“The President’s Cake,” set in early 1990s Iraq during the brutal regime of Saddam Hussein, is a fable with a startling, real-world immediacy. Watching it, we are aware that the odyssey of its 9-year-old protagonist, Lamia (the remarkable Baneen Ahmed Nayyef), represents something much larger. And yet we never lose sight of the fact that Lamia’s story also belongs to her alone.

Written and directed by Hasan Hadi, who grew up in Iraq before studying film at New York University, “The President’s Cake” was the first Iraqi film to compete in the Cannes Film Festival, in 2025. There it won both the Caméra d’Or for best first feature and the Audience Award. A crowd-pleaser in the best sense, it overflows with empathy for its beleaguered people.

Lamia lives with her grandmother, Bibi (Waheed Thabet Khreibat), in a tight-knit, marshland community. Paddling a canoe to school each day, Lamia is extraordinarily resilient and yet still very much a child. Her closest companion, apart from her mischievous, conniving classmate Saeed (Saja Mohamad Qasem), is her beloved pet rooster, Hindi. Like Lamia, Hindi is eye-catching and headstrong.

Why We Wrote This

“The President’s Cake” follows a girl, who, along with her friend, and her pet rooster, searches for the ingredients to make a birthday cake for Saddam Hussein. While the movie is fully her story, it also demonstrates how Iraqis survived a brutal and dehumanizing dictatorship.

The United Nations sanctions in the wake of the first Gulf War, along with the American aerial bombardments, have severely impacted the general population. Despite all this, Saddam requires his people every year to shower him with birthday gifts. Lamia is tasked with baking the president a cake in less than two days, though her village doesn’t have all the necessary ingredients. If she doesn’t carry out the assignment, she could be expelled and placed in harm’s way.

She and Bibi venture into the city ostensibly to barter for eggs and baking powder and sugar. When Lamia discovers that the weary Bibi secretly plans to leave her to be raised by a sympathetic city couple, she flees, Hindi in tow, and meets up with Saeed at a local fairground. Evading the authorities, they become petty thieves, although neither will admit that is what they are. And so begins an odyssey that takes Lamia through a series of scrapes that demonstrate both her unquenchable spirit and the corruptions of the society that enfolds her.

Hadi, the filmmaker, doesn’t underscore those corruptions for us, although the city is plastered with posters and murals of a broadly smiling Saddam. The children in Lamia’s classroom may be instructed to belt out chants of “Long live our leader,” but it’s clear that the ritual means little to her, or to Saeed.

What’s so poignant about Lamia’s plight is that, without being aware of it, the war she is caught up in has taken a toll on her innocence – as it is with all wars in which children are embroiled. The adults she encounters in her journey all have their own agendas; they cut her no slack. The one exception is Jasim (Rahim Alhaj), a kindly postal carrier who goes in search of the errant Lamia when Bibi frantically reports her missing to the unconcerned police. If not for Jasim, the society we see might resemble a congregation of con artists. He humanizes the clamor and makes us aware that, even in the direst circumstances, goodness can somehow still prevail.

Hadi’s unsentimental treatment of his key players is especially sensitive. These are no lovable Hollywood tykes. Their street smarts are integral to their being. Lamia and Saaed have a favorite game: They stare into each other’s eyes and wait for the other to blink first. It seems harmless enough, but the game represents something more profound – a way to lock souls as the adult world, and the bombs, rain down upon them.

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In a sense, Lamia lives her entire life as if it were a kind of glorified staring game. She is cognizant of all that surrounds her, both out of fear and an intense curiosity about how her world works. But she is also open to enchantment. Early on Bibi tells her that, if you look deeply into the river, God promises the pure in heart that they shall see the image of their loved one. In the film’s most heartrending passage, when her odyssey has ended, this little girl, in a moment of quiet grace, sees just that.

“The President’s Cake” is in Arabic with English subtitles. The MPAA rates the film PG-13 for strong language, mature thematic elements, some suggestive material, and smoking.

The greetings begin as the guests arrive. Soft mews. Exuberant meows. Lyrical purrs.

But these aren’t totally selfless acts of hospitality. The cats know their incoming visitors are treat purveyors. Humans who enter their enclosures at Lanai Cat Sanctuary come armed with staff-approved goody bags bound to attract affection. Four-legged friends saunter up to guests, begging for delicious morsels and maybe some head rubs. The shy cats hang back, with some lounging on benches, curling up in trees, or sleeping peacefully in small condos.

Call it a cat-lover’s paradise in paradise. This four-acre, open-air haven exists on the Hawaiian island of Lanai.

Why We Wrote This

Lanai Cat Sanctuary started in an unused horse corral and transformed into a series of homey enclosures fit for more than 700 cats. This safe space for felines, in turn, provides protection for the island’s vulnerable feathered inhabitants.

“This place is made for feral cats to become friendly,” says Joe Adarna, the sanctuary’s director of operations.

Decades ago, Lanai contained the world’s largest pineapple plantation. Today, billionaire Larry Ellison owns roughly 98% of land on this mostly undeveloped and rugged island bursting with pine trees. About 3,000 people call Lanai home, and only Hotel Lānaʻi and two Four Seasons resorts operate here. But every year, thousands of tourists make day trips, usually by ferry, to visit the sanctuary, where more than 700 cats live.

The sanctuary’s purpose is twofold — protect bird species while saving cats. And it all started with one kitten.

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff

“Look in the mirror and do something”

Kathy Carroll needed help. In the early 2000s, a kitten that had been hit by a car wound up in her care. But no veterinarian lived on the island. So Ms. Carroll boarded a ferry, with the tiny cat in tow, and headed to Maui. The kitten survived.

While on Maui, Ms. Carroll mentioned Lanai’s swelling population of unsheltered, hungry cats that no one seemed to be helping. The veterinarian’s response: “Maybe you should look in the mirror and do something.”

The blunt advice set in motion an effort to trap and spay or neuter the island’s roaming felines. By 2006, however, the discovery of endangered Hawaiian petrels at a higher elevation on Lanai fast-tracked the desire for a physical sanctuary. The seabirds typically lay one egg per year in a ground burrow, making them particularly susceptible to feral cats.

The sanctuary started in an unused horse corral until it moved to its current location in 2009, Ms. Carroll says. Over time, the sanctuary’s land – once littered with old car parts and discarded refrigerators — transformed into a series of homey enclosures fit for each cat. Older cats, for instance, have their own fenced-in areas, as do cats with special needs.

The safe space for the cats, in turn, provides protection for the island’s vulnerable feathered inhabitants, including the wedge-tailed shearwater, the Hawaiian coot, the Hawaiian stilt, and the Hawaiian petrel.

Hawaii is an island ecosystem in which birds evolved without the presence of feline predators, says Grant Sizemore, director of invasive species programs for the American Bird Conservancy. He credits Lanai Cat Sanctuary with playing a “valuable role” in protecting vulnerable birds.

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff

“As long as cats are roaming the environment, whether they’re owned or unowned, whether sterilized or not sterilized, they remain the essential threat to Hawaii’s native birds,” he says.

The sanctuary reduces the number of roaming cats on the island. The site is “kind of rare,” Ms. Carroll says. “In a lot of communities, the cat people and the bird people are in conflict.”

Don’t expect to find much, if any, cattiness here. The nonprofit’s leaders say fights among the felines are rare. There’s no need to be territorial. The cats have enough nourishment (120 pounds of dry food and 100 cans of wet food per day total), plenty of room (70,000 square feet of enclosed spaces), and, for those who want it, lots of attention (12,000 or more visitors a year).

The cost to keep the operation afloat: $2 million per year, most of which comes from donations. Cat-lovers can send money for specific purposes, such as sponsoring a cat or one of their cozy dwellings. For the latter program, dubbed “Rent a Piece of Purr-adise,” donors earn naming rights to a cat bungalow on the property.

Mr. Adarna says the public has shown consistent generosity. If he indicates a need online, the local post office is swamped with packages.

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff

“Pawsitivity”

On the gently inclining, red-dirt road leading to the sanctuary, signs welcome visitors and rescued cats alike:

Ready for some pawsitivity?

Paw-some for you to join us

Are you good at chin rubs?

Enter with a happy heart

Every year, the nonprofit takes in 150 to 200 cats, most of whom come from Lanai. An exception occurred in August 2023 after a deadly blaze swept through Lahaina, a city on Maui’s northwestern coast. The sanctuary opened its arms to 220 cats rescued postfire by the Maui Humane Society. In exchange, that organization agreed to take 220 adoptable cats from Lanai Cat Sanctuary over the next few years, Mr. Adarna says.

Some cats live out their remaining time at the sanctuary. But the true aim of sanctuary workers – who give the cats unique names – is to socialize them better and help each one find a loving forever home.

“As they get older, it’s so much better to have a couch and a family,” Mr. Adarna says.

The sanctuary facilitates anywhere from 50 to 100 adoptions each year, with new homes as far-flung as New York and Florida. Some of those bonds begin when visitors meet a special four-legged friend at the sanctuary.

Other visitors come for the cuddles and leave with happy memories. A few have even departed with wedding rings. About a dozen couples have gotten married at the sanctuary, with a guest list accommodating any cats that want to show up for the nuptials.

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On this late October day, Tom and Kristina Rayder – who have three cats at home in Chicago – are celebrating their five-year wedding anniversary at the sanctuary. He’s wearing a cat-themed Hawaiian shirt; he and his wife both have cat tattoos.

“We’re just crazy cat people,” Ms. Rayder says, laughing while surrounded by – you guessed it – cats.

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff

The words of a favorite children’s book come to mind as I look out the window. The line is uttered by a little mouse upon entering the winter cave of a hibernating bear: too damp, too dank, too dark. 

Welcome to the doldrums of winter. 

Yes, winter does bring some jubilant moments. There are the festivities of the holidays, celebrations, and delicious food. The season culminates with the masses bundling up and waiting for the ball to drop at midnight. A new year has come!

Why We Wrote This

The cold, the dark, the slush. We love to hate winter. But the season holds unique opportunities if we're willing to look deeper: In our overbooked lives, it's a welcome time to slow down, reflect, and rest.

And then ... January. The grumbling commences: It’s cold, and many of us are greeted by darkness when we get up and darkness when we return home from work. 

“We feel the effects of winter, right? We’re animals living on this planet, and we are affected by cycles of light and dark,” Kari Leibowitz says, chatting with me from her home in Amsterdam. “Light makes us feel alert, awake, and energized, and darkness makes us feel tired.”

Dr. Leibowitz is what you might call an expert on winter. In her book, “How To Winter: Harness Your Mindset To Thrive on Cold, Dark, or Difficult Days,” she traveled the world to see how different cultures approach the cold months. She grew up on the Jersey Shore, an area built to maximize the summer sunshine. To her, winter lacked any redeeming qualities. 

When she landed a fellowship to study winter at the world’s northernmost university in Tromsø, Norway, she encountered a different mindset: Winter wasn’t something to be endured, but rather, enjoyed. There are bountiful opportunities to play in the snow. Cafés and restaurants embrace the ambience of candlelight and fireplaces. The wool sweaters are taken out of storage, with pleasure.

“We don’t allow space for healthy, adaptive, seasonal fluctuations,” Dr. Leibowitz says. In places like northern Norway, where part of the year is 24 hours of sunlight and another is 24 hours of darkness, it’s obvious to its inhabitants that your entire life would shift. “That’s going to affect us, but we have this view that ... we should have the same schedule, productivity, behaviors, and habits year-round.” She adds, “Every single person is going to have periods of their life where they are forced to rest, whether they like it or not. I think winter is a bit of a friendlier time to practice [that].”

We love to hate winter, but it made me wonder whether winter isn’t the problem. Perhaps we find it insufferable because it infringes on our desire to keep doing things the way we want. Perhaps winter can – and should – be an opportunity for new rhythms. 

“We have to look to the natural world for models,” says Bonnie Smith Whitehouse, an English professor at Belmont University in Nashville, Tennessee, and the author of “Seasons of Wonder: Making the Ordinary Sacred Through Projects, Prayers, Reflections, and Rituals.”

Dr. Whitehouse has made it her practice to align her life with the seasons. She sees spring and summer as outward-facing seasons, times of the year when it’s encouraged to be out and about. But in winter, she leans in to the idea of wintering: reflecting, pausing, and resting. To her, a flower is the perfect symbol of resting in winter so it can unfurl in all its glory come spring. 

“It appears lifeless [in winter],” says Dr. Whitehouse, “but what’s happening is regeneration and renewal.”

Just as Dr. Whitehouse is drawn to flowers, I’ve always been drawn to trees. Their skeletal winter branches, often stark against the backdrop of a gray sky, remind me that I need the stillness of winter to prepare for the outburst of spring. Wintering reminds us that, below the surface, things are happening, in nature and in us.

Katherine May, author of “Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times,” has always loved the cold winter months but acknowledges that others struggle to do the same. In fact, if many people had their way, they’d just skip the season altogether. 

“We can almost completely avoid it if we want to,” she says. We turn up the heat. We keep our lights bright. We avoid the outdoors. But turning away from the season is to our detriment, she continues. “We have this innate skill for winter that we are not so keen on exercising anymore.” 

Ms. May echoes what many winter aficionados have long embraced: that slowing down and choosing to use winter as a time of reflection is crucial in our busy, overbooked lives.

Winter also offers the unique opportunity of venturing into the elements, feeling the brisk air on our faces, and letting the cold remind us of our vitality. One activity that Ms. May has embraced is cold-weather swimming; she and her friend head to the British seashore, don their bathing suits, and plunge into the frigid waters. 

“I still have that fear when I’m standing at the edge of the water. There’s still that reticence,” she reflects. “But once I get in, there’s this immediate feeling of just pure, exuberant joy.”

Right now, I can’t think of anything less desirable than submerging myself in the winter waters of the New England coast, where I live. But lately, I’ve taken to biking to work. I layer myself with windproof gear, woolen thermals, and thick mittens. At the start of my journey, I question my choices. By the time I arrive, I’m grinning from ear to ear, sweaty and invigorated. It’s become one of my favorite parts of my workday, one I find oddly restful.

“I don’t think we should only see rest as sitting down,” Ms. May explains. “Rest is something that isn’t work. Rest is often very, very physical and very active.” 

As I look through my long list of commitments and obligations, this idea of rest – both active and passive – resonates deeply with me.

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This winter, I find myself trying to grow comfortable with the uncomfortable aspects of the season. I have an inkling that winter doesn’t have to be so bad, if I allow myself to welcome the wonders around me. Yes, I’ll give myself permission to rest: a cozy blanket here, a warm beverage there. But I’ll also push myself to grab my favorite hat and embrace the blustery outdoors, inhaling the brisk air, unafraid of the cold and open to the way it might restore me. 

Winter will come regardless. So I may as well let it snow. 

The words of a favorite children’s book come to mind as I look out the window. The line is uttered by a little mouse upon entering the winter cave of a hibernating bear: too damp, too dank, too dark. 

Welcome to the doldrums of winter. 

Yes, winter does bring some jubilant moments. There are the festivities of the holidays, celebrations, and delicious food. The season culminates with the masses bundling up and waiting for the ball to drop at midnight. A new year has come!

Why We Wrote This

The cold, the dark, the slush. We love to hate winter. But the season holds unique opportunities if we're willing to look deeper: In our overbooked lives, it's a welcome time to slow down, reflect, and rest.

And then ... January. The grumbling commences: It’s cold, and many of us are greeted by darkness when we get up and darkness when we return home from work. 

“We feel the effects of winter, right? We’re animals living on this planet, and we are affected by cycles of light and dark,” Kari Leibowitz says, chatting with me from her home in Amsterdam. “Light makes us feel alert, awake, and energized, and darkness makes us feel tired.”

Dr. Leibowitz is what you might call an expert on winter. In her book, “How To Winter: Harness Your Mindset To Thrive on Cold, Dark, or Difficult Days,” she traveled the world to see how different cultures approach the cold months. She grew up on the Jersey Shore, an area built to maximize the summer sunshine. To her, winter lacked any redeeming qualities. 

When she landed a fellowship to study winter at the world’s northernmost university in Tromsø, Norway, she encountered a different mindset: Winter wasn’t something to be endured, but rather, enjoyed. There are bountiful opportunities to play in the snow. Cafés and restaurants embrace the ambience of candlelight and fireplaces. The wool sweaters are taken out of storage, with pleasure.

“We don’t allow space for healthy, adaptive, seasonal fluctuations,” Dr. Leibowitz says. In places like northern Norway, where part of the year is 24 hours of sunlight and another is 24 hours of darkness, it’s obvious to its inhabitants that your entire life would shift. “That’s going to affect us, but we have this view that ... we should have the same schedule, productivity, behaviors, and habits year-round.” She adds, “Every single person is going to have periods of their life where they are forced to rest, whether they like it or not. I think winter is a bit of a friendlier time to practice [that].”

We love to hate winter, but it made me wonder whether winter isn’t the problem. Perhaps we find it insufferable because it infringes on our desire to keep doing things the way we want. Perhaps winter can – and should – be an opportunity for new rhythms. 

“We have to look to the natural world for models,” says Bonnie Smith Whitehouse, an English professor at Belmont University in Nashville, Tennessee, and the author of “Seasons of Wonder: Making the Ordinary Sacred Through Projects, Prayers, Reflections, and Rituals.”

Dr. Whitehouse has made it her practice to align her life with the seasons. She sees spring and summer as outward-facing seasons, times of the year when it’s encouraged to be out and about. But in winter, she leans in to the idea of wintering: reflecting, pausing, and resting. To her, a flower is the perfect symbol of resting in winter so it can unfurl in all its glory come spring. 

“It appears lifeless [in winter],” says Dr. Whitehouse, “but what’s happening is regeneration and renewal.”

Just as Dr. Whitehouse is drawn to flowers, I’ve always been drawn to trees. Their skeletal winter branches, often stark against the backdrop of a gray sky, remind me that I need the stillness of winter to prepare for the outburst of spring. Wintering reminds us that, below the surface, things are happening, in nature and in us.

Katherine May, author of “Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times,” has always loved the cold winter months but acknowledges that others struggle to do the same. In fact, if many people had their way, they’d just skip the season altogether. 

“We can almost completely avoid it if we want to,” she says. We turn up the heat. We keep our lights bright. We avoid the outdoors. But turning away from the season is to our detriment, she continues. “We have this innate skill for winter that we are not so keen on exercising anymore.” 

Ms. May echoes what many winter aficionados have long embraced: that slowing down and choosing to use winter as a time of reflection is crucial in our busy, overbooked lives.

Winter also offers the unique opportunity of venturing into the elements, feeling the brisk air on our faces, and letting the cold remind us of our vitality. One activity that Ms. May has embraced is cold-weather swimming; she and her friend head to the British seashore, don their bathing suits, and plunge into the frigid waters. 

“I still have that fear when I’m standing at the edge of the water. There’s still that reticence,” she reflects. “But once I get in, there’s this immediate feeling of just pure, exuberant joy.”

Right now, I can’t think of anything less desirable than submerging myself in the winter waters of the New England coast, where I live. But lately, I’ve taken to biking to work. I layer myself with windproof gear, woolen thermals, and thick mittens. At the start of my journey, I question my choices. By the time I arrive, I’m grinning from ear to ear, sweaty and invigorated. It’s become one of my favorite parts of my workday, one I find oddly restful.

“I don’t think we should only see rest as sitting down,” Ms. May explains. “Rest is something that isn’t work. Rest is often very, very physical and very active.” 

As I look through my long list of commitments and obligations, this idea of rest – both active and passive – resonates deeply with me.

Deepen your worldview

with Monitor Highlights.

Already a subscriber? Log in to hide ads.

This winter, I find myself trying to grow comfortable with the uncomfortable aspects of the season. I have an inkling that winter doesn’t have to be so bad, if I allow myself to welcome the wonders around me. Yes, I’ll give myself permission to rest: a cozy blanket here, a warm beverage there. But I’ll also push myself to grab my favorite hat and embrace the blustery outdoors, inhaling the brisk air, unafraid of the cold and open to the way it might restore me. 

Winter will come regardless. So I may as well let it snow. 

On Thursday, “One Battle After Another” received one Oscar nomination after another.

The strong contender for best picture is up for 13 Academy Awards. The movie features militarized police who venture into sanctuary cities to round up unauthorized immigrants. A band of resistance fighters pushes back. It might sound like something on CNN rather than IMAX.

The film’s impressive nomination tally includes nods in all four acting categories, including best actor for Leonardo DiCaprio. Paul Thomas Anderson, the 2025 film’s writer, director, and producer, was also nominated for best director. “One Battle After Another” will vie with “Sinners,” a vampire movie set in the Jim Crow era, which received a record 16 nominations. The 98th Academy Awards, hosted by Conan O’Brien, airs on ABC on Sunday, March 15.

Why We Wrote This

Best picture nominee “One Battle After Another” traces its origin to a 1990 novel, yet some elements feel uncomfortably relevant to the current news cycle. Where some culture critics see a left-wing storyline, others see a nuanced cautionary tale about the risks of political extremism.

The nominations for “One Battle After Another” land at a big political moment. As the Oscar race unfolds, acceptance speeches during other awards shows may reference news headlines from Minnesota. At the recent Golden Globes, some celebrities wore anti-ICE pins. “One Battle After Another” has already sparked contentious dinner-table arguments. Is it art mirroring real life? Or is it an instance of left-leaning Hollywood offering a distorted view of today’s America while excusing political violence?

Beyond debates over the movie’s blind spots and biases, some viewers will see an underlying message that transcends political tribalism. “One Battle After Another” critiques the appeal of extremism, on both the left and right, and illustrates how embracing polarizing views often comes at the cost of human relationships. At heart, it’s a story about a left-wing radical (Mr. DiCaprio) trying to reconnect with his adopted teen daughter, who struggles with her parents’ political choices.

“That was the most touching, and I think the strongest, part of the film,” says Michael Genovese, co-author of “American Politics Film Festival: Understanding US Politics Through Film.” “In the end, his politics were secondary. His love of his daughter came first, and that is a universal [quality].”

Siding with terrorists?

The almost three-hour “One Battle After Another” is loosely based on Thomas Pynchon’s often comedic and absurdist 1990 novel, “Vineland.” Here’s the basic plot. (Grab some popcorn – spoilers ahead.) It’s set in the near future. A young bomber (Mr. DiCaprio) is in a terrorist group named the French 75. His lover, Perfidia Beverly Hills (best supporting actress nominee Teyana Taylor), is its ferocious leader.

Early on, the two strike a government detention facility to free unauthorized migrants. But Perfidia secretly begins an affair with the facility’s commander, Steven Lockjaw (Sean Penn) and becomes pregnant. Not long after the baby is born, she begins leaving the child with Mr. DiCaprio’s character so that she can go out on raids. But Perfidia gets arrested. In exchange for freedom in a witness protection program, she betrays the identities of her fellow radicals, including her own family. The French 75 team scatters and assumes fake identities. And that’s just Act 1. Phew!

Warner Bros. Pictures/AP

Some viewers have criticized the movie for siding with terrorist protagonists.

“Violent leftist radical activism – that is what the whole first act is about, and then it never really reckons with questions of morality about radical violence,” says Peter Suderman, who reviewed the movie for Reason magazine.

Mr. Suderman, a libertarian, describes himself as extremely pro-immigration and as appalled by recent videos of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents in Minnesota. So he’s sympathetic to the goals of the French 75 in “One Battle After Another.” Yet it’s a cop-out, he says, that the director never shows viewers whether Mr. DiCaprio’s bombs kill anyone. That makes it easier to feel sympathy toward the lead character.

One father’s struggle

Act 2 begins 16 years later. Mr. DiCaprio’s bomber, now renamed Bob Ferguson, lives in Northern California. He’s a drug-addled, paranoid, conspiracy-theorist layabout, with all the fight gone out of him. Willa, Perfidia’s abandoned daughter, is embarrassed by her adoptive father. But when Lockjaw arrives in town to arrest his biological daughter, she flees. That stirs Bob to embark on a journey to find Willa before Lockjaw does. Yet Bob is bumbling and ineffectual, and spends the entire quest wearing a dressing gown. He’s like “The Dude” in “The Big Lebowski,” without the tenpin bowling skills.

In a video review of the movie, conservative commentator Ben Shapiro objects to Bob’s character – or lack of it. “It is better, in other words, to be a complete loser who wastes your life bombing things randomly in order to free illegal immigrants to run willy-nilly across the border, than to be a productive citizen of society,” he says.

Other readings of the film say that it hardly glorifies Bob and Perfidia. They’re not role models. In Act 1, the French 75 robs a bank to fund its terrorism. During the heist, in which the bank customers are lying on the floor, one member of the terrorist team proclaims, “I am what Black power looks like!” But there’s a disconnect between the revolutionaries’ rhetoric and their actions. Moments later, Perfidia shoots an older Black security guard who is lying on the floor. Some see echoes of a real-life tragedy in 1981, when members of the left-wing Weather Underground fatally shot two police officers, including Waverly Brown, the first Black law enforcement officer in Nyack, New York, following a heist.

“While some argue the film celebrates political violence, it doesn’t at all,” Richard Newby wrote in The Hollywood Reporter. “It depicts it as a temporary solution, one that, when drawing battle lines, only results in casualties on both sides and creates victims out of those who suffer under the same realities of America.”

The movie highlights a generational divide between older leftists and today’s progressives. When Bob meets one of Willa’s friends, who wants to be referred to as gender-neutral, he sarcastically asks, “Now is that a he, or a she, or a they?” Later, Bob has a hilarious argument with a young revolutionary phone operator who insists that he can’t help Bob unless he uses the correct password.

“The bureaucratic fussiness of the operator is clearly meant to be a satire of doctrinaire left-wing rigidity,” wrote Variety critic Owen Gleiberman in an essay titled “No, ‘One Battle After Another’ Is Not a ‘Left-Wing’ Movie.”

Yet, for all the satire about left-wing radicals, the movie’s villains are right-wing racists. Lockjaw becomes a member of an exclusive secret society of high-powered white nationalists. Its oligarchs insist upon racial purity even though some members utilize immigrant workers in their industries. Conservative influencer Mr. Shapiro slammed the movie’s portrayal of a United States run by white supremacist Christian nationalists.

It was a cheap shot, agrees Mr. Genovese, who nonetheless thought it worked comedically. If Mr. Genovese were to update his 2025 book on movies and politics with a chapter on “One Battle After Another,” he says, he’d point out how the film captures the confusion of today’s political landscape. For a couple of decades, the political ideology of American voters resembled a bell curve, Mr. Genovese says – a few on the far left and a few on the far right. Most people were in the middle. Now, we have a U-shaped curve, with more people on the far right and the extreme left. “One Battle After Another” depicts what political extremism looks like. Yet its choice of good guys versus villains doesn’t help bridge that gulf.

“We don’t have movies that have discussions,” says Mr. Genovese, who is president of the Global Policy Institute at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. “We have movies that make points and take positions.”

The question of extremism – and how we respond

It’s telling that the two most extreme characters, Perfidia and Lockjaw, are attracted to each other despite being on opposing sides of the political spectrum. Lockjaw, a racist, is terrified that the others will find out that he has a biracial biological daughter. So he sets out to kill her. Lockjaw is as cartoonish as his name suggests. He walks with the gait of a saddle-burned cowboy. His military haircut – half mop, half buzz cut – looks like an accident from using a Flowbee. Yet there’s a scene in which he knocks on Perfidia’s door with a bouquet. When there’s no response, he returns with a battering ram and smashes the door open.

It’s a heartbreaking scene, Dane Rich, who reviewed the movie for Christianity Today, says in an interview. The deeply insecure and needy soldier was initially willing to reveal his vulnerability, but once he felt rejected, he resorted to violence in a display of masculine bravado. Later, Lockjaw’s search for acceptance leads him to join the racist club.

Mr. Rich sees a real-world lesson there about how viewers could respond to those who are lured into extremism. If we shun extremists, believing that they are only deserving of scorn and contempt, then there’s no hope for peace.

“Are we giving them off-ramps of love, or are we withholding it?” asks Mr. Rich.

In “One Battle After Another,” one character represents a moral center: karate teacher Sensei Sergio St. Thomas. (He’s played by Benicio Del Toro, who, alongside Mr. Penn, is nominated for best supporting actor.) In a sanctuary city, the sensei runs a “Latino Harriet Tubman” underground railroad. In a messy world that tries to entice people to embrace extremes, the sensei hasn’t succumbed to that pull, says Mr. Rich. Instead, he embodies composure and peace. He seems to treat his entire community as family. It’s a stark contrast with Lockjaw and Perfidia, who’ve each sacrificed their parental relationship with Willa for their fanaticism.

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In the end, Bob works to regain Willa’s trust and rebuild a broken familial relationship.

“That’s an apolitical message,” says Mr. Rich, who also writes on Substack. “[It’s] looking at the ability to be present where you are, to see the humanity around you, and then to act and love – whatever that means in that moment – for the sake of those around you.”

When I arrive at his office at the Murcian Institute for Agricultural and Environmental Research and Development, José Cos-Terrer has already been working for hours. “Every morning, as I start the day, my first thought is how lucky I am,” he says with a smile, almost like a confession. 

Dr. Cos-Terrer and his team are dedicated to developing fruit tree and vegetable varieties that can withstand drought, poor soil, and blight. In southeastern Spain, which has a desert climate and severe water scarcity, the task of finding sustainable solutions is urgent. So far, the answer has been to combine public infrastructure, scientific innovation, and sophisticated sensor technology.

Alongside the Murcian Institute’s genetic advances, sensors play a key role in ensuring that crops receive exactly what they need, particularly under extreme environmental conditions. And I am surprised at how small these sensors are. 

Why We Wrote This

In a region with an arid climate and severe water scarcity, finding sustainable solutions to grow crops is urgent. So far, the answer has been to combine public infrastructure, scientific innovation, and sophisticated sensor technology.

I had imagined towers of cables and bulky equipment, but when I visit the Widhoc agricultural tech company’s workshop – an area no bigger than my living room – I discover that a sensor fits into the palm of a hand. Hundreds of the devices are produced in the workshop each month, explains Juan Jiménez, a Widhoc manager, as he points to a table full of prototypes ready to go to the fields.

To understand how the sensors work, he shows me the company’s new software platform. The screen displays real-time data on soil moisture, temperature, and nutrient levels from various crop plots. With a click, irrigation charts pop up, along with data comparisons with previous seasons and high-resolution satellite images of crops. 

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“A client can see their entire farm from here,” Mr. Jiménez says proudly. “In the end, there’s more science in a tomato than in an iPhone.”

Gianni Esposito Gianni Esposito Gianni Esposito Gianni Esposito Gianni Esposito

For more visual storytelling that captures communities, traditions, and cultures around the globe, visit The World in Pictures.

I wouldn’t have gone outside if it hadn’t been garbage night. It was dark, and it was cold. I was feeling cranky about the cold. I could have thrown on a jacket, but sometimes it’s easier and more satisfying to grumble. I was also feeling grouchy about the state of the world, which is not at all following the script I wrote for it. 

And I was feeling grumpy about the garbage. I always think I should have no garbage. I’ve failed my standards if I fill the can. Most of it is plastic. It’s hard to avoid. Sometimes, you just want to buy shelf-stable gnocchi in the little plastic bag, and some days it doesn’t seem like there’s much one person can do (or can do without) to really make a difference.

I thunked my little plastic garbage sack into the little plastic garbage can and resolved to go back inside where it was warm. Fossil fuels contribute to my comfort, but I try not to think about that.

Why We Wrote This

When the world’s worries threaten to weigh you down, do as our essayist does and step outside. It’s a welcome reminder of how small we are in this great, big universe.

It’s exhausting to be of my political bent. I can’t quit caring, but I could use an intervention. Because if you let yourself, you can feel like you have let down the universe if you’re not constantly outraged. 

I huffed a sour cloud into the chilly air, hunched against the cold, and started to grump my way back into the house, when something made me look up. A message. A bright bolt. A giant celestial “Hey, there!”

Venus! She will have her way with us.

I’m a city girl. But I’ve seen it before, the stars strewn across the sky like spilled treasure, crazy and loud with light. And if some of them seem to be winking at us, well? Maybe they are. Relax, sweet pea, they say. You’re never alone. Don’t be afraid to be meek. We’ve got you.

We don’t see a lot of stars here. There’s too much artificial light, and in the summertime too much haze, and in the winter, too many clouds. But the cold, clear air I was hunching against holds much less moisture, and starlight has an easier time punching through. I was riveted and immobilized, suddenly tuned in to the unfathomable beyond. I’m no astronomer, but I knew I had some serious planets here. Four. Venus. Mars, for  sure. How could it actually still gleam red from 250 million miles away? And Jupiter. And another player the internet later told me was Saturn. 

They were powerful, crisp, assertive. And there were actual stars, too, Orion’s being the most prominent. We all know Orion, with his belt, his shield, and his sword. We amateurs appreciate the Hunter for being so recognizable, but it’s just a matter of point of view, as everything is. If we were somewhere else (say, Mars), the very same stars would not resolve into a hunter. Some other demigod, maybe. They would be Orion the Space Wombat, or whatever they have on Mars. 

Perspective changes everything. 

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I miss stars. But here in the city, I can walk to almost anything I need, and what I can’t walk to I can bicycle to. The city is a good way for a lot of people to live together efficiently – it’s a trade-off, and I’m fine with it. I do know all the stars I can see are in our own galaxy, and only our nearest neighbors at that. I know our galaxy is rather small as these things go. I know the universe is unimaginably vast.

But what has me rooted here, looking up from my little garbage can at the curb, is a transfusion of beauty into a faltering spirit. I am so very grateful to be reminded of how small I am. I’ll fight the good fight tomorrow. I’ll still monitor my garbage as though I’m an accountant, but no pocket protector can mute my thumping heart. I’m not going inside just yet. I’m plenty warm now.

I wouldn’t have gone outside if it hadn’t been garbage night. It was dark, and it was cold. I was feeling cranky about the cold. I could have thrown on a jacket, but sometimes it’s easier and more satisfying to grumble. I was also feeling grouchy about the state of the world, which is not at all following the script I wrote for it. 

And I was feeling grumpy about the garbage. I always think I should have no garbage. I’ve failed my standards if I fill the can. Most of it is plastic. It’s hard to avoid. Sometimes, you just want to buy shelf-stable gnocchi in the little plastic bag, and some days it doesn’t seem like there’s much one person can do (or can do without) to really make a difference.

I thunked my little plastic garbage sack into the little plastic garbage can and resolved to go back inside where it was warm. Fossil fuels contribute to my comfort, but I try not to think about that.

Why We Wrote This

When the world’s worries threaten to weigh you down, do as our essayist does and step outside. It’s a welcome reminder of how small we are in this great, big universe.

It’s exhausting to be of my political bent. I can’t quit caring, but I could use an intervention. Because if you let yourself, you can feel like you have let down the universe if you’re not constantly outraged. 

I huffed a sour cloud into the chilly air, hunched against the cold, and started to grump my way back into the house, when something made me look up. A message. A bright bolt. A giant celestial “Hey, there!”

Venus! She will have her way with us.

I’m a city girl. But I’ve seen it before, the stars strewn across the sky like spilled treasure, crazy and loud with light. And if some of them seem to be winking at us, well? Maybe they are. Relax, sweet pea, they say. You’re never alone. Don’t be afraid to be meek. We’ve got you.

We don’t see a lot of stars here. There’s too much artificial light, and in the summertime too much haze, and in the winter, too many clouds. But the cold, clear air I was hunching against holds much less moisture, and starlight has an easier time punching through. I was riveted and immobilized, suddenly tuned in to the unfathomable beyond. I’m no astronomer, but I knew I had some serious planets here. Four. Venus. Mars, for  sure. How could it actually still gleam red from 250 million miles away? And Jupiter. And another player the internet later told me was Saturn. 

They were powerful, crisp, assertive. And there were actual stars, too, Orion’s being the most prominent. We all know Orion, with his belt, his shield, and his sword. We amateurs appreciate the Hunter for being so recognizable, but it’s just a matter of point of view, as everything is. If we were somewhere else (say, Mars), the very same stars would not resolve into a hunter. Some other demigod, maybe. They would be Orion the Space Wombat, or whatever they have on Mars. 

Perspective changes everything. 

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I miss stars. But here in the city, I can walk to almost anything I need, and what I can’t walk to I can bicycle to. The city is a good way for a lot of people to live together efficiently – it’s a trade-off, and I’m fine with it. I do know all the stars I can see are in our own galaxy, and only our nearest neighbors at that. I know our galaxy is rather small as these things go. I know the universe is unimaginably vast.

But what has me rooted here, looking up from my little garbage can at the curb, is a transfusion of beauty into a faltering spirit. I am so very grateful to be reminded of how small I am. I’ll fight the good fight tomorrow. I’ll still monitor my garbage as though I’m an accountant, but no pocket protector can mute my thumping heart. I’m not going inside just yet. I’m plenty warm now.

When my wife and I heard a plaintive whinny from our laundry room the other day, we knew that our old dryer had cycled its last load. The dryer had lasted three decades, long enough to tumble my daughter’s toddler clothes and her husband’s jeans many years later. We had gotten our money’s worth from an appliance we’d purchased as newlyweds, and I couldn’t complain when its bearings finally gave out.

Waiting for the store van to bring a replacement, I glanced at the old dryer, its top as rusty as an ancient freighter resting in dry dock. Before the kids grew up and left home, we probably averaged four loads a week, a perpetual spin of socks and towels, shirts and blouses, and the occasional dog blanket for a terrier whose bed was plusher than mine.

In the winter of 2000, we sometimes ran the dryer with nothing in it. Our newborn son, restless at midnight, found the gentle hum of the rotating drum a soothing lullaby. I held him near the dryer so often that I put a chair beside it, sometimes dozing off myself as the mechanical murmur put me back to sleep.

Why We Wrote This

When a decades-old dryer finishes its final load, a dad of grown kids reflects on the cycles of laundry it has completed over the cycles of his life, from young parenthood to empty nester.

In those cold, dark hours, the laundry room seemed like the gently beating heart of our house, and perhaps it was. Juice and milk often spilled over the family dinner table back then, flooding laps large and small like a river cresting its banks. Our youngsters muddied pants and dresses as they scurried around the lawn, their knees and elbows still marked by the yard’s wild embrace when they came back inside. Grass stains and blueberry blotches colored their clothing as brightly as a canvas by Monet. Our washer and dryer, always full, greeted us each day like rumbling horns of plenty, the sweet floral scent of each warm load perfuming our den with a subtle grace note.

Grace, though, isn’t what I usually felt as I fed armfuls of boxer shorts and T-shirts into the dryer each week. I came to think of myself as a sailor shoveling coal while our household slowly steamed its way through the seasons, our destination not always clear.

Laundry and other humble routines of parenthood sometimes made me restless, and I’d sigh and hope for a day when I might be able to focus on higher things.

But some wise words from writer Kathleen Norris helped me keep things in perspective. As she deftly noted, to call a household chore “menial” is to evoke a Latin word meaning “to remain” or “to dwell in a household.” In this way, Ms. Norris pointed out, the tasks we often regard as domestic drudgery are really “about connections, about family and household ties.”

It’s something I’ve reflected on more deeply in my new life as an empty nester, with our daughter and son now grown and living far away. Our washer and dryer are quieter these days, but when our children return for visits, we once again do their laundry in a small gesture of homecoming. The simple chore is a reminder that, in washing their pajamas and folding their slacks, we’ll always be ready with a warm welcome.

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As the dryer spins, I’m reminded of the circularity of my life, its predictable cycles perhaps seen most ideally as a source of discovery rather than dullness. “The ordinary activities I find most compatible with contemplation,” Ms. Norris told readers, “are walking, baking bread and doing laundry.”

Which is why there might be nothing nobler than a batch of clean clothes. Or so I told myself as I opened our new dryer and pitched in its first load.

When my wife and I heard a plaintive whinny from our laundry room the other day, we knew that our old dryer had cycled its last load. The dryer had lasted three decades, long enough to tumble my daughter’s toddler clothes and her husband’s jeans many years later. We had gotten our money’s worth from an appliance we’d purchased as newlyweds, and I couldn’t complain when its bearings finally gave out.

Waiting for the store van to bring a replacement, I glanced at the old dryer, its top as rusty as an ancient freighter resting in dry dock. Before the kids grew up and left home, we probably averaged four loads a week, a perpetual spin of socks and towels, shirts and blouses, and the occasional dog blanket for a terrier whose bed was plusher than mine.

In the winter of 2000, we sometimes ran the dryer with nothing in it. Our newborn son, restless at midnight, found the gentle hum of the rotating drum a soothing lullaby. I held him near the dryer so often that I put a chair beside it, sometimes dozing off myself as the mechanical murmur put me back to sleep.

Why We Wrote This

When a decades-old dryer finishes its final load, a dad of grown kids reflects on the cycles of laundry it has completed over the cycles of his life, from young parenthood to empty nester.

In those cold, dark hours, the laundry room seemed like the gently beating heart of our house, and perhaps it was. Juice and milk often spilled over the family dinner table back then, flooding laps large and small like a river cresting its banks. Our youngsters muddied pants and dresses as they scurried around the lawn, their knees and elbows still marked by the yard’s wild embrace when they came back inside. Grass stains and blueberry blotches colored their clothing as brightly as a canvas by Monet. Our washer and dryer, always full, greeted us each day like rumbling horns of plenty, the sweet floral scent of each warm load perfuming our den with a subtle grace note.

Grace, though, isn’t what I usually felt as I fed armfuls of boxer shorts and T-shirts into the dryer each week. I came to think of myself as a sailor shoveling coal while our household slowly steamed its way through the seasons, our destination not always clear.

Laundry and other humble routines of parenthood sometimes made me restless, and I’d sigh and hope for a day when I might be able to focus on higher things.

But some wise words from writer Kathleen Norris helped me keep things in perspective. As she deftly noted, to call a household chore “menial” is to evoke a Latin word meaning “to remain” or “to dwell in a household.” In this way, Ms. Norris pointed out, the tasks we often regard as domestic drudgery are really “about connections, about family and household ties.”

It’s something I’ve reflected on more deeply in my new life as an empty nester, with our daughter and son now grown and living far away. Our washer and dryer are quieter these days, but when our children return for visits, we once again do their laundry in a small gesture of homecoming. The simple chore is a reminder that, in washing their pajamas and folding their slacks, we’ll always be ready with a warm welcome.

Deepen your worldview

with Monitor Highlights.

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As the dryer spins, I’m reminded of the circularity of my life, its predictable cycles perhaps seen most ideally as a source of discovery rather than dullness. “The ordinary activities I find most compatible with contemplation,” Ms. Norris told readers, “are walking, baking bread and doing laundry.”

Which is why there might be nothing nobler than a batch of clean clothes. Or so I told myself as I opened our new dryer and pitched in its first load.

Dolly Parton was born into poverty in the mountains of East Tennessee in 1946, spending her early years in a crowded cabin that lacked plumbing and electricity. In “Ain’t Nobody’s Fool,” Martha Ackmann’s enjoyable biography of the country music superstar, the author notes that despite their hardscrabble circumstances, the Parton children – there were eventually 12 – were encouraged to dream. It’s possible that even in her wildest dreams Dolly Parton couldn’t imagine the impact she would have as a singer, songwriter, actor, entrepreneur, and philanthropist.

Ackmann writes that Parton was blessed, from the start, with “musical talent, a strong backbone, and a gift for storytelling.” She was also hard-working and ambitious. As a young girl she sang with her sisters at church, and by the time she was around 10 years old she was performing in local venues in Sevierville, Tennessee, considered the big city by mountain folk like Parton. She was soon invited to appear on the area’s local radio and television shows.

Parton was ridiculed by her classmates, both for her audacious intention to become a star and for what remains her signature style. “Her peers thought her clothes were too tight, her makeup too thick, and her hair too high,” Ackmann writes. After high school graduation, Parton moved to Nashville in pursuit of a music career. She knocked on record executives’ doors with her uncle, Bill Owens, with whom she wrote songs. Of their bold approach, she once remarked, “We didn’t know it couldn’t be done until we already did it.” (Shortly after moving to Nashville she met Carl Dean, whom she married in 1966 and who died in March 2025.) 

Why We Wrote This

Dolly Parton started writing songs when she was 11 years old, and the country music star hasn’t stopped since. Her down-home warmth and business acumen have carried over into projects such as movie acting, children’s literacy programs, and an amusement park. A new biography, “Ain’t Nobody’s Fool,” charts her challenges and successes.

In 1967, Parton’s big break arrived when she began appearing on “The Porter Wagoner Show,” a popular syndicated television program. Wagoner was a fixture at the Grand Ole Opry, and he and Parton were a successful vocal duo. But he was, according to Ackmann, overbearing and domineering, and their partnership was tumultuous. After seven years, Parton struck out on her own. One of her most famous songs, “I Will Always Love You,” was written as a farewell to Wagoner. He loved the song but sued her for breach of contract anyway.

St. Martin’s Press

Ackmann efficiently covers the highlights of Parton’s music career, from her solo work in country and pop to her celebrated collaborations with musicians including Kenny Rogers and, as a trio, Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt. Parton has always been a prolific songwriter: A secretary at the music publishing business that Parton created with Owens said that she once showed up at the office with 12 new songs she’d written the night before.

Parton was known to eavesdrop on conversations taking place around her and jot down ideas on any scrap of paper she could find. She once asked a young autograph-seeker what her name was and, struck by the answer, repeated it to herself, over and over, as she walked away so as not to forget it. That moment led to the repetition at the opening of “Jolene,” which became a No. 1 country hit in 1974.

Parton’s acting career began auspiciously with the 1980 film “9 to 5,” in which she held her own with veteran performers Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. “Steel Magnolias,” the 1989 ensemble film, was another highlight, although Parton appeared in a number of bombs, too.

© Country Music Hall Of Fame And Museum

Still, Ackmann points out that Parton has generally made sound decisions. In 1974, she received a phone call from Elvis Presley’s formidable manager, Colonel Tom Parker. Elvis wanted to record “I Will Always Love You” but insisted on being given at least half of the publishing rights. Parton, self-possessed even in her late 20s, insisted on retaining the copyright. While Presley canceled the recording, Whitney Houston’s 1992 version of the song ended up earning Parton somewhere between $6 million and $10 million in royalties.

Parton’s business savvy has also been a boon to her home state. Her Dollywood amusement park, which opened in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, in 1986, has become what some have called “the economic engine of East Tennessee,” creating thousands of jobs.

The irrepressible Parton, who reportedly needs only three to five hours of sleep per night, has managed to attract and retain a fan base that includes traditional country fans, the LGBTQ+ community, young hipsters, and beyond. She’s also earned widespread praise for her philanthropic efforts, which include a nonprofit that sends free books to children from birth until age 5. (Her interest in literacy stems from the fact that her father never learned to read or write.)

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Ackmann – a journalist and the author of a biography of poet Emily Dickinson, among other works – interviewed a handful of the singer’s relatives and business associates, but Parton herself did not agree to be interviewed. The author relies primarily on previous books and articles on Parton and the singer’s 1994 autobiography, “Dolly: My Life and Other Unfinished Business.” This prevents “Ain’t Nobody’s Fool” from breaking new ground in the way that, say, the 2019 podcast “Dolly Parton’s America” did. Parton’s lack of involvement is particularly noticeable when Ackmann speculates about the singer’s emotions; for example, she writes of Parton’s first recording that “making a record out of what she had written must have felt to Dolly like magic.”

Still, the celebratory narrative captures Parton’s talent, her decency, and her cultural significance. “The thing that’s always worked for me ... is the fact that I look so totally artificial, but I am so totally real,” the singer once remarked. “It gives me something to work against. I have to overcome myself. I have to prove how good I am.” Parton has proven it beyond a doubt, and “Ain’t Nobody’s Fool” is a solid accounting of how she got there.

“Young Mothers,” set in Liège, Belgium, is a remarkable fiction film about five teenage women living in a maternity home with their newborns, or with babies on the way. Winner of the best screenplay award at the Cannes Film Festival, it opens up the lives of these women with startling immediacy.

The co-writer-directors, Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, are renowned for their naturalistic approach to the everyday, working-class experience. The women, most of them played by actors with limited theatrical training, are portrayed without condescension. The film could easily have turned into a sob fest, or a species of reality TV show. Instead, it is graced with a garland of human moments about the vicissitudes of motherhood, without a trace of melodramatics.

The Dardennes have traditionally focused their attentions on a single protagonist. (“Two Days, One Night,” with Marion Cotillard, about a woman desperate to keep her job at a solar-panel factory, is my favorite of their films. It’s also one of the few starring a well-known actor.) In “Young Mothers,” by contrast, the directors crosscut between the lives of these five women, and it takes a while to get our bearings.

Why We Wrote This

Belgian filmmakers Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne veer away from easy solutions to the challenges their “Young Mothers” face, while holding room for growth and change.

Jessica (played by Babette Verbeek), whom we meet first, is heavily pregnant and frantically attempting to locate the biological mother (India Hair) who abandoned her at birth. Perla (Lucie Laruelle) fears that, with her wayward boyfriend (Günter Duret) newly released from juvenile detention, she will lose him and become a single mother. She is willing to put the baby up for adoption to keep him.

Courtesy of Music Box Films

Ariane (Janaina Halloy) is committed to giving up her baby, even though her mother (Christelle Cornil), who has been living with a physically abusive man, pleads to adopt the baby herself. Julie (Elsa Houben), struggles with sobriety, as does her doting boyfriend Dylan (Jef Jacobs). But they truly love each other and long to live as parents in a place they can call their own.

The fifth young mother, Naïma (Samia Hilmi), is proud of her new job as a train conductor. She does not figure largely in the movie except as a kind of inspiration to the others that they, too, can break free of their past.

With all this agitation on display, you might think “Young Mothers” would be a conglomeration of sorrow. But what is revivifying about the movie is that these women, none of whom considered abortion, are each, in their own way, aching to achieve a better life. For some, that means coming to terms with their origins. The reason Jessica is so focused on meeting her birth mother is because she needs to know why she was, in her view, discarded. Like many of the others, she wants to unlock her past so she can salvage her future.

To the Dardennes’ immense credit, their film is not about villains and victims. Neither is the narrative sugarcoated. When Jessica holds her newborn in her arms, she says, “I feel nothing. I wish I did.” Jessica’s mother, when she finally agrees to meet with her, reveals her own hurts: If she had kept her baby, she says, she would have felt shamed in her conservative community as a single mother.

Ariane, because of the dangerousness of her mother’s lifestyle, seems entirely principled in giving up her baby for adoption, even though the sadness for all concerned is palpable. Perla, initially rejected by her own sister (Joely Mbundu), is bereft. But she bonds with her baby in a way that raises her up. Julie and Dylan hold fast to the dream of a better life. She wants to be hairdresser, he a baker. They have their eye on a modest apartment.

The crosscutting between the stories occasionally fragments the movie and loosens its power. And the Dardennes’ mobile camera and exclusive use of natural light is sometimes indistinguishable from what often passes for docudrama-style “realism.”

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What rescues the film from such an undue comparison is the quality of empathy on view. What happens feels true, not judgmental. Its conclusion, which could have been pat, or despairing, is instead, of all things, hopeful. There is no fake uplift. The uncertainty about the future is still very much there. But so, also, is the exhilaration of knowing that, for these women, the challenges of motherhood – of life – represent a bright beacon.

“Young Mothers” has not received an MPAA rating. It deals with mature themes such as teenage pregnancy and addiction, and contains profanity, scenes of substance use, and intense situations. The film is in French with English subtitles.

As dawn turns to sunrise, hikers arrive at Diamond Head State Monument.

There’s a toddler sporting tiny Nike shoes, an older couple gently holding a railing, and even two dogs nestled in carriers worn by their owners. They’re all here to traverse the 0.8-mile trail leading to the summit of what many consider Hawaii’s most recognizable landmark.

Diamond Head is a volcanic tuff cone formed some 300,000 years ago during an eruption. Inside lies a crater that stretches more than half a mile wide. The hike, in fact, begins on the crater floor. From there, visitors follow a gradually inclining – and then steep – path up 560 feet. Some pause sporadically to catch their breath, take in the view, or snap the all-important selfie.

Why We Wrote This

Decades ago, Diamond Head was a coastal defense system, hence the tunnels, bunkers, and lookout stations carved into the volcanic crater. Today, it’s a National Natural Landmark beloved by hikers.

Decades ago, Diamond Head served as a coastal defense system, hence the tunnels, bunkers, and lookout stations carved into the volcanic crater. Today, it’s a National Natural Landmark.

Melissa McElroy and Crystal Croteau, visiting from Florida, are among those who rest partway up the trail as their dogs peek out of identical carriers. It was the first hike of their vacation.

“We don’t get elevation at home,” Ms. McElroy says, acknowledging the challenging trek.

Gentle trade winds offer respite at the peak. Multiple languages drift through the air as triumphant visitors admire the panoramic view of Oahu.

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“Can you give me a hug?” a father asks his young daughter. “You made it!”

Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff Melanie Stetson Freeman/Staff

For more visual storytelling that captures communities, traditions, and cultures around the globe, visit The World in Pictures.