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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.

Last year the prolific and gifted Zadie Smith stumbled into controversy with the publication of “Shibboleth” in the New Yorker. She purportedly approached the white-hot Gaza demonstrations with the nuance and complexity they deserved and yet derided pro-Palestinian students at Columbia University as “cynical and unworthy,” stirring up a hornets’ nest among her young fans, who expressed their anger on various internet platforms. The controversy gained traction because of Smith’s record of championing the marginalized, citing theorists like Frantz Fanon while targeting empires and the omnipresent patriarchy. That she singled out one group of activists, many Jewish, at the very moment Arab toddlers were being blown apart by U.S.-funded bombs raised doubts about her touted values. Her conclusion was startling, her tone defiant: “Put me wherever you want: misguided socialist, toothless humanist, naïve novelist, useful idiot, apologist, denier, ally, contrarian, collaborator, traitor, inexcusable coward.” The lady doth protest too much?

“Shibboleth” appears in “Dead and Alive,” Smith’s collection of previously published essays, in which she assumes most if not all those roles she attributes to herself. Fanon is here as well, amid an array of artists and authors such as Joan Didion, Toni Morrison, and Philip Roth. Smith is arguing for the necessity of vigorous criticism and often makes her case. The book’s finest pieces wrangle, in elegant prose, with humanity’s contradictions; the weaker ones indulge in name-dropping, footnotes and op-ed invective.

Zadie Smith

(Ben Bailey-Smith)

“The Muse at Her Easel,” in the opening section, probes the relationship between English painter Lucian Freud and his model, Celia Paul, also a painter, via a review of her memoir. (Paul is the mother of one of 12 children he fathered outside of marriage.) Smith’s sly trick here is a bit of Freud-play: Lucian seen through the prism of his grandfather Sigmund, the family romance on steroids. Celia revolves around the artist here much as she did when he was alive, vulnerable and reflective, a moon to his sun. It’s both a restrained and overwrought essay, a cryptic tale of sexual politics, like her fellow Brit Rachel Cusk’s novel, “Second Place,” but one that urges us to think hard about abuses in the service of “museography.”

Smith brings an empathic eye to other artists, from the allegorical Toyin Ojih Odutola to the subversive Kara Walker. And she shines a bright light on numerous writers who have inspired her, particularly in remembrances of Didion (whose influence we sense throughout “Dead and Alive”) and the great Hilary Mantel. Her pieces on two books, “Black England” and “Black Manhattan,” excavate hidden histories of Black resistance and the painful compromises brokered to move forward. Her tone in “Fascinated to Presume: In Defense of Fiction” is elegiac, as though smartphones have killed off the craft; yet it’s also a manifesto of sorts, and a declaration of her own aesthetics. “Belief in a novel is, for me, a by-product of a certain kind of sentence,” Smith observes. “Familiarity, kinship, and compassion will play their part, but if the sentences don’t speak to me, nothing else will.” Amen, sister.

Her forays into social commentary are more problematic. She’s strong on the weird population kink known as Gen X, squeezed between the larger boomers and millennials, and the switchback road we traveled to marriage and parenthood: “We all still dressed like teenagers, though, and in the minds of the popular culture were ‘slackers,’ suffering from some form of delayed development, possibly the sad consequences of missing such key adulting experiences as a good war or a stock market crash,” Smith asserts. “We felt history belonged to other people: that we lived in the time of no time.” She’s persuasive when she remains within her comfort zone, opining on race, gender and, occasionally, class. Not so much when she ventures into technology. In “Some Notes on Mediated Time,” she broods at length on the destabilizing effects of the internet, social media and the algorithm silos that shape our present. It’s tough to parse irony from self-congratulation. “I have to say how immensely grateful I am that the work I have been so fortunate to do these last twenty years — writing books — has also gifted me the opportunity, the privilege, of devoting the time of my one human life to an algorithm. To keep almost all of it, selfishly, outrageously, for myself, my friends, my colleagues, my family,” Smith writes. “There are memes I will never know. Whole Twitter meltdowns I never witnessed. Hashtags I will forever remain ignorant about.” Which raises the question: Why lament a social paradigm shift if you haven’t bothered with it in the first place? Something isn’t right. Elsewhere in the essay she claims that social media is “excellent for building brands and businesses and attracting customers.” Could the same be said of a disingenuous essayist?

She comes across as preaching to her peers rather than seeking converts, a whiff of Oxbridge elitism. Hence references to Derrida, Dickinson, Knausgaard, Borges, shout-outs to Booker laureates “Salman” (Rushdie) and “Ian” (McEwan). This level of self-regard in a writer and thinker as justifiably exalted as Smith may explain why our nation is turning on reading: aristocracies breed resentment among the proles. Then Smith steps into the muck of global conflicts. The moral bothsidesism found in “Shibboleth” splits the baby; she does herself no favors with Solomonic pronouncements and Pontius Pilate-like self-exoneration. (Elsewhere she indicts Trump and Netanyahu while neglecting the money and media that empower them.)

“Dead and Alive” does what it was designed to do: It gathers the author’s criticism, literary obituaries, a university address and an interview with a Spanish journal between two covers. The execution falters. Smith’s provocations are often stunning; her prose is thrillingly strident; but her fiction better captures the messiness of public and private selves at war with each other.

Cain is a book critic and the author of a memoir, “This Boy’s Faith: Notes From a Southern Baptist Upbringing.” He lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

Jack DeJohnette, the prolific and versatile jazz drummer who played with Sonny Rollins, Herbie Hancock, Pat Metheny, Charles Lloyd, Bill Evans, Freddie Hubbard and Miles Davis — including on Davis’ groundbreaking 1970 album “Bitches Brew,” which helped kick off the jazz fusion era — died Sunday. He was 83.

His death was announced in a post on Instagram, which said he died at a hospital in Kingston, N.Y., near his home in Woodstock. DeJohnette’s wife, Lydia, told NPR the cause was congestive heart failure.

As a member of Davis’ band in the late ’60s and early ’70s — a group that also counted Chick Corea, Wayne Shorter, Keith Jarrett and Billy Cobham among its members — DeJohnette pumped out psychedelic rock and funk rhythms that put Davis’ music in conversation with that of artists like James Brown and Sly Stone. In addition to “Bitches Brew,” which was inducted this year into the Library of Congress’ National Recording Registry, DeJohnette played on Davis’ “At Fillmore,” “Live-Evil” and “On the Corner” albums, the last of which was panned by critics when it came out but now is regarded as a jazz-funk landmark.

DeJohnette won two Grammy Awards on six nominations; in 2012, he was named a Jazz Master by the National Endowment of the Arts.

Living Colour’s Vernon Reid, who played on DeJohnette’s 1992 album “Music for the Fifth World,” called DeJohnette “the GOAT” on social media on Monday and wrote that his “influence & importance to Jazz, and contemporary improvised music can not be overstated.”

DeJohnette was born Aug. 9, 1942, in Chicago. Encouraged by an uncle who worked as a jazz radio DJ, he learned to play piano as a child and went on to play with Sun Ra as he circulated among the forward-looking artists of Chicago’s Assn. for the Advancement of Creative Musicians. He moved to New York in the mid-’60s and joined Charles Lloyd’s quartet before collaborating with Evans and then with Davis.

“We couldn’t wait to play,” he said of his tenure in Davis’ band in a 1990 interview with The Times. “Miles developed our talents by allowing us to progress naturally, having us play his music and accept the responsibility that goes with discipline and freedom. He learned from us, and we learned from him.”

After leaving Davis’ band, DeJohnette continued collaborating with Jarrett, the influential pianist; the two formed a long-running group known as the Standards Trio with the bassist Gary Peacock that focused on material from the Great American Songbook. The drummer also led the bands New Directions and Special Edition and formed groups with Ravi Coltrane and with John Scofield.

In 2016, he released “Return,” a solo-piano album that served as a sequel of sorts to 1985’s “The Jack DeJohnette Piano Album.” According to the New York Times, DeJohnette’s survivors include his wife, who also managed his career, and their two daughters.

All over Los Angeles, Zachary Asdourian hunted for the music of an Iran that could have been.

The co-founder of the L.A. record label Discotchari scoured for dust-caked Persian pop records at Jordan Market in Woodland Hills; scanned the fliers for shows at Cabaret Tehran in Encino, and combed shops in Glendale looking for Farsi-language tapes cut in L.A. studios in the ‘70s and ‘80s.

Most of the songs he and his label partner, Anaïs Gyulbudaghyan, sought were long-forgotten dance tracks, culturally-specific twists to the era’s disco boom. They’re poignant reminders of a time in L.A.’s Westwood “Tehrangeles” neighborhood when, in the years just after the 1979 Iranian revolution, immigrants here made music while their homeland roiled with ascendant theocracy.

Discotchari’s new crate-digger compilation “Tehrangles Vice” collects some of the best of them. Its 12 tracks were made in L.A. and circulated within the Iranian diaspora, then smuggled back into Iran on dubbed tapes and satellite broadcasts. They’re largely lost to time here, but fondly recalled there as bombastic dispatches from a cosmopolitan yet heartbroken immigrant community in L.A.

The music has lessons for artists watching the revanchist conservatism creeping over the United States today.

“These songs were supposed to represent the next step in Iranian music,” Asdourian said. “These artists were geniuses at shaking up what was happening in the ‘80s and ‘90s to produce an Iranian version of it. This music was meant to be heard at a party while dancing and drinking in Tehrangeles, but it also provided solace during the Islamic revolution, the Iraq war and the Iran-Contra affair. For citizens of Iran, this was giving hope as bombs were literally falling.”

The music scene this compilation documents came after a period of more stable relationships between the U.S. and Iran. Thousands of Iranian students immigrated to L.A. in the ‘60s and ‘70s and stayed, some opening restaurants and nightclubs in Westwood, Glendale and the San Fernando Valley where they could hear Iranian music.

“A lot of these clubs in L.A. pre-dated the revolution. Artists like Googoosh were already coming in from Iran to perform. Many musicians who were in U.S. when the revolution happened thought they were having a little sojourn and intended to go back someday,” said Farzaneh Hemmasi, a professor of ethnomusicology at the University of Toronto who wrote the book “Tehrangeles Dreaming: Intimacy and Imagination in Southern California’s Iranian Pop Music” and contributed the liner notes for “Tehrangeles Vice.”

An insert from a cassette tape that Farokh “Elton” Ahi previously worked on.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

“But after the 1979 revolution, musicians in Los Angeles were told by family in Iran not to go back, that they were rounding up artists, that people associated with westernization and immorality will be targeted,” Hemmasi said. “So they stayed and worked.”

One of them was Farokh “Elton” Ahi, who came to L.A. at 17 to study architecture at USC, but left that career to produce for Casablanca Records, the premier disco label of the era. He DJ’ed at Studio 54 in NYC and elite nightclubs in L.A., and produced for the likes of Donna Summer and Elton John at his Hollywood studio, Rusk (Ahi got his nickname from an interviewer who called him “Elton Joon,” a Farsi-language term of endearment).

Even in the decadent disco era, he felt an obligation to champion Iranian music in L.A.

“We wanted kids to enjoy the link between our culture and western culture,” Ahi said. “But we were also trying to bring what was happening in Iran to people’s attention with our music, which was one reason I could never go back there. Kids who had come from Iran loved Prince and Michael Jackson and were becoming super American, so we had to do something to keep them engaged in our music as well.”

During the 1979 hostage crisis, Anglo nightclubs and radio in L.A. were not keen on Persian pop music, to say the least. Ahi led a double life as an Americanized disco producer, while also writing for his immigrant community.

“Those days, because of the hostage crisis, it wasn’t fun and games having Iranian music in the club. People were against Iranians and it wasn’t a happy time,” Ahi said. “But we were making quality music with limited resources. There were not many musicians here who could play Iranian instruments, so I had to learn a bunch of them. I felt a duty to keep our music alive.”

Two ‘80s-era tracks he produced, Susan Roshan’s “Nazanin” and Leila Forouhar’s “Hamsafar,” appear on “Tehrangeles Vice,” which brims with the only-in-L.A. cultural collusion of mournful Persian melodies and lyrics about exile, paired with new wave grit and ‘80s synth-disco pulses. Aldoush’s “Vay Az in Del” has sample-blasted horns right out of the ‘80s TV show that gives the compilation its name. There’s even a strong Latin percussive element on tracks like Shahram Shabpareh and Shohreh Solati’s “Ghesmat,” which showed how Iranian artists dipped into the global crossroads of Los Angeles.

Even if this music didn’t make an impact on the charts here, it found its way back to post-revolution Iran clandestinely, on tapes and music video satellite broadcasts. Club-friendly pop music made in L.A. took on new potency abroad.

“The official culture in Iran in the ‘80s was very sorrowful because of the war, and Shiite Islam was very oriented towards mourning. Ramadan was a sad time with no music,” Hemmasi said. “But in L.A., you’ve got Iranians dancing and singing, which was not happening within the country where people needed to sing and dance even more. This music had a contraband quality that was underground in Iran itself.”

“A lot of Iranian artists wouldn’t like this comparison, but this music was really punk at its core,” Asdourian agreed. “You’d have people standing on street corners in trench coats selling cassettes. People had illegal satellite hookups to hear news and ideology from the diaspora that contradicted what they were being fed. This music was a means to restore values they felt were lost in the revolution.”

Top to bottom, Farokh “Elton” Ahi with record label Discotchari founders Zachary Asdourian and Anais Gyulbudaghyan in Los Angeles.

(Emil Ravelo / For The Times)

As contemporary Angelenos rallying for this era of Iranian music, Asdourian and Gyulbudaghyan of Discotchari will stop at nothing to ship murkily-sourced tapes from Iran, western Asia and the Caucasus for their label. “In January, we went to Armenia and met a guy who knew a guy at a restaurant in Yerevan who had someone drive tapes in from Tabriz in Iran,” Asdourian said. “They sent us GPS coordinates to pick them up, and we ended up in this abandoned former Soviet manufacturing district getting chased by a guard dog. But he had 30 cassettes, all still sealed in their boxes.”

Yet some of the acts on “Tehrangeles Vice” are still active, living and working in California. After a long hiatus, Roshan recently released new music inspired by Iran’s Woman, Life, Freedom Movement, and Ahi is a sound engineer and mixer for film (he worked on “Last of the Mohicans,” which won an Oscar for sound mixing). He recently contributed to a remix of Ed Sheeran’s “Azizam,” which sprinkles Farsi phrasing into upbeat pop and became a global hit. “Ed reached out and asked me to write some melodies that matched Googoosh’s singing to make it more international, we put our minds together and I’m so proud of it,” Ahi said.

As the United States now reckons with its own powerful right-wing religious movement in government, one eager to clamp down on cultural dissent, “Tehrangeles Vice” has lessons for musicians in the wake of a backlash. The compilation is both a specific document of a proud music culture clamping down at home and flowering abroad. But it’s also a reminder that, whether made in exile or played under attack, art is a well of possibility for imagining another life.

“Even if the geographical location isn’t same, for Iranians, L.A. represents this exiled piece of history, an Iran that could have been,” Hemmasi said. “It’s a message in a bottle from another time.”

If you watched 54 Ultra’s music video for “Upside Down” and came away thinking it was a relic from 1980s music programs like “Solid Gold” or “Night Tracks” — you’d be forgiven for making the assumption.

Aside from the 25-year-old’s vintage wardrobe, hairstyle, and ‘stache that harks to that decade, the song itself — a silky, boppy ballad that channels the energy of groups like the Chi-Lites or solo acts like Johnnie Taylor — sounds and feels ripped from the era in a manner that’s hard to faithfully re-create these days.

That old-school vibe isn’t exactly how 54 Ultra started off when he began putting out solo music three years ago, but it’s what he’s settled into nowadays. The artist, whose real name is JohnAnthony Rodríguez (and yes, his name is supposed to be written together), hails from New Jersey and is of Puerto Rican and Dominican descent.

The name he settled on, 54 Ultra, came by way of uniting Frank Ocean’s 2011 album “Nostalgia, Ultra” and the historic nightclub Studio 54. It was sometime between 2019 and 2020 that he interned at a few different recording studios, songwriting in his spare time with the intention of writing and producing music for others.

“I remember I was trying to find a way to make a living out of music and introduce myself to other artists,” he says over the phone, recalling all the demos he had recorded and presented to artists he’d cross paths with.

“People would be like ‘Who’s singing this? Who demo’ed this?’ And I’d say ‘It was me.’ And then they’d say, ‘You keep it.’ After that [happened] a couple of times I realized that I might as well put it out by myself.”

His first solo singles, like the high-energy “What Do I Know (Call Me Baby)” and “Sierra,” were firmly rooted in the indie rock family tree. It wasn’t until more recently, first with “Where Are You” and later “Heaven Knows,” that Rodríguez began to explore a more retro and soulful approach.

The latter track made an appearance in a 2024 “rhythm and soul” playlist curated by Mistah Cee, an Australian DJ and music selector, who included the song between Bobby Caldwell’s “My Flame” and Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Devotion.” The segues between tracks are seamless, in no small part due to Rodríguez’s immaculate production and fealty to the tempo of the times. His was the only contemporary track on the playlist, but it fooled many who eventually caught on to the rest of his work.

“On YouTube, I remember that was a nice boost, because people would comment, ‘Who came from Mistah Cee?’ Or, ‘Who thought this was an oldie?’ or whatnot,” he says.

To date, it’s not only Mistah Cee’s most viewed playlist by a wide margin (5.6 million and counting) but also 54 Ultra’s most-streamed song on Spotify with 27 million. “That was a very organic wave of things happening, and I’m very grateful for that also because I didn’t expect [it] at all,” says Rodríguez.

Latin soul, of the kind that recalls the doo-wop and boogaloo era of the 1950s and ‘60s, has seen a resurgence in the past few years. Artists like Chicano Batman, Thee Sinseers, Los Yesterdays and the Altons, as well as solo acts like Jason Joshua and Adrian Quesada, have made inroads with listeners and on the radio. Rodríguez is enthusiastic about this opportunity to show different facets of Latin culture and music through this genre.

“I just feel like I’m grateful to be a part of that family, or that idea that people relate all the music together and being a part of that scene is pretty nice,” he says.

Despite his Gen Z status, he notably lacks the “smartphone face” that’s rampant among pop artists and celebrities — and is partial to dressing in an anachronistic way, which he pulls off with gusto. It might be easy to assume his regular getup is a result of wanting to match the music, but Rodriguez insists he was already dressing that way much before he ever considered dabbling in soul. There is a kind of freedom he associates with the wardrobe of that time.

“[The clothes] were never a costume or a gimmick,” he says. “Whether I did music or not, I enjoyed how it fits because that [period] just has the best clothes. I think that was peak menswear. No one cared about any type of gender assignment with clothing; everybody wore what they wanted, and all the measurements were the same … it seemed like everybody had fun back then. They weren’t worried so much about what people thought.”

“[The clothes] were never a costume or a gimmick,” says 54 Ultra of his vintage style.

(Max Tardio)

He shouts out Blood Orange, a.k.a. artist-composer Dev Hynes, as a major inspiration for him. “That’s my favorite guy,” he says. But at the same time, he offers an eclectic list of artists whose music lights fires for his own output; Brazilian musicians like Jorge Ben Jor, Lô Borges and Evinha have made his rotation, along with some moody ‘80s bands like the Smiths, the Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

“And Prefab Sprout,” he adds excitedly. “That’s my jam. That stuff’s crazy.”

His reputation has grown this past year, putting him in rooms he never expected to be invited to. Earlier this year he found himself producing the song “All I Can Say” for Kali Uchis, off her 2025 album, “Sincerely,” and recently opened for her during a concert stop in San José.

Earlier this month, he kicked off a world tour promoting his latest EP, “First Works,” that will take him from D.C. and Brooklyn to London and Paris. The schedule includes multiple stops in California, including two in Los Angeles: Oct. 26 at the Roxy Theatre and Oct. 28 at the Echoplex.

For Rodríguez, a tour like this is the culmination of everything he’s worked toward in his admittedly still nascent but steadily growing career. He confirms that he’s been chipping away at a debut LP, which will brandish a more “fast and punchy” rock sound that recall his days playing basement shows.

“Anytime anybody asked me what I wanted to do, I would say: ‘I want to perform anywhere I can and for anybody, wherever that may be.’ I’ve always wanted things to resonate, and I’ve always wanted it to make sense.”

Shakira is all in for the Bad Bunny Super Bowl halftime performance, despite ongoing public efforts to replace the Puerto Rican singer with another artist.

In an interview with Variety, the Colombian superstar voiced support for Bad Bunny, who is set to perform on Feb. 8 at Levi’s Stadium in Santa Clara, Calif.

“It’s about time!” she said.

In 2020, Bad Bunny joined Shakira and Jennifer Lopez on stage during their halftime performance, which marked the first all-Latine show in Super Bowl history — J Balvin was also featured.

“I remember when we did ours that even having part of our set in Spanish was a bold move… Acceptance of Spanish-language music as part of the mainstream has come so far from when I started,” said Shakira, who during the interview reflected on the recent anniversaries of her critically-acclaimed Spanish album “Pies Descalzos” (released in 1995) as well as “Oral Fixation (Vol 1 and 2)” (both released in 2005).

“I hope and like to think that all the times my music was met with resistance or puzzlement from the English-speaking world before it was embraced helped forge the path to where we are now,” Shakira added.

The news that Bad Bunny would headline the major American sporting event has been met with some pushback from conservative figures, including President Trump, who labeled the decision as “crazy” and “absolutely ridiculous” in an interview with Newsmax earlier this month.

One floating petition on Change.org, which has acquired over 54,000 signatures, called for Bad Bunny to be replaced by Texas singer George Strait as a way to “honor American culture.”

The late Charlie Kirk’s Turning Point USA also announced an alternative halftime show titled, “The All American Halftime Show,” though the conservative organization has not yet announced artists.

Claims that Bad Bunny is not an American artist are factually incorrect: Puerto Rico is an unincorporated U.S. territory and Puerto Ricans are therefore American citizens. Past Super Bowl halftime shows have also featured non-American acts, including the Rolling Stones, U2, Rihanna, Shania Twain and Coldplay, to name a few.

Despite the anti-Bad Bunny buzz, Shakira doubled down on her support of the singer.

“And I’m so proud that Bad Bunny, who represents not only Latin culture but also how important Spanish-language music has become on a global scale and how universal it has become, is getting to perform on the biggest stage in the world,” she said.

“It’s the perfect moment for a performance like this. I can’t wait to watch it.”

If you are not prepared for it, fame can be downright deadly. Alanis Morissette knows that better than anyone. Thirty years ago, she released her third studio album, “Jagged Little Pill,” which won five Grammys, including album of the year and best rock album, and went on to sell 33 million copies.

So, Morissette has a complicated relationship with fame. Now, she will be examining that and many other dimensions of her incredible three-decade career in a new Vegas residency at Caesars Palace that begins Wednesday and runs until Nov. 2.

As Morissette explained in a wide-ranging talk with The Times, the Vegas show will be much more than a concert. The show will take on a narrative feel that will showcase her humor, improv, wellness and all the other traits that have defined her over the years.

I love that you paired with Carly Simon on the song “Coming Around Again” because I see such a kinship based on you two over generations. There is so much in common between “You’re So Vain” and “You Oughta Know.” Not the least of which is I am sure you are both beyond over being asked, “Who is the song really about?”

Right, because what people don’t understand, and I can’t speak for Carly, but there’s a difference between revenge and revenge fantasy. I’m all about the revenge fantasy and punching pillows and gyrating and sweating and losing your s— in art. And Lord knows I’m unmeasured in other areas day-to-day, too, so it’s not like I’m some paragon of containment, but yeah, just the revenge thing, there’s a lot of schoolyard stuff going on. That’s all I’ll say for the moment.

Obviously, this is 30 years of “Jagged Little Pill.” I remember seeing Bruce Springsteen in ’88, when he did “Born to Run” acoustic. Every night when he introduced it, he would say, “I was thinking about how much that song was me, and how much I don’t want it to be me.” And I thought that was so interesting because, of course, there are songs you want to be you. So, what songs did you want to be you?

Yeah, there are so many songs that I would write about potential. So, I’d be in a relationship, and I would be writing about what I wanted to the point where whomever I may have been dating at the time, if I shared the song with them, sometimes they would say, “Who’s this about? This can’t possibly be about me.” I’m like, “Well, you know what? You’re onto something there. This is about what I wish we could be.” I think about also a song, because I’m working on the Vegas show, so we’re integrating so much. And I think the song “Not the Doctor” is probably one of the ones that I realized the naivety of having written, like, your issues just get away from me. Having been married now for 15 years, I realized that your partner’s challenges, you take each other on — all of it. So, there’s a little bit of knowledge now that makes “Not the Doctor” funny to sing.

And then “Incomplete” is a song that is a manifestation, as you just described, that I would be good. It’s like a prayer manifestation. There’s a song, “Knees of My Bees,” that I wrote about what I wished. In praise of the vulnerable man, it was what I wished. So yes, there’s some composites being made where I take seven people whom I had a similar pattern repeat, and I just lop them all into one song as one person and unify the communication; there’s no holds barred.

Has there been talk about extending the show? It does sound like you are putting a crazy amount of work into a show that right now lasts little more than a week.

For a long time — and a lot of journalists have said, “Yeah, right,” when I say this — but my energy doesn’t go into outcome. Whether the show is seen three times or 300,000 times, that’s not up to me in this moment. I’m creating stories and sharing parts of myself that I have hidden for the ’90s imperative of staying in your lane or it’s career suicide. So, I’m still unlearning that, which is the reductiveness of the ’90s, where you have to stay one thing. Then, well, what is one supposed to do if they have multiple talents or multiple intelligences dying to be expressed? We’re going to contain that so that we can keep the ’90s credo going. So, over the years, it’s just been, can I bring these other aspects of self into the whole expression of me through academia, through movement, through channeling, through live shows, through interviews right now? There are so many ways to express, and the ’90s really did say, “You do it one or two ways; you step out of that and your career is over.” Thank God that messaging is softened.

How have you seen culture and values change over your career?

It used to be “I want to be a millionaire,” and now everyone wants to be a billionaire. It used to be “I want to look 21 forever,” now it’s “I want to look 14 forever.” And then it used to be “I want to have fame as a means to an end for activism.” Now it’s just “I want fame as an end,” so it’s an interesting value system snapshot right now. And so many of us are flying in the face of it, so I’m not really worried about that. But the value system has gotten smaller almost, as though fame in and of itself is going to correct our attachment wounds. It doesn’t work, and I’m constantly raising my hand going, I thought fame would result in this profound sense of community that I’d be amongst my people and we’d be petting each other’s heads by the fire. That was not the case.

I think for anyone who comes out the other side of fame, there has to be a tremendous sense of gratitude that you survive it.

That’s a big piece of this Vegas show without me nailing it on the head or belaboring the point. It’s like, “How are some of us still here?”

How do you express that in the show? And it is interesting given your passion for wellness and mental health, it is in Vegas. Which has never been known for either.

Yeah, Vegas has been known for addiction and gambling, acting out, sexual acting out. What is Vegas known for? “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” It’s been known for that, but I believe that there’s a whole seismic shift going on. I have never underestimated people who come to my shows. Even in workshops, people are like, “Alanis, it’s too much.” And my thought is, “No, it’s not.” People can close their eyes, they can walk out, they can shut the radio off, they can take a break in the cafeteria. Part of why I love that it’s Vegas is that there’s this ceilinglessness in terms of no holds barred again, like I want to wear a boa. You want to do a backflip. Apparently, we’re doing a backflip. What has happened over the years is that again, it was this one-lane push, stay in your lane. And while this was all happening, there were all these other archetypal imperatives getting at me, like what about dancing? What about comedy? What about article writing? What about keynote speaking? What about workshop leading? What about channeling? There are all these other forms of expression that I live for. So, in some ways, I was cultivating them maybe privately. That’s just who I am. And I integrated it into every lyric.

Sinéad [O’Connor] said this perfectly, I don’t know word for word what she said, but the essence was you love the art, but you hate the artist. She said something about, “I appreciate that my audience wants everyone to hear more angry emotions from me through my songs, but then I have to be angry. And no one takes that into consideration.” I was like, “Yeah, because we’re used in the best way possible.” Artists are used as a screen upon which people identify themselves or people find who they are by hating and loving and trolling and attacking and it’s all projection, everything’s f— projection. So yeah, I just think people who are in the public eye have an experience inside of a social construct that is so violently unusual. And there’s no empathy afforded to them for that, other than maybe from people like you and me.

“There are all these other forms of expression that I live for,” says Alanis Morissette. “So, in some ways, I was cultivating them maybe privately. That’s just who I am. And I integrated it into every lyric.”

(Shervin Lainez)

How did you learn to deal with it? Unfortunately for Sinéad, she never was able to handle the fact that people were so hateful toward her, even though it had nothing to do with her.

I know, and basically that is the lack of handbook that is egregious, because so many people who were in the public eye are now physically gone. So much of it is their temperament, and I used to do talks at the neurobiology conferences at UCLA, and I would bring up the idea of temperament needing to be taken into consideration, whether it’s around suicidality or anything. Most artists are highly sensitive empaths. That is a version of neurodivergence over excitability, high-achieving, profound subtle awareness and attunement. All of these qualities that make the sweetest artists. And yet that temperament in a world that is doing what you just described Sinéad receiving, which is projecting hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. There’s no handbook on how to go, “Hey, we’re going to do shadow work here. We’re going to talk about rejection. We’re going to talk about if anyone’s saying anything that brings something up for you, bring it into therapy. Look at that part. Look at what they’re saying.” Also, always from me, look at the opposite. If you’re being invited to look at the part of you that is an a—. Always also look at the part of you that is deeply, deeply kind. For me, that’s the wholeness journey.

Being older, what have you learned about how to deal with all this?

I really do believe, Steve, that I could write a f— handbook now. I feel like if you and I got together, I could write the handbook, and we just hand it out to all the new celebs.

Do you now feel a responsibility to be able to pass your wisdom on to the new generation like Billie Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo?

I feel great passion about it. I happen to be someone who is hilariously conscientious and intensely empathic. I’m always blown away by them, and then I see people like Olivia and I just think, “Oh, everything’s going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay if Olivia exists; we’re good.” [laughs]

What happened to your book?

What’s interesting is I did two years worth of narrative storytelling that we recorded. Initially it was for a memoir, or some version of what was being asked for was a memoir. That’s kind of a hard “no” for me because we’re using all the pieces that feel relevant to this particular story. The reason I didn’t want to do the memoir is ’cause there’s no way to articulate a life. There’s way to articulate snapshots. There’s a way to articulate chapters, maybe. But there’s no way to articulate, like, this is my sentimental life story. It’s not possible. So that’s why songs are so great. It’s like four minutes of a moment. Let’s just keep writing these moments and capturing these moments and that’s what Vegas is for me: a moment.

One of the things I’ve talked about with artists that they love so much about Vegas residency is you get to mix it up night to night. But it sounds like you’re going to have a show, so are you going to be incorporating different stuff or is it going to be more of a narrative story?

Both. For me as an actor, I’ve always enjoyed improv. I love it when there’s a general sense of structure for something, but then go off within it. This is the way I’ve always been, both sides of the brain. I want some structure and predictability and some version of a set list, which we already have. But then within some of the interstitial stuff and the scenes and the comedy and the physicality and the movement, yeah, it’s a movable feast. We’ll see what happens. I am completely out of my wheelhouse publicly, not privately, because I was in improv teams since I was 14. And I think comedy is one of the best forms of activism art, I really do, maybe even above music. So, we’re integrating all these forms of art. And I’m not thinking about any outcome. It’s really amazing to write a record, write a song, write an email, frankly, with no agenda. The agenda is just “let’s express ourselves.” And that’s plenty.

Do you feel like you’re having more fun now at this point in your career than any other point?

I have the most fun with collaborating. So, I can’t say this is any more fun, but I can say that there’s more people. So, in the past, it’s been me alone writing or me and my bestie writing or me and Glen [Ballard] writing. So, in some ways it was insulated, isolated and with the musical and with Vegas, let’s multiply those collaborators by at least five. What I’ve said a few times, and I still stand by it, is that for me, the happiest place is in this communal “can’t swing a dirty sock without hitting a master” kind of environment, and it is truly six plus six is a thousand for us.

Do you feel like, as you’re getting older, people are embracing you more?

Yeah, I make more sense. There was a period of time where I didn’t make any sense and perhaps there wasn’t that much resonance. And then 25, 30 years later, I feel like I’m starting to make sense to the world in a way that I didn’t expect to happen. I just always thought, “Oh, I’ll be on that smallest part of the bell-shaped curve forever and I’ll probably be kind of lonely there. And that’s just what it is in this lifetime.” But here I am 30 years later and I’m starting to get a sense that what I’ve been talking about this whole time is resonant for people. And I can’t tell you how healing that is for me.

For L.A.-based musician, composer and artist San Cha, the Spanish language is a creative gold mine. “One of my favorite Spanish words is ‘embriágame,’ which I think the direct translation is ‘make me drunk’ or ‘intoxicate me,’” she says. “I love that word. I think there’s a song by Thalía that has that word, it’s called ‘Piel Morena,’ and every time she said that, I’m like — ‘That’s it!’”

San Cha is speaking of her latest work, “Inebria me,” ahead of its Los Angeles premiere Thursday at REDCAT, inside the Walt Disney Concert Hall complex. “Inebria me” is a 90-minute experimental opera that expands on her critically acclaimed 2019 ranchera fusion album, “La Luz de la Esperanza.” San Cha stars as Dolores, a humble bride to the much wealthier Salvador, whose jealousy turns deadly; enter Esperanza, a genderless spirit of empowerment, who helps light Dolores’ path to freedom.

Having gone from singing rancheras in the restaurants of Mexico City to experimenting in underground drag scenes in the Bay Area, San Cha has developed a knack for synthesizing disparate influences that result in visually arresting and thought-provoking work. Born Lizette Gutierrez in San Jose to Mexican immigrant parents, San Cha grew up offsetting her intense Bible study by binging on telenovelas after school. It shows in “Inebria me,” where she employs the classic narrative structure of the telenovela, but with a queer twist. “I wanted to hold [onto] the queerness of [the story] and the religious aspects of it,” she says.

The opera is the latest of San Cha’s collaborative efforts. She’s previously linked up with an array of artists — including La Doña, Rafa Esparza, Yesika Salgado and even country singer Kacey Musgraves, who featured San Cha in a pivotal moment from her 2021 visual album, “Star-Crossed.” Darian Donovan Thomas also stars in “Inebria me,” alongside Stefa Marin Alarcon, Lu Coy, Kyle Kidd, Carolina Oliveros and Phong Tran.

In our latest interview, she discusses developing her music for the stage and what it took to build the confidence to advocate for her original vision on her own.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

San Cha performs with Darian Donovan Thomas on Sept. 5 at the Winningstad Theatre in Portland, Ore.

(Jingzi Zhao)

When did the idea to adapt “La Luz de la Esperanza” come to you?
It actually came to me in 2023 or 2024 when I partnered with the National Performance Network for this grant. I started talking with the Portland Institute for Contemporary Art, which was already on board, and the Performance Space New York. Like, what would I do to adapt this work?

Did you have experience in traditional theater growing up?
No, I didn’t. And I also didn’t watch too many movies. I missed out on a lot of those very American experiences. People would be like, “Do you know this movie?’ And “It’s like a classic,” and it’s like “No.” I was really sheltered, you know, “I’m over here in Bible study” kind of s—.

Has anyone in your family seen this piece? If so, what was their feedback?
My parents saw a trial version of this piece in San Jose, my hometown. They saw the PG-13 version, which is what I’d like to say, and my mom was confused; I don’t even know how my dad felt. My mom’s one comment was, “You didn’t sing rancheras. Everyone wants you to sing rancheras.” And I was like, “Oh, my God.” So they also came to the closing night with a big group, and I sang the rancheras for them at the end.

How would you relate “Inebria me” to what’s considered a “traditional” opera?
I would say it has a very clear narrative … everything is sung, except for the parts [where] the Man [is] talking or speaking.

I sing rancheras [and] that kind of blends into operas. I didn’t grow up being an opera singer, or wanting to be an opera singer, but somehow it developed in that direction. In this, we get to be all the things: a little hardcore, a little pop, a little mix with opera.

Where did the idea to bring in telenovelas come from?
I wanted to make a telenovela set to music. And because I’d never seen a queer telenovela … I just was like, I want to make the telenovela and set it to disco music … something electronic, glamorous. It [speaks to] the illusion of glamour, underneath everything is ugly and twisted.

What was your first memory of watching a telenovela?
There are so many. I’d watch the kid telenovelas. But there’s one in particular … it’s one where Lucero, a big pop star in Mexico, plays three versions of herself, so she’s a triplet. And there’s one [version] that is so evil. I still remember, [the characters] would get very BDSM … like locking people up! As a kid, I was feeling like … “Why am I watching this? I’m a child!”

“I didn’t grow up wanting to be an opera singer, but somehow it developed in that direction,” says San Cha of “Inebria me.”

(Jingzi Zhao)

You’ve talked about how drag queens were instrumental, especially early in your career. Queer and drag culture have come into mainstream pop and youth culture on the one hand, but remain demonized on the other. How do you reconcile those two extremes in your work?
I guess visibility doesn’t always mean safety or acceptance. I remember being in San Francisco and seeing drag that wasn’t as polished and more on the fringe side of it.

I was … kind of hating it when I got to L.A. and how polished everyone was. But when I saw “RuPaul’s Drag Race” reruns on VH1, I was like, “This is literally life-changing.” And how cool that this is becoming mainstream!

In a previous interview, you discussed sin and guilt as the themes of this work. Many artists have explored this theme in various ways across different cultures and times. Why do you think ideas around guilt and sin hold such power over us?
You’re made to do what you don’t want to do by [people] making you feel shame for the ways you act. And in [“Inebria me”], the sisters each have a confession, and I wanted to make that a focal point — with the nun, the religious person.

In telenovelas, there’s always a priest [they] talk to when they have troubles, you know? And I think in the [Catholic practice of] confession, it is important to relieve yourself of the shame and guilt. But it’s almost like you relieve yourself and then you feel shame, you know? And that’s the part that stops growth, evolution and freedom.

For someone whose first impression of “Inebria me” is that it’s not for them, what do you think they would be surprised to discover or an element they would enjoy?
Everyone in this piece is a star, everyone’s a diva. I think they all really shine on their own, and they really bring it with the acting. Their voices are all incredible, and their stage presence. Maybe they could be into the scene design by Anthony Robles — it’s super minimal, but it does so much for the space in creating this oppressive world. I think there is something for everyone. It’s a story that can relate to a lot of people.

ROME — The Vatican took the unusual step on Monday of announcing that it had named judges to decide the fate of a famous ex-Jesuit artist, whose mosaics decorate basilicas around the world and who was accused by more than two dozen women of sexual, spiritual and psychological abuse.

The case of the Rev. Marko Ivan Rupnik badly tarnished the legacy of Pope Francis, given suggestions that the Jesuit pope, the Jesuit religious order and the Jesuit-headed Vatican sex abuse office protected one of their own over decades by dismissing allegations of misconduct against him.

The Vatican office that manages clergy sex abuse cases, the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, said that the five judges named to hear the Rupnik case in a canonical court include women and priests who don’t hold jobs in the Vatican bureaucracy.

It said that such a composition was “done in order to better guarantee, as in any judicial process, the autonomy and independence of the aforementioned court.”

The statement suggested an implicit recognition that prior to now, the Vatican’s handling of the Rupnik file had been anything but autonomous or independent.

Famous artist accused

Rupnik’s mosaics grace some of the Catholic Church’s most-visited shrines and sanctuaries around the world, including at the shrine in Lourdes, France, in the Vatican, a new basilica in Aparecida, Brazil, and the chapel of Pope Leo XIV’s own Augustinian religious order in Rome.

The Rupnik scandal first exploded publicly in late 2022 when Italian blogs started reporting the claims of nuns and other women who said they had been sexually, spiritually and psychologically abused by him, including during the production of his artwork.

Rupnik’s Jesuit religious order soon admitted that he had been excommunicated briefly in 2020 for having committed one of the Catholic Church’s most serious crimes — using the confessional to absolve a woman with whom he had engaged in sexual activity. But he continued working and preaching.

The case continued to create problems for the Jesuits and Francis, though, since more women came forward saying they too had been victimized by Rupnik, with some of their claims dating back to the 1990s.

The Jesuits eventually kicked him out of the order after he refused to respond to allegations by about 20 women, most of whom were members of a Jesuit-inspired religious community that he co-founded in his native Slovenia, which has since been suppressed.

The Vatican initially refused to prosecute, arguing the women’s claims were too old. The stall exposed both the Vatican’s legal shortcomings, where sex crimes against women are rarely prosecuted, and the suggestion that a famous artist like Rupnik had received favorable treatment.

Trial about to start

While Francis denied interfering in a 2023 interview with the Associated Press, he eventually caved to public pressure and waived the statute of limitations so that the Vatican could open a proper canonical trial.

Two years later, the Vatican statement on Monday indicated that the trial was about to start. The judges, appointed on Oct. 9, will use the church’s in-house canon law to determine Rupnik’s fate, though it’s still not even clear what alleged canonical crimes he is accused of committing. The Vatican statement didn’t say. He hasn’t been charged criminally.

To date, Rupnik hasn’t responded publicly to the allegations and refused to respond to his Jesuit superiors during their investigation. His supporters at his Centro Aletti art studio have denounced what they have called a media “lynching.”

Some of Rupnik’s victims have gone public to demand justice, including in a documentary “Nuns vs. The Vatican” that premiered last month at the Toronto International Film Festival. They welcomed word on Monday that the trial would finally start, attorney Laura Sgro said.

“My five clients requested 18 months ago to be recognized as injured parties in the proceedings, so we hope that their position will be established as soon as possible,” Sgro said in a statement. “They have been waiting for justice for too many years, and justice will be good not only for them but also for the church itself.”

The Catholic Church’s internal legal system doesn’t recognize victims of abuse as parties to a canonical trial but merely third-party witnesses. Victims have no right to participate in any proceedings or have access to any documentation.

At most, they are entitled to learn the judges’ verdict. Unlike a regular court, where jail time is possible, canonical penalties can include sanctions such as restrictions from celebrating Mass or even presenting oneself as a priest, if the judges determine a canonical crime has occurred.

Legal hurdles to justice

But it’s not even clear whether the Vatican considers the women to be abuse “victims” in a legal sense. While the Holy See over the last 25 years has refined the canonical rules to prosecute priests who sexually abuse minors, it has rarely prosecuted sex-related abuse cases involving women, contending that any sexual activity between adults is consensual.

The Rupnik case, though, also involves allegations of spiritual and psychological abuse in relations where there was an imbalance of power. It’s one of many such #MeToo cases in the church where women have said they fell prey to revered spiritual gurus who used their power and authority to manipulate them for sexual and other ends.

The Vatican, though, has generally refused to prosecute such cases or address this type of abuse in any canonical revisions, though Francis authorized a study group to look into allegations of “false mysticism” before he died.

Leo has expressed concern in general that accused priests receive due process. But he had firsthand experience dealing with an abusive group in Peru that targeted adults as well as minors, including through spiritual abuse and abuse of conscience.

In a letter earlier this year to a Peruvian journalist who exposed the group’s crimes, Leo called for a culture of prevention in the church “that does not tolerate any form of abuse — whether of power or authority, conscience or spiritual, or sexual.”

Winfield writes for the Associated Press.

DAVE ALLEN could become a British boxing cult hero and break into the mainstream by toppling a Russian ‘Bond villain’ who wrestles bears.

In 2017, the Doncaster lad weighed in for a heavyweight clash on a David Haye undercard with a pair of XXL socks stuffed down his pants and a huge grin across his handsome face.

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The clip went viral, especially among the gay community, getting 16 million views and earning him countless ­proposals in his social media inboxes.

In the ring, he earned total respect from hardcore boxing fans who watched through their fingers as he funded a gambling addiction with brave defeats to prime versions of ­Dillian Whyte, Luis Ortiz, Olympic gold winner Tony Yoka and David Price.

Online followers also loved Allen’s relationship with nan Betty, which he shared in touching videos and photos.

We worried about his life going off the rails again when she passed away in 2022. But in a beautiful stroke of fate, Allen fathered his first child shortly after and named her Betty.

If you are a British boxing fan of a certain age, you will have watched the White Rhino’s career rollercoaster from exploited punchbag, to shock LGBT icon, to early retirement, to doting dad and budding property tycoon.

The honesty and humour he has always shared has made us cheer and fear — in equal measure — for Allen, who speaks openly about his former fighter father being tough on him.

But following a sensational knockout rematch win over Essex fighter Johnny Fisher in May, he is now at the peak of his pulling power.

Saturday night’s homecoming headline slot in Sheffield — against terrifying 6ft 6in Arslanbek Makhmudov of Dagestan — will provide a life-changing purse.

BEST ONLINE CASINOS – TOP SITES IN THE UK

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And a victory could take him closer to his very  modest dream — for a man with his record and profile — of winning the often-overlooked British title.

He has the perfect dance partner in the grizzly-grappling knockout artist, 36, who even has a trademark tic of twisting his neck like a 007 foe.

And Allen insists he has ditched his infamous ice-cream sandwiches  to be in the best shape of his  career.

So much so that he apologised for the first photos from the underwear modelling contract he unveiled, coming complete with paunch as the snaps were taken before he committed totally to this 34th professional training camp.

Despite being a hard and witty Yorkshireman — who has done hundreds of sparring rounds with the likes of Anthony Joshua, Oleksandr Usyk and Tyson Fury — Allen has never trash-talked or bad-mouthed an opponent.

He has built a loyal and invested fanbase by being brutally open and uncensored with his back story and struggles, while being humble and self-deprecating about his recent successes.

Even after the original 2024 draw with Fisher, he begged his 26-year-old pal and sparring partner not to take the rerun and to prolong his potential and profile with a different route.

And he seemed genuinely gutted to inflict such a thorough pasting upon him when he ignored the advice.

As a man and a fighter, Allen is a throwback. As a modern boxer, though, he has harnessed social media and YouTube to become a star.

The mismatched and utterly predictable defeats were horrible to watch but — combined with Allen’s unshakably authentic personality — they have made his underdog story one we are all ­desperate to see finish with a ­gloriously happy ending.

Allen vs Makhmudov – all the info

DAVE ALLEN returns to the ring for one of the biggest tests of his career this weekend!

“Grounded,” the newly opened exhibition of relatively recent acquisitions of contemporary art at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, starts out setting a very high bar. It’s a compelling launch, even if the spotty show that unfolds in the next several rooms falls apart.

Grounded, it isn’t.

“Land Deeds,” a 1970 work by Iranian American artist Siah Armajani (1939-2020), is the opener, and it’s terrific. The piece is composed of 50 documents recording real estate purchases that the artist made in all 50 U.S. states, spending less than $100 on each. Sometimes, I’d guess, much less: Armajani only bought a single square-inch of land in each place, so the properties were cheap. Maybe that would cost a hundred bucks in Beverly Hills or Honolulu, but a square-inch of Abilene, Kan., or Whitefish, Mont., would be lucky to get a buck.

In true Conceptual art form, the notarized documents confirming the transactions are lined up on the wall in alphabetical order, from Alabama and Alaska to Wisconsin and Wyoming, in two rows of 25. Visually dry, they nonetheless quickly pull you in. These are warranty deeds, a legal document used to guarantee that a property being sold is unencumbered and the transfer of ownership from seller to buyer is legit. In good Dada and Pop art-style, the work’s title turns out to be a pun: A deed is not just a real estate certificate but an endeavor that one has undertaken.

Siah Armajani’s 1970 “Land Deeds” records his purchase of one square-inch of all 50 U.S. states.

(Christopher Knight / Los Angeles Times)

Other artistic resonances unfold. Land art was then at the cutting edge of avant-garde activity.

By 1970, sculptors Christo and Jeanne-Claude had just wrapped a million square-feet of coastal Australia in tarpaulin lashed with rope. Robert Smithson had bulldozed dirt and rocks to build a spiral jetty coiling out into Utah’s Great Salt Lake. Michael Heizer had dug a huge trench across Mormon Mesa near Overton, Nev., making a sculptural object out of empty space. Armajani’s unusual earthwork joined in: Embracing a legal, bureaucratic form, he pointed to land as a decidedly social structure.

The document display is droll but serious. It may be a layered example of up-to-the-minute Conceptual art, deeply absorbing and surprisingly suggestive, but the deeds are also lithographs, a perfectly traditional medium. They’re signed by administrative officials — one Julian Allison, warranty trustee, and notary public Brenda J. Hord — rather than being autographed by the artist. An art experience is a social transaction.

Armajani, an immigrant working as an artist in New York but not yet a U.S. citizen, was profoundly committed to democratic principles. (His citizenship would come in the wake of Iran’s 1979 Islamic Revolution, which installed a disastrous theocracy from which the Middle East still suffers.) With “Land Deeds,” he put his finger on a critical real estate context: From the get-go, full participation in American democracy had been limited to white male landowners. The explanation was that they had a vested interest in the community.

The deeper reasons, however, were profoundly anti-democratic — the noxious intransigence of patriarchy and white supremacy in Western culture, which drastically narrowed the eligible land-owning class. Women and people of color, except in limited instances, need not apply. (And suffice to say that warranty deeds for land transfers from Indigenous people were in rather short supply.) Gallingly, this autocratic check on egalitarian participation was also spiked with an element of informed equanimity: An educated populace is essential to democracy’s successful functioning, but in the 1770s, that mostly meant white male landed gentry, since they were likely to have had formal schooling.

At LACMA, Armajani’s marvelously revealing “Land Deeds” sets the stage for “Grounded.” The show was organized by LACMA curators Rita Gonzalez and Dhyandra Lawson, and deputy director Nancy Thomas. Entry wall text — there is no catalog — says it “explores how human experience is embedded in the land, presenting the work of artists who endow it with meaning.”

But, collectively, the 39 assembled contemporary paintings, sculptures, photographs, textiles and videos by 35 artists based in the Americas and areas of the Pacific underperform. Sometimes that’s because the individual work is bland, while elsewhere its pertinence to the shambling theme is stretched to the breaking point.

Familiar photographs of figures in the landscape by Ana Mendieta, left, and Laura Aguilar, center, offer background for the theme explored in “Grounded.”

(Museum Associates / LACMA)

The land theme is so loose and shaggy that, without the contemporary time frame, the show could start with prehistoric cave paintings, toss in a Chinese Song Dynasty scroll whose pictures follow a journey down the Yangzi River, add a Central African Kongo spirit sculpture filled with grave dirt and, for good measure, suitably hang a Jackson Pollock drip painting solely because it was made by spreading raw canvas flat on the ground.

Superficial bedlam, in other words.

Some work does stand out. Across from the Armajani is Patrick Martinez’s “Fallen Empire,” which takes a sly commercial real estate approach. The poignant mixed-media painting doubles as a large shop façade of crumbling, graffitied ceramic tiles with signage attached on a tarp. The name “Azteca” evokes a long-gone historical realm, here attached to a shop now falling into ruin. Martinez scatters ceramic roses across the painting, a mordant honorific to past glory and current hopes.

In the next room, Connie Samaras’ serendipitous landscape photograph unshackles whatever might be meant by being grounded. Shot from her L.A. home in the hills, what at first appears to be a strange cloud in the night sky over the twinkling city below turns out to be the vapor trail of a Minuteman missile deployed one night in 1998. A tangle of light above a black silhouette of a palm tree emits a sulfurous glow, its nauseous beauty balanced on the tip of potential annihilation.

Also among the more engaging works are two well-known photographic excursions into the landscape. Laura Aguilar’s “Grounded #111,” from a large series that likely gave the show its name, poses her corpulent nude body before a majestic boulder in the Joshua Tree desert, as if a secular saint enclosed within a sacred mandorla.

Six adjacent photographs in Ana Mendieta’s “Volcano Series no. 2” record a performance type of Land art in which a female form seems to erupt from within the Earth, spewing a volatile shower of flaming embers and smoke. Forget placid if repressive fantasies of Adam’s rib. The volcanic explosion provides a theatrically dramatic precedent for Aguilar’s contemplative composition.

Other impressive works include Mexico City-based Abraham Cruzvillegas’ exceptional sculpture, “Autoconcancion V” — the title’s made-up word translates to “auto with song” — which upends conventional L.A. car culture. An old automobile’s beat-up rear bench seat becomes the launching pad for a wooden box holding a small fan palm, held aloft on buoyant metal rods and exuding a witty mix of aplomb and high spirits.

A 70-foot video projection by Lisa Reihana reimagines a famous scenic French wallpaper.

(Christopher Knight / Los Angeles Times)

New Zealand artist Lisa Reihana, who is of Māori British ancestry, transformed a famous early 19^th century French scenic wallpaper designed by Jean-Gabriel Charvet into an equally extravagant, 70-foot-wide projection of video animation. The showily exoticized wallpaper, sold throughout Europe and in North America by celebrated manufacturer Joseph Dufour, was the culmination of Western public fascination with British Royal Navy Capt. James Cook’s three voyages to the Pacific. In a big, darkened room, Reihana redecorates.

Amid dreamy island landscapes, “in Pursuit of Venus [infected]” beautifully mixes interactive scenes of playful harmony and brute conflict between red-uniformed colonizers and colonized Polynesians. She maintains a nuanced sense of humanity’s transgressions and innocence, without demonizing or idealizing either side. Emblematic is a wickedly funny episode where a British plein-air painter at his easel bats away pesky tropical insects, invisible to a viewer’s naked eye, as he attempts to render a still life of a dead fish.

What either the Reihana video or the Cruzvillegas sculpture has to do with how human experience is embedded in the land — “grounded” — I cannot say, except in the most superficial ways. The land is certainly not a major focus of either one. The Cruzvillegas sculpture celebrates varieties of youthful play, while the Reihana animation ruminates on dimensions of cultural collision. The exhibition’s purported theme unhappily narrows perspectives on the assembled works of art, rather than opening wide their myriad readings.

Lisa Reihana, “in Pursuit of Venus [infected],” 2015, projected video animation.

(Christopher Knight / Los Angeles Times)

Essentially, “Grounded” is an old-fashioned “Recent Acquisitions” show, with most works entering LACMA’s collection in the last half-dozen years or so. (The big exception is Mendieta’s “Volcano” series, easily the show’s most famous work, purchased a quarter-century ago; it’s apparently included here as a benchmark.) Six pieces are shared with the UCLA Hammer Museum and the Museum of Contemporary Art as part of the new MAC3 (Mohn Art Collective) program, and the Aguilar is shared with the Vincent Price Art Museum at East L.A. College.

The exhibition is on view in LACMA’s Broad Contemporary Art Museum for eight months, until late June 2026. The unusually lengthy run will put recent art on par with LACMA’s historical departments, when the new Geffen Galleries building opens in April. Those rooms are also expected to thematize the museum’s diverse permanent collection of art’s global history.

But “Grounded” would have been better left without its imposed topic, which inadvertently casts much work as ugly stepsisters unsuccessfully trying to jam their feet into Cinderella’s glass slipper. Skepticism over the coming Geffen theme idea mounts.

The NFL announced the musical headliner for Super Bowl LX’s halftime show, and — much to MAGA’s chagrin — it’s not Kid Rock.

Music’s most lucrative spot went to a relevant artist who actually sells albums: Bad Bunny. Letting the Puerto Rican rapper and singer turned global megastar perform 2026’s halftime show gifts right-wing influencers with a fresh conduit for the old grievance that woke culture has permeated every crevice of American culture, especially the Super Bowl.

Their proof: The NFL chose a predominantly Spanish-language artist who is known to wear women’s dresses, who endorsed Kamala Harris in 2024, and who has decried this year’s immigration sweeps. Clearly, this decision was designed to irk them rather than serve Bad Bunny’s millions and millions of fans.

“The NFL is self-destructing year after year,” conservative commentator Benny Johnson wrote on X. He said of Bad Bunny: “Massive Trump hater. Anti-ICE activist. No songs in English.”

Other critics accused the reggaeton artist of flip-flopping, particularly following Bad Bunny’s statements earlier this month that he would not include any mainland U.S. dates on his Debí Tirar Más Fotos world tour out of concern that U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents might target and detain his fans.

“There were many reasons why I didn’t show up in the U.S., and none of them were out of hate — I’ve performed there many times,” he said to I-D magazine. “But there was the issue of — like, f—ing ICE could be outside [my concert]. And it’s something that we were talking about and very concerned about.”

The artist, whose real name is Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, explained his decision to join the long list of Super Bowl halftime notables in a short statement following the NFL’s announcement Sunday.

“What I’m feeling goes beyond myself,” he said. “It’s for those who came before me and ran countless yards so I could come in and score a touchdown … this is for my people, my culture and our history. Ve y dile a tu abuela, que seremos el HALFTIME SHOW DEL SUPER BOWL.”

Bad Bunny in glasses, not a dress.

(Jordan Strauss / Invision / AP)

The year-after-year decision to cast top-ranking pop artists and music legends in the featured Super Bowl halftime spot is hardly a mystery. They are stars that sell or performers that appeal to millions. But that dull reality hasn’t stopped the characterizations that the Bad Bunny decision is a deep state conspiracy, designed to rot American households from the inside out.

“Barack Obama’s best friend Jay-Z runs the Super Bowl selection process through his company Roc Nation which has an exclusive contract with the NFL. This is who chooses the halftime show, the most-watched musical performance in America,” wrote alt-right figure Jack Posobiec.

The NFL in 2019 partnered with rapper Jay Z’s entertainment and sports company, Roc Nation, to produce its Super Bowl halftime shows. The first show under the new partnership featured 2020’s Latin music in performances by Jennifer Lopez and Shakira. Since then the institution’s halftime performances have largely featured hip-hop artists such as Kendrick Lamar, Rihanna and the OG trio of Snoop Dogg, Dr. Dre and Eminem.

Lamar’s 2025 politically charged performance was the source of condemnation from the right. Clad in red, white and blue, his predominantly Black dance crew assembled in an American flag formation. And guest star Samuel L. Jackson, dressed as Uncle Sam, called out the nation’s systemic racism. Lamar had already rankled the right with 2017’s “The Heart Part 4,” where he referred to Trump as a “chump.”

Kendrick Lamar performs during halftime of the NFL Super Bowl 59.

(Frank Franklin II / AP)

It’s one of many moments over the last decade that have galvanized conservative factions around calls to boycott the Super Bowl, or at least publicly bash the event. Beyoncé’s 2016 Super Bowl halftime show was once such flash point, where she performed “Formation” featuring dancers in Black Panther-inspired outfits and paid tribute to the Black Lives Matter movement.

At least those complaints were rooted in a performance that actually happened, as opposed to claims that the NFL was manipulating games for the Kansas City Chiefs to enable tight end Travis Kelce and his then-girlfriend (now fiancée) Taylor Swift to endorse Joe Biden. Sure, totally feasible.

Yet there should be no secret around why the Super Bowl hasn’t featured wildly popular, globally celebrated MAGA-promoting performers: There aren’t any. It’s no wonder Kid Rock and Lee Greenwood always seem to be the entertainment of choice for Trump rallies.

Bad Bunny is the most-streamed male artist on Spotify, running just behind the platform’s most-streamed artist of all time, Swift. As of Sunday, his release “DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS” became the first album of 2025 to surpass 7 billion streams on Spotify. And the 31-year-old artist just finished a sold-out, month-long residency at the José Miguel Agrelot Coliseum in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

Though the Super Bowl is still five months away, those who aren’t among the haters can enjoy an early kick off: Bad Bunny is scheduled to host the new season opener of “SNL” this weekend.

Before Disney announced Monday that Jimmy Kimmel would be returning to ABC, the dialogue about the indefinite pause on his late-night show had continued to heat up.

Protesters packed the Hollywood block where Kimmel’s show is taped and sounded off both online and in public displays since the announcement of the suspension last week, and a horde of actors, writers, musicians and artists made their opinions on the matter clear.

Tom Hanks, Jane Fonda, Meryl Streep, Robert De Niro, Kerry Washington, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Pedro Pascal, Maya Rudolph and more than 400 other artists signed an open letter organized by the American Civil Liberties Union calling for the defense of free speech in the wake of Kimmel’s benching.

The letter, which was published Monday, says Kimmel’s suspension marks “a dark moment for freedom of speech in our nation” and said that the government’s “attempt to silence its critics” runs “counter to the values our nation was built upon, and our Constitution guarantees.”

“Regardless of our political affiliation, or whether we engage in politics or not, we all love our country,” the letter continues. “We also share the belief that our voices should never be silenced by those in power — because if it happens to one of us, it happens to all of us.”

The letter came together over the weekend, according to Jessica Weitz, director of artist and entertainment engagement at the ACLU. The list of names continued to grow after the letter was published, she said.

“Behind those signatures are teams of people who made their own calls to their networks to ask people to join, feeling strongly that this attack on free expression must be called out,” Weitz said in a statement to The Times. “When speech is being targeted with so much precision, it takes courage from every single person to speak out — and the creative community is meeting the urgency of this moment.”

Kimmel’s late-night program, which airs weeknights on ABC, has been dark since Wednesday, when the Disney-owned network announced it will be “preempted indefinitely.” The decision came after two major owners of ABC affiliates said they were dropping the show because of Kimmel’s remarks about the suspect in the shooting death of conservative activist Charlie Kirk.

Late-night hosts were quick to respond to the news, with Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Seth Meyers and Jimmy Fallon each commenting on Kimmel’s situation in their Thursday episodes.

Over the weekend, HBO talk shows “Real Time With Bill Maher” and “Last Week Tonight With John Oliver,” weighed in on the controversy, beginning with Maher, who focused on Kimmel in his monologue Friday. Maher referred to “Politically Incorrect,” his late-night show that was canceled by ABC in 2002 after advertisers pulled out following a comment by the host about the Sept. 11 hijackers, saying they were “not cowardly.” Kimmel’s show replaced Maher’s slot.

“I got canceled before cancel even had a culture,” Maher said. “This s— ain’t new. It’s worse. We’ll get to that. But you know, ABC, they are steady. ABC stands for ‘Always be caving.’ So Jimmy, pal, I am with you. I support you. And on the bright side, you don’t have to pretend anymore that you like Disneyland.”

Maher, who is a self-described “old-school liberal” and has been critical of the Democratic Party in recent years, said he disagreed with Kimmel’s comments about Kirk’s suspected killer but believed he shouldn’t lose his job over them.

“You have the right to be wrong or to have any opinion you want, he said. “That’s what the 1st Amendment is all about.”

“Last Week Tonight” host John Oliver zeroed in on Kimmel’s suspension and the Federal Communications Commission during his Sunday night episode. He blasted FCC Chairman Brendan Carr, directly addressed Disney Chief Executive Bob Iger and dove into the implications of the suspension in a nearly 30-minute-long segment.

“Kimmel is by no means the first casualty in Trump’s attacks on free speech. He’s just the latest canary in the coal mine — a mine that, at this point, now seems more dead canary than coal,” Oliver said. “This Kimmel situation does feel like a turning point, and not because comedians are important, but because we are not. If the government can force a network to pull a late-night show off the air and do so in plain view, it can do a f— of a lot worse.”

In addressing Disney head Iger, Oliver urged him to understand that “giving the bully your lunch money doesn’t make him go away. It just makes him come back hungrier each time.”

Oliver said his show is “lucky” to be in a different situation than Kimmel’s because neither HBO or its parent company, Warner Bros. Discovery, owns broadcast networks, meaning they are “much less susceptible to pressure from the FCC.” He then cut to a news segment about how Paramount Skydance, the parent company of CBS, is preparing a bid to buy Warner Bros. Discovery, which Oliver followed up with repeated expletives.

The women who host ABC’s “The View,” which is known for not shying away from hot-button topics, had been silent on the issue last week, but addressed Kimmel’s suspension Monday.

“Did y’all really think we weren’t going to talk about Jimmy Kimmel?” host Whoopi Goldberg said. “I mean, have you watched the show over the last 29 seasons? No one silences us.”

FCC head Carr has indicated that “The View” might be the next subject of a future investigation.

The panel, including Ana Navarro and Alyssa Farah Griffin, also weighed in before Goldberg said, “We fight for everybody’s right to have freedom of speech because it means my speech is free, it means your speech is free.”

In 2022, the iconic L.A. comedian Cheech Marin opened an art museum with the hope of inspiring a Chicano art renaissance.

“I looked around and said, ‘This could be the next big art town’ — because the foundations were already there,” Marin told De Los. “There was this kind of nebulous underground here, but [they’ll] reach officialdom when they have their museum.”

Now, as the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art and Culture enters its fourth year, Marin said he believes his goal is slowly coming true.

Known colloquially as the Cheech, the museum is widely considered the only space in the nation that exclusively showcases Chicano art. It’s located in Riverside, a majority-Latino city which is also within one of the largest Latino-populated counties in the country.

Since its grand opening on June 17, 2022, the center has housed hundreds of artworks from Marin’s vast private collection, including from prominent artists such as Wayne Alaniz Healy, Judithe Hernández and Frank Romero.

In its first two years, the space attracted over 200,000 visitors, according to an independent study commissioned by the city, with around 90% of attendees coming from outside the Inland Empire. The study also found that the Cheech brought around $29 million into the city’s local economy in that time frame.

“We were recognized as one of the top 50 shows in the world,” Marin said. “The fame of the museum is spreading far and wide, and people are coming from all over the United States.”

While the Cheech grew in nationwide prominence, its artistic director, María Esther Fernández, explained that the museum’s team also worked to fulfill Marin’s goal by taking advantage of its rapid success.

In the last three years, the center has become a hub and vital resource for many of the region’s Chicano artists. It has done this by creating opportunities to network with high-profile individuals, hosting recurring professional development workshops and regularly contracting emerging creatives for different design projects.

Drew Oberjuerge, the center’s former executive director, added that the museum has invested in the region’s economy by hiring locals to help prepare artwork for installation while also paying musicians and other contractors to work throughout their events.

Cheech Marin photographed in the Riverside Art Museum for the unveiling of the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art & Culture (a.k.a. “The Cheech”) in 2022.

(Gustavo Soriano / For The Times)

Most important for these artists, however, is the space that the Cheech has designated to put their art front and center.

“What we’ve been really lucky to leverage is the visibility of the Cheech,” Fernández said. “We’ve been really dedicated, since we opened, to featuring artists that are emerging or some that are even mid-career in the community gallery.”

Some of the creatives, who have collaborated with the Cheech within the community gallery since it first opened, say the center’s efforts have legitimized their career paths and created new opportunities to help pursue their dreams.

The gallery is located next to the museum’s entrance and is only a fraction of the space given to the other exhibits within the 61,420-square-foot museum — and it feels like being in a waiting room in comparison to the rest of the center too. Yet, on only four small walls, the artists featured in the area have put on powerful exhibitions that tell the region’s story while also making art on par with Marin’s collection.

This includes shows like “Desde los Cielos,” which was co-curated by Perry Picasshoe and Emmanuel Camacho Larios, and looked into the concept of alienness — as well as Cosme Córdova’s “Reflections of Our Stories,” which emphasized a cultural connection between Inland Empire artists, despite the use of vastly different mediums.

Perry Picasshoe stands outside the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art & Culture as part of a performance piece in Riverside on July 3, 2025.

(Daniel Hernandez)

In total, the Cheech has held at least seven different exhibitions that showcased artists from across the Inland Empire — at times, catching Marin’s connoisseur eyes.

“I bought a couple of pieces from different artists because they are of that quality,” Marin said. “It’s great to be encouraging local talent as well as recognizing a larger picture that they are a part of, or going to become a part of [the Cheech].”

According to the Cheech’s spokesperson, Marin has purchased three works from Inland Empire-based artist Denise Silva after they curated an exhibition named “Indigenous Futurism” within the gallery. Another piece, created by artist Rosy Cortez, who has been featured in several exhibitions, was purchased by an anonymous donor and added to the center’s permanent collection.

“We’ve also begun to implement an artist fee for artists who are participating in the exhibitions,” Fernández said, adding that her team has assisted in the transportation of larger works of art as well. “Participating in exhibitions can be cost-prohibitive for artists, and so it’s something we’re trying to mitigate in our practices.”

Their most recent exhibition within the community gallery, called “Hecho en Park Avenue,” has been one of their most successful showings, with over 1,300 community members attending its opening earlier this year.

The exhibition’s co-curator, Juan Navarro, explained that the show culminated years of work within Riverside’s Eastside neighborhood. He, along with other Chicano artists, has been creating art within the Latino-dominant community since 2021.

Then, when the Cheech asked them to curate a show, Navarro felt it was the perfect chance to tell the stories of the Eastside’s locals. The response to the final product was more than Navarro could have ever imagined.

“The community showed out: from intellectuals from UC Riverside, from local government, to state government showed up, to the gang members,” Navarro said. He also noted the emotional weight of being recognized for his art, while surrounded by the work of Chicano artists who waited decades for their own to be recognized.

“Seeing this big, broad community and seeing that our show met the need for a diverse audience… It was meaningful to a lot of people, that’s what I cared about.”

The show’s other co-curator, Michelle Espino, also expressed gratitude for the chance to tell the Eastside’s story at the Cheech. Besides being one of its featured artists, Espino worked on many of the behind-the-scenes aspects of the “Hecho en Park Avenue” exhibition.

It was also a full-circle moment for her; years prior, Espino had written about Fernández’s work for a Chicano art history class. This year, she met with Fernández to ask for advice and to finalize plans for the exhibit.

“It [validated] that I do want to continue with this,” Espino said. “She is literally the person I look up to.”

On top of Espino’s one-on-one meetings with the artistic director, she has also enrolled in a few professional development workshops hosted by the center, most recently taking a class that taught both the art of portraiture and poetry. The Cheech regularly partners with a nonprofit organization named the Riverside Arts Council to host professional development classes.

“If we had these resources when I was younger, my trajectory could have probably been a little bit different,” Espino said.

Marin, in his lifelong quest to collect works for his private collection, has seen how Chicano artists have grown their communities in their respective cities. It starts with painters sharing their works with each other through smaller shows, he said, which builds excitement and increases participation. He likened it to a biological process, where each generation builds upon the growth of the previous iteration.

That process is starting in the Inland Empire now, he added.

“We are a part of this big American picture,” Marin said. “And there’s nothing more official that you can do besides having your own museum.”

Hernandez is a freelance writer based in Riverside. This article is part of a De Los initiative to expand coverage of the Inland Empire with funding from the Cultivating Inland Empire Latino Opportunity (CIELO) Fund at the Inland Empire Community Foundation.

When a door slammed shut in the childhood home of Andry Hernández Romero, he wasn’t just startled. He winced, recoiling from the noise.

Nearly a month had passed since Hernández Romero, a 32-year-old makeup artist, and 251 other Venezuelans were released from a notorious Salvadoran mega-prison.

In a Zoom interview in August from Venezuela, Hernández Romero listed the ways in which the trauma of the ordeal still manifests itself.

“When doors are slammed — did you notice [my reaction] when the door made noise just now?” he said. “I can’t stand keys. Being touched when I’m asleep. If I see an officer with cuffs in their hand, I get scared and nervous.”

Trump administration officials accused the Venezuelan men of being members of the transnational gang Tren de Aragua and a national security threat, though many, including Hernández Romero, had no criminal histories in the U.S. or Venezuela.

While he was confined, with no access to his attorneys or the news, Hernández Romero had no idea he had become a poster child for the movement to free the prisoners.

“Before I was Andry the makeup artist, Andry the stylist, Andry the designer,” he said. “I was somewhat recognized, but not as directly. Right now, if you type my name into Google, TikTok, YouTube — any platform — my entire life shows up.”

Days after he was sent to El Salvador on March 15, CBS News published a leaked deportation manifest with his name on it. His lawyer Lindsay Toczylowski, who co-founded the Los Angeles-based Immigrant Defenders Law Center, denounced his removal on “The Rachel Maddow Show” and a “60 Minutes” expose.

In the “60 Minutes” episode, Time photojournalist Philip Holsinger recounted hearing a man at the prison cry for his mother, saying, “I’m not a gang member. I’m gay. I’m a stylist,” while prison guards slapped him and shaved his head.

Outrage grew. On social media, users declared him disappeared, asking, “Is Andry Hernández Romero alive?”

Activists made signs and banners demanding the federal government “FREE ANDRY.” During Pride Month, the Human Rights Campaign held a rally about him in Washington, D.C. The New Queens Pride Parade in New York named him honorary grand marshal.

Congressional Democrats traveled to El Salvador to push for information about the detainees and came back empty-handed.

“Let’s get real for a moment,” Rep. Ritchie Torres (D-N.Y.) said in an April 9 video on X. The video cut to a glamour shot of Hernández Romero peering from behind three smoldering makeup brushes.

“When was the last time you saw a gay makeup artist in a transnational gang?” Torres said.

Hernández Romero walks through a market in his hometown of Capacho Nuevo.

Hernández Romero shows the crown tattoos that U.S. authorities claimed linked him to the Tren de Aragua gang.

Hernández Romero fled Venezuela after facing persecution for his sexuality and political views, according to his lawyers.

He entered the U.S. legally at the San Ysidro Port of Entry on Aug. 29, 2024, after obtaining an appointment through CBP One, the asylum application process used in the Biden administration. The elation of getting through lasted just a few minutes, he said.

Hernández Romero spent six months at the Otay Mesa Detention Center. He had passed a “credible fear” interview — the first step in the asylum process — but immigration officials had lasered in on two of his nine tattoos: a crown on each wrist with “Mom” and “Dad” in English.

Immigrant detainees are given blue, orange or red uniforms, depending on their classification level. A guard once explained that detainees wearing orange, like him, could be criminals. Hernández Romero said he replied, “Is being a gay a crime? Or is doing makeup a crime?”

When his deportation flight landed in El Salvador, he saw tanks and officials dressed in all black, carrying big guns.

A Salvadoran man got off first — Kilmar Abrego García, whose case became a focus of controversy after federal officials acknowledged he had been wrongly deported.

Eight Venezuelan women got off next, but Salvadoran officials rejected them and they were led back onto the plane. Hernández Romero said the remaining Venezuelans felt relieved, thinking they too would be rejected.

Instead, they ended up in prison.

Hernández Romero does the makeup for Gabriela Mora, the fiancee of his fellow prisoner Carlos Uzcátegui, hours before their civil wedding in the town of Lobatera.

“I saw myself hit, I saw myself carried by two officials with my head toward the ground, receiving blows and kicks,” Hernández Romero said. “After that reality kind of strikes me: I was in a cell in El Salvador, in a maximum-security prison with nine other people and asking myself, ‘What am I doing here?’”

As a stylist, he said, having his hair shaved off was particularly devastating. Even worse were the accompanying blows and homophobic insults.

He remembers the photographer snapping shots of him and feeling the sting of his privacy being violated. Now, he understands their significance: “It’s thanks to those photos that we are now back in our homes.”

At the prison, guards taunted them, Hernández Romero said, telling them, “You all are going to die here.”

Hernández Romero befriended Carlos Uzcátegui, 32, who was held in the cell across the hall. Prisoners weren’t allowed to talk with people outside their cells, but the pair quietly got to know each other whenever the guards were distracted.

Uzcátegui said he was also detained for having a crown tattoo and for another depicting three stars, one for each of his younger sisters.

A prisoner is moved by a guard at the Terrorist Confinement Center, a high-security prison in Tecoluca, El Salvador, on March 26. (Alex Brandon, Pool/AFP via Getty Images)

As prisoners looks on, U.S. Secretary of Homeland Security Kristi Noem speaks during a tour of the Terrorist Confinement Center on March 26. (Alex Brandon, Pool/AFP via Getty Images)

Hernández Romero said he noticed that some of the guards would stare at him when he showered. He told reporters that guards took him to a small, windowless room known as “La Isla,” or “The Island,” after noticing him bathing with a bucket outside of designated hours. There, he said, he was beaten by three guards wearing masks and forced to perform oral sex on one of them, according to NPR and other outlets.

Hernández Romero no longer wishes to talk about the details of the alleged abuse. His lawyers are looking into available legal options.

“Perhaps those people will escape earthly justice, the justice of man, but when it comes to the justice of our Father God, no one escapes,” he said. “Life is a restaurant — no one leaves without paying.”

Uzcátegui said guards once pulled out his toenails and denied him medication despite a high fever. He had already showered, but as his fever worsened he took a second shower, which wasn’t allowed.

He said guards pushed him down, kicked him repeatedly in the stomach, then left him in “La Isla” for three days.

In July, rumors began circulating in the prison that the Venezuelans might be released, but the detainees didn’t believe the talk until the pastor who gave their daily sermon appeared uncharacteristically emotional. He told them: “The miracle is done. Tomorrow is a new day for you all.”

Uzcátegui remained unconvinced. That night, he couldn’t sleep because of the noise of people moving around the prison. He said usually that meant that guards would enter their cell block early in the morning to beat them.

Hernández Romero noticed his friend was restless. “We’re leaving today,” he said.

“I don’t believe it,” Uzcátegui replied. “It’s always the same.”

Hernández Romero knew they had spent 125 days imprisoned because when any detainee went for a medical consult, they would unobtrusively note the calendar in the room and report back to the group. The detainees would then mark the day on their metal bed frames using soap.

On July 18, buses arrived at the prison at 3 a.m. to take the Venezuelans to the airport. Officials called out Hernández Romero and Arturo Suárez-Trejo, a singer whose case had also drawn public attention, for individual photos. Hernández Romero said they were puzzled but obliged.

Migrants deported by the United States to El Salvador under the Trump administration’s immigration crackdown arrive at Simon Bolívar International Airport in Maiquetia, Venezuela, on July 18.

(Ariana Cubillos / Associated Press)

When their flight touched down, an official told them: “Welcome to Venezuela.” Walking down the plane steps, Hernández Romero felt the Caribbean breeze on his face and thanked God.

A few days later, he was back in his hometown, Capacho Nuevo, hugging his parents and brother in the center of a swarm of journalists and supporters chanting his name.

“I left home with a suitcase full of dreams, with dreams of helping my people, of helping my family, but unfortunately, that suitcase of dreams turned into a suitcase of nightmares,” he told reporters there.

Hernández Romero said he wants to see his name cleared. For him, justice would mean “that the people who kidnapped us and unfairly blamed us should pay.”

President Trump had invoked an 18th century wartime law to quickly remove many of the Venezuelans to El Salvador in March. In a 2-1 decision on Sept. 2, a panel of judges from the U.S. 5th Circuit Court of Appeals found that the administration acted unlawfully, saying there has been “no invasion or predatory incursion.”

Trump administration officials have told a federal judge that they would facilitate the return of Venezuelans to the U.S. if they wish to continue the asylum proceedings that were dismissed after they were sent to El Salvador. If there’s another chance to fulfill his dreams, Hernández Romero said he’s “not closed off to anything.”

Uzcátegui sees it differently. After everything he went through, he said, he probably would not go back.

Now he suffers from nightmares that it’s happening again. “Despite everything, you end up feeling like it’s not true that we’re out of there,” he said. “You wake up thinking you’re still there.”

Carlos Uzcátegui exchanges vows with Gabriela Mora during their wedding in August as Hernández Romero, right, in cap, looks on.

As he restarts his career, Hernández Romero is redeveloping a client list as a makeup artist. Last month, he worked a particularly special wedding: Uzcátegui’s. He did makeup for his friend’s bride, Gabriela Mora.

“He lived the same things I did in there,” Uzcátegui said. “It was like knowing that we are finally free — that despite all the things we talked about that we never thought would happen, that friendship remains. We’re like family.”

Chatbot builder Anthropic agreed to pay $1.5 billion to authors in a landmark copyright settlement that could redefine how artificial intelligence companies compensate creators.

The San Francisco-based startup is ready to pay authors and publishers to settle a lawsuit that accused the company of illegally using their work to train its chatbot.

Anthropic developed an AI assistant named Claude that can generate text, images, code and more. Writers, artists and other creative professionals have raised concerns that Anthropic and other tech companies are using their work to train their AI systems without their permission and not fairly compensating them.

As part of the settlement, which the judge still needs to be approve, Anthropic agreed to pay authors $3,000 per work for an estimated 500,000 books. It’s the largest settlement known for a copyright case, signaling to other tech companies facing copyright infringement allegations that they might have to pay rights holders eventually as well.

Meta and OpenAI, the maker of ChatGPT, have also been sued over alleged copyright infringement. Walt Disney Co. and Universal Pictures have sued AI company Midjourney, which the studios allege trained its image generation models on their copyrighted materials.

“It will provide meaningful compensation for each class work and sets a precedent requiring AI companies to pay copyright owners,” said Justin Nelson, a lawyer for the authors, in a statement. “This settlement sends a powerful message to AI companies and creators alike that taking copyrighted works from these pirate websites is wrong.”

Last year, authors Andrea Bartz, Charles Graeber and Kirk Wallace Johnson sued Anthropic, alleging that the company committed “large-scale theft” and trained its chatbot on pirated copies of copyrighted books.

U.S. District Judge William Alsup of San Francisco ruled in June that Anthropic’s use of the books to train the AI models constituted “fair use,” so it wasn’t illegal. But the judge also ruled that the startup had improperly downloaded millions of books through online libraries.

Fair use is a legal doctrine in U.S. copyright law that allows for the limited use of copyrighted materials without permission in certain cases, such as teaching, criticism and news reporting. AI companies have pointed to that doctrine as a defense when sued over alleged copyright violations.

Anthropic, founded by former OpenAI employees and backed by Amazon, pirated at least 7 million books from Books3, Library Genesis and Pirate Library Mirror, online libraries containing unauthorized copies of copyrighted books, to train its software, according to the judge.

It also bought millions of print copies in bulk and stripped the books’ bindings, cut their pages and scanned them into digital and machine-readable forms, which Alsup found to be in the bounds of fair use, according to the judge’s ruling.

In a subsequent order, Alsup pointed to potential damages for the copyright owners of books downloaded from the shadow libraries LibGen and PiLiMi by Anthropic.

Although the award was massive and unprecedented, it could have been much worse, according to some calculations. If Anthropic were charged a maximum penalty for each of the millions of works it used to train its AI, the bill could have been more than $1 trillion, some calculations suggest.

Anthropic disagreed with the ruling and didn’t admit wrongdoing.

“Today’s settlement, if approved, will resolve the plaintiffs’ remaining legacy claims,” said Aparna Sridhar, deputy general counsel for Anthropic, in a statement. “We remain committed to developing safe AI systems that help people and organizations extend their capabilities, advance scientific discovery, and solve complex problems.”

The Anthropic dispute with authors is one of many cases where artists and other content creators are challenging the companies behind generative AI to compensate for the use of online content to train their AI systems.

Training involves feeding enormous quantities of data — including social media posts, photos, music, computer code, video and more — to train AI bots to discern patterns of language, images, sound and conversation that they can mimic.

Some tech companies have prevailed in copyright lawsuits filed against them.

In June, a judge dismissed a lawsuit authors filed against Facebook parent company Meta, which also developed an AI assistant, alleging that the company stole their work to train its AI systems. U.S. District Judge Vince Chhabria noted that the lawsuit was tossed because the plaintiffs “made the wrong arguments,” but the ruling didn’t “stand for the proposition that Meta’s use of copyrighted materials to train its language models is lawful.”

Trade groups representing publishers praised the Anthropic settlement on Friday, noting it sends a big signal to tech companies that are developing powerful artificial intelligence tools.

“Beyond the monetary terms, the proposed settlement provides enormous value in sending the message that Artificial Intelligence companies cannot unlawfully acquire content from shadow libraries or other pirate sources as the building blocks for their models,” said Maria Pallante, president and chief executive of the Association of American Publishers in a statement.

The Associated Press contributed to this report.