Amelia Dimoldenberg says publicists ignored her interview show for years but she can now be picky over A-list guests

Just a decade ago, Amelia Dimoldenberg found it impossible to drum up any mainstream celebrities to come on her mock date YouTube show, in which she chats awkwardly with guests over chicken and chips.

Even persuading a local actor connected with her London youth club to come on took years of prodding. Managers of A-listers with movies or albums to push instead battled to claim a spot on the hallowed cushions of the primetime TV chatshow sofa.

For decades my life was soundtracked by comedy duos, mostly male, discussing their friendships. When I gave them up, I felt as if I was having a mental reboot

I have always loved podcasts. The genre of audio I have come to think of as Two Men Talking (In Excessive Detail About Their Lives) has been one of my favourite forms of entertainment for decades. It started with a semi-religious devotion to a Sunday morning XFM show hosted by Jimmy Carr and the comedy writer Iain Morris, but as the years progressed and podcasting boomed, I was soon spoilt for choice. Eventually there were enough comedy duos candidly discussing their hopes, fears and awkward social interactions to fill every moment of my day.

I was initially drawn to these podcasts because they made me laugh, but from the start I also found them hugely comforting: there was a period in my teenage years when I couldn’t fall asleep without mainlining episodes of Adam and Joe’s BBC 6 Music show, waking up each morning relieved I hadn’t been strangled by my iPod earphones in the night.

The long-running drama reaches Hitler’s rise to power in its final season as its creators reflect on the unsettling parallels between Weimar Germany and the present day

It’s the global hit TV series that pulled audiences straight into the chaotic hedonism of 1920s Germany, dramatising the brilliance and brittleness of a newly built democratic system with unprecedented ambition.

But in the 13 years that the German makers of Babylon Berlin have worked on the show, modern democracies from the US to Hungary to South Korea have come under pressure in ways the creators say they could never have imagined when they started.

The long-running drama reaches Hitler’s rise to power in its final season as its creators reflect on the unsettling parallels between Weimar Germany and the present day

It’s the global hit TV series that pulled audiences straight into the chaotic hedonism of 1920s Germany, dramatising the brilliance and brittleness of a newly built democratic system with unprecedented ambition.

But in the 13 years that the German makers of Babylon Berlin have worked on the show, modern democracies from the US to Hungary to South Korea have come under pressure in ways the creators say they could never have imagined when they started.

From a man with triple lives to fake family deaths, the lies told by seemingly devoted partners in this series are shocking. But this is more than true crime entertainment – it is an enraged warning for other victims

A model turned DJ, Liv Nervo had forged an enviable career travelling the world with her sister and musical collaborator, Mim. Old cliches about being a strong, independent woman and not needing a man aside, it’s clear that Liv already had a fantastic life before she met her former partner, Matthew. A successful businessman, their paths first crossed when she played a private party on Richard Branson’s Necker Island. “I thought I had found the best guy in the world,” she says. “But it was all a lie.”

So begins the second series of Love Cheats, a stark and shocking true-crime show about people who think they’ve found the love of their life but are instead being pulled into audacious romance scams. Series one featured a fraudster impersonating a member of the nobility while leaving their victims to foot the bill for their lavish life, and another faking terminal cancer. Series two keeps the bar for grim deception high, beginning with Liv’s whirlwind romance with Matthew, who was desperate to have a family with her. Mim was equally taken in by her sister’s devoted new partner, who had made his fortune selling honey but wasn’t a fusty corporate type. “[Liv] used to date men with a briefcase,” she clarifies. “I would never date a man with a briefcase!”

Suranne Jones and Rose Leslie are back trying to stop a third world war in the Arctic. There’s plenty of action – but it’s hard to root for heroes whose biggest personality traits are ‘being nice’ and ‘wears good glasses’

Like many a police procedural, Vigil always begins with a cold open. This time round, however, it’s absolutely freezing. We are, as per, thrown headlong into a niche and tangentially Scottish military world where a murder has occurred. The first series took place on board a nuclear submarine (the show is, confusingly, still named after the vessel), while the second split the action between an army airfield in Scotland and the fictional Middle Eastern nation of Wudyan.

For its third outing, we find ourselves in the (real) Arctic region of Svalbard. The area is supposedly demilitarised, but four British special forces agents are working undercover at a research centre, and tonight their mission is to extract a Chinese scientist who has made a discovery that could either save or destroy the world. En route, they’re ambushed by Russians who want whatever world-saving-or-destroying stuff she’s got. The scientist escapes – but one of the Brits later turns up dead in a Russian enclave.

From dialogue so hokey it could be printed on a tea towel to mind-numbing storylines – how can a glossy take on John Grisham’s novel about a fiery law graduate be so tedious?

The Rainmaker was once merely an average film about lawyers starring Matt Damon. Now, thanks to the magic of television, it’s a below-average series about lawyers starring a man who looks like Matt Damon. This is one Milo Callaghan, whose jawline suggests a certain mettle, but whose acting suggests much woe. Or at least a fitful unease with the role in which he finds himself. Accordingly, he drifts around this 10-part John Grisham adaptation with the air of a man who has forgotten what he came into the courtroom for, certain only that whatever it was, it was not a drama that compels him to say things like: “Ah just wanna be a lawyer.”

Callaghan plays Rudy Baylor, an ambitious South Carolina law graduate with a social conscience and a thirst for justice. Rudy wants to make a difference but dammit if his fiery temper don’t keep conspirin’ to screw up his plans. The huffing greenhorn is even late for his first day at prestigious law firm Tinley Britt, having spent the morning hurling his mom’s lunkish boyfriend around the garden (“You think ah’m gonna let you keep leechin’ off ma mother? Gnyaaarrr!”).

News that Scott is working on a follow-up to his maligned 2017 film leaves me worried the franchise has run out of shocks

If any science-fiction saga looked beyond recovery, it was the Alien franchise. For the 38 years that followed James Cameron’s Aliens, film-makers contrived to find every imaginable way of not making a good Alien film. They tried killing everyone the audience cared about before the opening credits, marooning Sigourney Weaver on a planet populated entirely by bald British character actors, cloning Ripley, pitting xenomorphs against Predators, and sending scientists across the universe to ask an enormous, hairless space bodybuilder why he made them. They even ponied up the thick end of $100m for a film in which Michael Fassbender teaches himself to play the flute.

And then in 2024, we got Fede Álvarez’s Alien: Romulus, in which actual xenomorphs chase actual human beings down actual corridors for the clearly defined purposes of either killing them or putting smaller xenomorphs inside them. Better still, a year later we got Noah Hawley’s Alien: Earth, which reminded us that giant, murderous space insects are in fact less awful than tech trillionaires.

This boxing drama wants its sex, drugs, bling and violence – but isn’t willing or naughty enough to truly go for it. Instead, it ends up as just a long, bruising slog

Fightland is what you might, for a joke, have called a drama that’s like MobLand but with boxing. That they have gone with that as the title of the new show from G-Unit Film & Television, the production company founded by the rapper Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson, is an immediate warning that this is not a series that bursts with originality, passion or technical finesse. At best, Fightland asks whether what it’s got will just about do, and hopes you’ll distractedly say yes.

Howard Charles is Maduka “Duke” Kilroy, a British boxer who, when we first meet him, is in Las Vegas, winning the world heavyweight championship. Everything’s going for him: he’s the champ and Joy (Deborah Ayorinde), the woman he enjoys a post-bout warmdown with on the silk sheets of a penthouse suite, seems receptive to his plan to take their relationship further. It’s a risky goal given that Joy’s husband is Kingsley Marshall (Nicholas Pinnock), Duke’s manager, who is also London’s top drug dealer; we’ve seen him brutally break the leg of a journalist who asks him about the secret drug-based wing of his empire.