Last time the fierce enmity between Mozart and Salieri was adapted for the screen, it won a best picture Oscar. Now a new TV version turns up the temperature several notches – but will its stars develop a rivalry of their own?

“A prodigal son story with God as the father,” is how actor Paul Bettany describes Amadeus, the Peter Shaffer play that became a celebrated film in 1984. Both depict the rivalry between Austrian court composer Antonio Salieri and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, a former child phenomenon whose towering talent exposes Salieri as mediocre and stuck in his ways. Salieri, who believes a composer’s gift to be divine, is so affronted by this upstart that he renounces God and sets about destroying Mozart.

Now Amadeus has been remade for TV, with Will Sharpe in the title role and Bettany as Salieri. The series, which begins with Mozart arriving in Vienna in a rickety carriage and promptly throwing up in the street, is written by Joe Barton, the Black Doves and Giri/Haji writer known for his leftfield approach to genre TV. Little surprise, then, that Amadeus takes liberties with the classic period drama, injecting it with modern-day dialogue and gloriously anarchic flourishes. While I won’t divulge the details of an early sex scene between Mozart and a young soprano, safe to say you won’t look at a macaron the same way again.

Just as lullabies send babies to sleep, so songs can help those at the other end of life on their way. The leader of a Threshold Choir reveals what they do – and the personal tragedies that convinced her we need to get better at dealing with death

It’s a brisk November afternoon in the village of South Brent in Devon and, in a daffodil yellow cottage, two women are singing me lullabies. But these aren’t the sort of lullabies that parents sing to their children. They are songs written and sung for terminally ill people, to ease them towards what will hopefully be a peaceful and painless death.

We are at the home of Nickie Aven, singer and leader of a Threshold Choir. Aven and her friend are giving me a glimpse of what happens when they sing for people receiving end-of-life care. These patients are usually in hospices or in their own homes being supported by relatives, which is why 67-year-old Aven – who is softly spoken and radiates warmth and kindness – has asked me to lie down on the sofa under a rug while they sing. She says I can look at them, or I can close my eyes and allow my mind to drift. In fact, my eyes settle on Lennon, Aven’s large black labrador retriever who squeezes himself between the singers and is as gentle and well-mannered as his owner. The pair sing a cappella and in harmony. Distinct from elegies or laments, the songs are gently meditative, written to provide human connection and foster feelings of love and safety. They are not just for the benefit of the dying but for friends and relatives caring for them or holding vigil. Their singing is simple, intimate and beautiful. It is also utterly calming.

An esoteric blend of folklore and festivity reveals the lesser known, dark side of Christmas, from horse skulls and Yule cats to Icelandic ogres

Christmas nowadays tends to revolve around family, food and a furtive visit from a pot-bellied stranger down the chimney. But in The Dead of Winter, the historian and folklorist Sarah Clegg reveals a lesser known side to the festive season, unearthing unsettling midwinter traditions and stories that fell out of favour in the Victorian age.

Subtitled The Demons, Witches and Ghosts of Christmas, the book opens with Clegg embarking on a pre-dawn walk to a graveyard on Christmas Eve. She is recreating an old Swedish tradition called årsgång, or “year walk”, which is said to offer glimpses into the walker’s future along with “shadowy enactments of the burials of anyone who will die in the village this coming year”.

Available via WF Howes, 4hr 21min