She got to torment Don Draper in Mad Men and has just won an Emmy for DTF St Louis. But nothing prepared the star for all the gore as she switched to horror with the Friday the 13th prequel

‘The first time I had the tooth in my hand,” says Linda Cardellini, “I thought, ‘Oh my God, this is what I’m doing.’” The star of Freaks and Geeks, ER, Dead to Me, Mad Men and DTF St Louis (for which she recently won an Emmy) is talking about her pivot towards full-blown horror. In Crystal Lake, the prequel to the Friday the 13th movies, Cardellini plays Pamela Voorhees, the original slasher of the 1980 film. The tooth, by the way, is human and gets embedded in Pam’s knuckle – until she yanks it out with a gruesome, revolting slurping sound.

Casual filmgoers may associate Friday the 13th with Jason, the hockey-mask-wearing serial killer. But aficionados will know that Pam, Jason’s mother, is the villain of the first movie. “He didn’t even have the mask until the third movie,” says Cardellini, who has clearly done her homework. “Pam is the original killer, in vengeance of his death.” (There is some massaging of previous storylines in Crystal Lake, such as moving Jason’s drowning from the 1950s to the early 70s, but since the franchise is flexible enough to have sent Jason into space at one point, a bit of timeline tweaking feels fair game.)

Lena Dunham has announced a surprise reboot of the cult TV show Girls, which had its finale 10 years ago. The news was broken via a fake Zoom call with all four female leads, which went viral and raised questions about what a show depicting millennial struggles would look like as the women enter their 40s. Lucy Hough speaks to the Guardian writer Rebecca Nicholson – watch on YouTube

From Coronation Street to It’s a Sin, Davies’ memoir of a career in TV is also a rallying cry for creativity

Television is an intimate art form, once beamed into living rooms, now on devices right in front of our faces. The screenwriter Russell T Davies understands that intimacy. Whether discussing his early days developing lost-to-history soap spin-offs, making a splash with the pioneering gay series Queer As Folk, or reviving Doctor Who to great acclaim, he makes it feel as if you’re at the pub with him, settling in for the night, ready to hear his best stories.

This warm and gossipy autobiography offers a peek behind the curtains of the British TV industry, and as such, it goes light on Davies’s own life story. Instead, he gallops through five decades in the business, using the framework of his TV shows to propel the book forward at great speed. He was born in Swansea in 1963, to a family who loved watching TV. While he was studying English at Oxford, a friend suggested that, as he thought television was so great, he should consider doing it as his job.

From Carrie’s bullies to Cathy Ames, sympathetic backstories have made villains boring. It’s time to bring back truly awful villains – in all their deliciously sinful glory

The new Netflix adaptation of East of Eden largely sticks to the plot of the John Steinbeck novel. There are tweaks – the introduction of a wedding photograph, for example, which becomes a significant item – but otherwise, it is faithful to the book. That is, in terms of the plot. There has already been some discussion about what it has done to Cathy Ames, played with considerable ferocity by Florence Pugh. Cathy, who later changes her name to Kate, kills her parents by burning down the family house. She shoots her husband, Adam, and leaves her baby sons wailing and alone. She slowly poisons the brothel madam Faye, a woman who acts as a mentor to her and treats her as a daughter, while simultaneously tricking her into leaving her everything in her will. In the book, Steinbeck lets Kate reflect on killing Faye. She finds that she has “no feeling” about it at all.

She is a brilliant, brutal character, but on television, she becomes something else: complicated. Her cruelty remains intact, but Pugh and showrunner Zoe Kazan have fleshed her out and given reasons for her fury. They invent a scene that implies Cathy was abused as a child by two men in the woods, and when she takes her final bow, the series returns to this moment in flashback, suggesting that her campaign of destruction has been shaped by a life of trauma and pain. In Steinbeck’s hands, Cathy is cold and unfeeling. In the 2020s, Cathy is more sympathetic and less of a brute.

Before the release of a joyful film on the history of the Sheffield band, frontman Cocker and director Garth Jennings talk dark times, taking inspiration from Abba – and why there could yet be another record

When the director Garth Jennings first moved to Paris, Jarvis Cocker, who was living there, dropped in on his old friend. “And I nearly got you arrested,” the Pulp frontman recalls. It was bonfire night, and Cocker had taken some welcoming fireworks over to Jennings’ place. “It turned out Garth’s apartment was quite near to the – not an army base, but what’s it called?”

“The École Militaire,” says Jennings.

The story of a serial killer taking revenge on the rich predatory men who abused her just earned a fantastic finale. With career-defining acting, daring Epstein parallels and super dark comedy, it’s a total must-watch

You could easily watch the first few minutes of Furious without knowing that it would turn out to be so special. It opens with a scene of pure horror: it’s Halloween night and a real monster is hiding among the pretend ones. A woman we come to know as Catherine Grace (an astonishingly good Lola Petticrew) is inside a man’s house, wearing a creepy kitten mask. The man is in bad shape, crawling on the floor, gasping for air and begging for his life. Catherine is alternately chirpy and tender with him, but eventually, she loses her patience with his pleading. She takes a syringe filled with fentanyl out of a pencil case decorated with sparkly stickers and jewels and finishes the job.

So far, so creepy crime drama, but Furious is already hiding in plain sight, because the monster is not who we think it is. What looks as if it will be a cat-and-mouse story, in which a tenacious FBI agent hunts a twisted serial killer, quickly rips up any expectations. We learn that Catherine was trafficked into sex work as a teenager, and is now making her way through a kill list of predatory and powerful men. Her life has been shaped by a conspiracy of abuse, violence, neglect and indifference. She has decided to take matters into her own broken hands.

At 22, Ramsey has already been on our screens for a decade, and nominated for every award going. So why do they find it strange to be called an actor?

Bella Ramsey often feels more comfortable around older people. The actor, 22, who is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns, has been working professionally since they were 11, when they got their first TV job as the child noblewoman Lyanna Mormont in Game of Thrones. For half of their life, they have been in adult environments, talking to adults, working with adults. Even so, the London cafe in which Ramsey has chosen to meet makes any retirement home look like a creche. It is full of old men with their dogs, popping in for a cup of tea and a morning chat.

“It feels like it belongs in the Midlands. It feels a bit, like, shit and familiar,” says Ramsey, who grew up in the East Midlands and can say that with affection. Their curly hair is short, pushed back off their face, and they have a single gold hoop in one ear. The plan had been to go for a walk this morning, but it is raining so we have a cup of tea and wait for the drizzle to pass. Ramsey seems both younger and older than 22, depending on the moment. Sometimes, within a single sentence, they sound ancient and wise, and also like a bookish teenager, discovering with amazement how they think they might feel about the world.

As Nick in the blockbuster TV comedy, the actor was adored by millions. So will his new comedy The Dink, which he jokes is a ‘sexier Challengers’, make him even more popular?

You might assume that Jake Johnson would know a little something about pickleball. The actor is starring in The Dink, a sort of spiritual heir to Dodgeball – it has a Ben Stiller cameo – and he plays Dusty Boyd, a former tennis pro turned plucky pickleball upstart. Presumably Johnson took the gig because he has a deep love of the sport, a fondness for its pockmarked balls and weirdly smooth paddles? “No experience of it whatsoever,” says the actor, cheerfully, on a video call from Los Angeles.

Yet this underdog of a racket sport, loved by retirees, found him anyway. At the climax of the movie, Dusty must play against an old foe, which meant Johnson had to undertake months of real-life training in pickleball and tennis, so it looked as if he could play. “It was like WWE. They call it fake wrestling. The outcome is there, but you still have to wrestle. That was probably the most stressful part of the film to me.”

The actor seemed destined for a long but unflashy career in musical theatre – until a role as a football club owner in the TV hit changed everything. She talks about her new Hollywood era, calling out misogyny and why she’s ‘more than just camp’

Hannah Waddingham clears her throat. Her voice is a little scratchy. Two days before we meet, the star of Ted Lasso hosted the TV comedy show Saturday Night Live UK. She took part in almost all of the sketches that night, from a skit about “two top-heavy, Reading-based drama teachers” called Janet, to a musical number about how many glasses of wine to drink at a bar, to a bit in which she played the stern northern leader of a speed awareness course. In her opening monologue, she zipped through a variety of accents and impressions. “You see?” she told the cheering crowd. “Range! Range.”

I should have remembered this line when making small talk. We are tucked away in the hidden private dining room of a hotel in London, the city where the actor was born and raised and where she still lives with her young daughter. When Waddingham walks through the lobby, people notice her. She is tall, striking, and wearing the pulled-down baseball cap that is an actor’s day-off uniform. During lockdown, Ted Lasso – the amiable football series in which she plays Rebecca Welton, the owner of a fictional team called AFC Richmond – made her famous on both sides of the Atlantic. In 2021, it won her an Emmy award for outstanding supporting actress in a comedy series. At 47, after a long but unflashy career on stage and screen, there was a sense that her time had come.

From 18th-century pleasure gardens to Studio 54, the story of nightlife in all its hedonistic – and political – glory

In this fabulous alternative history of the modern world, the academic and “party historian” Imogen Willetts looks at the last 500 years of civilisation through the sometimes blurry lenses of its after-dark scenes, with fascinating results. She begins by trying to capture what it feels like to go on a big night out, focusing on a phenomenon that, in 1912, the sociologist Émile Durkheim labelled “collective effervescence”. In one passage, she explains this by referencing dancing as part of ancient tribal hunting rituals, listening to Charli xcx’s 365, or singing along to Sweet Caroline with tens of thousands of other people in a stadium.

This is no dry academic study, then, and its mix of historical research, critical theory and conversational references to pop culture makes for a bright and compelling read. What Willetts calls the “seemingly superficial act of getting gussied up to drink, dance, have fun and meet people” is, of course, much more than that, and she scratches away at the layers with skill. Nightlife can contain, or enable, rebellion, community, innovation, art, love, sex and political revolution. From Japan to France, from Shanghai to Germany, via many detours to the United States, she examines historical movements as they might be seen from dusk till dawn.

The actor has a knack for playing characters that test viewers’ loyalties. As the Game of Thrones prequel returns, she talks problem fans, ‘boy mums’ and why the arts should be for everyone

House of the Dragon is a massive television series. Over two seasons, the prequel to Game of Thrones has seduced viewers with its plotting, backstabbing, candlelit meetings about war, and massive sheep-munching dragons. Olivia Cooke’s dad, however, did not get the memo.

We’re in London, on a stormy summer afternoon, and Cooke is sipping a bottle of neon juice (“Tell me if my teeth go purple”). Her dad texted her yesterday. She gets her phone and pulls up a photo of a television screen, with the first season of House of the Dragon loaded up and ready to go. “He said: ‘Raining outside, so starting a binge-watch.’” She laughs. “I was like, great, Dad, worked on it for six years, hope you like, kiss kiss.” What was his review? “Yes, I like it. Quite violent.” He was planning to watch another episode after he’d picked up Cooke’s nephew from school.

A biography of the creative force behind Mrs Merton and The Royle Family focuses on the stories behind her work

From the 1990s until her tragically early death in 2016, Caroline Aherne was a fixture of British primetime television. This new study of her work reminds us of the punk spirit behind it all. Aherne was the deceptively vicious chatshow host Mrs Merton. She was the voice of Gogglebox, an expression of love for the medium she adored. She was the creator and star of The Royle Family, one of the most profound, realistic and beautiful sitcoms ever written for the British screen. She was one of the greats.

David Scott’s first book, Mancunians, offered a portrait of his city through its notable people, one of whom was Aherne. In it, Scott argued that her home city had not done nearly enough to celebrate her, and this, his second book, is an attempt to redress the balance. She is, Scott writes, his biggest influence (he is a poet and presenter) and his favourite Mancunian of all time. When the idea of writing a proper biography was put to him, he declined, repelled by the idea of “raking over someone’s private life”. This rakes over the work instead, representing a comprehensive record of her output from the perspective of a true devotee.

As he stars alongside Sheridan Smith as a casino boss on the take, the actor talks about leaving school with no qualifications, playing vile dads – and why he’s eager to circulate the This Is England reunion rumour

Michael Socha is about to jump on a train to Wales. The impressively bushy beard he’s got is for his role in The Witch Farm, a dramatic adaptation of an episode of the Danny Robins podcast Uncanny, about a supposed haunting in the Brecon Beacons. He plays Bill Rich, who moves his family to a spooky old farmhouse where it all goes “horribly wrong”, Socha says. “In the photos he has a beard, and I thought, ‘I’ll match that.’” The actor strokes his chin and turns his head from side to side. It looks pretty substantial to me. “You say that, but see this bit? I’m struggling. It’s a bit patchy there. I’m happy with this bit, but then this needs work.”

Socha has just left a screening of his new BBC thriller The Cage, and he has the gentle bounce of a man who struggles to stay still. As with his beard, he finds it hard not to find flaws in what he’s done. Normally, he admits, he tries to avoid watching himself on screen. “I’ll sort of nitpick away,” he shrugs, but he had such a nice time making The Cage that he was looking forward to seeing it. “But the more you watch something, the more you find bits that you’re not too happy with.”

From ‘gaybours’ to treasure hunts in Tunbridge Wells, a tragicomic history of LGBTQ life outside the big city

Generations of readers have loved Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City novels. His chronicle of queer life began in 1976 in the eclectic glamour of San Francisco’s Barbary Lane, where queer people learned who they were and how to live their lives. But even Maupin relocated in the end. The most recent instalment, Mona of the Manor, saw one of its key characters move to the Cotswolds to navigate a very different kind of village.

The social historian John Grindrod nods to Maupin in this fantastically entertaining alternative history of queer life in Britain, which departs from the usual tales of city-based freedom and discovery to tell the stories of people who grew up in the suburbs. “The suburbs” resist easy definition, and Grindrod handles this lightly. Sometimes they’re marked out by social class, sometimes by geography, each facet blurring into the other. His locations range from London’s commuter belt to hamlets, farms and towns, from the edges of Portsmouth and Hull to pockets of Glasgow and Wilmslow and a tiny village in Lincolnshire, where a gay builder is protected from homophobic abuse in the pub by the local darts team.

The director of an Oscar-nominated documentary that goes into the bedrooms of children killed in US school shootings on why it was his most daunting challenge to date – and the hard task of encouraging people to see it

Steve Hartman has been a CBS correspondent since 1996. In the US, he is known for his feelgood human interest stories. This month he has reported on the retirement of a well-loved New Jersey postman after 33 years on the job and a truck driver who has spent two decades building a balsa wood scale replica of New York City.

But since 1997, Hartman has also been reporting on school shootings, which have become a horrifyingly common feature of American life. (CNN reports that there were at least 78 in 2025, though there is no universal definition of a school shooting, which means that numbers vary depending on the source. Other reports suggest a much higher figure.)

The Chronology of Water is a ‘punk rock ayahuasca trip’ of a film that takes no prisoners. Stewart and her star, Imogen Poots, talk about the passion and pain that fuelled it

‘The movie is to be eaten alive and re-metabolised and shat out differently, from everyone’s perspective,” says Kristen Stewart, bracingly. The actor’s directorial debut, The Chronology of Water, has been doing the rounds at film festivals, and when we meet in London the reviews are coming in. Stewart knows that this impressionistic, arthouse collage of a film – adapted from an experimental memoir about a woman’s pain and loss, the elusive nature of memory and the reclamation of desire – is not going to be for everyone. “My favourite Letterboxd review is: ‘The Chronology of what the fuck did I just watch?’” But it matters to her that people respond to it. “Whether it’s your least favourite movie or your most favourite, it’s not lying, it’s genuine. And I’m so fucking proud of that.”

Stewart is sitting next to the film’s star, a slightly more sanguine Imogen Poots. Watching Stewart talk, her leg bouncing, her vocabulary ferocious, feels a bit like being sandblasted. It is invigorating and strangely galvanising, but you don’t go into a conversation with her half asleep. The same can be said for the film itself. “Language is a metaphor for experience,” writes the author Lidia Yuknavitch, at the beginning of the book on which it is based. “It’s as arbitrary as this mass of chaotic images we call memory.”

The fab five convene in Washington DC for the show’s 10th and final season – and one last, escapist feelgood hurrah

In 2018, hopes were not high for Queer Eye. Having dredged the sea floor of early 00s nostalgia, Netflix announced that it had reimagined Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, a makeover series that churned out 100 episodes between 2003 and 2007. In it, switched-on gay men had told clueless straight men how to dress, act and behave. Fifteen years after it debuted, however, that concept felt like a relic. At best, it was a testament to an era in which queer representation on screen was still rare and mostly dealt in unthreatening stereotypes. Bringing it back sounded unpromising, like yet another dead-end television reboot.

When Queer Eye launched, however, it had undergone a makeover of its own, and confounded most expectations. It chopped the name in half, ditched the focus on straight men as its subjects – though, ever inclusive, they were very much part of it – and dragged itself into a more emotionally literate and sensitive era. The five men at its core did fashion and style, of course, but they were delicate about it. The idea was not to shame people for their bodies or personal taste – a common feature of early 00s makeover shows – but to give them a helping hand, lift them out of the doldrums and make them feel as if they and their lives had value and worth.

An afterlife sitcom, an angry penguin, tossed salad and scrambled eggs, and a Corby trouser press … our writers pick the shows they would happily watch on a loop for ever

I love every character and every aspect of Brooklyn Nine-Nine. There isn’t a weak link in the cast and they work together as seamlessly and apparently joyfully as you could wish.

After a decade, the Netflix hit is bowing out. Ahead of its last episodes, the show’s creators and cast talk about big 80s hair, recruiting a Terminator killer – and the birds Kate Bush sent them

How do you finish one of the biggest and most popular TV series of the last decade? Three years after season four came out, the fifth and final season of Stranger Things is about to make its way into the world. Millions of viewers are getting ready to find out what happens to the Upside Down and whether the plucky teens of Hawkins, Indiana can fight off Vecna for good, but it is early November 2025, and its creators Matt and Ross Duffer are finding it difficult to talk about. It’s not just because they’re feeling the pressure, or because the risk of spoilers and leaks is so dangerously high. It’s because the identical twin brothers from North Carolina are just not ready. “It makes me sad,” says Ross. “Because it’s easier to not think about the show actually ending.”

A decade ago, hardly anyone knew what the Upside Down was. Few had heard of Vecna, Mind Flayers or Demogorgons. In 2015, the brothers – self-professed nerds and movie obsessives – were about to begin shooting their first ever TV series. Stranger Things was to be a supernatural adventure steeped in 80s nostalgia, paying tribute to Steven Spielberg and Stephen King. Part of their pitch to Netflix was that it would be “John Carpenter mashed up with ET”. Winona Ryder and Matthew Modine were in it, so it wasn’t exactly low-key, but it was by no means a dead-cert for success, not least because it was led by a cast of young unknowns. The first season came out in the summer of 2016, smashed Netflix viewing records, and almost immediately established itself as a bona fide TV phenomenon.