On a cold November morning in 1970, in the remote Isdalen region on the outskirts of Bergen, Norway, two young girls found a woman’s corpse. Her body had been scorched in a fire, and the labels had been removed from all her clothing. The otherwise desolate landscape was scattered with strange items beside the remains: among them bottles of water, a rubber boot, and burned paper. To this day, no one knows who she is or how she died. Death in Ice Valley, hosted by Norwegian journalist Marit Higraff and BBC radio-documentary-maker Neil McCarthy, follows a two-year investigation into this enigmatic, unsolved crime that has fascinated Norway for almost half a century. Throughout the 11 episodes, they visit the hotels where she stayed and the stores she patronized, track down the origins of items she left behind in a lone suitcase, and work to piece together her identity. (bbc.co.uk) —Bridget Arsenault

Peter Bogdanovich’s sartorial trademark is a neckerchief—a bandana, he reminds listeners of TMC’s podcast on the director, The Plot Thickens, not an ascot. His defensive attitude toward an accessory, of all things, speaks to the polarizing effect of Bogdanovich. Some critics consider him to be a rare cinematic genius, the 70s Orson Welles; others find him pretentious and arrogant, a bloviating, overrated auteurist. But almost all would agree that three of his earlier films—The Last Picture Show, What’s Up, Doc?, and Paper Moon—are his best. It’s true that Pauline Kael didn’t like 1972’s What’s Up, Doc?, a screwball comedy inspired by Bringing Up Baby and Bugs Bunny and starring Barbra Streisand, Ryan O’Neal, and Madeline Kahn. But my appendix burst while I was watching this movie, causing some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and I still have nothing but good things to say about it. However one feels about Bogdanovich, these three movies are hard to hate. (Rentals from $2 to $4, amazon.com) —Clementine Ford

Sunny days make me crave a cold and perfect cocktail, the sort of celebratory drink that I’d never make at home. Since I can’t really go anywhere, I’m lucky that Glady’s, in Crown Heights, offers no-contact, carryout items from the kitchen and bar, twice-weekly. A bottle of their rum punch is the best salute to spring I can think of right now. And while this period has forcibly upped my cooking skills, I’ll never be able to match Glady’s jerk chicken and pork, grilled on a giant wood-fire smoker, at home. The pickup meal lacks the restaurant’s buzzy atmosphere, but it’s still special. (gladysnyc.com) —Clementine Ford

In post-pandemic cities, will people still want to crowd face-to-face onto subways and trains? Electra Meccanica, a Canadian company, is betting there will be a big market for its forthcoming Solo—essentially an enclosed, air-conditioned, electric-powered, three-wheeled motorcycle that gets 100 miles to the charge and tops out at 80 m.p.h. It’s not cheap, but it allows you to isolate in place—while letting you get to someplace else. ($18,500; electrameccanica.com) —Michael Hainey