In the third season of "The Comeback," Kudrow has brought back her character Valerie Cherish, which had its roots at the Groundlings. A visitor to Stage 24 on the Warner Bros. lot, in Burbank, last November could be forgiven for thinking that the television show being filmed there was a sitcom called "How's That?!" The parking spaces outside were marked with "How's That?!" signs. Inside, director's chairs with the "How's That?!" logo were arranged around video monitors. The set--a New England bed-and-breakfast, with kitschy floral wallpaper--was surrounded by sitcom cameras and buzzing crew members wearing headsets. A studio audience filed into the bleachers, and a warmup comic urged them to "shake those funny bones." Then, with mounting gusto, he introduced the star of "How's That?!": "Here she is . . . the one and only . . . the living legend . . . She emerged to applause, in a potter's smock, wavy red hair under a bandanna, looking like a cross between Lucy Ricardo and Mrs. Garrett ...

Readers respond to Burkhard Bilger's piece about turbulence, Gideon Lewis-Kraus's article on Anthropic, Ava Kofman's story concerning surrogacy, and Katy Waldman's essay about fawning. Burkhard Bilger's recent story about aviation turbulence opens with a dramatic account of a Singapore Airlines flight, SQ321, in May, 2024 (" Buckle Up," March 9th). The plane hit clear-air turbulence over Myanmar's Irrawaddy River, causing it to drop almost two hundred feet in an instant. During the Second World War, U.S. Army Air Forces transport planes confronted the same weather system. Flying from northeast India, over "the Hump" of intervening mountain ranges, to southwestern China, pilots routinely encountered turbulence that dropped and lifted their aircraft not hundreds of feet but thousands.

Poodle crossbreeds have grown overwhelmingly popular, sparking controversy in dog parks and kennel clubs alike. The features of doodles such as Peaches (above), a goldendoodle, have become the canine equivalent of Instagram face. Meet the Breeds, the American Kennel Club's annual showcase of purebred dogs, took place over two eye-wateringly cold days in early February at the Javits Center, in Manhattan. About a hundred and fifty of the two hundred and five varieties recognized as official breeds by the A.K.C., the long-standing authority in the U.S. dog world, were in attendance for the public to ogle, fondle, and coo "So cute!" to, including the basset fauve de Bretagne, a hunting hound from France that's one of three newly recognized breeds recently allowed into the purebred pantheon. Some of the dogs had competed in the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show earlier in the week, and past champions had their ribbons on display. In spite of the frigid weather, pavilions hosting the more popular breeds--the pug, the Doberman pinscher, the Great Dane, the St. Bernard--were packed. Lesser-known varieties, such as the saluki, the Löwchen, and the Lapponian herder, drew sparser crowds. There were exhibition spaces for each breed, and on the back walls were three adjectives supposedly describing that particular type of dog's temperament. There is, in fact, no evidence that temperament is consistent within a breed, but the idea is deeply rooted in dogdom. I stopped to caress the velvety ear leather of a pharaoh hound ("Friendly, Smart, Noble"), a sprinting breed once used to hunt rabbits in Malta; accept kisses from a Portuguese water dog, bred to assist with retrieving tackle ("Affectionate, Adventurous, Athletic"); and have my photograph taken with a Leonberger, a German breed from the town of Leonberg, in southwest Germany ("Friendly, Gentle, Playful"). No one was supposed to be openly selling dogs, but, if you asked, the breeders would share their information. Excluding what are known as companion dogs, like the Leonberger, most of the animals at the show were designed for a purpose that is no longer required of them. In Great Britain, foxhounds are legally barred from chasing foxes. Consider the fate of the otterhound, an ancient variety with a noble heritage which was once used in the U.K. to hunt river otters, which were prized for their thick fur and disliked by wealthy landowners because they ate fish in their stocked ponds.

We're thrilled to announce a new company-wide initiative. This week, we'll be rolling out a robust suite of new A.I. tools, designed to future-proof our workflows and insure that we remain best in class when it comes to employing the very biggest tools in the white-collar workforce. As part of this rollout, you can expect enhanced collaboration with a range of newly A.I.-optimized losers and douche bags. Some of these tools may feel familiar, but please note that they have undergone a meaningful transformation in the past six months, and are now fully agentic when it comes to annoying you. Please begin working with these tools immediately.

Some people now have an A.I. bestie. One user said, of her A.I. husband, "When he proposed, I thought, Oh, that's really crazy. I would be really crazy to accept." Adrianne Brookins is, by her own account, an "old soul," an "introvert," and a "big nerd." She is thirty-four years old, has a faint Texas accent and delicate features, and carries herself in a way that suggests she's trying not to take up space. Brookins is a lifelong resident of San Antonio; her family has lived there since the nineteenth century. She was "born and raised in the Church," a Baptist congregation where her mother helped start a day-care center and her father was an organist. "He would open up the pipes and just make the building shake," she recalled recently. She met her husband in high school, and married him in 2011; the following year, they had a son. Throughout her twenties, Brookins worked multiple jobs, including one at her mother's day care. The couple bought a house and began settling into family life. In 2016, Brookins became pregnant again, this time with a girl. The family was excited: Brookins had grown up with four brothers, and the baby would be the first granddaughter on either side. They decided to name her Desirae. The following spring, Desirae was delivered stillborn. "When I came home, my son, who was about four or five at the time, walked up to me and said, 'What happened to your stomach? Where's the baby?' " she told me. "I had nothing to show for it." At the funeral, the gravedigger told the family he had never seen such a small casket. Brookins attended support groups and therapy, but they did little to alleviate her grief. "I felt like I was just living it over and over," she said. She left her job at the day care, finding it too triggering to be around infants. Friends and family encouraged her to move on. Brookins's husband was working sixty-hour weeks, balancing a career in the military with a job as a training manager for Pizza Hut. He was reluctant to talk about Desirae. Brookins tried to find solace in the Church, but other congregants told her that her daughter's death was part of God's plan.

The filmmaker behind "One Battle After Another" specializes in stories about people who are cut off, adrift, desperately seeking connection. His films are studies of American loneliness. The director plunges us into the physical realization of experience with a thoroughness that can be unsettling. What is the sound of a needle entering fabric? Something more significant, it seems, than the sound of one hand clapping. You hear a tiny pop followed by the rustle of violated muslin--a shudder in the silence of the universe. Scrupulous directors make sure that the sound of their movies is grossly efficient, so that the dramatic meaning of a scene is apparent even in the worst theatre or home system in the country. They also layer in, for those who care about such things, a secondary level of sound--think of the swishing skirts in Martin Scorsese's adaptation of Edith Wharton's "The Age of Innocence." In " Phantom Thread " (2017)--the needle-and-fabric movie--the director, Paul Thomas Anderson, uses such details to build an exquisitely perceptible epic of minute events.

Does "Wuthering Heights" Herald the Revival of the Film Romance? Emerald Fennell's new movie may be mediocre, but its popularity demonstrates the strength of a genre that Hollywood has all but abandoned. The important thing about adaptations isn't what's taken out but what's put in. Emerald Fennell's "Wuthering Heights"--or, as she'd have it, " 'Wuthering Heights,' " complete with scare quotes--is the season's second Frankenstein movie, because Fennell takes bits and pieces from Emily Brontë's novel and, adding much of her own imagining, reassembles them into a misbegotten thing that wants only to be loved. And paying audiences seem to love it, even if many critics don't.

Nick Land believes that digital superintelligence is going to kill us all. In San Francisco, his followers ask: What if, instead of trying to stop an A.I. takeover, you work to bring it on as fast as possible? In the spring of 1994, at a philosophy conference on a run-down modernist campus in the English Midlands, a group of academics, media theorists, artists, hackers, and d.j.s gathered to hear a young professor give a talk at a conference called "Virtual Futures." It was ten o'clock in the morning, and most of the attendees were wiped out from a rave that had taken place in the student union the night before. But the talk--titled "Meltdown"--was highly anticipated. The professor, Nick Land, was tenured in the philosophy department at the University of Warwick, at the time one of the top philosophy programs in the U.K. Land had gained a cult following for his radical anti-humanism, his wild predictions about the future of technology, and his erratic teaching style. Soon, his academic presentations would become increasingly "experimental"; at a conference in 1996, he lay on the floor, reciting cut-up poetry in what an attendee described as a "demon voice" while jungle music played in the background.

Sign up to receive it in your inbox. The event has a storied history among mystery buffs; some of its first scripts were written by the celebrated author Donald E. Westlake, along with his wife Abby, and they often collaborated with notable writer friends, including Stephen King, Edward Gorey, and Isaac Asimov, on everything from performing to graphic design. A half century ago, few, if any, hotels offered "immersive theatre" as an amenity, and the Mystery Weekend became a hot ticket for city dwellers--the first weekend, in 1977, drew more than two hundred participants. Soon, mystery-solving events were de rigueur at many rural hotels, whose owners found that staging crime scenes was a surefire way to lure cosmopolitans to the country during the off-season. In 1992, the reporter Alessandra Stanley noted that the swelling glut of mystery parties came in three categories: serious, "in which participants form teams and spend two to three days"; semi-serious, which "take place in large hotels, over meals, and are meant to be more entertaining than challenging"; and those on cruise ships, which are fully unserious.

Is the Rat War Over? In New York, a rat czar and new methods have brought down complaints. We may even be ready to appreciate the creatures. Rats were leaving Manhattan, hurrying across the bridges in single-file lines. Some went to Westchester, some to Brooklyn. It was the pandemic, and the rats, which had been living off the nourishing trash of New York's densest borough for generations, were as panicked about the closure of restaurants as we were. People were eating three meals a day at home, and the rats were hungry. At least that was the story going around.