It seems Denise Richards and husband Aaron Phypers are going their separate ways after six years of marriage.

Phypers filed his petition to divorce actor and “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” star Richards on Monday, The Times has confirmed. The businessman filed his petition in Los Angeles County Superior Court. He cites “irreconcilable differences” for the split and lists July 4 as the date of his separation from Richards.

A representative for Richards did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment.

“Wild Things” actor Richards, 54, tied the knot with Phypers, 49, in 2018. They do not share children, but Richards has two adult daughters with ex-husband Charlie Sheen. She and the “Two and a Half Men” actor were married from 2002 to 2006. Richards is also the mother to a teenage daughter whom she adopted as an infant.

Phypers was previously married to “Desperate Housewives” star Nicollette Sheridan from 2015 to 2018.

Phypers is reportedly seeking spousal support from his now-estranged wife, according to court documents reviewed by The Times. In his declaration, Phypers says he has made no income since closing down a business last year and estimates Richards makes more than $250,000 a month from several business ventures including brand deals, TV and OnlyFans content. Phypers has asked to keep their assets and debts as separate property, including his power tools, motorcycle and sports car, legal documents show.

The couple began their relationship in 2017 and married a little more than a year later in a private ceremony in Malibu. They wed in September 2018, a month after Phypers finalized his divorce from Sheridan.

Though Richards has not publicly commented on Phypers’ decision to file, she made her thoughts on divorce pretty clear earlier this year. In the debut episode of her Peacock series “Denise Richards & Her Wild Things,” Richards said in a confessional interview, “I’m never getting divorced again. Even if we hate each other, I’m not gonna f— get divorced.”

Phypers responded: “No, we’ll just have different homes or something. But we’re not gonna hate each other.”

Sovereign, 2025.

Written and Directed by Christian Swegal.
Starring Nick Offerman, Jacob Tremblay, Dennis Quaid, Martha Plimpton, Nancy Travis, Thomas Mann, Jade Fernandez, Jobie James, Eric Parkinson, Barry Clifton, John Trejo, Faron Ledbetter, Buddy Campbell, Brandon Stewart, Tommy Kramer, Ruby Wolf, Jared Carter, Jennifer Nesbitt-Eck, Mike L. Thomas, Cheryl Vanwinkle, William Sherman, Astrid Allen, and Alonso Rappa.

SYNOPSIS:

A father and son who identify as Sovereign Citizens, a group of anti-government extremists, find themselves in a standoff with a chief of police that sets off a manhunt.

One of the most impressive feats to pull off in movies is crafting a character so odd yet seemingly fighting for justice that it’s tough to pinpoint what to make of them. In writer/director Christian Swegal’s narrative feature debut Sovereign (inspired by true events), Jerry Kane (Nick Offerman) is an anti-establishment “sovereign citizen” and not only defying banks and other institutions that don’t necessarily always play fair, but also traveling and giving seminars to others on how to navigate such predatory situations when the average persons backs are against the wall. To one woman, he advises not only to be aware of what money she does owe a bank, but also the money she has no obligation to pay. Of course, Jerry also comes across as a quack high on his own supply, potentially spouting off gibberish tactics that won’t stand up, and taking advantage of these people without even realizing it, since his mind is so uncomfortably obsessed with pushing back against the government.

Then there is Jerry’s unorthodox relationship with his homeschooled teenage son Joe (Room breakout Jacob Tremblay, desperately in need of a script that gives him a well-adjusted and normal home life, albeit giving another outstanding performance rich in maturity and conflicted complexity beyond his years), which comes with a dynamic bordering on indoctrination more than affection. There is still reason to believe Jerry loves his son, but like in most everything else about his life, he can’t see the forest for the trees; he is lost, hopelessly misguided, and spiraling further into mental instability with each subsequent incident that threatens his homeownership and whatever delusional definition of freedom he has made up in his head. He is also a gun nut, and, well, not the kind of guy that should be walking into stores and easily obtaining more.

By all means, this is not a parent who should have guardianship, as they disallow Joe from enrolling in public high school or even having friends his age. Still, there is also something oddly alluring about his staunch, unwavering position to break free from any government rules. Naturally, his war is on a collision course with disaster, but the film wisely sidesteps portraying Jerry as a villain. It’s also apparent that Jerry has unresolved baggage stemming from his father, citing a moment where his dad showed a bit of cowardice, shrugging his questioning off with a disgruntled “forget it” rather than explaining what he meant by insisting that teachers “lie” and are more concerned with guiding students into obeying the system.

At one point, this is flipped on its head, with Joe, justifiably frustrated with his lack of a normal life (and not even able to talk to a local girl he is crushing on, which in itself starts to transition into borderline parasocial stalking since he has no reliable figure to look to for advice), becomes aware that most of what Jerry says is nonsense, uttering under his breath “forget it” and walking away. It visibly triggers a shell-shocked frustration within Jerry that is arguably among Nick Offerman’s finest performances as an actor (although admittedly, there are a few scenes that could have benefited from reshoots, unintentionally evoking his comedic side).

However, deep down, there is an internal pull that keeps Joe doing anything for his father, including bailing him out of life-threatening danger. It’s also the complexity and the inability to entirely cut himself off from his father’s crazed nonsense, perpetually at a fork in the road, that gives Sovereign its engrossingly uncomfortable suspense. Meanwhile, the presence of Police Chief John Bouchart (Dennis Quaid) provides a window into the relationship between him and his son, Adam (Thomas Mann), creating a striking juxtaposition with Jerry and Joe. Adam is undergoing training to be a police officer, but from what is observed, it also appears to be another form of indoctrination, as if John will be disappointed if he lacks the intestinal fortitude for the job.

These fathers are two sides of the same coin, pushing and motivating their children with end goals that, similarly, also come from two sides of the same coin; it’s an unsettling story about freedom, control, and power, blurring the lines between all three. And whereas Jerry could be considered more loving of the two fathers, it’s John who has the tough-love persona, suggesting that Adam not pick up his newborn when the baby is crying, as doing so will instill, from an early age, a sense of spoiled entitlement.

With cinematography that matches the tone of isolation and a fittingly haunting score, perfect for the tragically harrowing story that unfolds, Sovereign is a slow-burn offering much to ponder beneath what could be considered familiar thriller material. It boils over into moments that are both upsetting and emotionally taxing, the latter including a callback ending that’s earned and drives home the thematic purpose and resonance. There should be much free-thinking done on Sovereign, as this is less about the plot itself and more about the fully formed, multidimensional characters worth turning over in one’s head repeatedly.

Flickering Myth Rating – Film: ★ ★ ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★ ★

Robert Kojder

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=embed/playlist

Any profession can corrupt its practitioners — and arts critics are no exception. Are they enlightened standard-setters dragging us back from a cultural abyss — or deformed exiles from the arts who, with sharpened pens and bent backs, are ready to pounce on plot-holes and devour careers at a moment’s notice?

If Charlotte Runcie’s debut novel, “Bring the House Down,” is anything to go by, it’s a bit of both. The book centers around four heady weeks at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, which begins the unraveling of two newspaper critics who have traveled up from London to cover the sprawling performance art event. Runcie, a former arts columnist for the Daily Telegraph, has created something so delightfully snackable that you may, as I did, gulp it down in two or three sittings.

Runcie’s anti-hero is theater critic Alex Lyons. Alex gives everything he reviews either one star or five, and the latter are vanishingly rare. He bemoans a world of “online shopping reviews,” where “five stars has come to mean the baseline, rather than outstanding,” and so insists on panning almost everything he sees. What’s bad for artists is good for him: His reviews become desperately sought-after career makers or breakers. “The paper didn’t allow Alex to award zero stars. Otherwise, he’d do it all the time.”

We learn about Alex’s story through our narrator Sophie Ridgen, his colleague who, despite being in her mid-30s like Alex, is on a very different track. Alex rose quickly through the newspaper’s ranks, and his reviews are featured on the front page almost daily. Sophie continues to toil as a junior culture writer, picking up whatever scraps nobody else wants. Sophie is also a new mom, overworking to compensate for time lost to maternity leave. She feels uncomfortable in her post-pregnancy body, exhausted and frustrated with her husband. Alex, on the other hand, finds it “embarrassingly easy” to get laid.

But Alex’s glory days are numbered. Early on at the Fringe, he sees a one-woman show that, unsurprisingly, he hates. He writes a review as devastating as it is personal (calling the star a “dull, hectoring frump,” her voice a “high-pitched whine”). All of this would be business as usual for Alex except for one problem: After quickly filing his review of the show, he bumps into Hayley Sinclair, its creator and star, in a bar. He takes her home and sleeps with her. He knew the one star was waiting for her; she did not.

When she finds out, there is hell to pay. Hayley transforms her nightly show into the “Alex Lyons Experience,” collecting testimony from his ex-girlfriends and lovers, or even those who have simply received bad reviews from him. Over the following weeks her show swells into a Greek chorus of one man’s wrongs. The whole nation, including members of Parliament, have hot takes (the performance is livestreamed). It doesn’t help his case that Alex is a bit of a nepo baby, as his mother Judith is an actor whose name would be recognized in most British households.

Sophie, living with Alex in the company-rented flat, has a front row seat to his public unraveling. She watches the livestreams with guilty awe, stalks Alex and Hayley compulsively online, and feverishly scans social media for the latest gossip (Runcie is great at writing a fake mean Tweet/X dispatch). She starts missing calls with her husband and their toddler son, as she becomes fully obsessed with the drama unfolding in Edinburgh.

As she continues to inhabit the same flat as her colleague, Sophie is increasingly questioned by others as to whose side she’s on, Alex or Hayley’s. For much of the book, she seems unable to make up her mind. She refuses to give up on Alex, and increasingly becomes his only source of companionship, which she can’t help but find flattering. But she also finds herself sympathetic to and magnetized by Hayley, whose popularity is blossoming on the Fringe circuit and beyond.

While Alex and Hayley both appear to possess other-worldly levels of charisma, one flaw with Runcie’s novel is that this is something we are repeatedly told, rather than shown. Alex spends most of the book being condescending to Sophie, and yet she is transfixed by him. “He had the strange ability to make you feel as if you were the only person who was in on a joke, the only person who understood some fundamental truth about the world that escaped other people.” This feels unsatisfyingly generic, like something you might find in an online wedding vows template.

We are at least given more backstory and a more plausible explanation for Sophie’s fascination with Alex: the ego trip. Having been dragged down by motherhood, a rocky marriage, and grief over the death of her own mother, Sophie enjoys Alex’s increasing dependence on her, a lone rock of support amid an ocean of alienation. There is something undeniably delicious in watching someone you revere fall to their knees, and Sophie begins to see in Alex “a tiny flickering of fear, at first only visible as a barely perceptible interruption to his arrogance, like a power cut that dims the lights for just a hundredth of a second.”

Hayley, unfortunately, never quite comes to life in the same way. And it remains unclear why her show, which is essentially a litany of (legitimate) complaints about a real-life terrible man with some added pyrotechnics, takes Edinburgh and the entire country by such storm. “I find I can’t explain why it had the effect that it did,” Sophie tells us. “This wasn’t theater, not really; it was a happening. The audience weren’t spectators anymore, but a silent, connected web of righteous energy.” Without more to go on, we have no choice but to take her word for it.

The result feels like a missed opportunity to interrogate some important questions. How much does the identity (gender, race, or class) of the critic matter when it comes to their ability to judge art? What about the identity of the artist themselves? In other words, who shall criticize the critics? Readers may leave Runcie’s novel feeling that some of these questions go unanswered, but this deeply entertaining novel is nonetheless well worth the price of admission.

Mills is a writer and human rights researcher who has worked for Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, the Wall Street Journal and Associated Press. She lives in New York.