Latest news with #Roz
Buzz Feed
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Buzz Feed
Which "Monsters, Inc." Character Are You?
This post has not been vetted or endorsed by BuzzFeed's editorial staff. BuzzFeed Community is a place where anyone can create a post or quiz. Try making your own! Disney Quiz · We all feel like Roz every now and then. Hot Topic Obsessed with all things Disney? Join our fan community where you'll find hot topic discussions, quizzes, movie news, and more! See our Disney Discussions
Tom's Guide
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Tom's Guide
Netflix just added 'The Wild Robot' — stream one of the best movies of 2024 now
When looking at what to watch on Netflix this week, "The Wild Robot" is the clear top choice. Sure, "Sirens" seems worthy of a binge-watch by all accounts, but it can't compare to this Oscar-nominated masterpiece. And it is a masterpiece, at least in terms of its visuals. The animation is gorgeous and at times breathtaking. The remote island setting is picturesque. Thankfully, the other aspects of the movie are equally impressive. "The Wild Robot" is an impressive balance of heartwarming and heartbreaking, of comedy and tragedy. For the first half of the movie, I couldn't stop laughing, and despite its more serious, emotional turn in the latter half, it's still one of the funniest movies I've seen in years. So here's what you need to know about "The Wild Robot," and why it's what you need to be watching next, now that it's on Netflix. "The Wild Robot" is based on the 2016 novel of the same name. It stars Lupita Nyong'o as the voice of Roz, a service robot who finds herself marooned on an uninhabited island. She's immediately thrust into some dangerous situations, with seemingly everything on the island trying to kill her, or thinking she wants to kill them. While struggling to get her bearings, she accidentally orphans a gosling egg, and when it hatches, she's tasked with preparing it for migration. As her surrogate mother, she must teach the gosling, whom she names Brightbill (Kit Conner), to eat, swim and fly, or it won't be ready to flee the island for the winter with the other geese. Get instant access to breaking news, the hottest reviews, great deals and helpful tips. This movie is almost a tale of two halves. The first half is hilarious. I found myself laughing almost every minute at one point, especially when a family of opossums led by Catherine O'Hara all pretend to be dead — to play possum, if you will — and the baby possums are all choosing a mode of death. Multiple babies pick sepsis as their cause of death, which sparks an argument in the family. But the second half of the movie is more tragic and dramatic, though it doesn't fully ditch the comedic elements. Occasionally, the movie devolves into cliche in this half, though I think most parents will find some of the plot points deeply relatable. One final note, despite this being a "family-friendly" animated movie, it's surprisingly violent. This is done both for comedic and dramatic effect, but there's a fair amount of animated animal death and violence. So maybe keep this from the youngest in your family for now. Still, if you need something for the family to watch or are just looking for a great movie this weekend, "The Wild Robot" is a must-watch. Go stream it now on Netflix. Stream "The Wild Robot" now on Netflix
The Irish Sun
30-04-2025
- Entertainment
- The Irish Sun
‘I've gone 161 days without fake tan' says RTE star as she reveals ‘savage' reason she embraced her ‘pale girl' skin
RTE star Roz Purcell has revealed the "savage" reason she decided to quit using fake tan for over 161 days. The 2FM star , who won Ireland in 2010, has told how she was "a little bit addicted" to tanning herself. 3 Roz Purcell has opened up on her fake tan journey 3 Roz has gone without fake tan for over 161 days 3 Roz admitted she may have been a 'little bit addicted' to tanning The 34-year-old told followers: "I know it may not seem like a big deal. But, I have been addicted since the age of 14. "That is 20 years of not being able to leave the house without fake tan." The popular presenter then shared an example of one of her "orange moments". READ MORE IN ROZ PURCELL The Irish model then showed a picture of herself after winning Miss Universe Ireland and added: "One of the headlines at the time said, 'Orange you glad she won'. "That is absolutely savage." Rozanna explained how she managed to go completely "cold turkey " on using fake tan. The MOST READ IN THE IRISH SUN When it came to answering the question of, "Will she ever wear tan again?", Rozanna simply replied: "I actually don't think so. I can't even believe those words are coming out of my mouth." The Irish star urged her fans to try and "ditch the fake tan", especially if they feel they are "very reliant on it". Here's my secret trick to making perfect microwave brownie, says Rozanna Purcell The author then "challenged" her followers to just try and go to "one event, without fake tan". She encouraged: "I promised you, your pale skin is not as bad as you think, it's very nice and it's totally in, so give it a go." Rozanna penned in her caption: "I HATED my skin before I challenged myself to stop wearing fake tan & now I kind of love Pale skin, It's actually very striking & way less maintenance. "Think I'll see through the summer as a pale girly!!!" 'A VIBE' Rozanna's fans all raced to the comment section to react to the star's new beauty move. Julia wrote: "I love the natural, pale tone of Irish skin. It photograph absolutely beautifully! So good to see you are embracing it!" Fae said: "It's so sad that society makes us believe our natural beauty is not beautiful." Dan added: "I hate when my wife wears tan. I think her natural pale skin is flawless." Molly remarked: "From one pale queen to another so proud of you hehe." And Katie swooned: "WOW pale Roz is a vibe!!"
Irish Daily Star
28-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Daily Star
Pedro Pascal film that had viewers 'on the verge of tears' is coming to Netflix
Netflix is gearing up to stream a critically acclaimed film featuring Pedro Pascal that was nominated for three Oscars. The Last of Us actor lends his voice in The Wild Robot, an animated DreamWorks production that hit the big screen in September 2024. Based on Peter Brown's novel of the same name, it tells the story of a robot named Roz who finds herself stranded on an uninhabitable island following a shipwreck. After the crash, Roz forms bonds with the local wildlife and even adopts an orphaned baby goose. Pascal voices Fink, a cheeky fox who becomes an ally to the main character. As per What's On Netflix , The Wild Robot will be available for streaming at no additional cost from Saturday, May 24. The Wild Robot is scheduled to stream on Netflix next month (Image: Universal Pictures) The adventure flick boasts a star-studded cast, including Oscar winner Lupita Nyong'o as Roz. She shares the screen with Heartstopper star Kit Connor who voices Fink's adopted goose, reports the Mirror US . Moreover, it was directed by Chris Sanders, known for the cult classic animated film How to Train Your Dragon. Upon its release, critics lavished praise on the adventure film, awarding it a remarkable 96 percent Rotten Tomatoes score. The accolades didn't end there, as it also received three Academy Awards nominations, including one for Best Animated Feature Film. Casual moviegoers were equally taken with the animation, with Rotten Tomatoes users giving the film a whopping 98 per cent rating. One reviewer gave the film five stars, saying: "It's full of emotion, adventure, and sweet moments that kids can really connect with." They added: "My little ones were asking questions, laughing, and even getting a bit emotional at times. It's one of those movies that stays with you. Perfect for watching as a family - 100% recommend it." Pascal voices one of the main characters in the Oscar-nominated film (Image: Getty Images) Another reviewer raved about the emotional impact of the plot, writing: "The story is heartfelt and inspiring, filled with emotional moments and powerful messages. "The animation is stunning, and the music perfectly complements the mood and atmosphere of the film. This is a must-watch movie that will leave a lasting impression." A third reviewer said they were smiling, laughing, and on the verge of tears for almost the entire film, adding: "This is by far the best movie DreamWorks has ever made." The Wild Robot is scheduled to stream on Netflix from May 24. You can also buy or rent it on Amazon Prime Video and Apple TV+.
Newsroom
26-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Newsroom
Anzac weekend short story: Toxic, by Michelle Duff
When she walked dripping into the lounge, hair wet from the shower, she took one look at Hamish and dropped her towel. He was holding her phone. —How long has it been going on for? His blue eyes blazed. She wanted to pluck them out and blow on them gently, cool them off. But the messages were there, and he had read them. It was too late for niceties. —Has what been going on? She was scrabbling around on the ground for her towel. Her hand wouldn't work. She dropped it again, banged her head on the bookshelf, hard. It brought tears to her eyes. Ouch. —Are you alright? He wasn't looking at her. Lovely, generous Hamish, couldn't help being nice even when his slutty girlfriend had taken his heart and ripped it clean in half, then stomped it all over the floor to leave a Rorschach ink splot that read she's fucking crazy, bro. Leave her. —I thought you didn't like Anton? —I don't. —So why are you—wait—so fucking wet for him? Roz felt sick. —Hamish, don't. I'm not. —Aren't you? Because it seems you love it when his dick gets hard for you—or has that changed since . . . last week? Really, Roz? Here, let me remind you . . . —No. Roz put her hand over her face as Hamish pushed the phone towards her, the screen bloated with a giant picture of Anton's erection. God, it was obscene. When he read the texts out loud, they sounded like a child's attempt at Mills and Boon. She really didn't even like Anton. His back was always sweaty and sometimes after sex he smelled like burnt crumpets. It was disarming. And he liked Coldplay. Ugh. Why would she fuck such a sicko? She wrapped her arms around herself, tight. —Ham, I— He had thrown her phone away and was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. —I can't do this anymore, Roz. She kneeled in front of him, took his wrists. He didn't look at her, but he didn't pull away either. She stroked his forearm. —I'm so sorry, okay? I'm so so sorry. It didn't mean anything. It was just—stupid. It was fucking stupid. You know I haven't been myself lately and— He didn't leap up off the couch. He didn't yell. But when he looked up, the eyes which had once searched her—had told her yes, I believe you hold infinite depths, had held her in their warmth while he filled her emptiness with the length of him, as she dug her fingernails into his skin and begged him to stop, cried out, no, please, yes—had turned to ice. She knew then it didn't matter what she said, and also that she couldn't live without him, she couldn't. The world they'd created together could not just be shattered like this, so easily. —I don't know you. —Don't say that, of course you do. —No, I don't. I've tried to help you, Roz. You think I don't see what you're doing to yourself? I've tried. But I can't keep doing this. —But I love you. I can get better. He ran his hands through his hair, which flopped back into his eyes immediately. God, he looked like such a boy when he did that. When she had first met him, he'd been playing guitar in a corner of the pub. It was hands down like that scene in PS I Love You—or was it Love Actually, or a Marian Keyes novel she read once? Whatever, it was a meet-cute. When they were in bed for the first time a week later, he peeled all her clothes off as if she were a ripe fruit, a guava bursting from its skin, flesh ready for the taking, and just when she couldn't she couldn't she was going to—he whispered in her ear; I saw you. Just that. I saw you. —I honestly don't care anymore, Roz. —What? Yes you do. It's just this job, it's been stressing me out, all this election shit—I think we just need a holiday, both of us. We need a break. She grabbed her phone, swiped blindly. —Look, here's a great place in the Cotswolds. We can go for the weekend, lie in bed, you know (she looked at him, forced a bright smile, he hadn't moved, fuck, say something) get that great cheese from the market, it can be just like last time. She wished he hadn't laughed just then. It sent fear shooting up and down her body so sharply for a moment she mistook it for arousal. She dropped her towel. —Come on then, she said. Her nipples were hard from the cold. —One last fuck. It was the worst thing he had ever said to her, and it must have cost him to say it: —Roz. Those eyes again. —You are fucking poison. Once he left it got easier. She could stay at work until all hours, volunteer for extra shifts, and when they ended it was an easy roll onto the pub for after work drinks, and then easier still to say yes to the little something that was offered, feeling it fizz under her tongue. She'd been working at The Telegraph for two years by then and had been bumped up to the national investigative team after breaking two big yarns in a row—one cracking open a beloved television presenter's sordid past as a wife basher, and the other revealing a Tory MP's taxpayer spend on high-class hookers. They didn't call them sex workers at The Telegraph. —You know they're hookers, I know they're hookers. Why the euphemism? They get paid to fuck. —Well shit, who made you the moral arbiter of women's rights? —Fuck off, you know I love women. Anyway it's true, isn't it? The deputy news editor was tracing around the edges of her bra with his fingers. A bunch of them had been for dinner at Ava Mario, downing bottle after bottle of Spanish red to celebrate Roz nailing a front-page splash about a schoolgirl murder. At some point she'd returned from the bar to find it was just she and Anton left. He had paid for this hotel in cash and she was wrapped in a sheet, with her hair pulled up in the shower cap. She'd put complimentary face masques on both of them. She walked over to the window, saw the Millennium Wheel spin, marvelled at the lights, so many lights. Who had thought of putting them all out there like that, tiny pinpricks in the dark? The world was full of good people, and she was one. Roz was an integral member of the reporting team. She had guts. She had what it took. She didn't understand why some other reporters were so passive. Her mission when she caught the train to Reading was to get the story. She didn't think about failing because she'd never done it. Roz had woken the photographer up at 4am so they could scramble two kilometres across muddy paddocks to arrive at the back door of the farmhouse—quaint as fuck, straight from the Living channel—and get the scoop from the dead girl's mother, who was out the back hanging out the washing when they arrived. She stood shellshocked in floral while Roz probed her gently, helping her with the pegs until she invited them inside. As the door to the house swung open, Roz felt the familiar mix of dread and adrenaline, the internal fist-pump. Afterwards they drove past the rest of the vipers' nest, stuck hanging out at the end of a long driveway out the front. Roz waved to them sweetly with her notebook, enjoying the confusion crystallising to realisation on their faces. 'EXCLUSIVE: Schoolgirl shock: 'We won't stop until our sweet girl gets justice'', the headline read. Roz had written most of the story before she even interviewed the mum, so it was just a case of inserting the quotes and filing from the car. When she got back to the newsroom, she was a star. The editor clapped her on the shoulder, told her what a great get it had been. Don't party too hard, he said. Her next assignment was to chase the father. —Don't worry about him, you know you smashed it. Anton was rubbing his nose aggressively. —I did, didn't I? The girls' family had really wanted to talk, they had wanted to pay tribute to their beautiful lost daughter. The mother had been tripping over herself to drag out the photo albums. Roz had to make her excuses and leave after an hour—she could only hear so many stories about how much little Frances had loved her brothers and sisters, and her smile lit up a room, and she was a talented swimmer and she just loved Rusty, that's the dog, didn't she? He really was her best friend, she was volunteering at the SPCA, we've still got the medal she earned at the dog show. Then all would fall quiet, and the silence bred darkness; it's all just so pointless, she was so innocent, what kind of person would do this, what kind of—the mother couldn't bring herself to swear, she'd sucked in her breath—what kind of creep? Why us? We told her never to walk home that way. It's not safe. Will you put that in? Make sure you put that in. Roz had nodded her head politely, tilted her handbag so she could see her phone. She already had the quotes. Thank you so much, I'm so sorry for your loss, she'd said, pulling her shoes on and closing the door in one movement, before they tried to hug. She wasn't huggable. Anton's eyes were bugged out, black depths. They were entombed in his face, rimmed ghoulishly by the masque. They had work the next day. He had managed to crawl over to her and was pawing at one bra strap. She realised, with frightening clarity, that he wasn't human. That felt right. —Lucky you come free, eh? No catches. If she turned around she couldn't see him, but she still had to grit her teeth. The affair had gone on much longer than it should have. Technically, once Hamish found out, it was no longer an affair, but by then stopping just seemed token. Plus, Roz worked hard. Hamish had never really understood. How could he? He'd never seen death up close. Roz straightened up fresh from her desk to see the editor- in-chief standing above her. On a key to the map of his person the spindly red lines would read: drinks too much, and the gut spilling out over his belt buckle would be indicated by a circle: white male privilege. She knew he cheated on his wife. The celebrity chef. His wife, that is. The affair was with a junior sub-editor. —Roz. We need to talk. She shut down her computer and picked up her handbag preemptively, shoving in two of the four pairs of shoes under her desk. She would miss the heels, which she knew made her calves pop, but she could never wear them without getting blisters so it was all to the good. As she passed the sports desk she threw out a cheery smile to Gav, one of her favourites. His face registered alarm. Sweet, sweet Gav. They were in a glass enclosure in the middle of the newsroom dubbed the fishbowl. She had lost count of the number of people she'd seen storm out of here, crying. She only felt calm, and vaguely horny. His face swam in front of her. —We have to let you go. We've had complaints. The checks on his shirt separated, then put themselves neatly back together. —From who? —I can't say. She knew it was Anton. He'd been eyeing up the new social issues reporter for weeks, and she'd caught them leaving in the lift together a couple of days ago. Not that she cared, but he was exactly the kind of guy who would think she would get jealous and try to punish her for it. —Does Freja know you're cheating on her? —What? —Does Freja know. You know, I saw her just last Friday. She's looking good. Love her new show. —Fuck off, Roz. —I know Anton's been talking shit about me. If you're taking advice from the guy I've been fucking, I can talk to the woman you're not, right? His cheeks were red. Fuck he was fat. —That's enough, Roz. —You know what? It's actually not. I'm your best reporter. I put it all out there every day for you, I throw my life down the drain for you—she was yelling, now, heads were turning behind the glass, whoever designed this shitbox hadn't soundproofed it—and this is how you repay me? You can take your job. Take it, and shove it up your arse. There was a monitor next to her. She picked it up. —Don't— She couldn't remember throwing it. Three days later, she woke with a pounding head, a hectic bandage around one hand, and a letter of dismissal in her inbox, which she deleted before reading. The empty vodka bottles strewn around their (her, sorry, her) apartment and her bank account told her she had drunk everything in the house and snorted everything she could afford. She didn't look at her call log. She transferred some money. She didn't talk to anyone. She booked the next available flight. As the houses around Heathrow dropped, monopoly-sized, beneath her and the airplane wheels thunked up into place reassuringly, she closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep. In Auckland, she hired a car. It had been more than a decade since she'd done the trip, but she was still surprised to find the roads had changed. It seemed wrong that the immutable paths of her memory had been carved up in this way. The new Waikato expressway threw her, and instead of following her nose down the North Island she'd dutifully trailed Google maps into a black spot, where she lost reception. She had been pretty sure this was the fastest way, round the back of the lake, but everything felt foreign. She was fine until the deer. The road was clear and then she was staring directly into two large brown eyes, the creature's silent fear refracting through the windscreen from where it stood, frozen, in the middle of the road. She pumped the brakes and came screeching to a stop, engine idling in the tussock. Every muscle in the animal seemed to twitch simultaneously, and it turned and bolted back towards the forest. Her hands shook on the steering wheel. Bon Jovi sang on. Soon after that, she picked up the hitchhiker. He stood underneath a battered sign outside an old petrol station, which creaked in the wind when she leaned over the seat and pushed the door open. He ducked his head. —Where you headed? —Wellington. —Are you a murderer? —Not that I know of. —Like, you're not a murderer, or you don't know if you're a murderer? He shoved his face deeper into his jacket. A muffled laugh. —I'm not one. —I can take you most of the way. Jump in. He pulled his hood back, arranged his bag at his feet. She snuck a look. He was maybe a bit older than her, thick eyebrows, strong jawline. His fingers when he held his hands out to the heater looked long and graceful. He had an accent. —Man, thanks for picking me up. I'd been waiting for hours. —What were you doing out there? —Some farmer gave me a ride, but I wasn't really listening to where he was going. I thought it would be further. —Ah. Yup. Been there. Roz could still feel the chill from the freezing hours she'd spent outside Rangipo Prison once, after making the same mistake. —Where're you from? —Argentina. You? —I'm from here. It's my first time home for a while. —Yeah? He looked at her. —How long? The Argentinian pulled out his phone. —May I? It was punk; she thought she recognised it. NOFX. He turned it up loud and Roz was glad of the noise. They drove along for a while like that, Roz focusing on the road as the relentless pines tipped themselves into curves and then hairpin bends. —Your country is beautiful. They emerged from the bottom of yet another valley, fronds of native bush, an ancient rail bridge rising on their left. Birds folded themselves into origami in the pale sky. He didn't say much at first and she liked it that way. As the landscape softened around them, they started to talk. It reminded Roz of going out on days-long jobs with photographers, when you only had each other for company. It was harder to be self-conscious when you didn't have to make eye contact. By the time they reached the outskirts of Taumarunui, she knew that he'd been held hostage in the wilderness when working for an aid organisation in Puerto Rico and his parents had split when he was little, when his mum had moved to the States, taking his little sister, who he was close with. He'd moved there too in his early twenties, but by then she'd joined a religious cult and become distant. —I should have gone too. I always wonder if I could have saved her. In Taumarunui they got pies. Back in the car, he turned to her. —You ask lots of questions. —Well, I'm a journalist. It's kind of my job. —Do you ever answer them? A family clambered out of a station wagon. The little girl was wearing a cape, lagging behind. The dad picked her up, carried her high up on his chest. —Sure. I guess. —I don't think you do. —What do you mean? —You're very good at changing the topic. —Am I? She risked a glance. The space had shrunk. He smelled nice. He met her gaze, and for an uncanny moment she felt he was reading her mind. His smile was slow and crooked, and his hand hovered near hers. The air stretched tight between them. She could. It would only take an inch. Roz started the engine. —Maybe I should work on that. He half-laughed, scrunched his pie wrapper in his hand. —Yeah. Maybe. As they drove out of town, the ridges in the distance fell, snow-capped, framed in dusty pink. It did look quite nice with the clouds lit up like that, Roz supposed. It made her heart twist in a way she couldn't quite explain. Later, as she pulled to a stop at the intersection of State Highway One, the hitchhiker bent down to scrawl something on a slip of paper. He gave it to her, with a smile. —I'll be around if you don't find what you're looking for, chica. In the rear-view mirror, he shrank quickly. Roz wound down the window and let the paper flutter past her fingers, out into the fading light. It could have been lonely. In Foxton, she turned off towards the beach. It wasn't the right direction. At school she and her friends used to think the giant concrete water tower was a repurposed UFO, or at the very least, a government spy station. She passed the windmill, chopping lazily at the sky. She passed the bottle shop. She fixed her eyes on the horizon. The only other vehicle was a campervan, down the other end of the car park by the surf club. She lifted the boot, shrugged on her jacket, bent her head against the wind. The sand howled grey, licking at her eyelashes. The last of the sunset bounced off the waves. Still the beach remained, stretching languorously to left and right. Roz couldn't see where it ended, no matter how hard she tried. She could walk to Himatangi, catch an eel in the creek, light a fire under the trees. These were all things she could do. She thought about a story she'd covered around here many years ago, when she was a junior reporter, about a local women's weaving group. I wish I could do that, she'd said, admiring their work. But you do weave, one of the kuia had said. You do it with your words. So. She got back into the car. When her mother, Trish, opened the door, her face registered surprise, and then concern. —Roz? Her gardening shears hung loose at one side, a rose thorny in the other gloved hand. —What are you doing here? How did you— —Hi, Mum. The words had no sooner left her mouth than Trish was sweeping her daughter up in a hug, crushing her close. Roz held her arms out to the side, then patted Trish gingerly on the back when the hug didn't look to be letting up. —Come here. Look at you! Why didn't you call? How long are you here? HENRY! Roz used the opportunity to pull back, tucking her hair behind her ears. Her limbs felt leaden, and her eyes didn't seem to be working properly. When she took a step into the hallway, everything looked smudged. It must be the drive, she thought. The light. In London, it was 7am. Hamish would just be waking up, stretching lazily in bed. He was so tall, or their mattress so short, that he always slept with his spine curved around hers for their bodies to fit. She wondered what he would do with the negative space. She doubted he would have filled it yet. He would have to fall in love again first. Her legs buckled underneath her, and she put a hand out to steady herself. She felt a weight shifting. Trish grasped her daughter around the waist and looked down the hall at her husband, who had just walked in, his words of greeting suspended in the air. She nodded, imperceptibly. He took half a step sideways, and pushed open the door to the spare room. A gentle breeze pulled at the gauze curtain. Outside, the crickets began their summer chorus. Taken with kind permission from the powerful new collection of short stories Surplus Women by Michelle Duff (Te Herenga Waka University Press, $35), available in bookstores nationwide. The author's cast of characters include Jess, the only one in her friend group who hasn't lost her virginity, and Genevieve, who is being held captive with her gymnastics nemesis from 40 years ago.
