Glen Weldon

This week, NPR Music shared their picks for the best music of the year, ELLE banned fur from its pages and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia returned for its 15th season. It's the longest running live action sitcom on TV.

This week, Baby Yoda flew above the streets of New York at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, Ridley Scott's House of Gucci made its debut and the Grammy nominations were announced. Here's what NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour crew was paying attention to — and what you should check out this weekend.

In the Marvel series Hawkeye, the stakes are low. Comfortably so. Cozily so, even.

The planet isn't in peril (well, any more than baseline), and the multiverse doesn't hover on the brink of extinction. Clint Barton (Jeremy Renner), the sad-sack Avenger, just wants to get home in time to celebrate Christmas with his family.

This isn't the article about Amazon's adaptation of Robert Jordan's epic fantasy series The Wheel of Time that you were supposed to be reading right now.

It isn't one I'd planned to write.

This week, a 1949 self-portrait by Frida Kahlo shattered an auction record, Eddie Vedder released a new single called "The Haves," and the cast and crew of Harry Potter announced a 20-year anniversary reunion. Oh, and Adele released a new album.

Here's what NPR's Pop Culture Happy Hour crew was paying attention to — and what you should check out this weekend.

It was the week that Carole Baskin sued Netflix and Royal Goode Productions over the upcoming Tiger King sequel. It was also the week that the first Harry Potter film turned 20 years old.

Eternals is the latest film belonging to that great, teeming, not-so-riotous achievement in cross-platform multi-vertical corporate synergy/narrative cat-herding known as the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

You perhaps read the above and rolled your eyes. Maybe you muttered something unkind under your breath as well. If you didn't, you assuredly know someone who did. That's just simple statistics: Superhero films have become our cultural furniture; they're the steady, unceasing hiss of universal background radiation none of us can escape.

Edgar Wright set out to make a trippy fever-dream of a movie. Last Night in Soho, the film he has made instead, is merely febrile: insistent, overworked, maddeningly repetitive and — like the most intense fevers — by turns sweaty and chilly, and keenly unpleasant to experience.

The French Dispatch is Wes Anderson's tenth feature film.

This means, even before the lights go down in the theater, you know two things about it already, and for certain:

Thing One: It will be meticulously, painstakingly constructed. A rigorous attention to detail and an exacting eye for a highly defined personal aesthetic will come baked into its every frame, from the set design to the cinematography to its color palette(s) to its dialogue to its performances. Also,

Most of us who've read Frank Herbert's 1965 novel Dune have experienced it in the form of mass-market paperbacks so thick and dense they could double as wheel chocks for a Cessna. If you've made it all the way through even once, the spine on your personal copy will have been battered into submission such that it takes on the appearance of the Bonneville salt flats — rough, faded, riddled with spidery cracks.

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