are once again just producers on this project, but, on the whole, The Boroughs feels much more of a piece with their previous work than Something Very Bad ever did. The show, which hails from Jeffrey Addiss and Will Matthews, boasts a similar found family vibe and feels like nothing so much as a riff on Stranger Things for the retirement set. (Seriously, they basically just swap out the former’s ubiquitous bikes for designer motorized golf carts.)  The Boroughs also has a similar old-school sci-fi feel, with visual and thematic nods to everything from Cocoon to E.T. as it wrestles with deeply human themes of friendship, grief, love, and loss. It’s even got a familiar nod toward vintage technology, and an array of cathode ray tube television sets provide a magical, sparkling visual that rivals the first time we see Winona Ryder communicating via Christmas lights in Hawkins. Also, much like Stranger Things, the show’s larger monstrous mystery doesn’t bear up under a terrible amount of scrutiny, but by the time you reach the answer to what’s really going on at the heart of this retirement community, you’ll likely be more interested in the various relationships between its residents anyway. The story begins as retired engineer Sam Cooper (Alfred Molina) arrives in the picturesque New Mexico community of The Boroughs, an idyllic retirement destination that completely unironically promises its elderly residents the time of their lives. With its lavish golf courses, charming community center, Alexa-like home assistants, and cul-de-sacs full of similarly aged potential new friends, it doesn’t even seem like the folks in charge are lying. But, of course, things at The Boroughs are not as picturesque as they initially seem.   A widower still reeling from the recent loss of his beloved wife, Lilly (Jane Kaczmarek), Sam doesn’t want any part of life at The Boroughs. It was Lilly, as it turns out, who pushed for their move, and in the wake of her death, he’s eager to cancel his contract as quickly as possible. But he begins to reconsider after meeting several of his boisterous and offbeat neighbors, who each force him to reevaluate what it is that he wants to do with the time he has left and who he wants to spend it with. Things take a dark turn when an escaped dementia patient (Ed Begley Jr.) from the community facility breaks into Sam’s home—his own former residence—to warn him about alleged “owls” hiding in the walls, but it’s the unexpected death of one of The Boroughs’ most popular residents that shakes him to his core.  The Boroughs is pretty upfront about the fact that there are dark creatures hidden in the shadows of these picturesque homes, so when Sam has a frightening encounter with a disturbing monster—in all its chittering, many-legged glory—we don’t have to waste any time wondering if we can trust what he’s seeing. Suddenly, he finds himself on the hunt for the truth with a ragtag team of his neighbors and fellow seniors, including investigative journalist Judy (Alfre Woodard), her weed-loving husband Art (Clarke Peters), cancer-stricken doctor Wally (Denis O’Hare), and cynical music manager Renee (Geena Davis).  The gang’s hunt for the truth is cheesy and charming by turns, mixing glimpses into The Boroughs’ murky professional operations and mysterious history with deepening character dynamics and relationship arcs. The show shines brightest whenever various members of its primary ensemble are onscreen together, hunting for clues, hatching plans, or even just hanging out with one another and it’s a testament to the casting department that the chemistry between and among the group feels so lived-in and natural. It’s hard to talk about specifics of the series’ larger plot without spoiling the various twists at its center, but suffice it to say that you’ll see many of them coming. The Borough does attempt to give its primary villains some pathos through their complicated backstory, but the characters still come off stiff and one-note. Like the Duffers’ other projects, The Boroughs is also too long—you could easily trim this down to six episodes or maybe even five without really sacrificing any key story beats—and isn’t terribly subtle about its overarching messages.  It helps that the bulk of the series cast is so strong and more than capable of handling what can often feel like fairly banal or repetitive material. Molina brings a soulful melancholy to Sam, whose loneliness and painfully fresh sense of loss shape the larger edges of the story. Woodard and Peters are charming together as a couple, navigating what it means to be in a marriage for as long as the two of them have been. But it’s O’Hare who steals the show as Wally, taking a character who, by all rights, should be little more than a caricature—he’s basically the professional version of the Sassy Gay Friend and definitely gets all the show’s best one-liners—and giving him complicated layers of grief and rage.  Credit: Netflix © 2026 If there’s a weak link in the ensemble, it’s sadly Davis, whose character gets siloed in a cute but insubstantial romance with a Boroughs security officer (Carlos Miranda) and has little else to do. Don’t get me wrong, we love to see a mature woman getting her shot at love in a major television property and this industry absolutely needs to do this kind of thing more often. (Let older actresses play real romance!) But it’s also hard not to be annoyed at how much more the Renee character could be if given the chance. Every scene Davis shares with O’Hare is dynamite, for example, but we’re only given the barest hints of what her life outside of The Boroughs involves. (Her ex-husband seems like a jerk?) Elsewhere, Bill Pullman is a delightful scene-stealer as boisterous neighborhood playboy Jack, but also suffers from an unfortunate lack of screentime that requires us to be told more about his clandestine relationship with Judy than we’re ever shown.  The Boroughs almost certainly won’t inspire the massive global fandom that Stranger Things did. But as throwback summer adventures go? It’s a charming enough distraction.[end-mark] The post <i>The Boroughs</i> Is a Charming Distraction, But Nothing You Haven’t Seen Before appeared first on Reactor.

Excerpts fantasy Read an Excerpt From The Unicorn Hunters by Katherine Arden In a desperate gamble to save her throne, a young monarch conceals a secret marriage in the shadows of an enchanted forest… By Katherine Arden | Published on May 21, 2026 Comment 0 Share New Share We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Unicorn Hunters by Katherine Arden, a new fantasy novel set in historical Brittany—out from Del Rey on June 2nd. Anne of Brittany was a child when France invaded and drove her royal father to his death. Now she is a young woman, sovereign duchess of an occupied realm, and France means to crown their conquest by marrying her to their king. Such an alliance would put her title, her lands, and her body forever in the hands of her enemies.But Anne refuses to be the last duchess of Brittany.Her only hope of resisting conquest is another alliance sealed with marriage, so Anne arranges a daring last gambit: a secret betrothal to Charles of France’s greatest rival. But secrets are hard to keep in a world where rival courts spy on each other with diviners.The forest of Brocéliande was once the haunt of Merlin the Enchanter and the long-lost faerie queen. But magic is long gone from Broceliande, except for the occasional sight of a unicorn and one critical quirk: This ancient forest is completely hostile to divination.While pretending compliance with France, Anne plans a unicorn hunt in Brocéliande. A bit of pointless pageantry. A diversion so she can wed in secret.Or so she thinks. Chapter 1 The French envoy came to Nantes on the last Sunday of Eastertide, when all the Breton court were still at church, when the hiss of rain and the pealing of bells swallowed the hoofbeats and shouts of his company. The court heard Mass unaware of his coming; they schemed and gossiped and took communion just as always, and no one from the pot-boy to the duchess knew that from that year, Christendom would never be the same. Rain does not fall in Brittany so much as hover, filling the air with vapor, so that the courtiers emerged from the cathedral and were instantly wrapped in cloud. The bells overhead rang loud enough to shake the raindrops crooked. Arrayed in their Easter best, the court glowed in the gray light, though there were fewer of them than there should have been. Many had died in the war with France, many more were still far away awaiting ransom, like ambulatory notes payable in their conquerors’ chateaux. At the heart of the crowd walked a girl with merry eyes, a floating violet in a sea of cut-velvet and silk hose, cloth-of-silver and the smell of myrrh, concentrating as she held her skirt clear of puddles. This was Anne, duchess regnant of Brittany, her hair caught back in a diadem and pearl-studded crespine, though she wore no other jewels. They had all been sold to pay her garrisons. She did not know that a French envoy had come to the castle. Indeed, she was expecting a messenger from quite another direction, and that expectation lit an already-animated face. She and her maids-of-honor were playing a game of riddles as they walked. “—I am in all things and through all things,” declaimed the prosiest among them. “I am in candles and lamps and water and dice. I am the word of God; I am the blessing of mankind I am—.” “Divination,” answered four brisk voices. All of Anne’s maids-of-honor were clever. Another of them began a different riddle: “Three pears hang, three monks pass, each takes one, yet two remain, how—.” Jean de Rieux had been named Anne’s guardian by her father while the latter lay breathing blood on his deathbed, and now he watched the riddle-game with an indulgent, anxious face. He was of far too sober a mind to make up riddles. He said, low, “Highness, have you seen the diviner this day? What news?” “Of my messenger? None yet,” murmured Anne, leaning on his arm to dodge another puddle. Rain filled the air; she breathed it in. “I shall ask when I have dry feet. But knowing where he is will not bring him here the faster.” De Rieux shook his head. “I have warned you against overconfidence, my daughter. This—your—arrangement—” He stumbled on the right word, so great was the secrecy, though the clamor of bells overhead muffled their voices. “—It is a notable victory, but you must not sell the bear’s skin before it’s been killed.” “Or in this case married. Let us all pity the bear,” said Anne and smiled impishly up at him. Ducal dignity could not quite hide her pleased excitement, and she was not yet twenty. “I have not been hasty.” Before De Rieux could answer, Anne’s sister Isabeau darted up to them, dragging her soaking hem straight through the puddles. She was ten years old, restless as a baby duck; her dark hair had already begun the inevitable process of slithering loose of its careful plaits. She skidded across the stones, De Rieux caught her and Anne said, “Isabeau, unless you intend to man the battlements yourself, I beg you will not bankrupt me keeping you in shoes. We must pay our soldiers.” Buy the Book The Unicorn Hunters Katherine Arden Buy Book The Unicorn Hunters Katherine Arden Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget “Give me a spear and I will guard the wall,” retorted Isabeau, swinging an imaginary weapon. She hardly came to De Rieux’s shoulder, barely shorter than Anne, though Isabeau gave every promise of overtaking her. The child was all long, awkward limbs, while Anne was small and glossy as a cat in a dairy. “Will you? I pity the French,” said Anne, tweaking her sister’s nose. Isabeau butted against Anne’s shoulder and smiled up at De Rieux, who was her guardian too. They were all crossing the drawbridge that divided the city of Nantes from the vast new ducal keep that Bretons called, simply, the Castle of the Dukes of Brittany. Half-tuned music and laughter trickled from the castle windows and from the wall-top as a bright stream of courtiers passed beneath the barbican and crossed the courtyard. The rain was falling faster. Isabeau had been dignified all through church, and Anne saw her trying to be stately again now, though she made a small, irrepressible skip before she caught herself. Anne said, “Isabeau, if you cannot sit still this forenoon, let you put on a good cloak and run about the garden.” If Breton children were kept indoors when it rained, they’d never go outside. “Only be sure and bring me a posy when you return.” Isabeau lit up. “Will you come with me and pick the flowers?” “I will not.” The mist showed every sign of thickening, enough to lay sparkling droplets on her violet bodice. “I am going to sit by a nice fire, embroider my altar cloth, entertain deputations, and gossip furiously.” She gave her sister an innocent look. “You may come in if you like and hem a kerchief.” Isabeau shuddered and slipped away at once, turning back to wave, trailed by her exasperated governess and a tutor with a dripping nose. It was only after Anne, smiling, had watched her sister go that she realized something was wrong in the courtyard. A string of unfamiliar horses was being led to stabling; an unfamiliar equerry stood by the horse-troughs. A loud blend of strange voices echoed in the guardhouse. Who had come? A glimpse of banner or shield, tabard or surcoat might tell her, but rain hovered still, cold and close, blurring the world like a painter’s fingertips. Whoever had come, it could not be her messenger. Her messenger was riding alone, in secret. She and Jean de Rieux exchanged wary glances as they passed into the castle proper. Her bastard half-brother Henri, Baron of Avaugour, met Anne in her garderobe, a private chamber above the oratory, where she entertained her intimates and read documents, sewed and gossiped with her maids-of-honor. The light was gray near the windows, rosy near the fire, wavering in places from the interplay of rain and firelight. Rugs and wolfskin and tapestry softened the stone. Every courtier with a reason to wait upon the duchess was already in the room, passing news in low voices. Henri scythed straight through them all, a high, outraged color on his handsome face. When Anne was crowned, some had whispered that it was a shame the duke’s only son could not inherit the duchy. Anything, they said, would have been better than giving the realm to poor Francis’ barely-grown daughter. Henri just laughed at those people. “Lord,” he’d told Anne. “Who’d want it? All those papers to read. Treaties and accounts and letters. And old men talking. You like it, you unnatural creature. They think you only live to frolic, but they don’t see the look in your eye when you preside over that council.” Anne did like it. Although sometimes she envied Henri whom God had made tall and broad, a knight and a man. Any or all of those attributes would have made her life much easier. She crossed the garderobe and planted herself beside the hood of the enormous stone fireplace, nodding at the reverences of a dozen courtiers. “Tell me your news, brother. Who has come? I saw the horses below.” De Rieux followed them to the fireplace, his mouth downturned and worried. Her council was scattered about the room: clever, jolly Dunois, whose father was the famous Bastard of Orléans. The Comte de Comminges, and Montauban her chamberlain, catlike and wary and intensely loyal. They all drifted unobtrusively nearer, while her maids-of-honor raised a chorus of chatter to mask their conversation. “La Trémoille is here with a grand escort and messages from the French court.” said Henri, low. “He has had word via diviner and rode from the garrison at St. Aubin-du-Cormier. I think he is come to insist upon the French marriage with no further delay.” Anne went very still. Her mind, instantly, darted back to the day of her coronation. She had been too young and red-eyed, her father newly buried. “I will not marry the king of France,” she had told De Rieux. She knew—everyone knew—that if she wed the king of France, then there would be no more Brittany. Only France, from the Rhine to the stormy sea. “I promised my father.” “What choice do you have?” De Rieux had rejoined, with some justice. Her father had lost a war over this very question, and died in the aftermath. Brittany was a fair green jewel rich with the wealth of the sea, and France was ten times its size and coveted it. Brittany was also Anne’s bridal-portion, and would go to her husband when she married. Of course France wanted her. “I will make myself new choices,” she had said then. And she had. She was sure of it. Her secret messenger from Flanders was carrying Brittany’s salvation even now, sewn up hidden in his saddle-skirt. “They must have found out,” whispered De Rieux. Anne’s mind was racing. She said, “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. He would have brought soldiers if he knew, and he has only his escort, hasn’t he?” “But why else would he have come now?” murmured Montauban. They were all worried and she did not blame them. If France laid bare her plans too soon, she would be deposed. Or taken away and married forcibly. She was finding it hard to draw a full breath. “I can think of a few reasons,” said Dunois, brows drawn together. “But I like none of them.” He took a gasping draught of his spiced wine. “He has not said why he is here, only asked for audience with the duchess,” said Henri. Her brother had no head for statecraft. He liked jousting and expensive horses and a well-cut doublet. But he was an easy, kindly man, her father’s mistress’s son. Anne’s rising heartbeat seemed to shake her whole body; she forced her voice to mildness. “We’ll find out soon enough. Give him my utmost respect and say we honor our cousin of France and wait upon his noble general’s convenience.” She’d given standing orders to treat anyone from the French court with an exasperating degree of servility. She cast a speculative glance at her brother. “Henri go and put on something more expensive. That vulgar hat with the ostrich. I want him to think you have ambitions and have spent all your money.” “What?” “Now,” said Anne. “Quick. He’ll probably come in here any moment, when he gets the summons. Hates delays. Don’t you remember? And another thing—,” She whispered in his ear. “I don’t understand,” said her brother dubiously. “No need,” said Anne. She said it cheerfully, but the firelight kept wanting to go sideways in her vision, to remind her of the stabs of light that roared from besieging cannon. The first time she had seen La Trémoille was from the wall of that very castle. He had been directing the French army that was methodically laying siege to their battlements. Her father had pointed out the three blue eagles of his standard, noted the bombards being drawn into position to fire. That day was years gone, but the cold fear of it seemed to cling to her. Henri said, “You should know that my hats are the envy of the court.” “Now.” He went off, muttering something incredulous about how their easy-tempered father had sired such a baby tyrant. Anne smiled as she watched him go, but her smile faded again when she met De Rieux’s worried eyes. * * * Four years ago, Guillaume de la Trémoille, lieutenant-general of France, had been the architect of the conquest of Brittany, and in his firm opinion, the war had stopped too soon. The Bretons had been defeated, roundly, at St. Aubin-du-Cormier, but France ought not have heard their suit for peace after the battle. They should not have relented, in the face of Duke Francis’ death. They ought to have driven on, reduced the chateau at Nantes, taken Rennes, packed off the girls, the ducal heirs, to be wards of the crown of France and set a loyal man—himself, for preference—in the seat of the duke of Brittany. That was the way wars were won. That was how the old king would have won. But Charles was young and naïve and desired to emulate Saint Louis, his canonized ancestor, in the matter of virtue. Virtuous kings, Charles opined, did not seize territory on the thinnest possible claim, backed up with a legion of bloody hired swords. Virtuous kings enlarged their holdings by good, lawful, Christian marriage, and both Brittany’s heirs were girls. His court agreed in public, but in private they wondered what Charles’ warlike father would have said to his amiable son. La Trémoille knew very well what the old king would have said and wished with all his might that he could have said it for him. The only saving grace of it all had been that the new-crowned duchess was a mere slip of a silly child, a puppet on an all-but-bankrupt throne. Charles was young and much given to amorous intrigues; the crown was distracted by wars in Burgundy and it did not seem so very risky to wait for the girl to grow up a little. She would be less likely to die in childbed. But now La Trémoille meant to wash his hands of Brittany. He wished never to see another raincloud so long as he lived, wished never again to ride while soaked to his shriveled skin. He wanted to go enjoy his lands and titles, the gifts of a grateful France. Then he meant to raise fresh troops and go and fight a fine plundering war far away in sunny Pavia. The duchess must marry. She is past old enough, and Charles is crowned king. It must be now, Marguerite had written him. Marguerite of France was the king’s elder sister, his regent before he came of age. The cleverest woman in Europe, the most powerful. Even after Charles’ coronation, she kept a knowing hand on the reins of state. She shared entirely La Trémoille’s views on the danger of leaving Brittany half-conquered. You will go to Nantes and set this marriage in motion. You will frighten them if you must. With these injunctions echoing in his mind, very grand in a new doublet, Guillaume de la Trémoille went to wait upon the duchess of Brittany, prepared to terrify her and her council if they proved in the least resistant to this imminent and necessary French marriage. A repast was laid out already on long boards in the duchess’s garderobe. She did not receive all her court here; this was a meal of her intimates. She got smartly to her feet when he made his bow and greeted him with touching shyness. La Trémoille’s heart sank at the sight of the food: all sugared fruits and marchpane. A meal for a spoiled child. At least she was pretty. Perhaps Charles of France, also something of a fool, would like her. They could be fools together and leave the business of governing to others. Breathlessly, the duchess encouraged him to try the delicacies, and when he had choked some of them down, she asked timidly, “Monseigneur, have you messages for me?” La Trémoille shoved the last of the sweets away. “Madame, I am come on behalf of the crown of France, which greatly desires to settle with all dispatch the alliance between Charles the king and his beloved subject Anne of Brittany. I am empowered to do all that is required to facilitate this longed-for union.” “Oh,” she said, looking tentatively down the table, as though expecting someone to chide her. “I suppose—it’s only—I fear…” She trailed off, biting her lips. La Trémoille followed her gaze, suddenly alert. He and Marguerite had discussed the likelihood that someone in the Breton court, holding particular sway with the duchess, would delay the French marriage in hopes of a bribe. Was there such a person? “But not so fast, sister,” said a ringing voice a few places down the table. “You have forgot the unicorn.” This man, perhaps. A great handsome knight by his clothes, brawny arms crossed over a straining doublet and wearing upon his head the most vulgar heap of dyed ostrich feathers La Trémoille had ever seen. “Oh—Henri,” said the duchess, looking uneasy. “The general does not care about unicorns.” This must be the Breton bastard, the eldest child, knighted by the duke and created Baron of Avaugour. Rumor said Francis had got the boy on the old French king’s castoff mistress. A bastard must always be chewing at the doors of power and a royal bastard doubly so. What would he want for a bribe? La Trémoille almost forgot the duchess, staring at this upstart. “What unicorn?” He was expecting the commission of some tapestry or other nonsense thing. “Oh,” said the duchess confidingly. “It is only that we have had word that a unicorn has been sighted. In Brocéliande.” All around the table, voices seemed to drop; the word Brocéliande itself breathed out dark mystery. Men told wild tales of that ancient forest. That the fair-folk, the korriganed, had lived long in its shadows. That an unwary traveler might stray into the Lost Lands, only to vanish forever, or return a century hence, still young while his whole world had spun out from under his feet. And they also did say, with more force than mere rumor, that Brocéliande was one of the last, best places in Christendom for men to hunt unicorns. A unicorn was the noblest and rarest prey in Christendom. The fire-drakes, if ever they had lived, had not been seen in living memory, and one could not hunt sea-drakes. Sea-drakes hunted men. At least, that’s what seamen said, when their ships did not come back. But now and again, one heard credible tales of a unicorn. Like his master the king, La Trémoille loved to hunt. “A unicorn, you say?” The duchess threw a diffident glance at her brother. “We had a message from Trécesson. A lymerer with his dog, seeking stags for his master, came upon the beast in Broceliande. Four days ago—or was it five? I thought—I mean I thought—that perhaps we should try and hunt it. While I am—” she stumbled over the words, going modestly pink. La Trémoille knew what she was trying to say. To hunt a unicorn required two things. The first was a virgin of high birth and unimpeachable virtue, to bait the unicorn. And the other was a hunt so extravagant that the mere dazzle of it would tempt the vain beast near. What better bait for a unicorn than this beautiful, high-born fool? And what nobler quarry for a man than a unicorn? La Trémoille hesitated, remembering his orders. Then he said, “It would be a fine thing, to hunt a unicorn.” In a hectoring voice, Henri of Avaugour answered, drinking his wine, “Then why do we speak of marriage? Even the breath of coming unchastity might ruin all—it is said that unicorns know these things, monseigneur.” The duchess was blushing even more furiously, biting her lips. La Trémoille considered. Just the chance of it fired his blood. A living unicorn, at bay… “A small delay before negotiations begin might be possible,” he said at last. A small, odd smile came to Henri of Avaugour’s lips. “I knew you were wise, monseigneur.” The bastard was probably still holding out for a bribe, thought La Trémoille. Well, an estate in France could be found for him. But let it be a wretched estate. The duchess, still scarlet, said, “I shall make of the unicorn’s horn a wedding present to the king of France. You shall take the hide, God willing, for all the world to marvel at, monseigneur.” Her look was soft, earnest. And when she put out her hand to be kissed, he did it with less than his usual coldness. * * * They got rid of La Trémoille at last. The general had unbent considerably at the thought of hunting a unicorn, though he stared daggers all the while at poor Henri. He even ate some marchpane, though he grimaced, and drank his cup of wine—Anne had made sure it was the sweet kind that gave you a headache—and then took his leave. The servants came in his wake to draw the cloth and clear away the boards and trestles. Soon there would be proper feasting in the great hall. Anne finally gave in to the fit of laughter that had been trying to burst out of her all that while. When she looked up, wiping her eyes, Henri was grinning too, still wearing that ridiculous hat, and that started her off again. She said, “Let us hope the feast tonight contains a few bearable dishes; one cannot subsist on marchpane.” “Lord, how do you do it? One moment my sister is there and the next there is a ninny blushing on cue. And yon Frenchman’s no fool yet he swallowed that nonsense about future unchastity.” Anne said, “He was pleased with his own superiority. It makes people unwise.” She had not let any of her councilors, not even Jean de Rieux, assist at the comedy she played for La Trémoille. Henri was the only one she needed, and a great crowd would merely increase the odds that someone let something slip. But La Trémoille had not been gone a candle-mark when De Rieux hurried up the stairs. “What did the general say?” he asked urgently. “What does he want?” Henri was still grinning. “He had no idea what struck him. The duchess has that effect. And of course, I gave my sister vital assistance.” Anne had resumed her accustomed chair and was putting minute stitches in the vast watered-silk sweep of an altar-cloth; she said austerely, “We have convinced the general to delay any talk of my marriage to the king of France until after we all go hunt unicorns in Brocéliande.” She turned her altar-cloth in the firelight, wishing for her favorite thimble. Being gold, it had been sold too. De Rieux looked tolerably blank. “But—why? There are no unicorns. Or, there have been no sightings. Not these twenty years.” “That,” said Anne. “Is entirely beside the point. We have bought ourselves time.” “To what purpose? You have bought yourself a week or two, no more; it will not make a difference.” Anne laid the cloth aside. “That’s where you’re wrong. Consider only—,” she broke off. Her court diviner was called Calyx; no one recalled his birth-name, except for some dusty scribe in the Diviners’ Guild. Every diviner took a Latin name upon achieving his mastery. Calyx stumbled into the duchess’s garderobe now, three-parts drunk. That was to be expected. Calyx was an oenomancer, who read his divination in the dregs of wine. With a bleared eye, carrying bottle and cup in his slack hands, he said, “You sent for me, highness?” Anne leaped up, pausing only to see that her maids-of-honor tidied her altar-cloth away and secured the needle. “You are a welcome sight, auspex—” that is what diviners were called in the formal language of the court. She pulled him at once to the deep window embrasure, with the rain sluicing fast past the leaded panes. Diviners needed clear light for their auguries. Anne had sometimes wished for a court diviner whose gift came in a more practical form—the Guild contained diviners by dice and clouds and water and candlelight—but the Guild also kept a relentless grip on its masters and would not send a gifted young diviner to work in a court as beleaguered as hers. Especially not with its sovereign a woman unwed. Calyx was old and his eyes were bloodshot; his hair swooned greasily from a velvet cap of uncertain cleanliness, his mouth was a sea of wine-stained stumps, and she could wish that his gift did not require the drinking of quite so much wine. But her father had liked Calyx. And Anne loved and missed her father. Divination was a useful and necessary art, although it was neither infallible nor omniscient. It could only answer questions that related to the bodily senses. A diviner might be asked, what color are the slippers of the Sultan in Stamboul, every day for a year and never get it wrong. More difficult were moods and intentions; names and numbers were impossible. To divine a place was possible, but only if the diviner could put a place-name to the colors or sounds or smells he found in his augury. Most diviners specialized in a small area. Who is the betrothed of the Duchess of Brittany was a question that could be answered by a skilled diviner, working diligently—royal diviners kept careful physical descriptions of sovereigns—and one that Anne lived in mortal fear of the French court asking. But it had been Pliny the Younger, a diviner himself, who discovered the chief use of divination. For, as he said in a letter, if the emperor’s auspices can tell him the color of anything in the world, but the name of nothing, then all we must do is assign words to colors. Now kings and generals and ambassadors and grand seigneurs all communicated via diviner. Diviners carried colored squares of cloth and each cloth meant something like safe, or war or beset or yesterday. The exact code changed from court to court. To send a message, the diviner merely laid down cloths in order and the recipient’s diviner asked his clouds or dice or wine or beetles to tell him, what colors lay today upon the table of the duchess of Brittany’s diviner? Diviners were kept busy relaying such messages all over the continent. Anne said low to Calyx, heart beating fast. “Where is my messenger from Flanders?” Calyx could only answer if he had come near enough to Nantes. Calyx drained his cup to the dregs, peered at the sludge on the bottom and said squinting, “The northwestern road. Will be here by nightfall or a little after if the rain keeps on.” Anne bit her lip. The plan she was slowly forming was too complex to share via any code of colors. She said abruptly, “Calyx, is it true that there is no divination possible beneath the eaves of Brocéliande?” Calyx stiffened. The moving rain-light grayed his face and made him seem older. “That is a cursed place for diviners,” he said at last Anne leaned forward. “Why? Is it true then?” She had the impression he would prefer not to answer. But he had to. It was one of the codes of the Guild, that a diviner must answer every direct question from his principal, and never lie. He turned his cup in restless hands. “No. Not exactly.” “What then?” Reluctantly, he said, “A diviner can set his inward sight upon Brocéliande. But he sees nonsense. If he persists, he goes mad. The chronicles say that long ago it was just the same if any man tried to use divination upon the korriganed or any piece of their realm in the Lost Lands.” Anne clasped her hands, pleased. Her nascent plan depended on this peculiar quality of Broceliande. She did not fear the korriganed. They had not been seen for five hundred years. “But,” added Calyx, setting down his cup with a click. “The forest is dangerous. Merlin the Enchanter was vanquished there, caught in the toils of the Queen of the Lost Lands, and no man of greater wisdom has lived since the world began. I beg you will not meddle with Brocéliande, highness.” “No more than I must,” said Anne and smiled reassuringly at him. He did not look reassured. Anne bid her diviner go and drink something gentler than wine and get some sleep, then turned back to the fire. To De Rieux she said, “My messenger will be here at nightfall. You needn’t fret until then. Go and change, Jean. It may be a long night.” Something in his heavy face lightened. “That is welcome news, highness,” he said. Henri was still lolling in a chair by the fire, now addressing gallant remarks to Madeleine of Chateaubriant, the cleverest of Anne’s maids-of-honor. The lady was wearing a very demure expression that said she was enjoying herself. Damn them both, there was no time. Anne crooked a peremptory finger at her brother. Henri came over, reluctantly, “Sister, if you have more schemes involving hats and lying to the French—” She interrupted. “I need you to go and intercept the messenger from Flanders and bring him here tonight. Secretly. La Trémoille mustn’t know. The northwestern road.” Henri did not look enthusiastic. Madeleine was very beautiful and the rain had not let up. Anne said sympathetically, “I know. But you may lounge about in comfort after the realm is preserved.” Excerpted from The Unicorn Hunters, copyright © 2026 by Katherine Arden. The post Read an Excerpt From <i>The Unicorn Hunters</i> by Katherine Arden appeared first on Reactor.

News Hercule Poirot BBC Is Bringing Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot to Television The network won the rights to the iconic mystery solver in a competitive situation By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on May 21, 2026 Credit: 20th Century Studios Comment 0 Share New Share Credit: 20th Century Studios Hercule Poirot will soon be returning to the small screen. Today, Deadline broke the news that the BBC is adapting Agatha Christie’s stories featuring the mustachioed Belgian who, he’ll be sure to tell you, is the greatest detective in the world. Deadline also reports that the BBC won the rights to Poirot via a competitive bidding process, and that the network plans to release at least three seasons, with the first season scheduled to come out in the second half of 2027.  Benji Walters, whose previous credits include authoring episodes on British shows like Obsession, Noughts + Crosses, The Leopard, and Code of Silence, is writing the scripts. What mysteries unfold in those scripts are unknown; we don’t have details yet on which stories from Christie’s 33 novels and 51 short stories featuring Poirot that the first season will adapt. What’s also unknown is who the BBC will cast to play Poirot. Several actors have played the character in the past, including Kenneth Branagh in three recent films (Murder on the Orient Express, Death on the Nile, and A Haunting in Venice), John Malkovich in The ABC Murders, and, of course, David Suchet in the ITV series that ran for a quarter of a century. Who do you think will play the new Poirot? Reactor staff have some ideas, including Toby Jones. We likely won’t have to wait too long, however, to get the official answer, as the production plans to film in Liverpool and northwest England this summer. [end-mark] The post BBC Is Bringing Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot to Television appeared first on Reactor.

Movies & TV The Terror: Devil in Silver The Terror: Devil in Silver Asks What Lurks Behind the Door in “Che Guevara” The devil? A monster? A man? Perhaps we’ll find out… By Alex Brown | Published on May 21, 2026 Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Comment 0 Share New Share Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC We’re at the halfway mark for The Terror: Devil in Silver, and things are heating up. The fourth episode brings a pizza party, a lost son, and an all-consuming void. We open the day after Pepper was attacked by what was either a buffalo monster or another patient (both?). Of course the staff won’t admit what really happened. The story is Pepper was caught harming himself after stealing Josephine’s keys, and the staff had to restrain him. Loochie thinks whatever is behind the silver door is a manifestation of her nightmares, Coffee thinks it’s the devil, Dorry thinks it’s a man, Pepper thinks it’s a buffalo monster. Whatever is going on, the only way to stay alive is to resign yourself to New Hyde. Loochie is a self-described “lifer,” so she’s interesting enough to haunt but not tempting enough to hurt. It only attacks patients like Pepper who try to get out and kills those like Badger and Louie who have enough power to bring attention to Northwest. How Dr. Walter could be involved is as yet undetermined; the guy must be ancient if he’s still alive.  Badger is back and still more concerned with posturing in front of a captive audience than helping patients. He doesn’t ask Pepper if he’s okay or what has him frustrated, just threatens non-compliance. He also does that thing that a lot of wheelchair users hate where he pushes Pepper around without permission. He doesn’t stand up to Anand or ask to see Pepper later for a private consultation. He simply gestures apologetically and gets back to Jaws. When at last he’s roused to act in defense of the patients (i.e. composing a strongly worded email), he suffers the same fate as Officer Louie.   The first of two surprising arrivals comes from Louie, the cop who died by suicide (sorta) in the first episode. Here he is, somehow, chatting it up with Pepper about devils and deals. This time Pepper is clear-headed; we can’t blame this experience on drugs or brush it off as a rat in the ceiling tiles. Pepper doesn’t know Louie is dead. Ahriman was apparently an evil spirit in Zoroastrianism. If this is all in Pepper’s head, he is much more knowledgeable than I thought. Pepper makes the unwise decision to make a deal with the devil. He’ll do anything to get out? Louie will hold him to that, I’m certain. Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Pepper’s second visitor is his son, Anthony (Hayward Leach). First the phone call and then the in-person conversation, both moments that were genuine for Pepper in terms of emotion and the yearning for connection while also motivated by self-interest. He tells Coffee he can call someone who will help, but he doesn’t ask for Anthony help for the other patients. He asks for help getting out, even tries to pull the family card, and in doing so he knowingly breaks his son’s heart. Once again he has the choice between helping someone in a way that will help him in the long-run but hurt in the short-term or doing the selfish thing that benefits him right now at the expense of someone else. And once again he chooses instant relief. As someone who has been in Anthony’s shoes—I was about his age when I confronted my own deadbeat dad, and it went about as well for me as it did him—that scene hit me hard. I know he went into that meeting hoping for the best while knowing that hope was foolish. He was prepared for the worst and got exactly what he expected and it still hurt more than he thought it would. I don’t know if this is the last we’ll see of him (he doesn’t exist in the book), but if he’s anything like me, this meeting will be the thing that lets him finally move on from his father.  Pepper’s doomed romance with Antoinette is mirrored in his relationship with the New Hyde patients. He didn’t cause her mental health struggles anymore than he caused the patients to have their outburst at Sal’s. However, his negligence and self-interest certainly made things worse. Pepper is at his best when he’s using his fists to defend people he cares about from patriarchal violence, but even that is more about his twisted sense of masculinity and chivalry than about the victims. I was as delighted to see Scotch Tape entering the fray at Sal’s to defend Loochie as I was horrified that anyone would dare harm CCH Pounder. Anand views the brawl as inexplicable noncompliance without ever trying to understand why the patients went off meds in the first place. Doesn’t even occur to him. Why would it? You don’t run a place like New Hyde for fifteen years if you want anything more than compliance.  We get a little of Coffee’s backstory this week. His comment that he felt like “blue skies” when he was off his meds in 2009 and now doesn’t experience any emotions is devastating. I wish the show spent more time on this conversation instead of cutting away just when it got interesting. Tell us more about Coffee and his life before. Shed some light onto the young woman in the photograph. We don’t need a full accounting, but it would help to get enough to put his no-meds behavior into perspective.  Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Something I wish the show (and the book) would explore more is how treatment for mental health issues can also be beneficial. It would be nice to see the contrast between what New Hyde is and what New Hyde could be. The show only presents two options: “crazy” and drugged up. But what about a third option of properly administered medications that actually help. I know this is a horror story about the system crushing people, but it feels unhelpful to set up a false binary. Without intending to, it plays into MAHA disinformation about psychiatric medications and perpetuates harmful stereotypes about the mentally ill. When Anand says “You people, you need your meds. This is why we prescribe them,” he’s partly true. Trouble is, he isn’t only prescribing them because they need them but because the staff needs the patients on them. He is intentionally overmedicating them for no other reason than it makes them docile, it makes them “compliant.”  I also wish the show talked about how Western society insists on hiding disabled people away. From ugly laws to insane asylums to being homeless on the streets to RFK’s “wellness farms.” After Reagan’s deinstitutionalization, instead of providing caretakers and communities with resources to care for people at home, we pushed them onto the street or into prisons where we could keep ignoring them. The customers at Sal’s could have treated the patients with respect and patience rather than spew slurs and physically attack them. It’s not only that New Hyde is the last place left to “help” the mentally ill, but that the outside world doesn’t want to help them.  This episode is about the stories we tell ourselves. The patients argue over the nature of the entity behind the silver door, because to some a monster is worse than a man and to others a man is worse than a monster. Josephine repeats the story of how Pepper was hurt despite not believing it. The customers at Sal’s tell themselves the patients are worthless and barely human so they don’t have to confront the horrors of the system. Dorry tells herself lorazepam and pizza are treats, not tools of control. Coffee only remembers the blue skies from being off his meds, not the manic-depressive episodes. Loochie puffs herself up in recounting her encounters with the devil, but we see her shivering in terror. Badger acts like the guy in charge, but he dies without ever having truly seen the patients as people. Anand acts like everything is fine because if he doesn’t he’ll lose his job. Anthony says of his mother’s death, “She fell. A long way down.” Pepper tells himself he’s a good person being victimized by outside forces, but he hurts people for selfish reasons, too. He acts like what he thinks a cool dad is like with Marisol’s daughter, but he wilts when Anthony asks him to rise to the occasion just once. Jaws is all about mythmaking, from the war stories the men tell each other to turning an animal doing what its nature compels it to into a great and terrible monster. We don’t know what at New Hyde is real and what is fiction. Hell, not even the patients or staff know. Another strong episode with some shocking moments of horror. The worst is yet to come, I fear. Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Quotes “A malevolent presence resides in this hospital. It lives behind that door…It will keep hurting you until you comply or die.” “There’s a shark in the water, and nobody’s doing a damn thing about it.” “Sharks’ gotta eat. You might as well feed it people nobody cares about.” “There’s blood in the water again.” This script isn’t subtle, that’s for sure.  “I am not okay! None of this is okay!” “We are gonna kill that shark.” Image: Emily V. Aragones/AMC Final Thoughts Big fan of Coffee’s cardigan. I gotta learn to knit so I can make my own.  Begging Badger to bring in one book, one single book, not written by and starring cisallohet white dudes and written this freaking century. My god, man.  Once again, Badger talks to the patients like they’re toddlers. Who the hell doesn’t know what Jaws is about?  Most people call the entity behind the silver door “it,” but Mr. Mack uses “he.”  Welp, Stephen Root, it was nice having you and your socks with sandals around. I am such a sucker for the horror trope of something enveloped in shadows save two pinprick spots of light where its eyes should be. Coffee said he went off his meds in January 2009. Earlier he indicated he’d been in New Hyde for about 7 years. So it has to be in the mid 2010s, during Obama’s second term. This explains why he’s so concerned with reaching the president. No way he’d be calling the guys in the Oval Office before or after him. Very charmed by Louie’s very weird pronunciations of devil in other languages.  So, was Dorry the voice behind the woman crying in the walls? And what the hell happened to Badger’s body?  I think even if Pepper hadn’t wasted his (and Marisol’s) money on that drum kit, he still wouldn’t have offered it to Anthony. Pepper was wearing a Rhino shirt in the first episode. Anand started at New Hyde in the early 2000s. That’s not long after there was a change in how Medicare payments to psychiatric hospitals were determined, which led to the proliferation of for-profit psychiatric hospitals. I don’t know the history of the New York state budget for psychiatric care, but my guess is that it has been slashed over the years. New Hyde didn’t end up the way it is by accident.[end-mark] The post <i>The Terror: Devil in Silver</i> Asks What Lurks Behind the Door in “Che Guevara” appeared first on Reactor.

News Victorian Psycho Maika Monroe Has Big Questions About Evil in Victorian Psycho Trailer A Merchant Ivory film this is not By Molly Templeton | Published on May 21, 2026 Screenshot: Bleecker Street Comment 0 Share New Share Screenshot: Bleecker Street Is it weird to say that the trailer for a movie about a murderous governess is delightful? It’s true, though: the trailer for Victorian Psycho is peculiarly charming. It’s the song choice that does it: those guitars come in (courtesy of the Die Spitz song “Throw Yourself to the Sword”) and the tone is set. It is not an uptight tone, or a bleakly gory tone, or a gloom-and-doom tone. It’s anachronistic and weird and, yeah, delightful. More delightful than all the severed body parts might suggest. Victorian Psycho is based on the novel by Virginia Feito, which follows a governess (played by scream queen Maika Monroe) who is “hiding her psychopathic tendencies” at her new—and conveniently remote—place of employ. The trailer suggests she will not hide said tendencies for all that long, as there’s quite a bit of screaming, blood, and two children who are really rather chill about being told to “kill them all.” The film premiered last night at Cannes to a five-minute standing ovation. That’s nowhere near the record set by Pan’s Labyrinth—22 minutes—but it is quite respectable, and tied with Moulin Rouge and Top Gun: Maverick. Along with Monroe, Victorian Psycho stars Thomasin McKenzie, Ruth Wilson, and Jason Isaacs. It’s really quite a lineup. The film is directed by Zachary Wigon (Sanctuary), with a screenplay by novelist Feito. It’s in theaters this fall.[end-mark] The post Maika Monroe Has Big Questions About Evil in <i>Victorian Psycho</i> Trailer appeared first on Reactor.