The Redline, by Adrian Hyland

Jesse Redpath is acting sergeant in the small country police station of Satellite when a colleague is killed in a traffic incident. But was it an accident or murder and if the latter then why? What follows is a melange of missing people, corruption, shady security officers, a feral child and murder. This is apparently the third outing for Jesse so one would expect her voice to be clearer. She doesn’t ring true as a character and her licence to operate as a lone wolf with little accountability within the police force seems highly unlikely. A large amount of exposition in the early part of the novel is tedious. The geography of the region is confusing, which is a problem as it is fundamental to the plot – it’s a country town on the urban fringe, described as remote but somehow within easy access of Melbourne. The first person style doesn’t lend itself well to the (many) times Jesse is in danger as it makes the stakes low – she is telling the tale so we know she gets through it.

Supergirl (2026), directed by Craig Gillespie

Accompanied by her wayward dog, Kara Zor-El (aka Supergirl) is ‘celebrating’ her 23rd birthday with a bender on red sun planets, where she has no powers and so feels somewhat normal. On one such planet she is drawn into helping Ruthye, a 13 year-old seeking revenge on the brigand who wiped out her family for fun. Kara’s origin story is told in flashbacks that provide relief from the arse-kicking action, which goes on just a little too long and fails to cover a few gaping plot holes. Milly Alcock is great as the prematurely world-weary Kara, ably supported by Eve Ridley as Ruthye, while the talents of Matthieu Schoenaerts are wasted as the chief villain. Jason Momoa has fun playing himself. The look of the film is derivative, especially of Marvel, as well as the Star Wars cantina, but there are some fun gags and the dog is adorable.

Confessions of a 40-something

Heartbroken after a failed business venture and a broken engagement, Nell Stevens returns to the UK after years in the US to try to restart her life. This is tricky, as she is sad and broke and all her friends are busy smug-marrieds with children. Nell’s greatest consolation is her landlord’s dog, which she minds for cheap rent while he is away. Then there is the unexpected friendship of 80-something Cricket, who she meets in her new role as an obituary writer. The title of the book doesn’t make a lot of sense, until you realise it is a more acceptable version of Nell’s podcast - Confessions of a 40-something Fuck Up - which aims to tell it like it is and slowly gathers momentum that adds to her personal and professional recovery. Elements of the plot are improbable, to put it politely, especially the conceit of a mortgage granted to a freelance writer to buy a London flat, but also the entertainment value and wild success of the podcast. This is a tale with its heart in the right place but it all adds up to little more than adult chick lit.