Maxime Delcourt feed

One of the most curious stories from the set of The Big Lebowski didn’t happen on camera. It emerged quietly between takes. As Jeff Bridges was settling deeper into the role of the Dude, he remarked that nearly every situation in the film followed the same strange pattern: the character is constantly pulled into other people’s games. He never chooses to participate. The rules are never explained to him. The stakes keep rising — money, threats, violence — and the less sense it makes, the calmer he becomes.

December in Ireland does not begin with a date on the calendar, but with a feeling. The pace of cities slowly shifts: shop windows glow with warm light, streets fill with people carrying bags, and conversations increasingly circle back to one thing — Christmas. Even those who are not particularly religious become part of this collective rhythm. In Ireland, Christmas is less about church and more about home, the table, and a sense of togetherness.

Migration is not marginal in Ireland. Nor is it invisible. According to national and European statistics, the country is experiencing one of the most pronounced demographic shifts in its modern history. What remains striking, however, is not the scale of migration itself, but the way it is discussed.

Ireland likes to present itself as a success story without drama. A small country that “did everything right”: open economy, global companies, cultural charm, political stability. And yet, by 2026, Ireland is no longer simply balancing between worlds — it is quietly stretched between them.

Economically, the country looks unmistakably American. Culturally, it still behaves like Europe. Emotionally, it sits in an uncomfortable in-between space that no longer feels temporary. The contradiction is not cosmetic. It shapes policy, work, housing, culture — and the way Ireland understands itself.

At first glance, the online casino market looks more alive than ever. New brands appear weekly. Logos change, color palettes rotate, slogans promise “something different.” To a casual observer, it feels like abundance — a thriving ecosystem of choice, competition, and entrepreneurial energy.

For decades, Europe’s borders were defined by geography. Passports were stamped. Questions were asked. Decisions were made by people, often imperfectly, sometimes inconsistently. Today, that logic is quietly being replaced. Europe is building borders that are no longer just physical, but digital, automated, and predictive.

Why audiences stopped waiting for the next installment — and who is responsible

Franchise fatigue is often dismissed as a mood swing. Viewers are said to be “tired of the same thing,” bored, spoiled, impatient. It is a convenient explanation — because it places responsibility on the audience rather than on the system that produces and distributes culture.

There is something distinctly Irish about the way Joe Swash’s documentary Forgotten Young Fathers has been received here. Not with outrage, not with applause, but with a kind of uneasy recognition. The conversations it triggered — in university lecture halls, at small documentary festivals, within social work networks and among those involved in family law reform — were less about the film’s craft than about the reality it quietly exposed.