artist

The first, or maybe the second thing to be said about “The Artist,” a six-part comedy written and directed by Aram Rappaport, is that it streams from the Network, a free ad-supported streaming service Rappaport created to release his previous series, “The Green Veil.” The first three episodes premiere Thursday; the concluding three are due at Christmastime.

The second, or maybe the first thing to say about it is that it comes pulling a tramload of heavy talent — including Mandy Patinkin, Janet McTeer, Danny Huston, Hank Azaria, Patty Lupone, Zachary Quinto — which begs for it to be taken seriously, though that might not be the best way to take it.

Set in 1906, peopled with ahistorical versions of historical figures, the series is set largely in and around the Rhode Island “country home” of Norman Henry (Patinkin), identified by a title card as “an eccentric robber baron,” and seemingly what we’d call a venture capitalist today. (And one seemingly in need of capital.) Norman begins the series dead, carried out rolled in a carpet and set on fire like a Viking, before we skip back in time, meeting his wife, Marian (McTeer), who narrates from her journal and advises “the reader” that it is only on the final page that “you might be well enough equipped to tell fact from fiction, hero from villain.” I’ve seen only the first three episodes, so I have no idea, apart from where the story misrepresents its real-life characters. But that’s just poetic license and, of course, perfectly acceptable.

The staff, for no evident reason, apart perhaps from the house lacking “a working kitchen,” lives in tents on the front lawn. They’re called inside by bells, attached to cords running out the windows, labeled the Maid, the Ballerina, the Boxer, the Doctor. The ballerina, Lilith (Ana Mulvoy Ten), is a sort of protege to Henry; she believes he’ll arrange for her to dance “Coppelia” back home in Paris, the fool. (Their scenes together are creepy.) Sometimes we see her naked (though tastefully arranged) in a metal tub. Her dance instructor, Marius (David Pittu), is waspish, bitter and insulting. The boxer is a sparring partner for Marian, who works out her aggression in the ring. She’s told us that she loathes her husband, and he her (though he professes his love in a backhanded way).

Danny Huston plays Edgar Degas, the artist in the series’ title.

(The Network)

And then there’s the eponymous artist (Huston), eventually identified as Edgar Degas, real-life French Impressionist, who was not, in fact, literally stumbling around Rhode Island in 1906, and certainly not accepting a commission to paint French poodles. (So much French!) You are free to make the connection between the show’s ballerina and those he famously painted, and her nude in the tub with his masterpiece pastels of bathing women. But apart from bad eyesight, a hint of antisemitism and Huston muttering in French, there’s no substantial resemblance to the genuine article. Here, he seems half out of his mind, or half sober. He is quite concerned with getting paid, and I don’t blame him.

The news of the day is that another person from history, Thomas Edison (Azaria) is coming to the house, looking for an investor for his new invention, a Kinetophone, a peep show with sound, like a turn-of-the-century take on a virtual reality headset. (There was such a thing; it was not a success.) This sets up a long flashback in which we learn that Marian and Edison knew each other in college, and that he betrayed her. Next up are Evelyn Nesbit (Ever Anderson) and her mother (Jill Hennessy), who have booked it out of New York after Evelyn’s unstable husband, Harry K. Thaw (Clark Gregg), shot architect Stanford White in the rooftop restaurant of White’s Madison Square Garden. That happened.

It’s a loud show, with much shouting and some brief violence, which, in its suddenness, verges on slapstick, and some less brief violence which is not funny at all. There is a superfluity of gratuitous profanity; F words and the less usual C word fly about like bats at twilight, clutter up sentences, along with many rude sexual and anatomical imprecations. Most everyone is pent up, ready to pop. At the beginning of the series, setting the table for what’s to come, Marian declares, “This is not a story in the conventional sense”; it’s “a cautionary tale,” but “not a tale of murder. This is a story of rebirth,” presumably hers. There’s a feminist current to the narrative: The men are patronizing and possessive, the women — taken advantage of in more than one sense — find ways to accommodate, manipulate or fight them, while holding on to themselves.

One can see why Rappaport might have had trouble landing this series elsewhere, or preferred to avoid notes from above. Aesthetically and textually, it’s the sort of absurdist comedy that used to turn up in the late 1960s and early ‘70s, something like the works of Robert Downey Sr. or William Klein, or maybe an ambitious film student’s senior thesis, given a big budget and access to talent; in its very lack, or perhaps avoidance, of subtlety it feels very old-fashioned. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it bad, or for that matter good, but it seems to me the perfect realization of the creator’s idea, and there is something in that. And there are those three concluding episodes, which will bring in Lupone and Quinto, their characters yet unknown, and may move the needle one way or the other. In any case, it’s not something you see every day.

Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson’s documentary about Sean Combs finally has a release date.

Netflix announced Tuesday that it would release “Sean Combs: The Reckoning,” a four-part docuseries about the disgraced mogul directed by Alexandria Stapleton, on Dec. 2. Jackson, who serves as an executive producer, first revealed he was working on a documentary about Combs and his alleged abuses nearly two years ago.

The synopsis describes the series as a “staggering examination of the media mogul, music legend, and convicted offender” and touts that it will feature “explosive, never-before-seen materials, including exclusive interviews with those formerly in [Combs’] orbit,” such as “his former associates, childhood friends, artists, and employees.”

“Born with an insatiable drive for stardom and a knack for spotting talent, Combs made a quick ascent through the ranks of the music industry with Bad Boy Entertainment and was crucial in bringing hip-hop to the pop masses and launching the careers of dozens of generation-defining artists like The Notorious B.I.G., Mary J. Blige, Jodeci, and Danity Kane,” reads the synopsis. “But along the way … something darker began to color his ambitions.”

In July, Combs was found guilty on two counts of transportation to engage in prostitution after a seven-week federal criminal trial in New York. He was cleared of the more serious charges related to racketeering and sex trafficking. The former rapper is serving a four-year sentence.

Jackson, who had long feuded with Combs, often took to social media to troll the Bad Boy Entertainment founder as the various allegations against him mounted and even through the criminal trial’s aftermath.

But the “In Da Club” rapper, whose work in TV also includes serving as executive producer on Starz’s crime thriller “Power,” told Netflix’s Tudum that he’s “been committed to real storytelling for years through G-Unit Film and Television.”

“I’m grateful to everyone who came forward and trusted us with their stories, and proud to have Alexandria Stapleton as the director on the project to bring this important story to the screen,” he said.

Two other documentaries about Combs were released earlier this year: Peacock’s “Diddy: The Making of a Bad Boy” and Investigation Discovery’s “The Fall of Diddy.”

Legendary graffiti artist Daniel “Chaka” Ramos once claimed he had tagged more than 40,000 locations around Los Angeles.

He can now add seven more. And unlike decades ago — when Ramos had to sneak around in darkness to spray-paint his nickname in large, block letters all over the city and surrounding areas — this time it was fully permissible.

Earlier this month, Nike recruited Ramos to add his signature style to seven murals celebrating the Dodgers’ back-to-back World Series titles, which the team clinched Nov. 1 with a dramatic Game 7 victory against the Toronto Blue Jays.

Ramos, an L.A. native and Dodgers fan, was more than happy to participate, adding his name and slogans crafted by Nike to each piece. He told The Times in an email that it was his “first major project with a corporate giant like Nike.”

A mural of Dodgers pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto is a temporary addition to the downtown Los Angeles skyline.

(Natasha Campos / Nike)

“They’re one of the most prolific creative forces in the world, and collaborating with them was a milestone for me,” the 53-year-old artist said. “The rush of graffiti can’t really be compared to commissioned or gallery work, but this experience came close.”

The Nike murals, which are scheduled to remain up through Nov. 30, are among the pieces included in a new and quickly expanding online map detailing the locations of Dodgers murals in and around L.A. The map was created by and is curated by Mike Asner, the mastermind behind a similar website that documents the locations of hundreds of Kobe and Gianna Bryant murals around the world.

Asner already has a full-time job as a marketing director in sports and entertainment, as well as maintaining the Bryant mural site. Still, the morning after the Dodgers clinched their second straight championship, Asner knew it was time to get to start tracking more murals.

“I think the reception from the fans and the artists I got to know from the Kobe mural project was very positive,” Asner, who also has an Instagram page highlighting Dodgers murals, said. “And the main thing I realized was it was helping people and providing a service to them and making things easier. … After the Dodgers won back-to-back championships, we started to see murals going up immediately, so I felt it would be the right thing to do again.”

The map currently includes 54 murals, located as far north as Van Nuys and all the way down to Lake Elsinore. One of the standouts for Asner is a sprawling painting by artist Royyal Dog in the Florence-Graham neighborhood in South Los Angeles (2619 Firestone Blvd.). It features portraits of many all-time Dodgers greats, including Tommy Lasorda, Fernando Valenzuela, Orel Hershiser, Clayton Kershaw, Justin Turner, Yoshinobu Yamamoto, Mookie Betts, Freddie Freeman and Shohei Ohtani.

A sprawling mural by Royyal Dog in South Los Angeles features images of Dodgers greats past and present, including Yoshinobu Yamamoto (second from right) and Freddie Freeman (far right).

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Another of his favorites is one by artist Gustavo Zermeño Jr. on the Eat Fantastic building in Redondo Beach (701 N. Pacific Coast Highway). A tribute to the 2024 World Series championship, the mural features Betts, Freeman and Ohtani but is highlighted by a larger-than-life image of Lakers legend Bryant wearing a basketball jersey with Dodgers colors and lettering.

The Nike-Chaka collaborations represent some of the newer artwork documented on Asner’s map. A Nike spokesperson said the idea was to give Ramos approved spaces in local neighborhoods to express the pride that Dodgers fans are feeling after back-to-back championships.

Two of the murals were painted directly on the walls by L.A.-based artists, with Ramos adding the slogans and his tag afterward. Artist Swank One painted the one at 2844 1st St. in Boyle Heights. It features relief pitcher Roki Sasaki and Smith embracing after the Dodgers clinched the National League pennant, with the slogan “On the Double.”

Graffiti artist Daniel ‘Chaka’ Ramos was commissioned by Nike to apply his tag to several temporary murals around Los Angeles celebrating the Dodgers’ back-to-back World Series championships.

(Natasha Campos / Nike)

Artists Enkone and Keorock painted at 4560 Whittier Blvd. in East L.A. The mural features pitcher Blake Snell, whose postseason included a one-hit, eighth-inning gem in Game 1 of the NLCS, with the slogan “Twice as Nice.” That mural has since been removed.

For four of the others, Nike licensed game photos from Getty Images, overlaid tag designs from Ramos and then had the images blown up and printed as murals.

Those include “Twice in a Blue Moon” in Silverlake (at Hollywood Boulevard and Hillhurst Avenue), featuring Max Muncy and Hyesong Kim; “Repeat Heroes” in Echo Park (at West Temple Street and North Boylston Street), featuring Smith and Sasaki; “Turn Two, Earn Two” in Echo Park (atSunset Boulevard and Marion Avenue), featuring Muncy; and “Dodgers Rule” — a play on Ramos’ longtime slogan “Chaka Rules” — in Westlake/Echo Park (at Beverly Boulevard and Commonwealth Avenue), featuring Sasaki.

The last mural features a photo of Yamamoto letting out a roar. The photo was blown up several stories high and installed several stories higher in downtown L.A. at 213 S. Broadway. Ramos then boarded a suspended scaffold and was lifted high above his hometown, where he spent four to five hours adding his tag and the slogan “Back 2 Back.”

It may not have been as daring as some of the stunts he pulled in the past, but Ramos definitely felt the rush.

“I’ve done graffiti at daredevil heights without a harness before, but nothing at this scale. This time I actually had to gear up with a harness — haha,” he wrote. “It was intense, but a lot of fun.”

The Nike-Chaka murals will be coming down soon, but Asner says he’s excited to see what other new creations might fill out the map in the aftermath of the latest championship run.

“We’re gonna see really amazing artwork going up, and we’re gonna see artwork of Dodgers that haven’t necessarily been on murals. like Will Smith and Yoshinobu Yamamoto,” Asner said. “There’s a lot of really big stars from this series that deserve to get credit for their amazing job. …

“You know, Ohtani was incredible, obviously, Friedman was incredible. But there were a lot of big players that stepped up — Miggy Rojas, right? Huge, huge reason they won. So it’s gonna be great to see what these artists do, and I’m looking forward to seeing it myself.”

Y la chona se mueve, al ritmo que los Fortniteros toquen.

Starting Friday, “Fortnite Festival” players across the globe can rock out to the story of la chona as Los Tucanes de Tijuana’s mega hit “La Chona” is the latest track to hit the “Fortnite” universe.

The 1995 song — which has long been a staple on party dance floors — has crossed over into international fame thanks to its prevalence on social media and the overall increased visibility of Latinos. People from within and outside of the culture have embraced the track’s playful nature and undeniably catchy melody—Metallica even got in on the fun with a 2024 live cover of the single at a show in Mexico City.

Like “Guitar Hero” and “Rock Band,” “Fortnite Festival” — a spinoff of the popular survival/ battle royale-style online game “Fortnite” — is a rhythm game that requires players to hit notes in-time to properly perform songs as members of a virtual band.

Los Tucanes de Tijuana have long been a staple of the música Mexicana scene on both sides of the border. In 2019, the group became the first norteño band to perform at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival, and have played massive gigs at Dodger Stadium, New York’s Central Park and Mexico City’s Zócalo Plaza.

The band made headlines in 2010 when it was banned playing in its hometown of Tijuana as a result of a 2008 concert in which the group’s lead singer, Mario Quintero Lara, sent his regards from the stage to the city’s most notorious and wanted men, “El Teo and his compadre, El Muletas.”

“El Teo” refers to Tijuana drug cartel leader Teodoro Garcia Simental, who was captured by authorities in 2012. “El Muletas” — which Spanish for “crutches” — was the nickname of Tijuana cartel leader Raydel Lopez Uriarte, who was captured in Mexico in 2010. The moniker stands for the trail of disabled people Lopez Uriarte left behind as part of his brutal attacks.

The shout-out enraged the city’s then-police chief Julian Leyzaola. He said the band’s polka-driven narcocorrido songs glorified drug lords and their exploits and were, therefore, inappropriate to play in a border city that had long suffered from drug-related violence.

“La Chona” is only the most recent playable song available as part of “Fortnite Festival’s” 11th season, which unlike previous iterations, is made up of songs from several performers rather than having only one featured artist. Other artists featured in the latest season include Jennie from Blackpink, Doja Cat, Simple Plan, Elton John, Fall Out Boy, Tyler the Creator, Slipknot and Olivia Rodrigo. Previous seasons of the game revolved around the music of Billie Eilish, Karol G, Bruno Mars, the Weeknd and Lady Gaga.

The “Fortnite” franchise first dabbled in the world of music in 2019 when DJ Marshmello performed a virtual concert on “Fortnite Battle Royale.” It was estimated that over 10.7 million people tuned in for the concert.

With the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, the Fortnite metaverse became a refuge for artists looking to connect with audiences. Travis Scott performed for over 12.3 million players in April 2020, and Ariana Grande played inside the game in August 2021. Other artists who have rocked the “Fornite” stage are Eminem, Snoop Dogg, Juice Wrld, Metallica and Ice Spice.

The river rushes white around each of the large, flattish rocks as I tread tentatively over the stepping stones that Dovedale is famous for. This limestone valley on the border between Derbyshire and Staffordshire is a popular spot for day trips and hiking. Thankfully, it’s quiet on this brisk November morning, and I’m able to soak in the scene: the River Dove flowing fast, the autumn trees turning russet and gold, the green fold of hills rising around me.

On days like this, it’s clear why Dovedale has inspired creatives. One of those was the 18th-century artist Joseph Wright of Derby, whose work is being celebrated in a new exhibition at the National Gallery.

Landscapes such as Dovedale were painted by Wright at a time when “people started travelling to places that in those days were hard to get to – places like the Peak District”, says Tony Butler, executive director of Derby Museums Trust. We meet at Derby Museum and Art Gallery, which houses the world’s largest collection of Wright’s paintings. Places such as Dovedale were seen as wild, Butler explains, but there was an increasing appreciation of landscapes like this, with a gradual opening up of the country, and the idea of nature evoking the sublime.

The gallery showcases Wright’s prolific and varied work. In the place of paintings that have gone to the National Gallery exhibition are works from other artists, including paintings inspired by Wright’s use of light and dark by Nottingham-based Joseph Norris.

Much of Wright’s work reflects the industry and invention of the Enlightenment, a time of faith in reason and scientific discovery. As a hub of industrial growth, Derby was one of the Midlands towns at the centre of the movement, and Wright spent time with members of the Lunar Society, the Midlands-based group of Enlightenment thinkers. “The Enlightenment was a way of life in Derby, and he was a documenter of that,” says Butler. “He’s really reflecting the spirit of the age.”

One of Wright’s most famous works, A Philosopher Giving That Lecture on the Orrery (in Which a Lamp Is Put in Place of the Sun), shows a philosopher lecturing on the solar system at a time when talks like this were held in Derby’s town hall. He painted portraits of figures reflecting the area’s role in industry, including Sir Richard Arkwright, the industrialist who built his cotton mill in nearby Cromford and was one of Wright’s patrons.

I have lunch at The Engine Room, a recently opened restaurant that draws on another element of Derby’s industrial heritage, as a centre for railway manufacturing, with railway art decorating the walls. Afterwards, I wander with Alex Rock from Derby Museums along the River Derwent as Canada geese bob by and the breeze throws leaves on the water. It’s a short walk to the Museum of Making, which stands on the site of Derby Silk Mill, often regarded as the world’s first modern factory, near where Wright grew up.

The museum explores 300 years of Derby’s history of making, from the Enlightenment era that inspired Wright through to the city’s contemporary creativity. A Toyota car hangs high in the atrium as a sign of Derbyshire’s modern manufacturing. “In Stoke, we lift up crockery to see where it’s made,” I say, a nod to my own home town’s industry. “I do the same,” Rock says, and we lift our coffee mugs to see them stamped as Denby, the Derbyshire-based pottery company. Afterwards, I join the crowd gathered to watch the trains running on the museum’s impressive model railway.

I look around the Assemblage room, curated so items are displayed by their principal material, such as wood or metal. There are racks of everything from Derby-made train parts to ceramics showcasing the museum’s collection. The museum is also home to a workshop where visitors can book sessions to learn skills such as pot-throwing and woodwork.

We wander to Derby cathedral, striking for how bright it is inside a nave that was rebuilt in 1725 – the large windows symbolically letting in the light of the Enlightenment. I amble down Sadler Gate, a pedestrianised street lined with independent shops, where I settle for a while with a pint of cider at the Old Bell Hotel, a 17th-century former coaching inn that’s been sensitively restored.

Following the Derwent and the A6 north leads to the village of Cromford, home to Cromford Mills, the world’s first successful water-powered cotton spinning mill. I join an hour-long guided tour and learn how it was built in 1771 by Arkwright, and is seen as another important site of the Industrial Revolution. The tour takes us into vast old factory buildings, and we see examples of the machinery that would have been used. Wright painted Cromford Mills in day and night scenes.

I have lunch at Oakhill, built by the Arkwright family in the mid-19th century as a private family dwelling, and now a boutique hotel and restaurant. I eat a delicious and generously sized cauliflower steak in the elegant restaurant, with wide windows offering views over the Derbyshire countryside.

I leave with a sense of the people and places that inspired Joseph Wright, from the valley of Dovedale to the industrial changes of the 18th century, and how places like Cromford and Derby are drawing on that history. As Alex Rock says: “If you really want to experience the culture that Wright came from, you need to come to Derby.”

Wright of Derby: From the Shadow is at the National Gallery, London, until 10 May, tickets from £12. The trip was provided by Visit Derby and Visit Peak District & Derbyshire

The most insulting thing about the success of Breaking Rust, an artificial intelligence “artist” that topped Billboard’s Country Digital Song Sales Chart this week, is the titles of the hits.

“Walk My Way.”

“Living on Borrowed Time.”

The EP — which is also on the charts — is called “Resilient,” as if Breaking Rust spent years playing for tips in empty bars. And maybe Aubierre Rivaldo Taylor, who is credited for writing the songs, did. But the bluesy voice we hear singing about pain and suffering did not overcome anything.

In fact, you could say this completely computer-generated country singer found chart success by mocking people. A year ago, a handful of loud industry folks in Nashville questioned whether Beyoncé, who was born and raised in Texas, was country enough to do a country album. Good times. Today AI-generated “performers” such as Breaking Rust and Xania Monet, which hit the Billboard R&B charts, are suggesting you don’t even need to be human to fit into those genres.

Eric Church, whose latest release “Evangeline vs. the Machine,” was nominated this month in the best contemporary country album category at the Grammys, told me he’s not too worried because fans still want to see live shows and “AI algorithm is not going to be able to walk on stage and play.” He says that the best thing the industry can do is establish AI music as its own genre and that award shows should establish a separate category.

“I think it’s a fad,” he said, adding that he finds it fun. “When people like a song or connect with an artist the ultimate thing for them is then to go experience that artist with people who also like that artist, that’s the ultimate payoff. You’re not going to be able to do that with AI.”

Church wraps up touring on Saturday at the Intuit Dome in Inglewood. In addition to promoting the new album, this year his foundation began providing housing for victims of Hurricane Helene using funds from a benefit concert. The North Carolina native also released a single to raise funds to help his neighbors. You know, things only a flesh-and-blood artist can do. Regarding Breaking Rust, he said: “The better thing we should be doing is making the general public aware that it’s AI because … I don’t think they know that.”

“The biggest problem is the ability to deceive people or manipulate people because it looks real, it sounds real, it’s pretty disingenuous if you didn’t say it,” Church told me. “I’ve seen stuff from me that is online.… They take my face and they put it on another body.… My mom sent me one and I was like, ‘Mom, that’s not me.’

“That’s where it gets dangerous and that’s where it gets scary.”

If AI-generated “musicians” like Breaking Rust are a passing fad, as Church suggests, it’s one that’s been 50 years in the making. While use of the voice box on recordings goes back to the 1960s, it was the 1975 recording of Peter Frampton’s double live album, “Frampton Comes Alive,” that popularized its use. In the 1980s Zapp had a string of gold albums with front man Roger Troutman using the voice box technology to make his voice sound futuristic, and in the 1990s AutoTune went from being a tool producers use to fine-tune a singer’s pitch on a recording to being the featured sound on a recording. This gave us Cher’s global chart-topper “Believe.”

Over the decades, technology in the studio has made it possible for the vocally challenged to usurp craftsmanship and talent.

Before MTV debuted in 1981, we were warned that video was going to kill the radio star. That obviously didn’t happen. And now, AI-generated video can theoretically replace filmed human performances. But even that should not be a threat to real stars.

As with most things in life, when expertise is devalued, it’s easier to pass trash off as treasure. AutoTune and AI are enabling people who lack musical talent to game the system — like audio catfish.

When an artist like Church sings of heartbreak, listeners can identify with his lived experience. However, Breaking Rust is on the top of the charts with a song called “Walk My Way” … and the entity singing those words has never taken a step.

That’s not to say an AI ditty can’t be catchy. It most certainly can be. I just wonder: If the artist isn’t real, how can the art be?

YouTube: @LZGrandersonShow

It takes a certain composure, as a teenager, to walk out onto Taylor Swift’s stage in a sold-out stadium and play an opening set to tens of thousands of fans who have never heard of you. But it takes even more conviction to use the occasion to play music almost guaranteed to leave them squirming — grimy, bloodletting noise-rock and electro about being a sexual menace and growing disillusioned with God.

The now-20-year-old singer-songwriter Sofia Isella did that last year, opening on the Australian run of Swift’s Eras tour. “Taylor was an angel for allowing me to share that stage,” L.A.-raised Isella said. “I wish I could have recorded that feeling. But the show itself is not as nerve-wracking as it is playing for 20 people. There’s something about a giant room that almost feels a little dissociative, like it’s not really happening or it’s not really there.”

“Dissociative” is a decent descriptor for Isella’s music, too — disorienting, unnerving, drawing out emotions you might not understand. But there’s so much skill in the performances and imagination in her arrangements that they may well get Isella — who plays the Fonda Theater on Nov. 16 — onto much bigger stages of her own, just as the world gets much bleaker around her.

“This next record, I’m having so much fun with s— that’s really f— dark,” Isella said. “It’s like, the only way to stop screaming about it is to have a moment laughing about it.”

Isella grew up in Los Angeles in a family with enough entertainment-biz acclaim to make being an artist feel like a viable career. Yet they still let her be feral and freewheeling in developing her craft. Her father, the Chilean American cinematographer Claudio Miranda, won an Oscar for 2012’s “Life of Pi” and shot “Top Gun: Maverick” and the recent racing hit “F1” (Her mom is the author Kelli Bean-Miranda). Looking back on her bucolic childhood in L.A., Isella recalled it filled with music and boundless encouragement, worlds away from her social media-addled peers.

“I’d been homeschooled my whole life,” Isella said. “My mom would leave little trails of poetry books for me to find, and my dad would set up GarageBand and leave me for hours with all the instruments and nothing but free time. I didn’t even have a phone until I was 16. When I first was on TikTok, I saw everyone had the same personality, because they had been watching each other for so long. Being around kids my age was so strange, because I’d grown up around adults — like, ‘Oh, these kids are so sweet and kind and adorable, but they think I’m one of them.’”

After her family temporarily moved to Australia during the pandemic and Isella began self-releasing music, it became clear that her talents set her very far apart. Drawing on her early background in classical music and a fascination with scabrous rock and electronic music, she found a sound that melded the Velvet Underground and Nico’s elegant miserablism, Chelsea Wolfe and Lingua Ignota’s doom-laden art metal and the close-miked , creepy goth-pop of Billie Eilish’s first LP.

Isella began self-releasing music during the pandemic. Since then, she’s landed opener spots on multiple high-profile tours.

(@okaynicolita)

Her early music showed a withering humor and skepticism of the culture around her (“All of Human Knowledge Made Us Dumb,” “Everybody Supports Women”), but singles came at rapid clip and translated surprisingly well on the social media platforms she loathed (she has 1.3 million followers on TikTok). It all got her onto stages with Melanie Martinez and Glass Animals and, eventually, Swift. (A Florence + The Machine arena tour opening slot is up next.)

On 2024’s writhing EP “I Can Be Your Mother,” songs like “Sex Concept” had the sensual fatalism of poets like Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, paired with the drippy erotic menace of Nine Inch Nails. “I’ll bend him over backwards, give him something to believe in,” she sings. “We’ll play the game, both go insane and then we’ll call it even … I’m the only god that you’ll ever believe in.”

“The first EP was this whole story of giving birth to yourself, this giant stretched-out muse,” Isella said, leaning into a stemwinder about the genesis of art. “It just doesn’t feel like it’s coming from me. It feels like it’s coming from some weird thing I somewhat worship.”

A May 2025 follow-up, “I’m Camera,” dealt with the depersonalizing effects of sudden attention. On “Josephine,” she makes tour life feel like a proverbial grippy-sock vacation to the breakdown ward — “I’m sock-footed, sick and selfish holding strangers’ hands … I lost something, I sold it, I only remember the ache.”

Isella’s wariness of institutions extends to her recording career. She’s still independent for now — surprising for an artist on Swift’s radar — and uncompromising about what a label would demand of her compared to what they can provide. “I’ve met with a lot of the big dogs, and they’re very kind people, but I just love the feeling of being independent,” Isella said. “Maybe I’ll change my mind on that, but I’m trying to fully understand a label and what its functions are, what it gives the artist in a social media day. I’m trying to fully assess that before I sign any magic papers.”

Her newest material (and her subversively eerie, Francesa Woodman-evoking music videos like “Muse”) feel perfectly timed to the apocalyptic mood in L.A. and the U.S. now, where an inexorable slide to ruin feels biblical. “Out In the Garden,” from September, hits some of the Southern gothic moods of Ethel Cain, but with a sense of acidic pity that’s all her own. “That there’s a small part of me that’s envious / That you full-heartedly believe someone is always there,” she sings. “That will always love you, and there’s a plan for you out there.”

Even at her bleakest, there’s a curdled humor underneath (her current tour is subtitled “You’ll Understand More, Dick”). But if this little sliver of young fame has taught Isella anything, it’s that even when everyone wants a piece of you, no one is actually coming to save any of us.

“There’s nothing with weight, nothing that’s meaningful, to blind faith,” Isella said. “On this next record, I’m about to go really angry because religion really pisses me off, it inflames me. But it’s the most beautiful placebo to imagine that there’s a father that loves you no matter what you do. I’m a really lucky person in that I’ve always been safe and protected, but if you’ve had a rough life, that is insanely powerful to imagine that and believe that.”

Alfredo Flores is always moving, but you wouldn’t know it from the precise stills he takes of Sabrina Carpenter emerging onstage, her cheekiness and sparkly go-go boots shining through his images.

The portfolio of 36-year-old Flores, Carpenter’s tour photographer, is already familiar to most. Those photos of Carpenter posed with the tour stop’s city labeled on a mug and sealed with a kiss — that’s Flores’ work.

He has captured Carpenter’s rise from her “Emails I Can’t Send” era to the dazzlingly successful Short n’ Sweet tour, the work from which earned Flores the iHeart Radio Award for favorite tour photographer and puts him back on the road next week for an additional North American leg, including her six-night run at Crypto.com Arena next week.

But Carpenter’s towel reveals, set changes and winks won’t look exactly the same.

“Creatively, I just try my best to figure out different ways to shoot the same show,” said Flores, fresh off VMAs adrenaline and the release buzz of Carpenter’s latest album, “Man’s Best Friend.”

He constantly alters angles and lenses, including long, short and fish-eye, all with his Canon — the camera brand he’s been loyal to his entire career. However, that doesn’t make his first forays into photography any less impactful.

Alfredo Flores smiling with Sabrina Carpenter.

(Courtesy of Alfredo Flores)

Flores’ trajectory as a live music photographer is informed by the era he grew up in, one of disposable cameras, 24-hour photo labs, VHS camcorders, photo books full of family vacation pictures and the visionaries behind the hits that made us press the replay button on CD players.

He recalls his path was charted before him one afternoon in his native Belleview, N.J., on a sick day home from school in the form of the VH1 show “Pop-Up Video,” which featured music videos accompanied by trivia-filled text bubbles.

“It was Mariah Carey’s music video for ‘Honey,’ and it said, ‘This video is directed by Paul Hunter. The location is Puerto Rico. This is an extra. This is a body double,’ ” said Flores, who added, “And it clicked in my brain, ‘Oh, this is something that people create’ … and that’s where my interest really peaked in a more professional way.”

In 2008, when the ultimate music video platform was no longer VH1, but YouTube, Flores moved to Los Angeles and sought out the minds who inspired him — the directors and producers who shaped his camcorder and disposable days, before he ever strapped a Canon around his neck.

“I went to the [Geffen Records] offices every day until I got a yes,” said Flores.

He spent his initial internship days showcasing his perceptive eye by compiling magazine photos for music video storyboards. It was this eye that quickly put Flores on set, shooting bonus footage for a 2009 Nickelodeon production, “School Gyrls.” The made-for-TV movie featured a certain Canadian teen who benefited from the YouTube boom.

The Justin Bieber cameo would develop into a working relationship, allowing Flores to pursue the art form that prompted his move to Los Angeles: directing music videos.

Flores’s music video for Bieber’s song “Love Me” encapsulates the early stages of Bieber’s career. Flores intercut Bieber singing to the camera with footage of fans, behind-the-scenes chats with Usher and numerous angles of Bieber’s signature look — the swoop that inspired hair flips round the world.

Years later, in 2020, when the world stopped, Flores didn’t. He co-directed Bieber once again for the “Stuck with U” music video, a montage of loved ones dancing and embracing in their homes. It was 4 minutes and 17 seconds of celebrated togetherness in the midst of government-enforced close proximity. The song is a duet between Bieber and Ariana Grande, an artist whom Flores defines as a “once-in-a-lifetime kind of talent.”

Flores spent much of the 2010s working with Grande, all angles taken into consideration. From her upside-down album cover for “Thank U, Next” to co-directing her more festive side for the “Santa Tell Me” video to incorporating nostalgia into a Grande-Victoria Monét collaboration, “Monopoly.” Co-directing the friendship anthem’s music video, Flores nodded to a ‘90s upbringing by using a decent amount of camcorder footage.

“Joan [Grande’s mom] probably has so many VHS videos of Ari growing up. And Beth [Carpenter’s mom] has so many VHS recordings of Sabrina,” he said.

The artistic journeys of Carpenter, Grande and Flores are intertwined with the sought-after music video director Dave Meyers. The Grammy winner has bestowed the world with distinct visuals, such as Kendrick Lamar re-creating “The Last Supper” while rapping “HUMBLE.,” Britney Spears accepting an acting award in the midst of belting out “Lucky,” and Grande as an ethereal being singing “God Is a Woman.”

Meyers directed two music videos for Carpenter’s “Short n’ Sweet” album with Flores as the behind-the-scenes photographer. Both videos helped facilitate Carpenter’s catapult into the cultural lexicon with the summer-infused shots in “Espresso” and the “Death Becomes Her” story line in “Taste.”

Alfredo Flores in the photo pit for Sabrina Carpenter.

(Courtesy of Alfredo Flores)

“BTS for me in the hands of Alfredo feels like a living yearbook of the experience we all had. I’m so deep in the creative process that I’m not self-aware of what’s happening, and to re-watch through his work allows me to enjoy the stories being told all around us. The capturing of the actual process, the passion we all share to create — those are the stories he captures over and over,” said Meyers.

Often, Flores takes those candid moments even further with a Polaroid camera — he points, shoots and hopes for the best. The instant photo is at the mercy of light and luck, which are part of the magic, he said.

“It’s the color, the grain, the imperfection of it all,” he said.

By definition, pop music is inextricably tied to its time period, the subject matter and sound speaking to its modern, often younger audiences. This can denote a fleeting quality, a trend to pass us by, not unlike the evolution of photography and videography.

However, the artists of today suggest otherwise. Carpenter covered Abba’s hit “Mamma Mia.” Grande sampled ‘N Sync in her “Thank U, Next” album. Both MTV and VH1 still have something to teach the music video directors of today. There’s lasting power in pop songs as are the mediums we associate with them. Who are we creatively if not an amalgamation of all we’ve seen, the people we know, the ways in which we originally consumed them?

“When I work with an artist we have longevity,” said Flores.

Not a surprising sentiment from the man taking a backstage Polaroid picture of a Gen Z pop star who praises disco.

Destin Conrad didn’t expect to release a jazz project so early in his career — let alone just a few months after dropping his debut album, “Love on Digital.”

The 25-year-old singer-songwriter, who first made millions of people laugh on Vine when he was a preteen, entered the music industry as a fresh-faced R&B artist, following in the footsteps of the artists he grew up listening to such as Brandy, Musiq Soulchild and Usher. His first official EP “Colorway” (2021) and the slew of bite-size projects that followed were melodic and honest meditations on love, lust, queer identity and simply having a good time.

But during the summer, Conrad found himself gravitating to jazz, the genre he was introduced to in high school when he was enrolled in jazz choir. He was inspired by all of the greats and contemporary work by artists like Vanisha Gould, and decided that it was time for a slight departure in his own sound.

“I feel like it’s always kind of been in me,” Conrad says over Zoom during an off day from his second headlining tour in support of “Love on Digital.” “It’s always been a tool that I never really got to exercise that I knew I really wanted to.”

After a two-week whirlwind in L.A. filled with studio sessions with some of his bucket list collaborators like Gould, trumpeter Keyon Harrold and beloved L.A. saxophonist Terrace Martin, Conrad unveiled “Whimsy,” an 11-track alternative jazz detour. Rich with songwriting tinged with sensual winks, live instrumentation (piano, horn section and drums) and a spoken word interlude by Bay Davis (that is reminiscent of Meshell Ndegeocello), “Whimsy” is a masterclass in following your own intuition and creating freely — a testament to his Cancer sun.

“I think it’s some of my best work actually,” Conrad says, adding that it was the most fun to make, which is evident on tracks like “Whip,” a cheeky double entendre about trading places in the bedroom and “A Lonely Detective,” which explores the life of a man living a double life. “Things that I’ve spent more time on, I don’t feel as connected to, but I really love “Whimsy.”

Conrad, who performs at the Wiltern on Nov. 14, phoned in the day before Grammy nominations were announced to talk about why he was nervous to release “Whimsy,” why he thinks jazz deserves more attention and what he’s still learning about being an artist in the digital age. Little did he know that by the next morning, he’d receive his first solo Grammy nod for progressive R&B album.

Now that your debut album, “Love on Digital,” has been in the world for a few months and you’ve experienced fans singing it back to you at shows, how does it feel to look back on the journey of releasing it?

It’s been amazing. I think it’s made me look forward to putting more music out. I feel like this tour taught me a lot. While making this album, I had touring in the back of my mind, so I’m really excited that it’s being received well. Also, it’s kind of wild that I put out another project a [few] months later but I’m glad I have such cool fans that receive me in a good way.

Speaking of that, you turned around and released “Whimsy” in August. Can you talk about how that all came together and how your single “Wash U Away” inspired it?

I made the majority of it in a two-week span. “Wash U Away” and “Whip” I had, but they weren’t jazz songs. So I had “Wash U Away” in the tuck for years — I think I made it in like 2021 — but we had it replayed by actual musicians because before, it was just a very bare beat. Then the rest of it I made within those two weeks. I also had “The W” with James Fauntleroy and Joyce Wrice already, but same thing — it wasn’t a jazz song. I knew I wanted to make a jazz album. I didn’t know I was going to do it so soon after my debut album, but I was kind of on a wild one and was like “Why not?” But I’m really glad I did it because I feel like my fans really like that album and I really like that album as well. I think it’s some of my best work actually. Things that I spent more time on, I don’t feel as connected to but it’s something that I’m really proud of.

Take me back to those two weeks in L.A. when you starting working on this project. Was it summer time?

It was summertime, yeah. I live in Brooklyn now, so I was like “I’m going to fly to L.A. and stay there for two weeks to knock this project out.” I told my managers, “Get me in with everybody. Here’s my list of people I want to work with. Let’s figure it out.” We flew out Vanisha Gould, who’s one of my favorite jazz musicians. I was so ecstatic that she was down. She’s such a jazz head. She was kind of like “What the f— am I doing? Are they going to kidnap me? I’m just flying out here to work with this random ass R&B singer.” But I’m so glad she came and we low-key became besties. Same with Terrace Martin. I’ve been a fan forever. He’s the G.O.A.T. James [Fauntleroy]. All these people who I was very adamant about working with. And eventually I want to do another jazz [project]. Maybe a “Whimsy 2” and just keep that world alive because I feel like jazz is such a special genre that gets overlooked and it’s something that I really feel passionate about. Especially because I was in jazz choir in high school and it kind of taught me more about soul music and the origins and how there’s so many synchronicities within other genres like gospel, and how R&B and all of them just tie into each other. I think it’s just really cool.

What was going on in your world when you started making “Whimsy?” Were you listening to a lot of jazz at the time?

Yeah, I was listening to a lot of jazz music. I was listening to a lot of Vanisha Gould and I was like, “I need to do this jazz album.” I thought I was just going to start it and be like “I’m not done.” But I was like “No, I’m done. This is it. This is what I have to say.” But yeah, I always listen to jazz. As I said, I was in jazz choir in high school. My jazz instructor Mr. O put me onto hella jazz. He showed me Frank Sinatra and all these jazz standards. I have videos that I’ll eventually show the world of me performing at my jazz Christmas show. I feel like it’s always been within me. It’s always been a tool that I never really got to exercise but I knew I really wanted to. But like I said, I didn’t know I’d make it in two weeks and that it’d be such a quick thing. It was so fun to make. It’s probably one of the most fun projects I’ve made.

You can definitely hear how much fun you were having on tracks like “Boredom” and “Lonely Detective.” I feel like jazz was once viewed as a genre that older people listened to, but that’s been changing within the last few years. It feels like it’s becoming more popular with younger audiences. What do you think about this?

Personally, I don’t think it’s becoming more popular. I would love to be part of some sort of push of making it more of a thing and I feel like a lot of my fans are younger. I’d like to say in my head that I’m helping push the genre forward.

It’s just not super prominent. There’s not a lot of new jazz artists. If you look at the jazz charts, a lot of what’s still charting is like Frank Sinatra [and] Miles Davis. Laufey is one of the newer faces of jazz that I feel like is pushing it aside from like Robert Glasper. But I don’t know. I feel like a lot of the jazz even that I listen to is the older stuff. There’s a very select few of newer jazz artists that I’m like “Yes.” Like Vanisha Gould, a perfect example. I’m obsessed with her. I think she’s one of the most talented musicians that I know, period.

How did you feel about dropping “Whimsy”? Were you nervous about how people would receive it?

Umm I thought about it [but] what I really thought about were the jazz heads. I thought the real, super crazy into jazz people were gonna be like, “This s— ain’t f— jazz” because I do consider it an alternative jazz album. I remember talking to Terrace [Martin] about that because he’s a jazz head and he’s also older than me and he’s been in it for longer. I was telling him [that] I feel like people are going to have s— to say about it because it’s not traditional and I’m not a trained musician. I don’t know how to read music. I just go with my [gut], and he was like, “That’s why it’s so fire. That’s what makes people feel it.” He was like, “I can tell that you’re young and when I listen to this, I hear a 25-year-old,” and I’m like, “Tight.”

You’ve essentially grown up online and in the public eye. How has that evolution shaped the way you see yourself as an artist, and what have you learned about navigating visibility over the years?”

I feel like it’s an advantage. I always talk about that especially with my artist homies. I was an internet baby so I kind of have just a slight advantage because I knew really early how it worked. I feel like I’m still learning how to promote my music because I know how to get on the internet and be an idiot all day. I can do that literally in my sleep, but being an idiot who knows how to promote his music is different. [laughs] So yeah, I’m still learning that. I used to think it harmed me because I was so scared that people wouldn’t take my music seriously. But no, I use it to my advantage for sure.

We’re at a time in music where it’s common for artists to be open and proud about their identity and sexuality without feeling like they need to use coded language. I think of artists like Frank Ocean, Steve Lacy and Durand Bernarr. Can you talk about why talking about your queerness is important to you?

I feel like I’m a pretty honest person in general. I try not to lie and I feel like all I can do really is just keep it a bean. Most of the time, I try to write about my personal experiences and I deal with men, so that’s just my truth [laughs]. I do also write from other perspectives like things that my friends or my homegirls tell me. I don’t always write from my point of view, but when I do, it’s about a man and that’s all I can really do.

MOST childhoods for Brits were made up of reading books like The BFG, Matilda and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Next year, you’ll be able to experience some true nostalgia as a new museum showcasing the work of famed illustrators, like Sir Quentin Blake, will open in the UK.

Sir Quentin Blake is well-known for illustrating lots of Roald Dahl’s books, as well as his own like the Mrs Armitage series.

Work is currently underway to open a £12.5 million centre called Quentin Blake Centre for Illustration.

It will be the “world’s largest dedicated space for illustration”, and the new attraction will be in Clerkenwell on a former waterworks site.

The buildings were once part of a network that supplied water across the city and was used for 400 years.

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Quentin Blake Centre for Illustration will open in May 2026, and it’s an attraction that has been 20 years in the making.

On the project, Sir Quentin said: “I have long dreamt of a permanent place with ‘illustration’ above the door, and now the amazing reality is that we have it.

“I am proud to think the centre has my name on it – illustration is a wonderful universal and varied language.

“Here we shall celebrate its traditions and welcome the astonishing diversity of visual language from across the world. Hurrah!”

Once open, the museum will have exhibitions that will feature rarely-seen works from all over the world.

Original illustrations from leading and emerging illustrators, including work loaned from Quentin Blake’s own archive, will be on show.

Also on the site will be free spaces, including public gardens, displays and an illustration library.

You can take a seat at the café which will serve up fresh food and drinks, and there will be a shop stocked with illustration gifts.

There will be illustrator residencies in London‘s oldest surviving windmill which is also on the old waterworks site in Clerkenwell.

Other events at the museum will be illustration workshops and learning programs.

Previously, the House of Illustration was in Granary Square from 2014 to 2020.

Plus, here are the 20 most-visited attractions in England that are completely free to enter.

And for even more activities, check out the top 15 UK attractions for 2025.

Rapper RBX has sued Spotify, alleging that the Swedish audio company has failed to stop the artificial inflation of music streams for artists like Drake and is hurting the revenue other rights holders receive through the platform.

RBX, whose real name is Eric Dwayne Collins, is seeking a class-action status and damages and restitution from Spotify. RBX, along with other rights holders, receive payment based on how often their music is streamed on Spotify, according to the lawsuit, filed in U.S. District Court in L.A. on Sunday.

Spotify pays rights holders a percentage of revenue based on the total streams attributed to them compared with total volume of streams for all songs, the lawsuit said.

The Long Beach-based rapper said that rights holders are losing money on Spotify because streams of some artists are being artificially inflated through bots powered by automated software, even though the use of such bots is prohibited on the platform, according to the lawsuit.

For example, the lawsuit notes that over a four-day period in 2024 there were at least 250,000 streams of Drake’s “No Face” song that appeared to originate in Turkey, but “were falsely geomapped through the coordinated use of VPNs to the United Kingdom in attempt to obscure their origins.”

Spotify knew or should have known “with reasonable diligence, that fraudulent activities were occurring on its platform,” states the lawsuit, describing the streamer’s policies to root out fraud as “window dressing.”

Spotify declined to comment on the pending litigation but said it “in no way benefits from the industry-wide challenge of artificial streaming.”

“We heavily invest in always-improving, best-in-class systems to combat it and safeguard artist payouts with strong protections like removing fake streams, withholding royalties, and charging penalties,” Spotify said in a statement.

Last year, a U.S. producer was accused of stealing $10 million from streaming services and Spotify said it was able to limit the theft on its platform to $60,000, touting it as evidence that its systems are working.

The platform is also making efforts to push back against AI-generated music that is made without artists’ permission. In September, Spotify announced it had removed more than 75 million AI-generated “spammy” music tracks from its platform over the last 12 months.

A representative for Drake did not immediately return a request for comment.

RBX is known for his work on Dr. Dre’s 1992 album “The Chronic” and Snoop Dogg’s 1993 album “Doggystyle.” He has multiple solo albums and has collaborated with artists including on Eminem’s “The Marshall Mathers LP” and Kris Kross’ “Da Bomb.” RBX is Snoop Dogg’s cousin.

Artificial intelligence continues to change the way that the entertainment industry operates, affecting everything from film and TV production to music. In the music industry, companies have sued AI startups, accusing the businesses of taking copyrighted music to train AI models.

At the same time, some music artists have embraced AI, using the technology to test bold ideas in music videos and in their songs.

You may not know Eliot Mack’s name, but if a small robot has ever crept around your kitchen, you know his work.

Before he turned his MIT-trained mind to filmmaking, Mack helped lead a small team of engineers trying to solve a deeply relatable problem: how to avoid vacuuming. Whether it was figuring out how to get around furniture legs or unclog the brushes after a run-in with long hair, Mack designed everything onscreen first with software, troubleshooting virtually and getting 80% of the way there before a single part was ever manufactured.

The result was the Roomba.

When Mack pivoted to filmmaking in the early 2000s, he was struck by how chaotic Hollywood’s process felt. “You pitch the script, get the green light and you’re flying into production,” he says, sounding both amused and baffled. “There’s no CAD template, no centralized database. I was like, how do movies even get made?”

That question sent Mack down a new path, trading dust bunnies for the creative bottlenecks that slow Hollywood down.

In 2004 he founded Lightcraft Technology, a startup developing what would later be known as virtual production tools, born out of his belief that if you could design a robot in software, you should be able to design a shot the same way. The company’s early system, Previzion, sold for $180,000 and was used on sci-fi and fantasy shows like “V” and “Once Upon a Time.” But Jetset, its latest AI-assisted tool set, runs on an iPhone and offers a free tier, with pro features topping out at just $80 a month. It lets filmmakers scan a location, drop it into virtual space and block out scenes with camera moves, lighting and characters. They can preview shots, overlay elements and organize footage for editing — all from a phone. No soundstage, no big crew, no gatekeepers. Lightcraft’s pitch: “a movie studio in your pocket.”

A series on how the AI revolution is reshaping the creative foundations of Hollywood — from storytelling and performance to production, labor and power.

The goal, Mack says, is to put more power in the hands of the people making the work. “One of the big problems is how siloed Hollywood is,” he says. “We talked to an Oscar-winning editor who said, ‘I’m never going to get to make my movie’ — he was pigeonholed as just an editor. Same with an animator we know who has two Oscars.”

Eliot Mack, CEO of Lightcraft, an AI-powered virtual-production startup, wants to give creators the power and freedom to bring their ideas to life.

(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)

To Mack, the revolution of Jetset recalls the scrappy, guerrilla spirit of Roger Corman’s low-budget productions, which launched the early careers of directors like Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese. For generations of creatives stuck waiting on permission or funding, he sees this moment as a reset button.

“The things you got good at — writing, directing, acting, creating, storytelling — they’re still crazy useful,” he says. “What’s changing is the amount of schlepping you have to do before you get to do the fun stuff. Your 20s are a gift. You want to be creating at the absolute speed of sound. We’re trying to get to a place where you don’t have to ask anyone. You can just make the thing.”

AI is reshaping nearly every part of the filmmaking pipeline. Storyboards can now be generated from a script draft. Lighting and camera angles can be tested before anyone touches a piece of gear. Rough cuts, placeholder VFX, even digital costume mock-ups can all be created before the first shot is filmed. What once took a full crew, a soundstage and a six-figure budget can now happen in minutes, sometimes at the hands of a single person with a laptop.

This wave of automation is arriving just as Hollywood is gripped by existential anxiety. The 2023 writers’ and actors’ strikes brought the industry to a standstill and put AI at the center of a fight over its future. Since then, production has slowed, crew sizes have shrunk and the streaming boom has given way to consolidation and cost-cutting.

According to FilmLA, on-location filming in Greater Los Angeles dropped 22.4% in early 2025 compared with the year before. For many of the crew members and craftspeople still competing for those jobs, AI doesn’t feel like an innovation. It feels like a new way to justify doing more with less, only to end up with work that’s less original or creative.

“AI scrapes everything we artists have made off the internet and creates a completely static, banal world that can never imagine anything that hasn’t happened before,” documentary filmmaker Adam Curtis warned during a directors panel at the 2023 Telluride Film Festival, held in the midst of the strikes. “That’s the real weakness of the AI dream — it’s stuck with the ghosts. And I think we’ll get fed up with that.”

How you feel about these changes often depends on where you sit and how far along you are in your career. For people just starting out, AI can offer a way to experiment, move faster and bypass the usual barriers to entry. For veterans behind the scenes, it often feels like a threat to the expertise they’ve spent decades honing.

Past technological shifts — the arrival of sound, the rise of digital cameras, the advancement of CGI — changed how movies were made, but not necessarily who made them. Each wave brought new roles: boom operators and dialogue coaches, color consultants and digital compositors. Innovation usually meant more jobs, not fewer.

But AI doesn’t just change the tools. It threatens to erase the people who once used the old ones.

Diego Mariscal has seen first hand as AI has cut potential jobs for grips.

(Jennifer Rose Clasen)

Diego Mariscal, 43, a veteran dolly grip who has worked on “The Mandalorian” and “Spider-Man: No Way Home,” saw the writing on the wall during a recent shoot. A visual effects supervisor opened his laptop to show off a reel of high-end commercials and something was missing. “There were no blue screens — none,” Mariscal recalls. “That’s what we do. We put up blues as grips. You’d normally hire an extra 10 people and have an extra three days of pre-rigging, setting up all these blue screens. He was like, ‘We don’t need it anymore. I just use AI to clip it out.’”

Mariscal runs Crew Stories, a private Facebook group with nearly 100,000 members, where working crew members share job leads, trade tips and voice their growing fears. He tries to keep up with the steady drip of AI news. “I read about AI all day, every day,” he says. “At least 20 posts a day.”

His fear isn’t just about fewer jobs — it’s about what comes next. “I’ve been doing this since I was 19,” Mariscal says of his specialized dolly work, which involves setting up heavy equipment and guiding the camera smoothly through complex shots. “I can push a cart in a parking lot. I can push a lawnmower. What else can I do?”

Who wins, who loses and what does James Cameron think?

Before AI and digital doubles, Mike Marino learned the craft of transformation the human way: through hands-on work and a fascination that bordered on obsession.

Marino was 5 years old when he first saw “The Elephant Man” on HBO. Horrified yet transfixed, he became fixated on prosthetics and the emotional power they could carry. As a teenager in New York, he pored over issues of Fangoria, studied monsters and makeup effects and experimented with sculpting his own latex masks on his bedroom floor.

Prosthetics artist Mike Marino asks a big question related to generative AI: What role do the human creatives play?

(Sean Dougherty / For The Times)

Decades later, Marino, 48, has become one of Hollywood’s leading makeup artists, earning Oscar nominations for “Coming 2 America,” “The Batman” and last year’s dark comedy “A Different Man,” in which he helped transform Sebastian Stan into a disfigured actor.

His is the kind of tactile, handcrafted work that once seemed irreplaceable. But today AI tools are increasingly capable of achieving similar effects digitally: de-aging actors, altering faces, even generating entire performances. What used to take weeks of experimentation and hours in a makeup trailer can now be approximated with a few prompts and a trained model. To Marino, AI is more than a new set of tools. It’s a fundamental change in what it means to create.

“If AI is so good it can replace a human, then why have any human beings?” he says. “This is about taste. It’s about choice. I’m a human being. I’m an artist. I have my own ideas — mine. Just because you can make 10,000 spaceships in a movie, should you?”

Marino is no technophobe. His team regularly uses 3D scanning and printing. But he draws the line at outsourcing creative judgment to a machine. “I’m hoping there are artists who want to work with humans and not machines,” he says. “If we let AI just run amok with no taste, no choice, no morality behind it, then we’re gone.”

Not everyone sees AI’s rise in film production as a zero-sum game. Some technologists imagine a middle path. Daniela Rus, director of MIT’s Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Lab and one of the world’s leading AI researchers, believes the future of filmmaking lies in a “human-machine partnership.”

AI, Rus argues, can take on time-consuming tasks like animating background extras, color correction or previsualizing effects, freeing up people to focus on what requires intuition and taste. “AI can help with the routine work,” she says. “But the human touch and emotional authenticity are essential.”

Few directors have spent more time grappling with the dangers and potential of artificial intelligence than James Cameron. Nearly 40 years before generative tools entered Hollywood’s workflow, he imagined a rogue AI triggering global apocalypse in 1984’s “The Terminator,” giving the world Skynet — now a cultural shorthand for the dark side of machine intelligence. Today, he continues to straddle that line, using AI behind the scenes on the upcoming “Avatar: Fire and Ash” to optimize visual effects and performance-capture, while keeping creative decisions in human hands. The latest sequel, due Dec. 19, promises to push the franchise’s spectacle and scale even further; a newly released trailer reveals volcanic eruptions, aerial battles and a new clan of Na’vi.

A scene from “Avatar: The Way of Water.” Director James Cameron differentiates between using machine-learning to reduce monotonous movie-making work and generative AI.

(Courtesy of 20th Century Studios/Courtesy of 20th Century Studios)

“You can automate a lot of processes that right now tie up a lot of artists doing mundane tasks,” Cameron told The Times in 2023 at a Beyond Fest screening of his 1989 film “The Abyss.” “So if we could accelerate the postproduction pipeline, then we can make more movies. Then those artists will get to do more exciting things.”

For Cameron, the promise of AI lies in efficiency, not elimination. “I think in our particular industry, it’s not going to replace people; it’s going to free them to do other things,” he believes. “It’s going to accelerate the process and bring the price down, which would be good because, you know, some movies are a little more expensive than others. And a lot of that has to do with human energy.”

Cameron himself directed five films between 1984 and 1994 and only three in the three decades since, though each one has grown increasingly complex and ambitious.

That said, Cameron has never been one to chase shortcuts for their own sake. “I think you can make pre-viz and design easier, but I don’t know if it makes it better,” he says. “I mean, if easy is your thing. Easy has never been my thing.”

He draws a line between the machine-learning techniques his team has used since the first “Avatar” to help automate tedious tasks and the newer wave of generative AI models making headlines today.

“The big explosion has been around image-based generative models that use everything from every image that’s ever been created,” he says. “We’d never use any of them. The images we make are computer-created, but they’re not AI-created.”

In his view, nothing synthetic can replace the instincts of a flesh-and-blood artist. “We have human artists that do all the designs,” he says. “We don’t need AI. We’ve got meat-I. And I’m one of the meat-artists that come up with all that stuff. We don’t need a computer. Maybe other people need it. We don’t.”

Reshaping creativity — and creative labor

Rick Carter didn’t go looking for AI as a tool. He discovered it as a lifeline.

The two-time Oscar-winning production designer, who worked with Cameron on “Avatar” and whose credits include “Jurassic Park” and “Forrest Gump,” began experimenting with generative AI tools like Midjourney and Runway during the pandemic, looking for a way to keep his creative instincts sharp while the industry was on pause. A longtime painter, he was drawn to the freedom the programs offered.

“I saw that there was an opportunity to create images where I didn’t have to go to anybody else for approval, which is the way I would paint,” Carter says by phone from Paris. “None of the gatekeeping would matter. I have a whole lot of stories on my own that I’ve tried to get into the world in various ways and suddenly there was a way to visualize them.”

Midjourney and Runway can create richly detailed images — and in Runway’s case, short video clips — from a text prompt or a combination of text and visuals. Trained on billions of images and audiovisual materials scraped from the internet, these systems learn to mimic style, lighting, composition and form, often with eerie precision. In a production pipeline, these tools can help concept artists visualize characters or sets, let directors generate shot ideas or give costume designers and makeup artists a fast way to test looks, long before physical production begins.

But as these tools gain traction in Hollywood, a deeper legal and creative dilemma is coming into focus: Who owns the work they produce? And what about the copyrighted material used to train them?

In June, Disney and Universal filed a federal copyright lawsuit against Midjourney, accusing the company of generating unauthorized replicas of characters such as Spider-Man, Darth Vader and Shrek using AI models trained on copyrighted material: what the suit calls a “bottomless pit of plagiarism.” It’s the most high-profile of several legal challenges now putting copyright law to the test in the age of generative AI.

“Forrest Gump” director Robert Zemeckis, left, with production designer Rick Carter at an art installation of the movie’s famed bench. (Carter family)

(Carter family)

Working with generative models, Carter began crafting what he calls “riffs of consciousness,” embracing AI as a kind of collaborative partner, one he could play off of intuitively. The process reminded him of the loose, improvisational early stages of filmmaking, a space he knows well from decades of working with directors like Robert Zemeckis and Steven Spielberg.

“I’ll just start with a visual or a word prompt and see how it iterates from there and what it triggers in my mind,” Carter says. “Then I incorporate that so it builds on its own in an almost free-associative way. But it’s still based upon my own intuitive, emotional, artistic, even spiritual needs at that moment.”

He describes the experience as a dialogue between two minds, one digital and one human: “One AI is artificial intelligence. The other AI is authentic intelligence — that’s us. We’ve earned it over this whole span of time on the planet.”

Sometimes, Carter says, the most evocative results come from mistakes. While sketching out a story about a hippie detective searching for a missing woman in the Himalayas, he accidentally typed “womb” into ChatGPT instead of “woman.” The AI ran with it, returning three pages of wild plot ideas involving gurus, seekers and a bizarre mystery set in motion by the disappearance.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he says. “I would never have taken it that far. The AI is so precocious. It is trying so much to please that it will literally make something out of the mistake you make.”

Carter hasn’t used generative AI on a film yet; most of his creations are shared only with friends. But he says the technology is already slipping into creative workflows in covert ways. “There are issues with copyrights with most of the studios so for now, it’s going to be mostly underground,” he says. “People will use it but they won’t acknowledge that they’re using it — they’ll have an illustrator do something over it, or take a photo so there’s no digital trail.”

Carter has lived through a major technological shift before. “I remember when we went from analog to digital, from ‘Jurassic Park’ on,” he says. “There were a lot of wonderful artists who could draw and paint in ways that were just fantastic but they couldn’t adapt. They didn’t want to — even the idea of it felt like the wrong way to make art. And, of course, most of them suffered because they didn’t make it from the Rolodex to the database in terms of people calling them up.”

He worries that some artists may approach the technology with a rigid sense of authorship. “Early on, I found that the less I used my own ego as a barometer for whether something was artistic, the more I leaned into the process of collaboratively making something bigger than the sum of its parts — and the bigger and better the movies became.”

Others, like storyboard artist Sam Tung, are bracing against the same wave with a quiet but unshakable defiance.

Tung, whose credits include “Twisters” and Christopher Nolan’s upcoming adaptation of “The Odyssey,” has spent the last two years tracking the rise of generative tools, not just their capabilities but their implications. As co-chair of the Animation Guild’s AI Committee, he has been on the front lines of conversations about how these technologies could reshape creative labor.

To artists like Tung, the rise of generative tools feels deeply personal. “If you are an illustrator or a writer or whatever, you had to give up other things to take time to develop those skills,” he says. “Nobody comes out of the womb being able to draw or write or act. Anybody who does that professionally spent years honing those skills.”

Tung has no interest in handing that over to a machine. “It’s not that I’m scared of it — I just don’t need it,” he says. “If I want to draw something or paint something, I’ll do it myself. That way it’s exactly what I want and I actually enjoy the process. When people tell me they responded to a drawing I did or a short film I made with friends, it feels great. But anything I’ve made with AI, I’ve quickly forgotten about. There’s basically nothing I get from putting it on social media, other than the ire of my peers.”

What unsettles him isn’t just the slickness of AI’s output but how that polish is being used to justify smaller crews and faster turnarounds. “If this is left unchecked, it’s very easy to imagine a worst-case scenario where team sizes and contract durations shrink,” Tung says. “A producer who barely understands how it works might say, ‘Don’t you have AI to do 70% of this? Why do you need a whole week to turn around a sequence? Just press the button that says: MAKE MOVIE.’ ”

At 73, Carter isn’t chasing jobs. His legacy is secure. “If they don’t hire me again, that’s OK,” he says. “I’m not in that game anymore.” He grew up in Hollywood — his father was Jack Lemmon’s longtime publicist and producing partner — and has spent his life watching the industry evolve. Now, he’s witnessing a reckoning unlike any he, or anyone else, has ever imagined.

“I do have concerns about who is developing AI and what their values are,” he says. “What they use all this for is not necessarily something I would approve of — politically, socially, emotionally. But I don’t think I’m in a position to approve or not.”

Earlier this year, the Palisades fire destroyed Carter’s home, taking with it years of paintings and personal artwork. AI, he says, has given him a way to keep creating through the upheaval. “It saved me through the pandemic, and now it’s saving me through the fire,” he says, as if daring the universe to test him again. “It’s like, go ahead, throw something else at me.”

‘Prompt and pray?’ Not so fast

Many in the industry may still be dipping a toe into the waters of AI. Verena Puhm dove in.

The Austrian-born filmmaker studied acting and directing in Munich and Salzburg before moving to Los Angeles, where she built a globe-spanning career producing, writing and developing content for international networks and streamers. Her credits range from CNN’s docuseries “History of the Sitcom” to the German reboot of the cult anthology “Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction” and a naval documentary available on Tubi. More recently, she has channeled that same creative range into a deepening exploration of generative tools.

Puhm first began dabbling with AI while using Midjourney to design a pitch deck, but it wasn’t until she entered a timed generative AI filmmaking challenge at the 2024 AI on the Lot conference — informally dubbed a “gen battle” — that the creative potential of the medium hit her.

“In two hours, I made a little mock commercial,” she remembers, proudly. “It was actually pretty well received and fun. And I was like, Oh, wow, I did this in two hours. What could I do in two days or two weeks?”

What started as experimentation soon became a second act. This summer, Puhm was named head of studio for Dream Lab LA, a new creative arm of Luma AI, which develops generative video tools for filmmakers and creators. There, she’s helping shape new storytelling formats and supporting emerging creators working at the intersection of cinema and technology. She may not be a household name, but in the world of experimental storytelling, she’s fast becoming a key figure.

Verena Puhm, a director, writer and producer, has used generative AI in a number of her projects, says it’s breaking down barriers to entry.

(Jason Armond/Los Angeles Times)

Some critics dismiss AI filmmaking as little more than “prompt and pray”: typing in a few words and hoping something usable comes out. Puhm bristles at the phrase.

“Anybody that says that tells me they’ve never tried it at all, because it is not that easy and simple,” she says. “You can buy a paintbrush at Home Depot for, what, $2? That doesn’t make you a painter. When smartphones first came out, there was a lot of content being made but that didn’t mean everyone was a filmmaker.”

What excites her most is how AI is breaking down the barriers that once kept ambitious ideas out of reach. Luma’s new Modify Video tool lets filmmakers tweak footage after it’s shot, changing wardrobe, aging a character, shifting the time of day, all without reshoots or traditional VFX. It can turn a garage into a spaceship, swap a cloudy sky for the aurora borealis or morph an actor into a six-eyed alien, no green screen required.

“It’s such a relief as an artist,” Puhm says. “If there’s a project I’ve been sitting on for six years because I didn’t have a $5 million budget — suddenly there’s no limit. I remember shopping projects around and being told by producers, ‘This scene has to go, that has to go,’ just to keep the budget low. Now everything is open.”

That sense of access resonates far beyond Los Angeles. At a panel during AI on the Lot, “Blue Beetle” director Ángel Manuel Soto reflected on how transformative AI might have been when he was first starting out. “I wish tools like this existed when I wanted to make movies in Puerto Rico, because nobody would lend me a camera,” he said. “Access to equipment is a privilege we sometimes take for granted. I see this helping kids like me from the projects tell stories without going bankrupt — or stealing, which I don’t condone.”

Puhm welcomes criticism of AI but only when it’s informed. “If you hate AI and you’ve actually tested the tools and educated yourself, I’ll be your biggest supporter,” she says. “But if you’re just speaking out of fear, with no understanding, then what are you even basing your opinion on?”

She understands why some filmmakers feel rattled, especially those who, like her, grew up dreaming of seeing their work on the big screen. “I still want to make features and TV series — that’s what I set out to do,” she says. “I hope movie theaters don’t go away. But if the same story I want to tell reaches millions of people on a phone and they’re excited about it, will I really care that it wasn’t in a theater?”

“I just feel like we have to adapt to the reality of things,” she continues. “That might sometimes be uncomfortable, but there is so much opportunity if you lean in. Right now any filmmaker can suddenly tell a story at a high production value that they could have never done before, and that is beautiful and empowering.”

For many, embracing AI boils down to a simple choice: adapt or get cut from the frame.

Hal Watmough, a BAFTA-winning British editor with two decades of experience, first began experimenting with AI out of a mix of curiosity and dread. “I was scared,” he admits. “This thing was coming into the industry and threatening our jobs and was going to make us obsolete.” But once he started playing with tools like Midjourney and Runway, he quickly saw how they could not only speed up the process but allow him to rethink what his career could be.

For an editor used to working only with what he was given, the ability to generate footage on the fly, cut with it immediately and experiment endlessly without waiting on a crew or a shoot was a revelation. “It was still pretty janky at that stage, but I could see the potential,” he says. “It was kind of intoxicating. I started to think, I’d like to start making things that I haven’t seen before.”

After honing his skills with various AI tools, Watmough created a wistful, vibrant five-minute animated short called “LATE,” about an aging artist passing his wisdom to a young office worker. Over two weeks, he generated 2,181 images using AI, then curated and refined them frame by frame to shape the story.

Earlier this year, he submitted “LATE” to what was billed as the world’s first AI animation contest, hosted by Curious Refuge, an online education hub for creative technologists — and, to his delight, he won. The prize included $10,000, a pitch meeting with production company Promise Studios and, as an absurd bonus, his face printed on a potato. But for Watmough, the real reward was the sense that he had found a new creative identity.

“There’s something to the fact that the winner of the first AI animation competition was an editor,” Watmough says. “With the advent of AI, yes, you could call yourself a filmmaker but essentially I’d say most people are editors. You’re curating, selecting, picking what you like — relying on your taste.”

Thanks to AI, he says he’s made more personal passion projects in the past year and a half than during his entire previous career. “I’ll be walking or running and ideas just come. Now I can go home that night and try them,” he says. “None of that would exist without AI. So either something exists within AI or it never exists at all. And all the happiness and fulfillment that comes with it for the creator doesn’t exist either.”

Watmough hasn’t entirely lost his fear of what AI might do to the creative workforce, even as he is energized by what it makes possible. “A lot of people I speak to in film and TV are worried about losing their jobs and I’m not saying the infrastructure roles won’t radically change,” he says. “But I don’t think AI is going to replace that many — if any — creative people.”

What it will do, he says, is raise the bar. “If anyone can create anything, then average work will basically become extinct or pointless. AI can churn out remakes until the cows come home. You’ll have to pioneer to exist.”

He likens the current moment to the birth of cinema more than a century ago — specifically the Lumière brothers’ “Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat,” the 1896 short that famously startled early audiences. In the silent one-minute film, a steam train rumbles toward the camera, growing larger. Some viewers reportedly leaped from their seats, convinced it was about to crash into them.

“People ran out of the theater screaming,” Watmough says. “Now we don’t even think about it. With AI, we’re at that stage again. We’re watching the steam train come into the station and people are either really excited or they’re running out of the theater in fear. That’s where we are, right at the start. And the potential is limitless.”

Then again, he adds with a dry laugh, “I’m an eternal optimist, so take what I say with a grain of salt.”

This summer, Netflix’s animated hit “KPop Demon Hunters” might have created the most popular K-pop girl group in America. And seemingly the only people unaware of that distinction are its members.

“Is that what it is?,” asks Rei Ami, who with fellow artists Ejae and Audrey Nuna forms the film’s fictional trio Huntr/x. “Is that what it’s being labeled as?”

The stats are behind them: “Golden,” a contender for the Oscar for original song, hit No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 for more than eight consecutive weeks, with three other numbers earning a place in the Top 10. As a result, the film’s soundtrack hit No. 1 on the Billboard 200 and recently went platinum. With success has come an array of other opportunities as well. The group have since made a cameo on “Saturday Night Live” and performed on “The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon.”

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But as Ejae points out, theirs has not been the usual route to K-pop stardom. A former K-pop trainee herself, she notes that many hopefuls spend years developing their craft and chemistry with future group members. “We were all individually our own person. They had their music career, and I have my career as a songwriter,” she says. “[Becoming a K-pop group] later is unheard of with K-pop training. You do it when they’re kids, before anything [can develop], so they can shape them together, whereas we’re our own individuals coming together. Having this synergy is incredibly rare.”

That’s what singing in the most-watched Netflix film of all time will do for you. Premiering in August, “KPop Demon Hunters” propelled the members of Huntr/x — all of them already established in the industry, Nuna and Ami as artists and Ejae, who recently released her first solo single, as a songwriter for K-pop groups — into a new intensity of spotlight. (Ejae also wrote several tracks for the film, including “Golden,” with co-writers Mark Sonnenblick, Ido, 24 and Teddy.)

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1. Rei Ami is the singing voice for Zoey. 2. Ejae is the singing voice for Rumi. 3. Audrey Nuna is the singing voice for Mira. (Justin Jun Lee / For The Times)

“We were thrown together, basically,” says Nuna. “I’ve seen photos of us and I [thought], ‘Damn, we look like we were perfectly calculated to be in this group.’ The balance is nuts. But to think how serendipitous it was that this happened — we didn’t audition in rooms or go through multiple rounds of pairings to find each other… It just speaks to the beauty of the universe and how things go and when things just happen.”

In fact, the singers did not even meet until nearly five months ago, on the carpet at the film’s premiere. They recorded their parts separately with executive music director Ian Eisendrath, who then worked with the music team to edit them all together.

Ami was the last to record her part, which meant she got to hear “This Is What It Sounds Like” in its entirety with all the voices meshed together. The moment recalled the film’s final scene, in which Huntr/x — whose members double as the demon hunters of the title — reunites to fight the main villain to the sounds of the very same song, when “This Is What It Sounds Like” plays.

“I got to hear the song in full and all of our harmonies for the first time,” she recalls. “I was completely moved. I knew in my heart that this was going to be great.”

Still, they never expected the film to become a global phenomenon, resulting in their now chaotic schedules filled with press interviews, panel engagements, media appearances and special performances. Ami smiles, “We’re doing our best.”

Through it all, they’ve hyped each other’s achievements and held hands while expressing their appreciation for each other.

“These women have worked so hard on their journeys individually,” says Ami. “The industry has been so tumultuous, and the amount of pain, struggle, blood, sweat and tears that we’ve individually had to deal with … These two girls are the only ones in the world who will fully understand what I’m going through. I can’t talk to anyone else about this. Only they understand, and I feel so supported and not alone.”

They all clasp hands, with Ami telling the others, “I love you guys.”

And, for all the challenging moments, they are immensely grateful for the chance to fulfill their dreams. They all express their gratitude for the opportunity, as it has always been their dream.

“Literally, a month before the movie came out, I was doubting myself as a songwriter,” Ejae explains. “My goal was to get No. 1 on the Hot 100. I was going to do that — move to California, write so many sessions, and get No. 1. It felt impossible.”

“Those are all things we have on our bucket list,” Ami, right, says of the prospect of performing at the Oscars or Grammys.

(Justin Jun Lee / For The Times)

Ami becomes emotional about the film’s success when she talks about its impact on her career.

“I’m so blessed,” she says, holding back tears. “It’s really introduced me to more fans and new fans. This whole experience has taught me a lot about myself and what I want to do as an artist. My dreams are coming true.”

That hasn’t necessarily been the experience for her groupmates, though. “It takes a very long time [for me] to process and metabolize emotions,” Nuna says of her own lack of waterworks. “I’ve never wanted somebody to cry so much in my life,” Ami chimes in, laughing. “Feel something!”

The “instant chemistry” displayed in their interview was recently on display when the three were asked to perform “Golden” together for “The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon” — their first as a group. And the more they rehearsed, the more they cohered. Just like a real K-pop group.

“It’s really wild and weird,” says Nuna. “Honestly, the mesh of our voices just felt so intuitive. It was very organic and easy. The song is not easy, but the mesh and connecting were. It was literally our first time singing together, and I feel like we were hearing overtones in our harmonies and stuff, because they’re just really locked in.”

Awards buzz, for both the Oscars and the Grammys, has come as a surprise to the group, but it leads to questions about reuniting Huntr/x onstage at the biggest pop culture events of the year.

“[Performing at the Oscars or Grammys] would be the biggest deal,” says Ami. “I think we can all relate. That’s probably one of the highest accolades and achievements you can accomplish as an artist, songwriter, and producer. Those are all things we have on our bucket list.”

The trio hasn’t thought far enough ahead about an actual performance on either stage, as they’ve only recently begun rehearsing together.

“Jimmy Fallon will be a good practice,” Ejae laughs. “Good warm-up preparation.”

Indeed, though they have joked about forming a (real-life) K-pop group, all three are busy with individual projects — at least for now.

“If we were to get together, the charts better watch out!” Ami shouts. “You might not ever see another name other than us.”

Universal Music Group said Wednesday it has reached licensing agreements with artificial intelligence music startup Udio, settling a lawsuit that had accused Udio of using copyrighted music to train its AI.

Users create music using Udio’s AI, which can compose original songs — including voices and instruments — from text prompts.

Udio has agreed with UMG to launch a new platform next year that is only trained on “authorized and licensed music,” and will let users customize, stream and share music.

“These new agreements with Udio demonstrate our commitment to do what’s right by our artists and songwriters, whether that means embracing new technologies, developing new business models, diversifying revenue streams or beyond,” Lucian Grainge, UMG’s chairman and chief executive, said in a statement.

Udio declined to disclose the financial terms of the settlement and licensing agreements. UMG did not immediately return a request for comment on the terms.

Artificial intelligence has brought new opportunities as well as challenges to the entertainment industry, as AI startups have been training their models on information on the internet, which entertainment companies say infringes on their copyrighted work.

In the music industry, music businesses have accused New York City-based Udio and other AI music startups of training on copyrighted music to generate new songs that are based on popular hits without compensation or permission.

UMG, Sony Music Entertainment, Warner Music Group and other music businesses sued Udio last year. In the lawsuit, Udio was accused of using hits like The Temptations’ “My Girl,” to create a similar melody called “Sunshine Melody.” UMG owns the copyright to “My Girl.”

“A comparison of one section of the Udio-generated file and ‘My Girl’ reflects a number of similarities, including a very similar melody, the same chords, and very similar backing vocals,” according to the lawsuit. “These similarities are further reflected in the side-by-side transcriptions of the musical scores for the Udio file and the original recording.”

Udio said on its website at the time that it stands by its technology and that its AI model learns from examples, similar to how students listen to music and study scores.

“The goal of model training is to develop an understanding of musical ideas — the basic building blocks of musical expression that are owned by no one,” Udio had said in a statement. “We are completely uninterested in reproducing content in our training set.”

On Wednesday, Udio’s CEO and co-founder, Andrew Sanchez, said he was thrilled at the opportunity to work with UMG “to redefine how AI empowers artists and fans.”

The collaboration is the first music licensing agreement that Udio has reached with a major music label.

“This moment brings to life everything we’ve been building toward — uniting AI and the music industry in a way that truly champions artists,” Sanchez said in a statement. “Together, we’re building the technological and business landscape that will fundamentally expand what’s possible in music creation and engagement.”

Udio said that artists can opt in to the new platform and will be compensated, but declined to go into the specifics or the artists involved.

Udio, launched in 2024, was co-founded by former Google DeepMind employees. Udio’s backers include music artist will.i.am, Instagram co-founder and Anthropic’s chief product officer Mike Krieger and venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz.

Udio said millions of people have used Udio since it launched in 2024. Users can access the platform through its app or website. The company did not break out specifically how many downloads or website users it has.

Udio has had 128,000 app downloads in Apple’s App Store since its app was released in May, according to estimates from New York-based mobile analytics firm Appfigures.

On Thursday, UMG also announced a partnership with London-based Stability AI to develop music creation tools powered by AI for artists, producers and songwriters.