audience

The minuscule yet distinctly humanoid figure of a fairy flaps its wings as it flies into the ancient ruins of a bygone kingdom. Guiding a young heroine to meet a mysterious faun, for a moment, the fantastical creature looks as though it might cross the threshold of the screen.

It is in that instant that Guillermo del Toro — wearing 3D glasses while sitting at the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures’ imposing David Geffen Theater for a tech check — chuckles with pride as if to say, “Look at that.” Later that night, almost 1,000 fans were transported into his entrancing 2006 masterwork, “Pan’s Labyrinth,” (a.k.a. “El Laberinto del Fauno”) at the premiere of the new 3D version.

Back in theaters across the country on Friday (which is also Del Toro’s 62nd birthday), “Pan’s Labyrinth” is celebrating its 20th anniversary with a new 4K restoration, available in both 2D and in the aforementioned 3D transfer that Del Toro himself oversaw.

Doug Jones, left, plays the faun that beckons to Ofelia, right, played by Ivana Baquero in “Pan’s Labyrinth.”

(Scott A. Garfitt / Andreea Alexandru / Invision / AP)

As brutal as it is spellbinding, the Mexican filmmaker’s modern classic unfolds during the Spanish Civil War — more precisely, in 1944 — as young Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) and her pregnant mother move into the camp run by the ruthless Capt. Vidal (Sergi López).

Amid the bloodshed, Ofelia discovers an underworld of magical entities, including the alluring faun (Doug Jones), who convinces her that she is a princess who must reclaim her royal status.

By winning three Academy Awards and being nominated for two more — one for Del Toro’s screenplay, the other for foreign language film, representing Mexico — “Pan’s Labyrinth” signified an artistic watershed moment in Del Toro’s career. These accolades came after he directed two comic-book adaptations for Hollywood studios: “Blade II” and “Hellboy.”

Beyond the recognition, the experience felt spiritually transformative for the Guadalajara native; not the least because of the hurdles he overcame to bring it to fruition.

“‘Pan’s’ marks a big divide in what I did before and what I did after. I became invested in a different way in filmmaking,” Del Toro tells me. “I don’t know how to describe it, but filmmaking became a religion, as opposed to something that I could do. It fused with me.”

Though the film is now regarded as one of the greatest works of the 21st century, when Del Toro set out to make it, the industry was not receptive to his ideas.

“Everything I thought I wanted to say about war in ‘Devil’s Backbone’ seemed obsolete, because we had gone through 9/11 and the world had changed,” Del Toro recalls. “I didn’t want to do an American movie. I was being offered a lot of comic- book movies and said, ‘I got to do a companion piece for “Devil’s Backbone” no matter what.’ But nobody wanted to do the movie.”

One key objection was the mature tone of the narrative, in which the child protagonist is directly confronted and endangered by the evils derived from fascist ideologies.

“They said, ‘If it’s a fairy tale then it should be a family movie,’ because I’d been offered ‘Narnia’ a year before by [former Walden Media chief executive] Cary Granat,” Del Toro tells me.

“He said, ‘Why don’t you do ‘Narnia’?’ And I said, ‘Because I want to do my own version of a fairy tale where the lion doesn’t resurrect and it’s about a pitiless world against a boundless imagination.’”

Del Toro’s interest in stories where the woes of children are taken seriously was spurred by ‘Los Olvidados,’ Luis Buñuel’s classic from 1950, about a group of neglected children surviving a harsh reality in the streets of Mexico City.

“When I saw ‘Los Olvidados,’ I was in my early teens,” says Del Toro. “I thought every time somebody told a story about a child that was unsentimental and that was a little brutal — it could be ‘The Spirit of the Beehive’ or ‘Los Olvidados’ or ‘The Red Balloon’ or even Bobby Driscoll in ‘The Window’ — whenever you saw a child in real danger, a child in jeopardy, a child in moral dilemma, like ‘The Fallen Idol,’ I really was transported.”

Children, Del Toro believes, are often invisible to adults. They are “cartoons” in the eyes of “regular adults.” Thus, when his mother started reading child psychology books to better understand a young Del Toro, he read them as well, so that he could try to manipulate her.

Del Toro laughs mischievously as he remembers his antics. “I would do exactly what the book said, and I realized I could work within that preconception and make my grandma buy me horror comic books or make my mom allow me to miss school,” Del Tor recalls. “Ofelia is very strong. That was the point of the movie for me. I wanted to see the clash of wills between a young kid and a fascist captain, and I wanted to see the kid win.”

(Teresa Isasi / Picturehouse)

Del Toro’s mother, Guadalupe, died in 2022. But she lives on in cinema, thanks to the 1985 landmark queer Mexican film “Doña Herlinda and Her Son,” by director Jaime Humberto Hermosillo, where she played the titular Doña Herlinda.

And if you look closely, you’ll also find Del Toro in the movie, which was filmed in Guadalajara.

“I have a cameo with my ex-wife in it. Lorenza. She’s the receptionist and I appear dancing in Chapala, but I’m super thin, so you can never recognize me,” he says. “I’m dancing with a girl that I liked, but I was already in the throes of dating the one who became my wife, Lorenza.”

Then there was the question of the picture’s language. Del Toro wouldn’t waver on making “Pan’s Labyrinth” in Spanish.

“Many of them said, ‘We’ll do it if you do it in English — set in Spain, same ending, the girl dies, no problem, but in English.’ And I said, ‘I can’t. It’s not true to the movie.’ I’m not saying you can never do that, but it’s always this ‘Zorro’ thing like, ‘Are you in a hurry, señor?’ or ‘Come to the hacienda,’” he says, doing a funny, exaggerated accent on the Spanish words.

“If you’re trying to contrast reality versus fantasy, the reality has to be in its language, in its location,” Del Toro adds, emphasizing his resolve to make the movie in his native tongue. “I thought, ‘This is about the reality clashing with the fantasy. I have to make the reality stylized, but I don’t want to do it in English, because then everything is a construct. Everything is just an idea.’”

In 2026, the film’s bilingual appeal is a major component of the marketing strategy that Cineverse — the entertainment company that Del Toro approached to handle the restoration and rerelease of “Pan’s Labyrinth” — is implementing to reach audiences across the country.

“A lot of our messages are in English and in Spanish. The messaging around the making of the 3D — Guillermo likes to say ‘F— AI,’ but we positioned it as ‘Made for humans, for humans. Hecho por humanos, para humanos,’” says Yolanda Macias, chief motion pictures officer at Cineverse. “That’s a really strong message that has resonated with our fans.”

A Mexican American woman whose parents emigrated from Jalisco, Macias sees “Pan’s Labyrinth” as a timeless movie that’s as relevant today as it was two decades ago.

“We are not ignoring a very important segment of the audience, which is the Latino population who have always, in my experience, shown an interest in creators from Mexico or from Latin America,” Macias says. “And we are so proud of Guillermo for being that person for this audience.”

When first envisioning “Pan’s Labyrinth,” Del Toro found himself grappling with existential concerns related to the meaning and relevance of what each person leaves behind when they are gone. Can anything we mortals create stand the test of time? Does it matter?

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

“One of the things I was going through was I thought, ‘Is making movies worth it? You give them years and years and years, and then they just move down the current into the oblivion of the culture,’” Del Toro says. “A central theme in the film is, ‘Can we give our lives to something that doesn’t change the world?’ That’s why the movie ends with a little flower blooming in a dried tree. That’s all that is left of her story in the real world.”

His films will one day too become flowers left not only as proof of his time on earth, but perhaps as messages for those to come who have the sensibility to appreciate them.

“You can say, ‘Ofelia lived in the other kingdom,’ but in the real world, there’s only one tiny flower. And that’s why it says, ‘For those that know where to look.’ Because that’s what we do as filmmakers. When you ‘discover’ a filmmaker, you say, ‘I discovered this guy Fellini.’ Well, he’s been there for a while, but sure. Or you discover Miyazaki or Mamoru Oshii … They’re continents, but they are only in maps that are very secret. I like that image.”

So long as they are found, Del Toro doesn’t worry that much about how people encounter them.

“[Films] live on to a certain degree. Like when we were shooting ‘Frankenstein,’ I said, ‘We will live forever in the Netflix queue,’” he recalls, trying not to laugh. “Theatrical is the best. There’s no comparison. But I remember my childhood, I saw all the Universal monster movies on TV, and they were monumentally important for me. There’s something to be said about accessibility that is also important.”

I agree with him — and mention that some of the most revelatory movie-watching experiences for me as a young cinephile happened thanks to bootleg DVDs, which I would buy as a teen in Mexico City.

“I love the pirate DVDs in Mexico,” says Del Toro with a laugh. “I’ll tell you a little story: We went to promote ‘Hellboy’ in Mexico City, and we were having coffee. A guy came in and said, ‘You want to buy movies?’ And he had ‘Hellboy’ already, opening week … and it didn’t have a cover either!”

Another distinction that “Pan’s Labyrinth” holds is that it was the last film in Spanish that Del Toro directed. But that could change, he says; he still has another project he’d like to make in Mexico.

“I actually have an idea that I would love to shoot, but I want to make it a drama. I don’t want to make it a fantasy movie,” he explains. “I have a great story that I want to shoot one day. It’s a kidnapping scene from three points of view. The victim, the people doing the pickup, and another component that I will not reveal.” (Del Toro’s late father, Federico, was famously kidnapped in Guadalajara in the late 1990s.)

The thought of Del Toro making another Mexican film in the future, reminded me that the original screenplay for his period ghost story, “The Devil’s Backbone,” was set in Mexico, but a lack of funding forced him to shift the production to Spain, with the help of Pedro Almodóvar’s company El Deseo.

“It was about a traveling circus during the [Mexican] revolution with a mother, a father and a boy. It was full of jarred fetuses. The boy was a clown, and the father was a magician. I was trying to do Bergman’s ‘Hour of the Wolf’ or ‘The Magician’ — modest but creepy,” he explains. “But it was very different. I had the orphanage, I had the legend of the fetuses and a ghost; and I had the devil live in the monastery.”

In any language, Del Toro is a fierce advocate against the use of generative AI in artistic creation. He believes that anything touched by humans has a better chance to endure. The love audiences still hold for “Pan’s Labyrinth” is a testament to this sentiment.

“[Pan’s Labyrinth”] is very truthful to who I was. And whenever you are able to be truthful, people feel that it matters to you,” Del Toro says. “And when you think it matters to someone, you cherish it.”

Tom Cruise is one of the bankable stars in Hollywood. But his pull may not be enough to lift his upcoming film “Digger” from a likely hard fall at the box office this weekend.

That would be unwelcome news for Warner Bros., whose movies have largely struggled to connect with audiences this year, in contrast to 2025, when the studio ran up a string of hits such as “Sinners” and “Weapons.”

All of this comes as the studio braces for an uncertain future with Paramount Skydance’s $111-billion acquisition of Warner Bros. Discovery set to close on Tuesday.

“No single film is going to capsize the boat,” said Stephen Galloway, dean of the Dodge College of Film and Media Arts at Chapman University. “However, it’s coming at a precarious time because it follows a series of less-than-successful releases at the very moment when the Warner Bros.- Paramount deal has been greenlit, and everybody — no matter how high up — is terrified for his or her job.”

Matching the success of the 2025 film slate was always going to be a tall order, particularly when so many of Warner Bros.’ movies that year overperformed.

So far this year, the studio’s domestic box office haul is $437.7 million, representing about 5.6% of the total theatrical revenue in the U.S. and Canada, according to Rentrak data.

Last year, Warner Bros.’ total at this time was $1.8 billion, aided by back-to-back successes starting with “A Minecraft Movie,” which went on to become the highest-grossing movie at the domestic box office during that calendar year.

The studio currently does not have any film in the top 20 of domestic box office earners this year, which includes some holdovers from 2025, with Emerald Fennell’s adaptation of “Wuthering Heights” ranking at 21 with $84 million. Bets on films like Maggie Gyllenhaal’s “The Bride!” cratered, while DC Studios’ “Supergirl” misfired.

“Digger” is unlikely to turn things around.

The satire from director Alejandro González Iñárritu about an impending climate change apocalypse has divided critics, yielding very mixed reviews. Tracking predictions for the film’s debut have steadily trended downward and settled between $15 million and $19 million.

That would be a major miss, given the film’s production budget was about $125 million (not counting marketing costs).

“Digger” faces several hurdles. For one, the film has a major twist, which complicates its marketing and makes it difficult to tell audiences what it’s about.

Then there’s Cruise’s nearly unrecognizable performance as Digger Rockwell, an eccentric oil tycoon whose drilling operations have led to the unfolding climate disaster. Clad in prosthetics with a head full of graying hair, Cruise is far from his usual stunts-heavy, bravado-filled roles, which could make his typical audience less likely to come out to theaters, analysts said.

“It has a lot of question marks,” said David A. Gross, who writes the movie industry newsletter FranchiseRe. “It doesn’t look like it’s heading for financial success.”

The film will have value to Warner Bros. beyond its theatrical reception. “Digger” probably will also make money through ancillary revenue streams such as premium video on demand and streaming, industry experts said. And if Cruise wins his much-coveted Oscar for his role as Digger, that is also a plus, Galloway said.

Beyond the fate of “Digger,” Warner Bros.’ theatrical business will be of prime importance to the combined Paramount-Warner company.

Last year, Warner’s studio business, which includes both film and television production, brought in $12.6 billion in revenue. This year, it’s projected to generate $11.1 billion, according to market expectations. On a positive note, Warner Bros. still has its animated “The Cat in the Hat” film releasing in November and the popular “Dune: Part Three” at the end of the year.

The prospects for Warner Bros. should improve next year, when the film and TV studios are expected to amass $11.7 billion in revenue, driven by strong titles including the sequel to “Minecraft” and a new “Lord of the Rings” movie, according to Bernstein research.

Aside from theatrical revenue, Warner Bros.’ film and TV properties have been key drivers of business to HBO Max and will also provide valuable content to Paramount+, particularly as the linear cable networks continue to decline.

“I would argue the studios are the very reason Paramount Skydance is buying Warner Bros.,” said Laurent Yoon, senior analyst at Bernstein. “Everything starts with the studios.”

The combined company is also legally required to release at least 30 films a year as part of a settlement agreement over antitrust claims with 12 state attorneys general, including California’s Rob Bonta. Paramount Chief Executive David Ellison has previously said the two studios would each release 15 films a year.

But the type of content the studios release could change after the merger is completed. Under film chiefs Pam Abdy and Mike De Luca, Warner Bros. developed a reputation for auteur-driven, original stories, particularly after the success of the 2025 slate. Ellison’s slate has trended toward blockbuster fare.

The combined company will also face a massive debt load of more than $80 billion after the merger closes, meaning there may be greater pressure for future films to be hits.

“Ellison is primarily in the business of delivering blockbusters,” Galloway said. “That’s going to be even more important as he tries to right the ship of his debt.”

Hallmark films have mastered the art of escalating low-stakes situations into high-stakes emotional emergency plotlines. They have made a lucrative business out of absurdities.

The town’s ice sculpture competition is in danger of being canceled forever. How can the Christmas celebration in Colorado go forward without a nice spruce? The only way to really save the bakery is to have a life-size gingerbread house competition.

It’s a proven formula that leans into the ridiculousness of mundane situations but earns its audience every holiday season. Whether it’s watching the movies for comfort or to turn a viewing party into a drinking game, millions of people tune in to laugh or cry watching them.

The Hallmark situations can be predictable, comfortable and wholesome, which can come off as absurd for a film plotline. Their sincerity and humor come from the cast’s commitment to the mundane, said Ron Oliver, writer and director of many Hallmark films.

A scene from “The History of Concrete.”

(Magnolia Pictures)

“Funny is only funny if you don’t think it’s funny,” he said. “We know that’s ridiculous. But at the same time, if the actor commits to it, it makes it seem real, then the audience gets it.”

He likes to think they’re laughing along with the idiosyncratic elements of the movies, and as long as it is creating a communal atmosphere, Oliver is all for it.

“If there’s anything we need these days, it’s a sense that people belong somewhere,” he added.

The formula isn’t what makes a movie a Hallmark movie. The structure has existed since God wore shorts, said Oliver. The channel’s achievement has been its ability to turn the structure into a recognizable brand through its stories.

When filmmaker John Wilson was in between jobs after finishing his HBO show “How To With John Wilson” during the writers’ strike, he attended a seminar on how to write and sell a Hallmark film.

After seeing what makes the Hallmark brand recognizable, Wilson decided to adapt the style into his own genre of making a documentary about concrete titled “The History of Concrete,” hoping the structure would help him finance the film.

John Wilson in “The History of Concrete.”

(Magnolia Pictures)

“But it’s very loose and almost impossible to even identify at points,” he said.

Instead of mocking the genre, Wilson subverts the Hallmark elements into his style of documenting, which finds the filmmaker recording trivial life moments — a person sitting on a pole, for example, or someone ruining a perfectly good jar of peanut butter by dipping their fingers into it — alongside his contextualizing narration.

“I both embrace but betray certain rules,” he said.

The seminar told him to avoid mentioning Christianity in the context of Christmas, so he pivoted to a Buddhist community with an annual tradition of running around a school in New York. The formula prefers to stay away from trauma. Instead, he made the death of one of his subject’s fiancées one of the main plotlines of the film.

“The actual Hallmark of it all fits in a way because that’s the kind of living proof that this rhythmic cyclical way of storytelling is actually soothing and attractive to people over long periods of time, to be able to return to this thing that they can trust and understand,” he added.

A scene from “The History of Concrete.”

(Magnolia Pictures)

In Wilson’s film, the entrance point is concrete, but what begins to unravel is a romance story involving a boy who has a movie idea, needs money to make a movie and tries everything he can to sell it — a signature love trope for most Hallmark movies.

Throughout the film, Wilson goes from pitch meeting to pitch meeting trying to finance his art. In the process, Wilson meets other eccentric characters that share his passion of filmmaking but have their own interests, like clearing gum from a sidewalk, immortalizing a person’s tattoo after they’re dead, and music.

“I’m just finding different ways to court this industry that doesn’t seem ready for this relationship,” Wilson said. “I’m trying to find some consensual way into it, but I eventually just need to perform the romantic gesture of doing what feels right and what comes naturally to me.”

The love story is the kind of theme that sometimes it’s OK to lean into, even though he’s constantly battling whether he should explore it in his films, Wilson added.

A scene from “The History of Concrete.”

(Magnolia Pictures)

Oliver believes that battle is a product of the cynicism that exists in society. Pledging love and respecting someone or a relationship can make people feel so uncomfortable that leaning into these tropes of life can feel humorous, and that’s where the laughs from a Hallmark film come from.

“They’re realizing that they’re being emotional about somebody who can’t find the right Christmas sweater,” he said.

The people in “The History of Concrete” aren’t funny because Wilson makes them out to be ridiculous. He doesn’t emphasize their eccentricities or tell the audience what makes them funny. He simply lets them be themselves. He captures their personality through a curiosity lens.

The humor comes from their passions not seeming worthy of the level of seriousness with which they pursue them. These people love something so much that their devotion mirrors the kind of energy normally reserved for higher stakes.

“There’s no definition of normal that sticks,” Wilson said.

A Christmas celebration isn’t objectively a life-or-death situation, and neither is concrete. But when people care deeply about them, those seemingly mundane things can take on an emotional significance the audience understands.

“Even if it’s something absurd … [the casts] are also committed to the idea of making it real,” Oliver said.

Fox News personality Kat Timpf unveiled a secret to fans at her comedy show over the weekend.

On Wednesday, the late-night “Gutfeld!” co-host shared a clip on Instagram in which she surprised the audience with a twirl and lift of her blouse, revealing a pregnant belly.

“Are you guys surprised?” she asked. “So was I.”

“I shouldn’t have been, though, because I’m married to a veteran, and the Army always does seem to take a while to pull out of something,” she joked. “What he said would be a quick little excursion is looking more like an 18-year commitment.”

The announcement follows an intense couple of years for the stand-up comedian-turned-Fox favorite. In February 2025, Timpf welcomed her first child, a baby boy. Hours before she went into labor, she was diagnosed with what she called “a little bit” of breast cancer.

The “little bit” she referred to was ductal carcinoma in situ: a “preinvasive” cancer that causes growth of cancer cells inside a milk duct in the breast, but the cancer cells haven’t yet spread to breast tissue, according to the Mayo Clinic.

In March 2025, she underwent a double mastectomy, calling the decision one of the hardest she’s ever made.

“The first six weeks of my son’s life, I wasn’t sure exactly what my prognosis was,” she later told People.

“It’s scary, but it’s empowering,” she continued. “Losing your breasts forever is devastating, especially when you just gave birth and everyone asks you about breastfeeding. It’s heartbreaking. But I keep reminding myself that I chose this over the alternative. Because the alternative would’ve been much worse for me.”

Timpf, whom the New York Times called “the most-watched woman in late-night television,” shared her breast cancer journey on social media, podcasts and through appearances on “Gutfeld!”

A year ago, she told the New York Times that she’s been through a lot, but being candid about the trauma has given her purpose.

“If one woman is less embarrassed about her own mastectomy, that’s a win,” she said.

At the time of the interview, Timpf had recently undergone reconstructive surgery, replacing tissue expanders placed during the masectomy with breast implants. In December, she shared on Instagram that her colleague Jennifer Griffin had taken her to get her first tattoo: nipples.

In her recent stand-up appearance at an Orange County-area Improv, she told the audience that she’s welcoming her second child with “such a great guy.” Her husband, Cameron Friscia, is a former Army Ranger who served in Afghanistan with the 101st Airborne Division. Now he works in finance.

“My birthday is coming up next month, and I told him, I said, ‘Babe, you don’t even have to get me anything. Better yet, get yourself something. A vasectomy. I’ve had enough surgery. It’s someone else’s f— turn.’”

“The Pineapple” promised to be intense, but even hours before the show had begun, it had me startled.

I was warned, via a waiver attendees must sign to experience the production, to expect “intimate, and/or aggressive physical contact,” “confined spaces and passageways,” and that I may be asked to crawl, kneel or lie down. All of it would happen in a show that I was cautioned would present simulated violence or “disturbing imagery.”

As much as I love participatory, immersive theater — productions that often rely on some form of audience participation — “The Pineapple” was providing me with a checklist of things I generally avoid. It was a feeling that only grew when I reached the waiver’s end, and signed off that I was OK with claustrophobia (I am not).

What had I done?

None of it, though, had fully prepared me for what Candle House’s “The Pineapple” actually was. By the time the hourlong experience in North Hollywood had reached its conclusion, I had been straddled by a woman who forced a gloved finger down my throat, outfitted with hooded, vision-impairing face masks, grabbed by the wrists as they were taped together, ordered to crawl toward a blood-stained room, and spooned or kissed by multiple male performers.

“The Pineapple” is a secretive hourlong show that seeks to disorient attendees.

(Sona Earnest)

“The Pineapple” is a buzzed-about show among the tight-knit immersive community, one that fits into the medium’s long tradition of productions designed for a sole audience member. A short run last year in New Jersey sold out. Candle House has such a devoted following that its L.A. shows have been selling out almost as instantly as they are announced. While it’s thus far been shrouded in secrecy — “The Pineapple” will not even release a program or cast list until its run has concluded — it comes highly recommended from acquaintances who saw it on the East Coast. I was alternately excited and apprehensive to take part, and my editor would like me to note that I pitched this story on my own accord.

“The Pineapple” in its limited online description promises an alien encounter. Sign up, and an email will tell you that it will “change your life.”

For the passionate crowd of immersive enthusiasts who may want to experience “The Pineapple” and are worried I just spoiled the show, I call nonsense. For one, I believe audiences should know exactly what they are paying for, and two, I do not think “The Pineapple” can be properly spoiled. It was at times otherworldly, in moments psychedelic, and while there were scenes in which I felt fear, there were also others in which I laughed. While “The Pineapple” flirts with horror, torture and conspiracy nuts, it also provides space for Jimmy Buffett’s “Margaritaville.”

And in “The Pineapple’s” best instances, it created a sense of personal intimacy with its performers. These were actors who may have earlier been needling at or attempting to push my boundaries. “The Pineapple” wants to toy with our trust, to create a safe space where it can intermix themes of abuse and empathy until their lines are blurred. Consider its waiver, then, not just a warning but an attempt to weed out those who may be offended or triggered.

“The Pineapple” tries to break us. And it charges nearly $250 for the privilege.

“How do I put this,” says the show’s core creator/director Evan Neiden when asked his intentions behind “The Pineapple.” “I think the show is designed to boil you. Like the lobster in the pot. It gets warmer and warmer and warmer and it’s slowly acclimating you to this new set of rules that keep changing to this new environment of degeneracy and conspiracy.”

“The Pineapple” teases an alien encounter. It is theatrical production designed for one guest.

(Sona Earnest)

Neiden, the 27 year-old founder of Candle House, has long specialized in one-on-one phone productions designed to be done from the caller’s home. While drastically different in narrative content, his horror show “Claws,” in which its solo guest acts as an emergency line operator, is good prep for “The Pineapple” as it also seeks to push people to the brink of comfort.

If there is an artistic thesis behind the work of the New York-based Candle House, it is to cast its audience as performers, but then poke, prod and disorient until they stop performing and start reacting on instinct — or, in theory, become unguarded. It’s an idea that simply to get through the day we are playing a role of sorts, tuning our conversations to please others, or presenting exaggerated, false or tidied-up versions of ourselves on social media.

“In an experience like this, you’re alone with the inhabitants of the world, and they’re all there as part of your hallucination, your dream and your journey,” Neiden says. “You don’t need to worry about presenting a certain way or being perceived in a certain way. All the characters in ‘The Pineapple’ are degenerates, and this show invites you to become one as well. That’s very hard to do if someone from the respectable, outside world is watching.”

The setup for “The Pineapple” is simple. I was playing a respondent to an ad for a meeting with an alien. But things quickly spiral beyond clear narrative recognition, as piecing together the story becomes a puzzle unto itself. And it will shift depending on how one reacts, as there are multiple endings. But know only that in its opening minutes we learn that we have been swindled and are now part of a ritual of sorts to summon said alien.

“The Pineapple” offers intimate actor interactions designed to push boundaries.

(Sona Earnest)

You may find yourself, as I did, raising your voice, as “The Pineapple” did light research on me. My career was insulted, and I was mocked for fumbling around while attempting to juice a pineapple with a woefully inadequate kitchen utensil. Neiden says many attendees try to break the show itself, to push back and see how far its narrative can bend. This is typically not how I play, wanting to experience a production as its designers have intended and thus I let “The Pineapple” take the lead rather than trying to force my will upon it.

I am not easily offended and never used the safe word provided, although there were instances where I came close, namely when my feet were being aggressively, unwelcomely massaged. And yet there were scenes in which I thought about deeply personal relationships I have had, specifically when a character asked me to think of a time when forgiveness or an apology was craved from someone I am no longer closely connected with.

“The Pineapple” then began to feel like a metaphor. As I moved from darkened room to darkened room, ridiculed in one, flirted with in another, a thread of finding one’s own personal paradise in a hellscape began to emerge. Is it aliens we are seeking, “The Pineapple” begins to ask, or simply perhaps purpose? The act of forgiveness, Neiden tells me, was on his mind when crafting the show.

“I never really felt like I fully understand it,” Neiden says. “What is forgiveness? Some people say it’s letting someone off the hook. Others say it’s releasing yourself of the burden of a grudge. And it’s a word wrapped in religion and politics. There are so many definitions of it, and we hear it everywhere — forgiveness and its counterparts of guilt, shame and accountability. What does it mean? The show doesn’t answer that.”

Maybe. That’s up to the audience, not its creator.

Days after I’ve seen “The Pineapple,” friends and peers keep asking if I enjoyed it, and I don’t think it’s a simple answer. It’s not for everyone. I’m not sure it’s even for me. Simulated torture is not my idea of a good time. But “The Pineapple” did wear me down, and it’s beautiful in the way it highlights the lonely anguish at the heart of Buffett’s “Margaritaville.”

As its small cast obsesses over a fabled alien encounter and seems willing to stop at nothing to find release in a divine being, be careful, “The Pineapple” argues, of the personal Eden you seek.

At least that was my takeaway. You might walk away with an entirely different message.

“Maybe you just fell in with the wrong crowd and got abducted by aliens,” Neiden says.

When Judy Collins comes to Los Angeles, she likes to stay at the Beverly Hilton in part because “they serve a fabulous breakfast,” she says over coffee at the hotel on a recent morning. “That’s rare today,” she adds. “Too often a place will just send up a cardboard shopping bag with the things you ordered in it.”

Collins knows her amenities: At 87, the Grammy-winning singer and songwriter still plays about 120 shows a year, drawing audiences around the world with her high, clear voice and an expansive repertoire that blends the hits that made her famous in the 1960s and ’70s — Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now,” Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne,” Stephen Sondheim’s “Send in the Clowns” — with traditional folk tunes and material of her own.

Yet now she’s preparing to hang it up with a lengthy farewell tour she’s calling Sweet Judy Blue Eyes (after “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” the folk-rock classic her one-time lover Stephen Stills wrote about her for Crosby, Stills & Nash). The night before our interview, Collins played L.A.’s Ford Theatre; she’ll be back through Southern California for a Sept. 27 date at the Lobero Theatre in Santa Barbara and again next year for shows in Palm Springs and Aliso Viejo.

After we talk, she plans to do a bit of tai chi, for which she uses an app on her phone and which she wishes more people practiced. “Maybe that would alter civilization,” she says. “If we were all doing tai chi, we couldn’t be at war with Iran.” Then she’ll head to the airport for a flight home to New York, where she’s lived for decades — most of them with her husband, industrial designer Louis Nelson, who died in 2024.

At breakfast, Collins is wearing a patterned turquoise jacket over a matching dress and high-heeled black leather boots.

“You like these?” she asks of the boots. “These are Stuart Weitzman. I bought them 30 years ago, and I’ve never stopped wearing them.”

That’s a well-made boot.
They fit, they’re great and I reject all invitations to get rid of them.

Has your thinking about clothes changed over the decades?
I used to dress in jeans because I was a cowgirl — I hung out with rodeo riders in Colorado. As I came up, I liked what was simple. My mother made all our clothes on a Singer sewing machine for years. Now I love beaded things. I have full closets I need to go through.

Before you came onstage last night, an announcer told the audience not to take pictures or videos.
That’s my management’s doing — it’s important to them, so I go along with it. But the pictures are usually bad. Also, the phones take people’s minds off what’s going on onstage. People need the chance to focus. We’re in a period of insanity right now, so people need time to sit wherever they are. They could go to the ballet or to the theater, but they choose to come to me, and they get to sit there and they get to listen and they get to think about their own lives.

As a performer, that’s what you seek to provide.
I’m providing silence. It’s such a noisy world — so full of crappy music that plays outside all these hotels and places where we stay. It drives me nuts.

You have a line in the show where you say, “Something unexpected happened — I turned 87.” It got a good laugh.
People applaud too.

What are they saying by applauding?
They want to be acknowledged for their own ages, whether they’re 87 or 90 or 19. People are coming to see me, but they’re also coming to see their history. They’ll remember what happened 60, 70 years ago — they were probably marching at the same things I was marching at. And if they’re 19, they want to know why we’re not marching now.

Judy Collins performs on “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour” in 1969.

(CBS via Getty Images)

You said we’re in a period of insanity.
This country is losing so much of the depth of our origin. The fact that workers who’ve come to this country are being taken off to God knows where — it makes no sense. Number one, these people often have some sort of legality. And secondly, they do the work here. Nobody else wants to go up to the orchards in Oregon and pick the fruit. Do you?

I can’t say that I do.
I don’t want to do that.

This tour is billed as your grand farewell.
So long, you guys.

I’m always reluctant to trust that framing. Cher’s done like eight farewell tours.
I hadn’t counted them up — shame on me.

Should we really believe you?
I think we have to believe in the present tense. What you’re hearing is what’s happening.

You had a music stand onstage with you. What was on it?
All the lyrics to all the songs.

You can’t possibly need the lyrics anymore.
Oh, yes, I do.

You’ve been singing some of them for decades.
Doesn’t matter — it has to be there in case you have to look at it.

Would you say you do look? Or is it more of a security blanket?
It’s a security blanket. But my eyes wander — I like to see who’s in the audience and what’s going on. I like to look up and down the aisles, and I like to fantasize: How did this happen?

Your life and career?
I mean, I know how it happened. I was 16, and I started going to the Denver Folklore Society, which was run by a guy named Lingo the Drifter. And Lingo the Drifter had these wonderful evenings where we all played the guitar and sang and drank illegal whiskey and so on.

Judy Collins last month in Beverly Hills.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Before Denver, you lived briefly as a kid in Los Angeles.
My father was a very eclectic and fabulous radio personality. He had a radio show for 30 years in Seattle then here in Hollywood, broadcasting out of CBS — a big deal. If we weren’t in school, we would drive up Santa Monica Boulevard into Hollywood and we’d stand around and watch them produce the radio mysteries. People would walk in a sandbox to get the sound of somebody walking up the gravel road to the door.

Are you familiar with the term “nepo baby”?
No.

It refers to the child of a famous artist who follows in their parent’s footsteps.
Oh, that’s interesting.

People use it derisively, as if to say that a kid has overly benefited from their advantages.
We certainly had advantages. For instance, the Library of Congress, which is the jewel in the crown — I don’t know what they’re doing now — but they sent us Braille books and they sent us all the shows from New York and they sent us the recordings of all the Shakespearean plays by the great Dame Judith Anderson and John Gielgud. I had all that growing up. In some ways, I wasn’t raised — I was trained. I got to see how a professional has to handle his life. My father was a professional in all ways. He drank — occasionally, not all the time — but he was absolutely organized about everything, including that.

You’ve been sober for something like half a century.
Forty-eight years. I’m in my 49th now.

You ever miss drinking?
Oh, my God, no. I was so sick — I was gone. Bye-bye.

Some people replace one addiction with another.
I had an eating disorder, which is still kind of … You know, last night, I asked for apple juice during the show — I was in trouble because I wasn’t eating. When my husband died, I stopped eating again. I’d stopped eating in the ’60s and ’70s and ’80s, but I got over that. But suddenly I didn’t want to eat again.

Would you consider that disordered eating?
I don’t know. Anyway, I have to really be careful. We had a talk about it last night. I have to eat these protein bars, and I have to eat them all the time.

Do you remember the first gig you played after your husband died?
Oh, yes — I had to go out. When my son took his life in 1992, I got a call from Joan Rivers — she and I knew each other pretty well. She was getting ready to go out and do her show in Las Vegas, and she called me in New York and she said, “I have to tell you this” — her husband had just killed himself — she said, “You cannot stay home. You have to go out.” I was canceling all my shows, and she said, “You can’t do that because you won’t ever get over this if you do.”

How did you take that advice?
I said, “Thank you,” and I called my staff and I said, “Put ’em back on.” My mother came out with me, Louis came out with me, my sister came out with me, and it was incredibly true: I had to be working or else I would die. So when it came to Louis, I was out three days later.

What did that feel like?
Well, it was wonderful because I was working. I can work and get through anything — that’s the psychological effect of what I’m doing on the stage. I’m interacting with people, I’m hearing the laughter, I’m hearing the music. What could be more healing?

This is why I’m wondering why you plan to stop touring.
But you see, I have all these other things to do — I have a life that’s not just touring. I’m working on the music for a Broadway show. And I’m doing a new book — it’s called “Singing Through the Storm,” and it’ll be out next year, I hope.

Judy Collins and Leonard Cohen attend the 41st annual Songwriters Hall of Fame ceremony in New York in 2010.

(Larry Busacca / Getty Images)

You’ve interpreted the music of so many great songwriters: Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen. Was there ever a writer whose work you admired but couldn’t find your way into?
No.

OK.
I’ll tell you my funniest Leonard story. In 2014, I think it was, I went to this little group in Norway called Democrats Abroad — lonely group of people. That night, this woman came up to me and said, “Hi, I’m Marianne.” I said, “Hi, Marianne.” And then she said, “I’m Leonard’s Marianne.” She said, “There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for many years: We were living together in Spain, Leonard and I, and he was writing songs and we were swimming in the nude. And then one day he came to me and he said, ‘Marianne, I’m going to New York to sing my songs for Judy Collins,’ and he went to New York and he played you all his songs and you recorded them.” Marianne said, “I just wanted to tell you that you ruined my life.” Fortunately, we became friends on Facebook.

You opened last night’s set with “Both Sides Now.”
Oh, yes.

This might be the most famous song you do. Some artists would save it for later in the show.
I don’t want people to wonder for an hour and a half: Will she? Won’t she? What will I do if she doesn’t?

Do you still enjoy singing “Both Sides Now”?
I love it. It was Al Kooper who brought me to Joni — she sang it to me over the phone. Al is living a very sane, quiet life in the Northeast now. He’s married — never goes out anymore. It’s hard to think of Al Kooper just sitting there enjoying his marriage and his garden.

What will you do on the plane home today?
I’ll probably get out the computer and noodle around on the book and see what I can come up with.

The work never ends.
It never ends because it’s not done.

Giving an answer to a question that is asked at a free-flowing press conference is one thing, but Donald Trump repeated his sentiments a short time later when he was delivering a speech to an invited audience at the US Ambassador’s residence.

In fact it was almost the first thing he mentioned, hinting that maybe he realised he had kicked over a can of worms at his earlier appearance.

The rest of that speech was curious. It was billed as a 20-minute address to Irish and Irish American business leaders, but was about twice that and strayed largely into domestic US matters.

President Trump has a speaking style that he describes himself as “the weave”.

He can bounce from topic to topic during any speaking engagement, veering off the script and then returning to the matter at hand.

Today he lauded his own achievements, as he sees them, such as clamping down on illegal immigration, doing deals and boosting defence production.

He repeated his criticisms once again of what he views as the UK’s lack of support for his military operation in Iran.

What do you do when a creative team mounts an acclaimed production of a beloved play, breaking box office records as one of the most successful shows in your theater’s more than 100-year history? For the Pasadena Playhouse, the answer was clear. You get them back on the boards as soon as possible — say, six months later.

Which is how it came to pass that more than a dozen creatives behind Peter Shaffer’s “Amadeus,” including director Darko Tresnjak and actor Jefferson Mays, have returned to the historic theater for a new production of Swiss dramatist Fredrich Dürrenmatt’s revenge tragicomedy “The Visit,” running through Oct. 4.

“It feels like we just cleaned out our dressing rooms and we’re moving back in,” notes Mays.

The cast and crew of the adaptation of Friedrich Durrenmatt’s “The Visit,” at the Pasadena Playhouse. Many have returned to the venue after helping stage the hit production of “Amadeus” there in April.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

“Amadeus,” which ended its run in April, was a critical and box office hit, so popular that after tickets were gone, additional shows were added — which also quickly sold out. Danny Feldman, producing artistic director of the Pasadena Playhouse, puts it simply: “Theater is a team sport, and when you’ve got a winning team, you want to keep playing together.”

It was during tech for “Amadeus” that Tresnjak told Feldman of his love for “The Visit,” which he first directed in college. “I quite literally found my calling in life because of it,” says Tresnjak.

Feldman was also a fan — of both the play and working with Tresnjak — and quickly scheduled the show for the new season.

“Our job is to give artists a home where they can stretch and take risks,” says Feldman. “Audiences got to experience this artistic synchronicity during ‘Amadeus,’ and we’re so excited they get to deepen their relationship with these artists as they watch ‘The Visit.’ ”

The respect is mutual. Mays, who has won almost every major theater award in existence including a Tony and an Obie, says the Playhouse is one of the best he’s ever worked at. “It’s certainly the most healthy,” he notes. “They are unabashed theater fans and lovely people.”

Only days earlier, Mays had given what could be perceived as a backhanded compliment. “I said, ‘You don’t run a theater at all, you run a high school drama club,’ ” Mays recalls. “I meant that in the way it’s infused with joy and a sense of play and support and that we can do anything with impunity and embarrass ourselves and they will be there to pick us up and dust us off. It’s just a gorgeous feeling.”

While Mays brought Tresnjak to “Amadeus,” this time the director asked the actor to join “The Visit.” Mays admits he wasn’t very familiar with the text. Tresnjak’s production, which utilizes the 1956 adaptation by Maurice Valency, centers on the small town of Güllen, which is facing financial ruin.

Actors Jefferson Mays and Melinda Page Hamilton star in an adaptation of Friedrich Durrenmatt’s “The Visit,”at Pasadena Playhouse.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

The townspeople are preparing to welcome back former resident and potential patron Claire Zachanassian (Melinda Page Hamilton), who has become the richest woman in the world since leaving. It turns out, Claire is more than happy to help. But there is one condition: Someone must kill her former lover Anton Shill (Mays), who impregnated and abandoned Claire in their youth.

Audiences expecting an easy villain and a clear case of right and wrong will be surprised as the narrative unfolds with an examination of community, complicity and corruption within institutions of power.

Tresnjak says “The Visit” can’t be described as one thing. “I don’t want to call it a feminist revenge fantasy because that belittles it,” he says. “It’s also an inversion of a medieval mystery play where the Earth Mother is not benevolent. It’s also a fun, nifty stage thriller.”

And as relevant as the day it was written, Tresnjak adds. Dürrenmatt penned “The Visit” as a critique of Switzerland’s neutrality after World War II, which he saw as an abandonment of ethics driven by capitalism.

Tresnjak says he recently directed a scene where one townsperson urges the others to hold out against Claire’s proposition of murder, on the same day news broke that the U.S. Department of Education had pressured the American Bar Assn. to end Diversity, Equity and Inclusion efforts. “It made me think how in some ways, the citizens of Güllen are better off than we are,” Tresnjak says

“It really is more timely than ever,” agrees Mays, who wonders if that might keep audiences away. In 2007, he starred in the World War I drama “Journey’s End,” which went on to win a Tony Award for best revival. “It was a beautiful play, but nobody came,” he says. “We were at war with Afghanistan and Iraq, and people had enough of war. Sometimes you hold the mirror up to the world, and it reflects it too well.”

Mays jokes he said yes because “it was only fair after I hornswoggled Darko into ‘Amadeus.’ ” The actor is known not just for his versatility but for displaying it in rapid succession. He won the 2004 Tony Award for playing more than 40 characters in “I Am My Own Wife,” and his 2022 adaptation of “A Christmas Carol” saw him take on more than 50 characters.

Mays admits the role of Anton is “a strangely passive and reactive role that I’m still not sure I’m entirely right for,” even going so far as to say, “I can name 10 actor friends who would be better.” But he was bowled over by the director’s passion. “It’s so thrilling when someone approaches you with something they are burning about, and I couldn’t say no.”

Indeed, Anton has a lot to react to; Hamilton’s Claire is the proactive role, forcing the action at every turn. Hamilton is known to TV audiences for her roles on “Mad Men” and “Desperate Housewives,” but she previously worked with Tresjnak on “Bell, Book and Candle” and “Rear Window” and is a big admirer of his work.

Melinda Page Hamilton plays Claire in an adaptation of Friedrich Durrenmatt’s “The Visit.” She is one of a handful of cast and crew that didn’t appear in “Amadeus” this spring.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

“I also tried to see ‘Amadeus,’ but I couldn’t get tickets,” she says with a laugh. She was thrilled to get a call from Tresnjak, who felt it was important to cast L.A. actors and enjoys working with previous collaborators — to the point where he didn’t hold auditions.

“I think traditionally Claire has been portrayed as crazy and evil, and that didn’t interest Darko,” Hamilton says. “I also think post-Epstein, post-#MeToo, post sheer volume of terrible behavior that men get away with, it has a different resonance today.”

Tresnjak says the role of Claire has long been special to him. “This is a woman who owns everything she is, who never tells a single lie or tries to obscure what she wants,” he says. “She is simply making society look at itself.”

Tresnjak’s upbringing was largely influenced by his mother, Maria, an immigrant from Yugoslavia (now Serbia) who served as a military skydiver in World War II. “My mother was a very strong woman, a woman who fought for what she believed in,” he says. “I have no interest in doing something like ‘Streetcar,’ where a woman is being driven out of her mind. I enjoy characters with agency.”

Director Darko Tresnjak has long wanted to stage a production of Friedrich Durrenmatt’s “The Visit,” a play dear to his heart for many years.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

And he’s thrilled to have found a home that supports his vision, praising Feldman and associate artistic director Jenny Slattery, who was his student when he taught at UC San Diego. “They’re not afraid of big swings and of taking chances, and not only do people seem to appreciate that, they’re coming to see it,” he says.

With two productions in a year, is it too early to hope that this team has found a recurring home at the Pasadena Playhouse? Tresnjak demures, “I wouldn’t want to put that pressure on Danny and Jenny,” but admits he would be thrilled to return. “Of course, I’m very happy here.”

Mays is equally game. “It’s such a rare and wonderful thing in this country to have a sense of company,” he says. “To have so many actors and designers back from ‘Amadeus’ and to return to a place of such support; it feels like something that rarely exists anymore.”

The biggest news to come out of two film festivals this week stemmed from documentaries about tech moguls gone bad.

When Alex Gibney’s film production “Musk” premiered at the Venice Film Festival on Tuesday, it received a five-minute standing ovation, shouts of “thank you” from the audience and endless play across social media. The nearly four-hour production chronicles the rise of the world’s first trillionaire out of the dot-com boom, and lays bare the dangers that the Tesla and SpaceX chief executive now presents as a plutocrat with questionable judgment and unchecked power.

Closer to home, at the Telluride Film Festival, it was comedian Nathan Fielder (“The Rehearsal”) and Lance Oppenheim’s “You Can See Everything” that made breaking news. Their film features unfettered access to former Theranos Chief Executive Elizabeth Holmes in the weeks before she reported to federal prison to serve a sentence of 10 years and three months. She rode the early 2000s wave of venture-capitalism consumer-tech hype, defrauding investors and the public with a bogus new way to test blood. By 2014, she was the world’s youngest self-made female billionaire.

A couple of decades ago, films about Musk and Holmes probably would have framed the pair as forward-thinking entrepreneurs and architects of a new era. Today, the pitchforks are out, and who else better represents the hubris and greed of late-stage capitalism?

There’s plenty of buzz around both films ahead of their October releases, yet the richest man in the world is helping promote the “Musk” doc by incessantly posting about Gibney and his “hit” piece.

Musk’s X posts have referred to the filmmaker as a “horrible human” and a “bitter old man” and declared, “Dogs— is worth more respect.” Always looking for a conspiracy to explain away the perfectly explainable, he wrote that the film was a “psy op.” He included in the post an image of Gibney as a puppet of the Democratic Party and George Soros. Musk also offered Trumpian prose: “Gutless Gibney’s fatal flaw of fabricating a false film.”

“Musk” is due for a theatrical release in the U.S. on Oct. 16 followed by a streaming launch on HBO Max.

Musk’s attorney Alex Spiro is threatening a lawsuit. He sent a letter to the Gibney-led Jigsaw Productions accusing the filmmaker of misrepresenting facts about the mogul. Spiro says the filmmaker suggested that Musk used his Starlink satellites to bend the 2024 election in favor of his friend and ally Donald Trump.

“You are … on notice, before release, that the insinuation is false, that the material refuting it is public, and that you chose not to be told the rest,” Spiro wrote. Spiro claimed he contacted the production “multiple times” and “requested an opportunity to present the facts in the normal fact-checking process that is the hallmark of ethical journalism. You have refused to engage.”

Gibney says Musk declined to be interviewed for the film. In his absence, the documentarian created a digital avatar of the Tesla CEO and used statements pulled from decades worth of the entrepreneur’s interviews and public appearances. The film chronicles his childhood in South Africa and his time in Silicon Valley, and suggests that Musk’s genius is not as an inventor but as an investor. His talent, the film contends, is stock-pumping.

“Musk” also reportedly explores how the trillionaire had access to sensitive techno-surveillance data when he ran the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) under President Trump in 2025. Geoffrey Hinton , often referred to as the Godfather of AI, is interviewed in the film and explains why Musk’s potential access to the data is such a problem: “It’s fairly clear to me that Trump is hell-bent on corrupting the midterm elections,” Hinton says. “If you wanted to corrupt those midterm elections and you wanted to use AI, all you needed to do was get detailed information on U.S. citizens. And what DOGE did looked like just what you would do.”

Gibney in interviews about the film has warned that Musk’s widespread, unchecked power is “extremely dangerous to world democracy.”

“What I discovered was that the story of Musk was not [a] new tech story,” Gibney said in a news conference at the Venice Film Fest. “[It’s] really the story of an old wine in a new bottle. His story turns out to be the story of the confidence man, the stock pumper, his wealth and power comes from inflated stock, and so I had told that story before with Enron and with Elizabeth Holmes, and so it was a story that was oddly familiar to me.”

Gibney is renowned for taking on big money, corruption and anything else that reeks of injustice. He’s tackled Wall Street, big pharma, Scientology, Guantanamo, and even Theranos founder Holmes.

The new film about Holmes, “You Can See Everything,” offers a quirkier, up-close take on Holmes. Produced by A24 and set for an Oct. 16 theater release, it follows the disgraced CEO post-conviction, and she appears more than comfortable in front of the filmmakers and their cameras. Audiences at Telluride were surprised by the access she gave to the filmmakers, and that Holmes spoke openly about her plans to launch a biotech comeback and revive Theranos from her cell in a Texas prison camp.

Forget the celebrity glitz of high-profile film festivals. In these eat-the-rich times, it’s the dark side of wealth, fame and alleged genius that satiate audience appetites. Enter two new documentaries that feed the beast.