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Welcome to Apropos’ love letter to Wonderfestiwall on Bornholm 2025. A festival where sea, sky, ruins and green hills melt into a stage that feels almost too magical to be real. This isn’t about being the biggest, the fastest or the wildest. It’s about doing things properly — the Bornholm way. So yes, we love Wonder. And here’s what you absolutely shouldn’t miss:
One can only hope Tom Hardy has a serious talk with his agent after this. Havoc on Netflix is one long, blood-soaked slog, where even the best actors have to wade through a script so thin it makes you want to call for a grown-up.
Mark Tremonti walked onstage without any grand gestures, but with a Gibson slung over his shoulder and a clear mission: let the music do the talking. And it did — in a concert where technical mastery and sensitivity found each other in rare harmony.
Silvana Imam stepped onto the stage at Lille VEGA on 6 April 2025 with a presence that instantly filled the room. Her gaze was steady, her voice clear, and the message unmistakable. This was not just a concert; it was a statement.
Post Malone walked into Royal Arena with a Bud Light in hand and an “I ♥ Copenhagen” T-shirt on his back. He wanted to be both global superstar and good company, but the concert ended up somewhere in between.
Royal Arena smells of reheated nachos and nostalgia. Fred Durst shows up in a neon-yellow T-shirt and pink shorts, looking like a dad who has just discovered rave culture. It’s charming and slightly awkward. Just like the concert itself.
When the world collapses, what are we really fighting for? Safety? Freedom? Or just one other person we refuse to lose? The Last of Us is not just another zombie story. It is a drama disguised as genre, a love story disguised as survival, and perhaps most importantly: a portrait of the cost of being human. HBO has created a series that doesn’t frighten us with monsters, but with everything they cannot take from us. Yet.
Imagine waking up and not remembering who you are — but everything around you still smells of money. A man, a rooftop terrace, a wardrobe straight out of a Net-a-Porter dream, and a past that clings to you like a wet sheet. That’s the premise of Surface, Apple TV+’s silky psychological thriller with Gugu Mbatha-Raw at its center and San Francisco as its backdrop. But what does a woman do when even her own memories seem staged?
There was every reason to expect another sharp season of White Lotus — this time set in Thailand’s sun-kissed paradise locations. But even if the cocktails are chilled and the camera glides elegantly around silhouettes and arguments, it all feels a little too polished. Like watching a storm from afar that never quite breaks.
Someone should take Marvel’s headquarters, toss it straight into a blender with Succession, Jackass, and a dash of sharp-edged social satire. And voilà: out comes The Boys — still the most grotesque, funniest, and disturbingly well-oiled series about power, morality, and men in latex who can’t seem to keep it in their pants.
There’s something beautiful about stupidity. It just has to be the right kind. The kind that doesn’t try to be clever. The kind that doesn’t wrap itself in irony or prestige-TV ambitions. And that’s exactly what Reacher season 3 does: it stands there proudly, bare-chested, and screams “U-S-A” with a stick of dynamite in its hand. And we clap. With one hand. The other is holding the phone.
The film opens with George (Michael Fassbender) in a nightclub. The music pulses, the light is low and flickering, and everything feels just as opaque as it should in a film like this. He’s there to meet a source. It’s the kind of opening scene that instantly sets the tone: everything matters, and nobody says what they mean.
You click on an article about growing tomatoes in an apartment. Boom — the whole page turns into a White Lotus banner. You scroll past reality videos, nail fungus and loneliness ads, and forget why you clicked in the first place. You’re not reading — you’re being interrupted.
It begins like a joke. An odd woman, a free cup of tea, a conversation that goes on a little too long. But Baby Reindeer is no joke — it’s an emotional thunderclap dressed up as stand-up. A autobiographical, raw, and uncomfortably intimate series in which Donny Dunn (played by creator Richard Gadd himself) doesn’t just open the door to his life, he tears it off its hinges. This is Netflix when it dares — and you watch it with your whole body.
You know you’re watching something special when, halfway through episode three, you’re googling quantum physics at 11:41 p.m. — not because you expect to understand it all, but because you’d like to nod knowingly if anyone brings up the series at a dinner you weren’t invited to.
Heartland at Noma. The title alone smells of conceptual bullshit and natural wine with a little too much attitude. But in the middle of that pretentious inferno — yes, perhaps precisely despite it — I had the greatest musical experience of my life.
Benny Jamz in a tuxedo with tails. Not to play a part, but because he meant it. And because DR Concert Hall is the kind of room that makes you either duck or rise to the occasion. He chose the latter.
There’s something about MØ that feels like home. Home in a kind of chaotic youthful energy that refuses to grow up, yet still sounds exactly right in a hall at Christiania on a cold Friday evening in March.
Sabrina Carpenter has gone from Disney star to TikTok queen — and now to an almost overperfect pop gem in Royal Arena. But how much glitter can one night really hold before you start craving a little roughness around the edges?
Imagine going to the cinema to see Bill Murray and Pete Davidson. They’re in the trailer, they’re on the poster, they’re all over your social feeds. And then they’re in… three scenes? Welcome to Riff Raff, a film that proves marketing departments have taken over screenwriting.
If you’ve ever wondered what it would look like if a joint smoked itself back and then started questioning the meaning of the film industry, then you have The Studio. Seth Rogen stars in a series about losing your grip on precisely the thing you never quite had hold of in the first place.
What do Catholic guilt, the dance floor at Tivoli, and the Danish People’s Party have in common? Morten Messerschmidt has written Showbizz — and it’s far more entertaining than it has any right to be.
He’s had the leather jacket longer than you’ve had a backbone. Lenny Kravitz stepped into Royal Arena with his guitar as if it were an extension of his hip bone and his sunglasses glued to his face. It was rock, it was retro, it was… a little like going to a concert with a mirror image of yourself from 2002.
There are evenings when you go to a concert, and there are evenings when you’re wrapped up in an entire world. Emma Sehested Høeg’s performance at DR Koncerthuset was the latter. A show, a performance, a concert — and something that feels like a conversation with the person who dares to say all the things you only ever think in the shower.
Some people say they just don’t get it. How you can stand in the middle of a concert, with the world’s biggest band onstage, and still film the whole damn thing on a phone you’ll never actually watch the footage from. But maybe it’s not because we’re idiots. Maybe it’s just because the concert was never really about the music. Not anymore.
