When Jesus walked into the Temple complex and saw a teeming market, filled with sheep and doves and graft and corruption, Jesus knew He couldn’t walk past. “Should I stand by while they turn my Father’s house into a place of thievery?” he says. The answer, of course, is no.

And so the tables are literally turned. Money tumbles onto the cobblestones. Sheep make a quick getaway while they can. And members of the Sanhedrin look on, glowering.

“This is a place of worship!” Jesus shouts.

Peter loves his Master. But this bold move, in full view of Jerusalem’s religious authorities? It makes Peter nervous.

John stands beside Peter, beaming. “This is a good thing,” he reassures Peter. High time someone cleansed the Temple. High time someone took on the corrupt and craven elements in the Almighty’s house.

 Judas watches as a stray coin rolls by his feet. He steps on a piece of silver—as if to hide it—then quickly bends down and picks it off the stone, happy to add it to the disciples’ small coffers.

Or, perhaps, his own.

Jesus’ act is audacious. Impulsive. One more affront to the religious establishment. One more blemish on Jesus’ record. But it’s far from the worst offense: Already, word has reached Caiaphas, leader of the Jewish Sanhedrin, that Jesus has been making outrageous, blasphemous claims about being the Son of God. Unsubstantiated hearsay, Caiaphas realizes—for now. But such abhorrent allegations cannot go unchallenged.

If Jesus insists on turning over tables, then Jesus Himself must be turned over to the authorities. His claims must be investigated. And if deemed fact, this Jesus must die.

But while Caiaphas and his cadre of priests hope to bring a quick end to Jesus’ affrontery, only Jesus understands that His work, in many ways, is just beginning.

Forget flipping over a few tables: Christ means to turn the world itself on its ear.

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The nearly 100-foot-high statue of Christ the Redeemer stands atop Corcovado mountain, spreading its arms wide, as if to embrace the entire city. The sun beats down on Rio’s beaches—beaches so filled with sunbathers and tourists that it can be hard to see any sand. Millions of tourists flock to the city every year, and for some, it might seem as though this corner of Brazil is paradise. A place untouched by the worries of the world.

Ruben and Eunice Paiva know better.

Ruben was a left-leaning Brazilian congressman in the early 1960s. But when the government was toppled by a military coup in 1964, Ruben was forced out and into self-imposed exile. He and his family—wife Eunice and five kids—returned five years later, but the military dictatorship is in control. And by 1970, that dictatorship feels increasingly under pressure: Terrorists are kidnapping foreign ambassadors and exchanging them for the release of political prisoners. The country’s rulers want to stamp out this insurgency now. Left-leaning protestors, journalists and educators are increasingly scrutinized.

Oh, and one-time politicians, too.

They come for Ruben on a gloriously sunny day—a holiday, when the Paiva family might’ve well gone to the beach. Several men walk into the house, armed and prepared for trouble. They tell Ruben they’d like him to give a “deposition.” As Ruben dresses for the trip, his daughter, Nalu, asks if she could borrow one of his shirts.

“Do I have a choice, Nalu?” he says with a smile, while a stranger with a barely concealed gun looks on. “And where’s my kiss?”

Nalu, clueless about the room’s looming peril, gives him one. And she asks why he’s putting on a tie.

“I’m just helping these gentlemen,” Ruben say. “I’ll be back soon.”

But he wasn’t back. Not that day, or that night, or the next day. That deceptively mundane goodbye launched the family into a nightmare one can barely contemplate.

The sun seems to always shine on Rio. But on Jan. 20, 1971, the Paiva family entered into a dark, uncertain night.

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The communists said they hoped for that, too. And part of their vision—rooted in the atheistic ethos of communism—was to “re-educate” all religious citizens in antireligious campaigns.

It’s why they pull a pregnant Neng from her teaching job for questioning. She’s married a man from the British colony of Hong Kong, and her parents sent her to Christian schools for education, so they’re concerned about her commitment to Mao’s vision for China.

Neng adamantly tells them that, though she may have gotten swept up in a Christian bandwagon when she was younger, she grew out of her beliefs as she got older.

But as she thinks about those beliefs she had had as a child, Neng begins to realize that, though distant, perhaps she still does believe in the Christian God.

“Are you a Christian?” A government official demands.

Slowly, the thoughts in her head racing, Neng opens her mouth to respond.

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Proud. Drunken. Womanizing.

Those words all fit him quite well. He might even claim them. He’s also quite competitive.

And that competitive side of him always tends to peek its head up at the wrong time. Especially when Caligula is around, and he’s had too many cups of wine. Yes, it’s definitely unwise for a Roman soldier to purposely ruffle the feathers of Emperor Tiberius’ regent.

But Caligula is such a vile, self-indulgent man that he makes Marcellus look like a saint.

So Marcellus can’t keep himself from goading and prodding the man when he pompously parades into the slave trade. And soon after … Marcellous finds himself punitively posted to some barren outpost out in the desert. A dust bowl called Judaea.

The only good aspect of the whole affair is the fact that Marcellus reconnected with an old friend back at that Roman auction. Well, perhaps she’s more than a friend. Could he say that he once loved the pretty Diana? Perhaps. Perhaps.

In any case, Diana said she would talk to Tiberius on his behalf about Marcellus’ situation. All Marcellus needs to do is hold on for a while, and he’ll be transferred back to civilization before he knows it. And he’ll be returning to Diana. Yes, that prospect is sounding sweeter by the day.

So, Marcellus spends his time sweating and drinking. And waiting. When he’s finally called before the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, the man looks very disturbed. Not at Marcellus, but at the fact that he can’t seem to get his hands clean.

There is this magician in the city who’s been giving the governor fits. The Jews—well, many of them—call this bewildering person a “king.” And all Pilate wants is to see the man called Jesus done away with. So, he tells Marcellus to simply crucify this criminal. Then he can be gone, and Marcellus can leave this terrible place.

Marcellus has never killed anyone in this manner, but a few extra cups of wine will surely get him through.

The rest is a blur. Blood on his hands. Dying men breathing their last. Gambling with the Centurion guards.

But there’s something strange about this man they call Jesus. He bleeds and hangs on the cross, to be sure, but it’s as if He calls the time of his death. “Father, forgive them,” the man cries out as Marcellus gazes up at him. “For they know not what they do.” And then He dies.

Marcellus feels the shift before he sees it. The day slides out of gear, the sky grows black. The clouds swell. The people standing around quiver, look up and cry. And then the rains begin to fall.

Marcellus grabs this Jesus’ cast-off robe—for he had won it rolling dice—but when he puts it over his shoulders it burns, it scalds. Is the robe cursed? Or is it something else? Is the pain he feels outside him, or in?

On the way back to Capri, Marcellus falls ill and thrashes in nightmares. And when he reports his story to the superstitious old emperor, Tiberius, the ruler and his soothsayers quickly see what must be happening. Marcellus’ agonies are surely a curse, caused by the foul dead magician and his robe.

Marcellus must return to the parched land of Judaea and find that accursed robe. That is his foresight, his destiny. That will be his salvation, they declare.

And in a way … they’re absolutely right.

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And no, it wasn’t a long-lost relative or a neighbor from down the lane asking for a cup of sugar. This was a messenger from God, an honest-to-goodness angel. And the angel came with news: The young woman would give birth to a son.

It was surprising and seemingly impossible news, considering that the young woman was a virgin.

But in time, the woman did miraculously become pregnant. She traveled to Bethlehem with her new husband. There was no room for them in the inn, so they had to stay among the animals. And that is where the virgin gave birth to her son.

It’s the beginning of an incredible story—some would say the greatest story ever told. It’s a tale of miracles and wonder: more angelic visitations, supernatural healings and the ultimate sacrifice. The woman’s son grows into a man. But more than that, he is fully man and fully God. He lives a perfect, sinless life, preaching and teaching and proclaiming the Kingdom of God. He is betrayed, killed and buried, but he rises to new life, conquering death and paving the way to eternal life for all who hope in him.

Maybe you’ve heard of this story.

It’s the account of Jesus of Nazareth.

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She’d been born in Azerbaijan (then part of the U.S.S.R.). Her own two daughters were born there, too. Her husband, Ivan, works as a Soviet rocket scientist. She herself is a respected school administrator in Baku, Azerbaijan, and a proud member of the Communist Party.

But ethnically, she’s Armenian. And in the eyes of many, that makes her an outsider.

Nothing new there, either. She’d been used to the occasional side-eye, the derogatory remark, the infrequent burst of ethnic tension. As long as Moscow was in charge, those issues felt minor.

But in 1988, Moscow’s power wanes. The Soviet Union is fraying at its edges. And many former countries—or would-be countries—now strain at the seams, reaching for independence.

And in Azerbaijan, Violetta and her family don’t feel at home anymore—all because they’re Armenian.

Bricks shatter the windows of Armenian businesses. People carry signs promising death to Armenians. The school closes its doors to the Petrosyan girls—a sympathetic teacher telling Violetta that they’re simply not safe at the school anymore.

But it’s only when the shooting begins—executions of Armenians right in the streets—that the Petrosyans flee, running straight into Russia proper. There they hope for another chance at home.

But they find a cold welcome in Volvograd, Russia. Housing is dismal. Jobs are scarce—at least for Armenians. The only hint of friendliness they find is inside a ramshackle church, and that’s hardly a suitable refuge for the secular Petrosyans.

Sure, Violetta and Ivan have a place to stay in Volvograd. The apartment comes with walls, a roof—even heat sometimes. And if they need a bathroom, well, it’s just down the hall.

But a home? They’re still looking.

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But this day is special for him. Because today, this frowzled young man is determined to find folk artist Woody Guthrie, to tell the singer how important he’d been to Dylan. Guthrie’s songs had knocked Dylan flat the first time he heard them. They helped spur him on to writing some new songs of his own.

The problem is, Woody Guthrie isn’t in New York as Dylan had been told. Guthrie’s health had worsened, and he was in a run-down psychiatric facility in New Jersey. So, Dylan starts hitching his way there.

When he finally arrives, he finds Guthrie in poor shape indeed. The man’s Huntington’s disease had beaten him down to the point of barely being able to move or talk. Guthrie is lying, defeated and humbled, in a shabby bed. Pete Seeger, his one last friend, sits at his bedside.

The two men listened as Dylan has his say, praising Guthrie, speaking of the man’s inspiration, delivering his thanks. Then, as Dylan turned to go, Pete Seeger, a seasoned folk artist himself, said, “So, play it.”

“Play what?” Dylan asked.

“The song you were inspired to write.”

Dylan picks up his guitar and plays. His gruff, nasal voice sings of struggles and pain. And Guthrie is visibly moved. In fact, that’s the moment Pete Seeger decides to help this scruffy young folk singer. So he gives Dylan a couch to sleep on for the night. Maybe Seeger can even open a few doors for the guy.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

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Stan knows that in the life of a teenager, even the smallest problem can feel monumental. And so he tries to impart some of the wisdom that has come to him with time and experience. Many of his students eventually realize he’s right: All things eventually do pass, often without the dramatic outcomes they expected. As a result, they’ve come to respect Stan and trust him.

But Nathan Williams is another matter. All Stan really knows about Nate is that he’s in foster care, he’s a decent athlete, and his grades are poor. Oh, and he just got arrested for burglary.

Still, Stan sees something promising in the teen. He knows that Nate has had some seriously tough luck. But with the right guidance, he believes Nate could become a great man.

So, Stan pulls a few strings to get the prison warden and judge (both former students) to release Nate into his custody. Then he pulls a few more to get Nate’s probation officer (another former pupil) to cut the wayward teen a few breaks.

Unfortunately, that was the easy part. The hard part will be getting Nate to trust him—to accept that Stan is offering this gift, this opportunity, purely out of the goodness of his own heart.

[Caution: This review contains spoilers.]

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Williams has been in the spotlight since he was 15, when he joined the hit boy band Take That. He’s been performing for others so long that he doesn’t believe he’s ever had the chance to evolve into a man. It’s why, in this biopic about the real Robbie Williams’ life, he depicts himself as a monkey.

And despite enduring a life full of twists, turns and tragedies, he couldn’t stop following his father, Peter’s, advice: If you don’t want to be a nobody, you need to become famous.

But how much fame and affirmation are enough to satiate a man?

So Robbie continues to sing. He continues to dance. He becomes a performing monkey, doing what the people want, when and how they want it.

Robbie knows what he’s doing is killing him. He knows if he keeps going, he’s going to die.

But he needs the praise. He needs the love. He needs to become one of the gods.

He can’t stop.

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Elwood Curtis, an African-American high school student in 1960s Tallahassee, is hopeful that the world is changing for the better.

But as he walks along the side of the road on his way to his college classes, a Black man passes by and offers him a lift. Not long after, they’re pulled over. The car’s been stolen, and because Elwood was in the car, too, he’s implicated in the crime.

Instead of attending Melvin Griggs, Elwood’s sent to Nickel Academy, a reform school for juvenile boys. The Black boys are segregated from the white boys. They’re put to hard work. They’re forced to aid in the Academy’s illegal activities. They’re severely beaten when they don’t comply. Some, like Elwood, are beaten even when they do the right thing.

To Elwood, Nickel Academy isn’t like the rest of the world. Nickel Academy is full of unjust people. He believes if someone exposes its wrongdoings, the good people of the world will address the injustices there. And if Elwood can’t escape the school through its graduation process, the courts will save him.

But Elwood’s closest friend at Nickel, Turner, doesn’t think the rest of the world is all that different from Nickel. Outside the Academy’s property, people cling to the same cruelty in their hearts—Nickel just gives everyone permission to stop pretending.

And time will tell whose worldview holds true.

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