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Man, it’s always great when a beloved rockstar is actually, you know, a decent, good person. Rare, but great. I thank my lucky stars every day that Bruce Springsteen is one of them. The Boss, indeed. At a surprise weekend appearance at Light of Day Winterfest in Red Bank, New Jersey, America’s most reliable avatar of working-class decency very calmly torched the Trump administration’s ICE deployments. “We are living through incredibly critical times,” Springsteen told the crowd, before laying out a list of beliefs that apparently now qualify as radical: that no one stands above the law, that federal agents shouldn’t behave like an occupying force, and that you shouldn’t be murdered for exercising your right to protest. He went on to (correctly) describe ICE’s actions in Minneapolis as “Gestapo tactics,” echoed Mayor Jacob Frey’s now-viral directive for ICE to “get the fuck out,” and dedicated his song to Good, a mother of three and American citizen who was shot and killed earlier this month by an ICE agent. This is, to be clear, the kind of statement that should not be controversial. It was measured, specific, rooted in documented events, and delivered by a 76-year-old man whose entire artistic project has been about dignity, labor, and the ideal of America not humiliating itself. But since we are living under a President who, as of this morning, sent a pissy, middle-school text to the Norwegian Prime Minister saying that because Norway didn’t grant him the Nobel Peace Prize, he no longer cares about peace, and thus is all too down to resort to war and imperialism in his baffling quest to take over Greenland—well, it should not come as a surprise that the government did not take particularly well to Springsteen’s statements. Enter the White House, which decided the most effective rebuttal to Springsteen’s remarks was to announce that “no one cares about his bad political opinions.” This is always a fun move: insisting no one cares while very clearly caring enough to issue an official statement. The response went on to scold Springsteen for allegedly not believing in “the power of the law,” a claim that lands with particular irony given that he was criticizing a federal agency currently arguing that murder is legal when a woman turns her steering wheel away from an officer, because apparently that now constitutes “weaponizing her vehicle.” It’s hard not to marvel at the contrast here. On one side, you have Springsteen—who has spent decades writing songs about flawed systems, broken promises, and people crushed under institutional indifference—standing on a stage in his home state, speaking plainly about state violence and dedicating a song to a dead woman. On the other, you have a press office reflexively defending ICE by deploying the rhetorical equivalent of “actually, you’re wrong and also shut up” while, on the ground, peaceful protestors are being dragged from their cars, beaten to pulps, and arrested—while, in the White House itself, our President drafts juvenile letters that basically read “Give me Greenland or I will invade (Check here for Yes) (Check here for No).” This is not Springsteen’s first time calling Trump and his administration what they are, and it won’t be his last. He’s been doing this consistently, loudly, and without apology, whether that means calling Trump “the most dangerous candidate for president in my lifetime,” accusing his administration of trampling civil rights abroad, or releasing an EP that opens by describing the U.S. as being run by a “corrupt, incompetent and treasonous administration.” And every time, like clockwork, the administration’s response manages to confirm his point with impressive efficiency. Just another day in the life, I suppose.

In MIO: Memories In Orbit, only the machines are left. These aren’t Terminator-esque monstrosities, but robots built to help humanity on an interstellar journey to a new home. The humans, whom the robots call Travellers, are long gone. The system that governs The Vessel—a network of AI clusters known as Pearls, with their own specific functions and personalities—are flickering out. And MIO, an android designed to support and defend the Pearls, has to figure out why they’re powering down, and do whatever they can to preserve The Vessel. It might seem like a lot to ask of a small robot, but MIO and their four cybernetic tentacles are up for the task. Escaping the Earth is in vogue. Last week The A.V. Club reviewed another game set on a cosmic ark, Code: Violet, which is about as different from MIO as a game could be. Last month we looked at Interstellar Arc, an interactive VR exhibit in Las Vegas about a future mission to an Earth-like planet lightyears away. Looking at this world we’ve created, it’s not hard to see why this idea is popular right now. Ecological disaster, endless violence, a widespread lack of empathy, the global rise of fascism and authoritarianism… who wouldn’t want to fuck off to space these days? MIO is unique for this trend in that it barely factors humanity into its equation. We’re just gone—cosmic toast before the title screen even hits. We’re not even drifting through space in a diabetic coma, like in the bad second half of WALL-E. Our fingerprints remain visible throughout, scattered remnants of whatever human culture launched this ship, but the memories in the title aren’t even entirely about us. MIO is deeply in debt to Metroid in a myriad of ways, but here the defunct civilization barely visible on the game’s fringes is our own. MIO doesn’t foreground that widescale loss. It’s not even clear at first if humans ever played a role here at all. Details about how The Vessel reached this state slowly unspool throughout the game, but are revealed environmentally, or through short bits of text on public plaques. It’s not even clear how long we’ve been dead or how the ship came to be abandoned, but it’s clearly been ages; vegetation runs wild through certain sectors, others are frozen over with thick layers of ice, machinery is all busted or haywire, and almost half The Vessel is flooded with a deadly liquid. Sounds like the kind of obstacles you’d find in a video game, doesn’t it? MIO is a fairly traditional side-scrolling search action game in a few key ways. Its assortment of physical obstacles and aggressive enemies have direct parallels back to the lava and deadly critters of the original Metroid. MIO acquires crucial new skills after major milestones, unlocking areas they’ve known about but couldn’t access. MIO doesn’t shoot, but the reach of their tentacles lets them attack from a slight distance, like the short range of Samus’ arm cannon before she upgrades it. MIO’s action establishes its own distinctive rhythm through its fluid, expansive range of motion. Most of the abilities you’ll unlock are movement-based. Initially limited to a double jump, MIO will eventually be able to float, fling themselves by grappling onto certain nodes, scurry across walls and roofs like a spider, and more. All these abilities tap into the same small reserve of energy which is only restored in two ways: by standing still on solid ground for a beat, or by striking an enemy or one of a handful of other sources of energy. A good chunk of the game is trying to move through treacherous territory by keeping MIO airborne, bouncing off enemies or energy-restoring flowers without touching the deadly turf that surrounds them. You basically have to become a master juggler, using MIO’s skills to keep them in the air until they finally reach a safe spot. You’ll need crack reflexes, a good memory, and an almost endless reservoir of patience to make it through the game’s trickiest platforming sequences, of which there are many. It…

Spoiler Space offers thoughts on, and a place to discuss, the plot points we can’t disclose in our official review. Fair warning: This article features plot details of 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple. The first line of 28 Years Later isn’t uttered by one of its main characters. Director Danny Boyle and writer Alex Garland gave the opening salvo of their legacy sequel trilogy to The Teletubbies. Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po’s jaunty toddler talk underscores the end of Jimmy Crystal’s childhood, when rampaging hordes killed his family. The scene of Jimmy and his sisters anxiously distracting themselves with television echoes the opening of 28 Days Later, when a shackled chimp, force-fed the world’s cruelty via TV, spreads Rage throughout Great Britain. Like that ape, Jimmy would infect the people around him with bastardized images he once saw on television. This thread continues in The Bone Temple, where an undercurrent of popular culture flows toward a heavy metal climax and contemplative, cameo-led coda. 28 Years Later and The Bone Temple are steeped in pop culture like a cuppa English Breakfast. The remaining vestiges of culture circa 2002, when 28 Days Later is set, are now artifacts of a forgotten time, helping the survivors dictate the world to come. “The whole film, and if we ever get to make the whole trilogy, is in some ways about looking back and looking forwards, and the relationship between looking forwards to better worlds or attempting to make better worlds or trying to construct the world that you’re in on the basis of old worlds,” Garland said of 28 Years Later. “The thing about looking back is how selective memory is, and that it cherry picks and it has amnesia, and crucially, it also misremembers. We are living in a time right now, which is absolutely dominated by a misremembered past.” That’s the case in 28 Years Later, where an idealized re-creation of the Royal Crown reestablishes old habits and hierarchies. Boyle emphasizes the Lindisfarne perspective through the editing, soundtracking Spike’s (Alfie Williams) first hunt with a remix of Taylor Holmes’ reading Rudyard Kipling’s poem “Boots” and intercutting the moment with clips of Laurence Olivier’s Henry V—Britain’s idealized and misremembered past crashing against the hard-fought present. By that film’s end, Spike meets the embodiment of Garland’s cherry-picked past in Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell), who quite literally drapes himself in the culture of his childhood. Decked out like Jimmy Savile and fitting his Fingers in pageboy wigs, Jimmy twists the cultural ephemera of his youth toward domination. As in A Clockwork Orange, Jimmy gives his droogs an identity through memories of Jimmy’s childhood, swapping “Singin’ In The Rain” for The Teletubbies‘ Dipsy Dance, recontextualizing the harmless entertainment of the past through sadistic violence. Director Nia DaCosta digs deeper into The Bone Temple‘s record bin through Dr. Ian Kelson’s (Ralph Fiennes) relationship with music, which grounds him in the present as he reflects on the past. Duran Duran’s “Girls On Film” plays from Kelson’s record player as DaCosta’s camera lingers on a literal girl on film, a photograph of Kelson with an unnamed woman from the beforetimes. Simon Le Bon croons “Ordinary World” as Kelson and Samson (Chi Lewis-Parry) dance in the Bone Temple—music therapy for the post-apocalypse. (For all of Bone Temple‘s on-the-nose needledrops, it’s surprising DaCosta skipped the Rio album track “New Religion.”) Kelson doesn’t remember what it feels like to use a personal computer, but music from the past links him to humanity, and along with massive amounts of morphine, it does the same for Samson, however briefly. In the film’s rousing finale, Kelson stages a rock concert, a theatrical and soul-stirring exorcism to convince Jimmy’s gang that he’s “Old Nick.” It’s not violence, but the expression and performance of evil that allows the Jimmies to suspend disbelief, be…