Sharing with the 1989 Tom Hanks film a title, a vague premise, a little paranoid spirit and a Universal Studios backlot street, “The ‘Burbs,” premiering Sunday on Peacock, stars Keke Palmer and Jack Whitehall as newlywed new parents who have moved into the house he grew up in — his parents are on “a cruise forever” — in Hinkley Hills, the self-proclaimed “safest town in America.”

Well, obviously not. First of all, that’s not a real thing. But more to the point, no one’s going to make an eight-hour streaming series (ending in a cliffhanger) about an actually safe town. Even Sheriff Taylor had the occasion to welcome someone worse than Otis the town drunk into the Mayberry jail. In post-post-war American culture, suburbs and small towns are more often than not a stage for secrets, sorrows, scandals and satire. The stories of John Cheever, the novels of Stephen King, “The Stepford Wives,” “Blue Velvet” and its godchild “Twin Peaks,” “Desperate Housewives” (filmed on the same backlot street as “The ‘Burbs”), “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” last year’s “Grosse Pointe Garden Society,” which I mention in protest of its cancellation, are set there — it’s a long list.

Samira Fisher (Palmer) is a civil litigation lawyer still on maternity leave, a job reflecting her inquisitive, inquisitorial nature. Husband Rob (Whitehall) is a book editor, a fact referred to only twice in eight hours, but which allows for scenes in which he rides a soundstage commuter train to the big city (presumably New York) with boyhood friend and once-more next-door neighbor Naveen (Kapil Talwalkar), whose wife has just left him for their dentist. Samira, Naveen and Rory (Kyrie McAlpin), an overachieving late tween who has a merit badge in swaddling, a recommendation from Michelle Obama on her mother’s helper resume and a notary public’s license, are the only people of color in town, but racism isn’t really an issue, past a few raised eyebrows and odd comment. (“What a cute little mocha munchkin,” says a shifty librarian of baby Miles.) “It’s a nice area,” says Naveen, “and people like to think of themselves as nice, so they try to act nice until they’re actually nice.”

As we open, the Fishers have been tentatively residing on Ashfield Place (“over by Ashfield Street near Ashfield Crescent”), for some indeterminable short time. Apart from Naveen, neither has met, or as much as spoken to, any of their new neighbors, though Samira — feeling insecure postpartum and going out only at night to push Miles in his stroller — watches them through the window.

That will change, of course, or this will be one of television’s most radically conceived shows. Fascinated by a dilapidated, supposedly uninhabited house across the street — the same backlot where the Munsters mansion rose many years ago, for your drawer of fun facts — she’s drawn out into a mystery: The rumor is that 20 years earlier a teenage girl was killed and buried there by her parents, who subsequently disappeared. Rob says there’s nothing in it, and in a way that tells you maybe there is.

Out in the world, she will find her quirky Scooby Gang: widow Lynn (Julia Duffy), still attached to her late husband; Dana (Paula Pell), a retired Marine whose wife has been deployed to somewhere she can’t reveal; and Tod (Mark Proksch), a taciturn, deadpan “lone wolf” with an assortment of skills and a recumbent tricycle. (Their shared nemeses is Agnes, played by Danielle Kennedy, “our evil overlord,” the stiff-necked president of the homeowner’s association.) They bond over wine (drinking it) and close ranks around Samira after the police roust her on her own front porch. By the end of the first episode, Samira is determined to stay in Hinkley Hills, warmed by new friends, enchanted by the fireflies and in love with the “sweet suburban air.”

Weird goings-on in a creepy old “haunted” house is as basic a trope as exists in the horror-comedy mystery genre (see Martin and Lewis’ “Scared Stiff,” Bob Hope’s “The Ghost Breakers,” Abbott and Costello’s “Hold That Ghost” and assorted Three Stooges shorts). Suddenly there’s a “for sale” sign on this one, and just as suddenly, it’s sold. The new owner is Gary (Justin Kirk), who chases off anyone who comes around. Tod notes that the security system he’s installed is “overkill” for a private residence, necessary only “if you are in danger, you have something to hide — or both.” You are meant to regard him as suspicious; Samira does.

Created by Celeste Hughey, “The ‘Burbs” is pretty good, a good time — not the most elegant description, but probably the words that would come out of my mouth were you to ask me, conversationally, how it was. I suppose most of it adds up even if doesn’t always feel that way while watching it. It hops from tone to tone, and goes on a little long, in the modern manner, which dilutes the suspense. The characters are half-, let’s say three-quarters-formed, which is formed enough; everyone plays their part. The Hardy Boys were not known for psychological depth, and I read a lot of those books. A lot. Indeed, depth would only get in the way of the plot, which is primarily concerned with fooling you and fooling you again. When a character isn’t what they seem, making the false front too emotionally relatable is counterproductive; the viewer, using myself as an example, will feel cheated, annoyed. I won’t say whether that happens here.

That isn’t to say that the actors, every one of them, aren’t as good as can be. I’ll show up for Pell and Duffy anywhere, anytime. Proksch, well known to viewers of Tim Heidecker’s “On Cinema at the Cinema,” is weird in an original way. The British Whitehall, primarily known as a stand-up comedian, panel show guest and presenter, makes a fine romantic lead. Kirk is appealingly standoffish, if such a thing might be imagined. As Samira’s brother, Langston, RJ Cyler has only a small role, but he pops onscreen and, having the advantage of not being tied up in any of the major plotlines, provides something of a relief from them. And Palmer, an old pro at 32 — her career goes back to “Akeelah and the Bee” and Nickelodeon’s “True Jackson” — does all sorts of wonderful small things with her face and her voice. She’s an excellent Nancy Drew, and the world can never have enough of those.

Directed by G Prajith, the film relies strongly on a sense of “throwback” charm. It tries to recreate the light-hearted family atmosphere seen in Jayaram’s popular films. Written by Jude Anthany Joseph and Aravind Rajendran, the screenplay follows a familiar pattern of middle-class problems and situational humour. The film works mainly because it allows Jayaram (Hariharan) to play to his strengths and evoke nostalgia. For example, the widely trolled BGM and Jayaram’s famous expression as Major Sreekumar are used wisely here, bringing the theatre down with laughter. However, it does not offer much that feels new or surprising. The film openly talks about nepotism and the “godfather culture” in the film industry. This becomes ironic because the actors are a real-life father and son. However, this self-awareness works against the film as Kalidas Jayaram’s (Ajeesh Hariharan) performance feels weak. Rather than questioning the “nepo-kid” label, his acting sometimes reinforces it. The female lead, played by Asha Sharath, is perhaps the film’s weakest link in terms of writing. Portraying a frail, submissive housewife who exists solely to cater to the men in her life, her character lacks depth and agency. Her constant optimism despite severe financial hardship feels more annoying than moving. A late attempt to give her a strong dialogue does not help. Overall, the character feels disconnected from the reality of the modern woman. Although Sharaf U Dheen genuinely tries to carry the anti-villain role, the motives behind his character’s hostility feel weak. On a brighter note, the supporting cast including Ishaani Krishna, Ramesh Pisharody, Anand Manmadhan, Akhil, and Senthil Krishna etc delivers good performances that helps the film. As for the music, while the recreated version of “Dil Dil Salaam Salaam” hits the right nostalgic notes, the rest of the soundtrack fails to make any real impact. -Aiswarya Sudha

The Olympics are back, wearing their warm Winter Games gear. Although there will be a couple of weeks of sports competitions to come, none are possible without an opening ceremony, a combination of solemn official protocol with a fantastic representation of the host country’s culture and character, evoking the Olympic spirit itself. There are few opportunities to mount an entertainment of this scale — not even a Super Bowl halftime show can compare.

This year we are in Italy, for the bi-metropolitan Milan-Cortina games, held in the city’s San Siro Stadium and in the north where the mountains are. The ceremonies, too, were split geographically, with Olympic cauldrons in both cities, with the athletes’ parade further shared with Livigno and Predazzo, national delegations divided according to where their events would be held.

The main business took place in the arena. Directed by Marco Balich, who specializes in big shows, it was elegant, in a sleek, clean-lined Italian way, and over the top, also in an Italian way. Color played a great part, the program beginning in white (a balletic interpretation of Antonio Canova’s sculpture “Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss”), moving to to black and white (a nod to Fellini’s “La Dolce Vita” and its paparazzi), and then to a riot of color, as giant floating tubes of paint sent streams of colored fabric stageward.) There were dancing human bobbleheads of opera composers Verdi, Puccini and Rossini, as if they were mascots for Team Rigoletto, Team Tosca and Team William Tell. There were dancing gladiators and moka pots, a phalanx of runway models dressed (in Armani) in green, white and red, to represent the Italian flag.

In white and shiny silver, with an ostrich feather boa and a reported $15 million worth of diamond jewelry, there was a statuesque, statue-still Mariah Carey, who is not Italian, but sang in Italian, the standard “Nel blu, dipinto di blu,” known here as “Volare,” which merged into her own “Nothing Is Impossible.” (She must by now be accounted a citizen of the world.) Why did I find this so moving? I am not someone who ordinarily cares anything about Carey, but she was marvelous in this context.

Mariah Carey performed the Italian tune “Volare,” before leading into “Nothing Is Impossible.”

(Robert Gauthier/Los Angeles Times)

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The parade of nations is also a fashion show; for whatever reason, the cold weather gear is generally better looking than the togs of summer. (As usual, Ralph Lauren designed the American outfits — white puffy jacket with knit caps of a Scandinavian pattern.) As ever, the countries arrived alphabetically (apart from Greece, who always gets to march first; Italy, coming in last as the host country; France, in penultimate position as the host of the next Winter Games; and the U.S., third to last as the host of the games, in 2034, after that). It makes neighbors of Lebanon, Lichtenstein and Lithuania, and so on, equal in standing if not in size. (I have a special fondness for the small delegations from the less imposing nations.) There was an especially big hand for the Ukrainian team, dressed in their national colors.

The second half opened with a cartoon in which an animated Sabrina Impacciatore (of “The White Lotus” and, “The Paper,” which NBC happily did not cross-promote), traveled backward through previous Winter Games before coming to life to lead an energetic production number that traveled back to now. (She should get some sort of athletic medal for this performance.) The Chinese pianist Lang Lang accompanied Cecilia Bartoli singing the Olympic anthem, and the great Andrea Bocelli, flanked by strings, offered a thrilling reading of Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma.” Surrounded by dancers, the Italian rapper Ghali read an antiwar poem by Gianni Rodari.

Sabrina Impacciatore leading a group of dancers during the ceremony.

(Robert Gauthier/Los Angeles Times)

The theme of the evening, and of evenings going forward, it is hoped, was “Armonia,” or harmony, not just between the city and the country (expressed symbolically through dance), but, as a series of speeches made clear, among everybody, everywhere.

“At a time when so much of the world is divided by conflict, your very presence demonstrates that another world is possible. One of unity, respect and harmony,” said Giovanni Malagò, president of the organizing committee, addressing the athletes. Kirsty Coventry, the first female president of the IOC, noted that while Olympic athletes are fierce competitors, they “also respect, support and inspire one another. They remind us that we are all connected, that our strength comes from how we treat each other, and that the best of humanity is found in courage, compassion and kindness.”

And then there was Charlize Theron, of all people, quoting her countryman Nelson Mandela: “Peace is not just the absence of conflict; peace is the creation of an environment where all can flourish, regardless of race, color, creed, religion, gender, class, caste or any other social markers of difference,” This is, of course, exactly what some portion of this nation would call “woke,” and though such divisions are not the exclusive province of the United States, it was easy enough to read this as a message delivered to the White House.

Charlize Theron quoted her fellow countryman Nelson Mandela in her speech.

(Robert Gauthier/Los Angeles Times)

Finally, two Olympic torches were lit two Olympic cauldrons, in Milan and Cortina, their flames at the center of shape-shifting spheres. Almost inevitably, the ceremonies flirted with, or embraced, corniness at times, but even (or especially) when it was corny, it was terrifically affecting. I ran through half a dozen handkerchiefs over the course of the proceedings. Admittedly, I might be unusually susceptible to these things, but I doubt I’m the only one.

Let the games begin.