Jon Hamm’s UK animation debut and the quiet revolution in sustainable culture

The unlikely star power of Jon Hamm’s UK animation debut

Jon Hamm, the actor synonymous with the suave, whiskey-sipping Don Draper in Mad Men, has quietly slipped into the UK’s late-night television schedule this summer. His latest role is a far cry from the advertising executive who defined an era: Marvin Flute, a disgraced police detective in the adult animated series Grimsburg, which began airing on Sky One last week. The show, a blend of dark comedy and surreal crime-solving, marks a rare foray into animation for Hamm—and a sign of how the UK’s cultural landscape is evolving to accommodate offbeat, American-style storytelling.

What makes Grimsburg notable isn’t just its star power, but its timing. The series arrives as British broadcasters increasingly turn to adult animation to fill gaps in their schedules, a trend accelerated by the success of shows like Rick and Morty and Big Mouth. Sky One, once a home for mainstream dramas and reality TV, has become a testing ground for niche, boundary-pushing content. Grimsburg’s triple-bill debut at 10:15pm—buried in the late-night slot—suggests a cautious approach, but its presence alone signals a shift. Animation, long dismissed as children’s fare, is now a vehicle for sharp, satirical storytelling aimed at adults.

The show’s premise—a detective framed for murder, navigating a town of bizarre crimes—mirrors the surrealism creeping into UK culture. In an era of climate anxiety, political instability, and economic uncertainty, audiences seem drawn to narratives that embrace the absurd. Hamm’s involvement, though understated, adds a layer of credibility. His voice, instantly recognisable, lends weight to a medium still fighting for respect in the UK. Whether Grimsburg finds its audience remains to be seen, but its arrival is a reminder: culture doesn’t stand still, even in the quiet corners of the schedule.

When trash becomes art: the dancer turning litter into movement

In Los Angeles, a dancer named [unnamed in sources] has found choreography in the most unlikely of places: the city’s streets. Using TikTok as her stage, she mimics the movements of windblown trash—plastic bags, discarded cups, crumpled paper—transforming litter into a form of performance art. Her work, which she describes as an exploration of "value and what is thought of as rubbish," has struck a chord online, where videos of her dances have garnered attention for their simplicity and poignancy.

The project began during the pandemic, when the dancer, like many artists, found herself unable to perform. On daily walks, she noticed how litter seemed to "try to get someone’s attention, but nobody was looking." Her response was to become the trash—to embody its movements, its fragility, its discarded state. Using costumes from past performances and items scavenged from Facebook Marketplace, she creates impromptu dances that blur the line between human and object. A plastic bag’s flutter becomes a ballet; a crushed can’s collapse, a tragicomic routine.

Her work is more than a gimmick. It’s a commentary on waste, consumption, and the overlooked beauty in the discarded. In a city where homelessness and environmental neglect are ever-present, her performances force viewers to confront the detritus of modern life. The fact that she does this on TikTok, a platform often criticised for its superficiality, only adds to the irony. Here, an app known for fleeting trends is being used to highlight something far more enduring: the way society treats what it throws away.

Le Corbusier’s social housing dream turns into a climate nightmare

In Firminy, a declining industrial town in south-east France, one of Le Corbusier’s final projects stands as a monument to modernist ambition—and a cautionary tale for the climate era. The Unité d’Habitation, a towering concrete block designed in the 1960s, was meant to be a model of social housing: affordable, functional, and forward-thinking. Today, it’s a symbol of how architectural ideals can clash with environmental reality.

Residents of the Unité have spent this summer battling temperatures that regularly exceed 40°C inside their apartments. The building’s concrete facade, once celebrated for its durability, now acts as a heat trap. French building regulations, which prohibit shutters on listed structures like this one, leave tenants with few options for cooling their homes. "It’s unlivable," one resident told The Guardian. The irony is stark: a building designed to house the working class is now a case study in how climate change renders certain architectural styles obsolete.

The Unité d’Habitation’s plight is part of a broader crisis facing Europe’s social housing stock. As heatwaves become more frequent, older buildings—many of them modernist icons—are struggling to adapt. Retrofitting is expensive, and preservationists often resist changes that might alter a building’s historic character. In Firminy, the debate is particularly fraught. The town, which has lost much of its population to nearby Saint-Étienne, clings to the Unité as a source of pride. But pride doesn’t cool apartments.

The situation raises uncomfortable questions about the legacy of modernist architecture. Le Corbusier’s vision was rooted in the belief that design could solve social problems. Today, those solutions are being tested by a new set of challenges—ones he never anticipated. The Unité’s residents aren’t just living in a piece of history; they’re living in the future, and it’s uncomfortably hot.

Wool’s quiet revival and the slow death of fast fashion

New Zealand’s wool industry, once a cornerstone of the country’s economy, is experiencing a modest but meaningful resurgence. For decades, the sector has been in decline, a victim of the rise of synthetic fibres and the global shift toward fast fashion. At its peak in the 1980s, New Zealand had more than 22 sheep for every human. Today, that ratio has plummeted, and many farmers have reduced their flocks or abandoned wool altogether.

But this year, for the first time in nearly a decade, wool is making money again. John Hargreaves, a farmer in Kaiwaka, north of Auckland, has seen his fortunes improve after years of struggle. His family once kept 3,000 ewes; by 2020, that number had fallen to 1,700. Now, with wool prices stabilising and demand for natural fibres growing, he’s cautiously optimistic. "It’s not a gold rush," he says, "but it’s a start."

The revival is driven by a confluence of factors. Consumers, increasingly aware of the environmental costs of synthetic fabrics, are turning back to wool for its durability and biodegradability. High-end fashion brands, under pressure to adopt sustainable practices, are incorporating more wool into their collections. Even the outdoor apparel industry, long dominated by synthetic materials, is revisiting wool for its natural temperature-regulating properties.

Yet the challenges remain daunting. The global wool market is still overshadowed by cheaper synthetics, and the industry’s infrastructure has atrophied after decades of neglect. New Zealand’s farmers are competing with larger producers in Australia and China, where economies of scale keep prices low. And while wool’s environmental credentials are strong, the industry has its own sustainability issues, from water use to methane emissions from sheep.

Still, the turnaround offers a glimmer of hope. Wool’s revival isn’t just about economics; it’s about a cultural shift. In an era of disposable fashion, wool represents something rare: a material that lasts, that can be repaired, that doesn’t end up in a landfill after a few wears. For farmers like Hargreaves, that’s a future worth investing in.

What this tells us about culture and climate

The stories of this week—Jon Hamm’s animated detective, a dancer mimicking trash, a modernist housing block melting in the heat, and wool’s fragile comeback—are more connected than they seem. Each, in its own way, reflects how culture is grappling with the climate crisis, not through grand declarations, but through quiet adaptations and contradictions.

Animation, once seen as escapist, is now a space for exploring the absurdities of modern life. Grimsburg’s dark humour mirrors the surrealism of a world where climate disasters and political upheavals have become routine. Meanwhile, art that engages directly with environmental themes—like the dancer’s trash performances—challenges audiences to see the world differently. These aren’t just creative experiments; they’re cultural responses to a planet in flux.

The Unité d’Habitation’s crisis is a reminder that climate adaptation isn’t just about new technologies or policies. It’s about rethinking the systems we’ve inherited—whether they’re buildings, industries, or even artistic mediums. Le Corbusier’s vision was radical in its time; today, it’s a relic of an era that didn’t account for 40°C summers. The challenge now is to adapt without erasing the past entirely.

Wool’s revival, meanwhile, highlights the tension between sustainability and economic reality. The industry’s comeback is fragile, dependent on shifting consumer habits and the whims of global markets. But it also shows that cultural values can change. What was once seen as outdated—natural fibres, durable goods—is now being reappraised as essential.

None of these stories offer easy solutions. But together, they suggest that culture isn’t just reflecting the climate crisis; it’s helping to shape the response. Whether through humour, art, or architecture, the ways we tell stories—and the materials we use to tell them—are evolving. The question is whether they can evolve fast enough.