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The Hollywood sign is ablaze as Spencer Pratt, the reality TV star now running for mayor of Los Angeles, suits up as Batman, enters City Hall and leads the people to overthrow a cabal of corrupt, out-of-touch progressives intent on destroying the city.

Then he is Luke Skywalker. Dressed in a Jedi robe, he swoops through the city on an Imperial speeder bike, as California Gov. Gavin Newsom (Emperor Palpatine) rebukes incumbent Mayor Karen Bass (Darth Vader) for not burning the city down to the ground in her first term.

“Make sure you finish the job in your second,” Newsom tells Bass with a tilt of the head and a smirk.

“The only thing that can stop us is someone telling the truth,” Bass replies. “As long as they don’t have any hope, the city’s ours.”

Pratt’s fan-generated AI election campaign videos have been praised and mocked, but heavily shared. And some see them as a harbinger of how artificial intelligence could reshape political messaging across the country.

His supporters are far from the first to create AI-generated ads. But political experts say it’s remarkable the degree to which they have used new technology to churn out a stream of outlandish, hyper-cinematic memes, creating buzz around his campaign and his message.

Some warn, however, that as the technology becomes more sophisticated, it will become harder for many people to distinguish between AI and real videos.

“When you’re creating content that is not based in reality, and then platforms are amplifying it in order to attract more eyeballs, you are putting a burden on the public for figuring out what is real and what is factual, and what is fake and misleading,” said Mark Jablonowski, the chief executive of DSPolitical, a progressive advertising firm.

Pratt’s campaign did not create the viral AI videos depicting him as a superhero taking on a cast of California Democratic villains. But he has shared the ads crafted by AI filmmaker Charlie Curran, founder of L.A.’s Menace Studio.

Supercharged and Hollywood inspired, the videos represent a brazen new era of fan-generated AI in political campaign advertising. Deploying generative AI tools to clone human voices and images, they bolster a hyperbolic and ultra-conspiratorial political narrative that depicts L.A. under Democratic rule as a hellscape in which Newsom and Bass deliberately conspire to harm the people.

Bass has condemned the ads, describing them as “very scary” and “absolutely 150% fiction.”

“His social media is now taking on a violent turn,” Bass told CNN, citing the Batman ad that depicts Angelenos pelting her with tomatoes.

Some political experts dismiss such fears of AI campaign ads as overblown. Most AI videos shared by political campaigns and their fans, they note, are more comedic than deliberately misleading.

“Spencer Pratt is using AI the way it should be used, which is to sharpen reality,” said Matt Klink, an L.A.-based Republican political consultant. “His whole shtick is that Los Angeles is broken, the insiders have failed, and the political class wants to explain away what voters are seeing with their own eyes.”

“Obviously, you don’t run an AI ad where you have someone saying something that they didn’t say, and you should disclose that they’re generated by AI,” Klink noted. But when it comes to ads that depict Pratt as Batman or Luke Skywalker, he said, “if you don’t know that they’re AI generated, you’re pretty clueless to begin with.”

For as long as political candidates and their supporters have experimented with new technology — from the pamphlets of the 1600s to the memes of the 21st century — they have faced complaints that they mislead the public.

As large language models ushered in a new era of AI, Sen. Richard Blumenthal (D-Conn.) warned in 2024 that “a deluge of deception, disinformation and deepfakes are about to descend on the American public.”

The term “deepfake” was first coined in 2017 by a Reddit user who used open-source face-swapping technology to splice celebrity faces onto porn performers’ bodies. Within months, it entered the mainstream lexicon as a way to describe any AI-generated synthetic media that realistically clones a person’s image or voice.

Blumenthal cited a “chilling example.” In January 2024, Republicans placed robo calls using an AI “deepfake” voice mimicking President Biden to New Hampshire residents to discourage Democrats from voting in the presidential primaries.

New Hampshire authorities said the message violated the state’s voter suppression laws. A month later, the Federal Communications Commission outlawed robocalls that use voices generated by AI. The company that sent the messages agreed to pay a $1-million fine.

But others kept pushing the boundaries of AI — mostly as overt parody or satire, an arena that offers greater 1st Amendment protection.

In July 2024, an AI content creator created a mock campaign ad of Democratic presidential candidate Kamala Harris with a computer-generated voiceover to make it seem she was describing herself as the ultimate “diversity hire” and “deep state puppet.” The post was titled ‘Kamala Harris Campaign Ad PARODY.’

Newsom slammed the post, saying on X, “Manipulating a voice in an ‘ad’ like this one should be illegal.” Two months later, he signed into law a series of bills that clamped down on AI in politics.

But a federal judge blocked one of the new laws that regulated election-related content that is “materially deceptive,” saying it probably violated the 1st Amendment.

No comprehensive federal rules govern the use of AI content in political ads or messaging. According to the National Conference of State Legislatures, 29 states have passed laws restricting the use of deepfakes in political campaigns: Some states, such as Texas and Minnesota, prohibit the use of deepfakes  a certain number of days before an election; the other 27 states require a media disclosure if content contains a deepfake.

Some political advertising experts call for more federal regulation. The state-by-state patchwork of regulations, they argue, makes it very difficult for social media platforms to be compliant.

“At the end of the day, we really need to see platforms being more responsible with the content that they’re sharing,” Jablonowski said. “We need to have clear guidelines and a level playing field across the country, so we’re not in a position where what’s OK in one state is not OK in another.”

Pratt’s embrace of AI is part of a larger 2026 political trend.

In January, Texas Atty. Gen. Ken Paxton released an ad depicting two of his opponents for a Senate seat — Republican Sen. John Cornyn and Democratic Rep. Jasmine Crockett — waltzing and swinging. A few months later, the National Republican Senatorial Committee shared a video that used a manipulated image of James Talarico, the Democratic nominee for the Texas Senate seat, mouthing his own tweets.

But Pratt has been particularly successful in using fan-based AI to help garner attention, pulling in a number of content creators to craft AI videos for his campaign.

One posted a video parody of the 2004 Downfall film, portraying Bass as Hitler. Another created an animated video, geared to a Latino audience, showing Angelenos lining the streets to cheer as Pratt wheels a garbage can piled with trash and the incumbent mayor. The slogan “SPENCER, SACA LA BASSURA” [Spencer, take out the trash] flashes atop the screen.

A recent survey from the American Assn. of Political Consultants shows that AI adoption is growing rapidly among political consultants — and Republicans are more likely to use it than Democrats.

But political observers in L.A. note that leading Democrats in the mayoral race are unlikely to follow Pratt in using AI. Bass, they note, is a more cautious political figure than Pratt, a brash online influencer who relished playing the role of villain on MTV’s “The Hills.”

While Pratt’s user-generated AI ads have inspired giddy delight from out-of-state Republicans — conservative radio host Buck Sexton praised the Batman video for ushering in “a new era of online persuasion” — it’s still not clear if they will convince Angelenos to vote for him.

Certainly, the ads have helped Pratt gain recognition. They have also given voice to a groundswell of frustration with L.A.’s Democratic establishment and created space for more pressing debate on the future direction of the city.

But there is little evidence that the AI ads, in themselves, are persuading new voters.

So far, none of the AI ads that Pratt has shared have received as many views on his X account as a non-AI ad his campaign produced that has racked up more than 14 million views.

In it, Pratt stands outside Bass’ city-owned Hancock Park mansion and Nithya Raman’s home in leafy Silver Lake, then pans to an Airstream on the charred ruins of his own home, which burnt down during the Palisades fire.

“They don’t have to live in the mess they’ve created,” Pratt says as he walks down an L.A. street littered with homeless tents.

Meghan Daum, a former Los Angeles Times columnist who has endorsed Pratt and dubs herself a self-appointed “liberal elite whisperer for Pratt,” said she thought Pratt’s Airstream ad was more effective than the AI superhero ads. She voiced concern his sharing of AI videos could actively undermine his campaign.

“They will be repellent to the undecided voters Pratt needs to catch, most of whom will think they’re coming directly from the campaign,” she said on X. “Get smarter, guys.”

Using AI, she told The Times, could turn off voters in a town where so many film workers have lost jobs to AI. She also worried about the legality of ads — such as one video purporting to be a Bass campaign ad — that put words in the mouth of computer-generated politicians.

But Daum noted that others told her this was the aesthetic of the new world and a way of getting people who have not voted in the past excited about something.

“That may be true,” she said.

So far, there is little evidence that AI in U.S. political campaigns has affected elections.

“There’s a lot more fear about the effects of AI in politics than evidence of the effects of AI in politics,” said Brendan Nyhan, a political scientist at Dartmouth College who co-authored a recent report on AI and persuasion.

During the 2024 election, Nyhan noted, AI was frequently used to create “obviously false” images of attention-grabbing, funny or raging content. “It seems to be more of a mechanism for reaching your base,” he said, “rather than persuading voters who haven’t made up their mind or might stay home.”

Ultimately, Pratt’s personal story of loss — and more specific complaints about L.A.’s systemic failures in preparedness and emergency response during the 2025 firestorms and spending on unsuccessful programs to house the homeless — may resonate more than simplistic AI stories of evil Democrats hellbent on razing their city.

Some L.A. political observers admit they were surprised by Pratt’s performance in a May 6 televised debate with Bass and Raman.

”Spencer Pratt was kind of a laughingstock when he first announced that he was going to run, and he has dramatically exceeded expectations,” said Klink, the GOP strategist. “I think that he surprised people in his ability to come up with solutions. … That’s what’s going to convince people to vote, not the Batman or Star Wars ad.”

As millions of people click on Pratt videos — in some cases more than the 3.8 million people living in L.A. — Klick said there was one question Pratt needs to be asking: “Do views of his ads translate into votes?”

Firefighters battled a fire Sunday that erupted in the early morning and remained active well into the afternoon at a downtown L.A. office supplies store.

Roughly 120 firefighters were called about 4 a.m. to the two-story building with a mezzanine at 1225 S. Hope St. near West Pico Boulevard. Upon arrival, firefighters encountered heavy smoke and flames. One firefighter suffered minor injuries in the battle and was hospitalized.

Firefighters transitioned from offensive to defensive mode and used a remote-suppression robot to enter the building, LAFD spokesperson Jennifer Middleton said. Arson and emergency air units also were requested.

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1. Firefighters battled a fire Sunday that erupted in the early morning and remained active well into the afternoon at a downtown L.A. office supplies store. (Kayla Bartkowski/Los Angeles Times)

The blaze was initially contained by 5:52 a.m., but the building’s contents rekindled, said LAFD Battalion Chief Peter Hsiao.

About 10 a.m., firefighters were “trying to remove paper from the building to stop it from catching on fire,” Hsiao said.

By 10:30 a.m., the building’s roof had collapsed, according to Times photographer Kayla Bartkowski, who was at the scene. Thirty minutes later, the building was again engulfed in flames.

At 1:30 p.m., firefighters were trying to contain the blaze by using a forklift and heavy machinery to pull boxes of office supplies and pallets of paper out of the building, then spraying it all down with water.

Firefighters on the roof also were spraying the fire to prevent it from spreading, she added.

A blaze was reported at about 4 a.m. in downtown L.A. at 1225 South Hope St.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

The address is associated with Bluebird Office Supplies. A voicemail left for a number listed for the business owner was not immediately returned.

No one was inside the building at the time of the blaze, Middleton said.

The cause of the fire is under investigation.

“The Devil Wears Prada 2” opens like a knockoff of itself, with sight gags calling back to the mean quips in the 2006 hit: near-identical teal belts, a gala hailing the less-than-innovative theme “Spring Florals” and a red carpet that’s actually cerulean. Those belts, if you’ll remember, were the trigger for Meryl Streep’s Oscar-nominated speech about how her imperious fashion magazine editor in chief Miranda Priestly creates trends that trickle down to the rest of us rabble.

That first film (I’ll go ahead and anoint it a classic) followed a dowdy college graduate, Andy (Anne Hathaway), pursuing a low-level position at Runway magazine — Vogue in everything but name — as a bridge to a serious reporting career. Woe, said bridge is guarded by three trolls: fellow assistant Emily (Emily Blunt), tastemaker Nigel (Stanley Tucci) and the devil herself, Streep’s silver-haired Miranda, whose saintly last name is an ironic joke. Miranda is a riff on Vogue’s former editor in chief Anna Wintour, who used to be irritated by her caricature but eventually came around. After all, she’s getting played by Meryl Freaking Streep.

The setting was glam, the struggle relatable. Andy’s transition from sensible boots to stilettos served as a metaphor for the effort — even discomfort — it takes to chase your dreams, however they might evolve. “The Devil Wears Prada” gets celebrated for her makeover, with even Andy’s clueless boyfriend, played by Adrian Grenier, accusing her of caring about her Runway job solely for the shoes. No, it was never about the shoes. It was about respecting the workaholic she saw in the mirror.

The sequel, from returning director David Frankel and screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna, doesn’t find its own footing until it acknowledges that a Cinderella story about making it in journalism no longer fits. Gone are the days when Miranda and Nigel could casually tell their deep-pocketed publisher Irv (Tibor Feldman) that they’re junking a $300,000 photo shoot because it failed to reach their lofty standards. Likewise, Andy’s story starts when a magnate shutters her current job at a newspaper called the New York Vanguard, firing her and her colleagues for a $500-million tax write-off. (Cue the workers of at least one major Hollywood studio nodding in recognition.)

Hathaway’s Andy, smart and likable as ever, returns to a budget-slashed Runway as the features editor in charge of investigative pieces that online metrics reveal nobody reads — that is, until she breaks a celebrity engagement. Meanwhile, the internet has reduced Miranda to a meme. Her most recent viral scandal has gotten her animated into that Homer-Simpson-in-a-hedge GIF.

McKenna writes Miranda a self-aware scene where she acknowledges that her harsh reputation boosts her clout. Yet I wonder what Wintour will make of this diminished avatar pursuing the same promotion that she herself just claimed at Condé Nast as global head of content. After elevating custom couture to an art form, just the word “content” sounds like a demotion. Content is to prestige journalism what Shein is to Chanel.

Twenty years later, all of the money and power in publishing has been siphoned to the very, very rich. There seem to be as many billionaires in the script for “The Devil Wears Prada 2” as magazine assistants. Mighty Miranda must kowtow to the luxury brands and their ambassadors, whose sponsorship keeps Runway strutting, including the once-harried and humiliated Emily, who is now an executive at Dior. The tension is thicker than mink. The film franchise chooses to ignore original author Lauren Weisberger’s own 2013 follow-up novel “Revenge Wears Prada,” although I’d love to see a threequel that follows her lead and gives Blunt’s hilariously frosty Emily the center stage as she does in her third book, “When Life Gives You Lululemons.”

The storytelling is wonky, given the film’s competing needs to be Miranda-blunt about the modern magazine business while pairing marvelously with a glass of rosé. Instead of Paris, we’re now whisked to cameo-studded shindigs in the Hamptons and Milan, including a dinner party underneath Da Vinci’s mural of “The Last Supper.” (Not only is the painting’s topic apropos, Da Vinci himself butted heads with his wealthy patrons.) Much of the first half feels like we’re cooling our heels with the gang, waiting for a plot to start. There are a lot of idea threads that fray off and don’t go anywhere. Are we supposed to interpret anything from the fact that Miranda has succumbed to throwing a spring florals event — a theme she famously loathes — or are we just supposed to chuckle at the banner and move on? Also, no one in attendance is even wearing anything with flowers. Is the old gal slipping, or is the costume design?

Finally, things get going with a funeral — I won’t say whose, only that the death makes a fitting twist for an industry already getting the axe. Like Andy, I started writing for newspapers a few years after Craigslist decimated the classified page. My personal version of “The Devil Wears Prada” would be closer to a grindhouse flick. At least the Runway employees look killer at their own wake.

Twerpy MBAs force Miranda to fly coach. Of course you snicker — her character hasn’t gone past the first-class curtain since everyone onboard got served a hot meal and plenty of legroom. But there’s no schadenfreude watching her squeeze into a middle seat, no glee in her comeuppance. If Miranda Priestly can get thrown in steerage, we’re all screwed.

The movie is simultaneously more depressing than the original and more saccharine, with a repellent amount of affection between characters who should know better. Tucci’s endearingly steadfast Nigel is finally applauded for his years of service to Runway, and I was dismayed to find myself rolling my eyes at how corny the moment felt. Frankel and McKenna were geniuses to keep things callous on the first go-round, but they now add a romantic subplot between Andy and an Australian apartment contractor (Patrick Brammall) that detracts from the platonic workplace relationships — it’s fan service that I’m not sure fans actually want. Miranda, too, has found love again, and her new husband’s part is so small that I kept trying to convince myself that the actor couldn’t really be the great Kenneth Branagh..

Justin Theroux has a showier, funnier part as the billionaire Benji Barnes who, every time you see him, is holding court about another inane idea or giggling about how a civilization-destroying Pompeii disaster is on the horizon. Terrifyingly, he refers to “humans” in the third person, as if he no longer considers himself one of our species. Given the film’s interest in the figures gutting journalism and how his character’s ex-wife (Lucy Liu) refers to their marriage as being like “a rocket ship to a hall of mirrors,” he’s Jeff Bezos with a sprinkle of Elon Musk. It’s pointed timing, given that Bezos is sponsoring May’s Met Gala, wrapping the Wintour-chaired event in his brand like a giant cardboard box.

But enough about what “The Devil Wears Prada 2” has to say about the economy. How are the clothes? Aesthetically, I dug Andy and Miranda’s sleek menswear looks, lots of vests and blazers with panache. Narratively, their characters — a heroine and her nemesis — shouldn’t dress as though they could swap wardrobes. Then again, they’re here aligned as champions of art, beauty and the press, standing shoulder to shoulder in the all-but-hopeless fight to protect Runway from the philistines. The real devils wear Fitbits.

Taylor Swift is entering her trademark era.

The global pop star’s company, TAS Rights Management, filed three new trademark applications last week, per the U.S. Patent & Trademark Office. Two of the applications relate to soundbites of her voice, saying the phrases “Hey, it’s Taylor Swift” and “Hey, it’s Taylor.” The other is a well-known image of Swift, often representative of her recent Eras tour, featuring the 36-year-old onstage, holding her pink guitar and dressed in a shimmering bodysuit.

The push to lock down her public image comes at a time when many high-profile celebrities have called for regulations against unauthorized AI-generated content. Matthew McConaughey was one of the first Hollywood A-listers to leverage trademark law as an extra layer of protection.

In January, the “Interstellar” actor secured eight trademarks for his likeness, including images of him smiling and the iconic recording of him saying, “Alright, alright, alright,” from the 1993 movie “Dazed and Confused.”

“My team and I want to know that when my voice or likeness is ever used, it’s because I approved and signed off on it,” the actor told the Wall Street Journal in January. “We want to create a clear perimeter around ownership with consent and attribution the norm in an AI world.”

Registering a trademark for a celebrity’s speaking voice to defend against the prospect of AI-voice generation is a novel legal approach that has not yet been tested in court. Representatives for Swift did not respond to a request for comment on the intent of the recently filed trademarks. But Josh Gerben, one of the first attorneys to report Swift’s latest legal moves, said this is one of the growing gaps in intellectual property protection that AI can exploit.

Before AI infiltrated the internet, musicians, like Swift, would typically rely on copyright law to help prevent the unauthorized use and distribution of their music, while right to publicity laws would protect them from unlawful commercial use of their likeness. But with AI, users can manipulate people’s voices and images to sing or say practically anything.

So if McConaughey has a trademark on his voice saying a phrase, then theoretically any AI-generated voice that sounds similar to it could be considered a violation of that trademark, according to Gerben.

“If they have this trademark protection in place, then the [AI] platforms can’t use that same voice to create new content,” Gerben said. “Every celebrity would essentially have to go and do the same thing, but it’s trying to cut this off at the source as much as possible.”

Variety first reported news of Swift’s trademark filing.

As one of the most popular musicians, Swift has dealt with her share of unauthorized AI-generated content. She was previously one of the many female celebrities whose likeness was among several of Meta’s AI chatbot virtual celebrities. The illicit chatbots allegedly produced pornographic images. Before the 2024 presidential election, Donald Trump also shared AI-generated images of Swift falsely suggesting that she had endorsed him, including one of her dressed as Uncle Sam with the words, “Taylor wants you to vote for Donald Trump.”

Because Swift is such a recognizable public figure, Luke Arrigoni, the chief executive of Loti AI, a tech company that focuses on likeness protection, said trademark filings like these aren’t merely defensive but rather a setup for a long-term protective infrastructure.

“By locking down these trademarks now, she’s ensuring that if a brand wants to use a ‘Swift-like’ AI voice in 2027, they’ll have to go through her authorized gates or face federal trademark infringement,” Arrigoni said in a statement. “She’s essentially putting a price tag on her digital self, and that’s exactly where the entire talent industry needs to go to survive.”

It felt like the Olympics. Crowds cheering. The American flag standing tall above the bleachers. Trainers jumping with anticipation. A swimmer staring in disbelief at the clock after his final stroke. The Jumbotron announced: Kristian Gkolomeev — 20.89 seconds. A new world record in the 50-meter freestyle.

Well, kind of.

I’ve left out some details. There was only one swimmer. The crowd? Just doctors, trainers and filmmakers. This was not in an Olympic city nor an Olympic year, but in Greensboro, N.C., in 2025. And there were no iconic rings on the banners, just “Enhanced Games.”

Yes, Gkolomeev swam faster than César Cielo, the official record holder at the time (20.91 seconds). But he did it “enhanced” — a polite way to say that he used performance-enhancing drugs. At the Enhanced Games, doping isn’t punished. It’s required.

The concept, as described by the organization: “to create the definitive scientific, cultural and sporting movement that safely evolves mankind into a new superhumanity.”

Backed by investors such as Peter Thiel and Donald Trump Jr.’s 1789 Capital, the Enhanced Games embodies a techno-utopian ideal: athletes as canvases for chemical optimization, testing the limits of human health for a lot of money. Gkolomeev earned $1 million for his record.

So far, the competition has happened at one-off pop-up events. But in May, Las Vegas will host the first full-scale Enhanced Games, a four-day meet in swimming, track and field, and weightlifting. The group advertises a “potential prize purse of $7.5 million for just a single day of competition,” plus appearance fees.

Does it need to be said? Apparently yes: The Enhanced Games glorifies the risky use of enhancement drugs.

Steroids can harden arteries, elevate stroke risk, damage the liver and permanently alter hormone systems. They are not electrolyte tablets or a little preworkout creatine. If Lance Armstrong had been rewarded — rather than sanctioned — for doping, what would have happened to competitive cycling?

Fans — and especially kids — mimic their idols. As risky as the drugs are for athletes at the Enhanced Games, with its “medical commission” to give the illusion of safety, the substances are even more dangerous when used by people without medical supervision.

The games also expose the economic neglect that drives athletes toward such competition. As Benjamin Proud, the British silver medalist who recently joined the Enhanced Games, put it: “It would have taken me 13 years of winning a World Championship title in order to win what I could win in one race at these games.”

Indeed, the Enhanced Games might look like an easy way out. Only nine swimmers worldwide received prize money and performance bonuses above $75,000 in 2025, according to World Aquatics.

Investors clearly hope to make money off the games as well. The organization is moving closer to becoming a publicly traded company. The economics are not mysterious.

But the Enhanced Games are not just another sporting event. They are an arena for biomedical experimentation and should be regulated as such. The games should face limits similar to those imposed on other high-risk industries, including age restrictions and strict advertising rules.

We already know how to govern legal, profitable activities that carry serious health risks.

In the United States, that means oversight from the Food and Drug Administration and the Federal Trade Commission — bodies that regulate drug protocols and police misleading commercial claims. A steroid-based competition should not be treated as a sport but as a medical experiment and a marketing stunt.

Regulations on pharmaceutical advertising offer a useful model for the Enhanced Games. Prescription drugs are advertised every night on television, but only under strict rules. They require fair balance (content must present benefits and risks with comparable prominence, readability and duration) and a “major statement” of risks (most serious risks must be spoken aloud and not obscured by visuals or music).

Right now, when you play Gkolomeev’s “world-record” video on YouTube, a medical-risk warning appears for barely five seconds — then vanishes. If a cholesterol drug must audibly warn viewers of stroke risk, why shouldn’t a steroid-based competition do the same?

Enhanced Games content should be accompanied by clear warnings of the risks of performance-enhancing drugs and be clearly labeled, age-gated and distributed as high-risk content more akin to pornography than to a boxing match.

Prohibition is not the answer. Trying to shut down these games only fuels a controversy-driven brand. Just recently, the Enhanced Games sued organizations such as World Aquatics and the World Anti-Doping Agency, alleging antitrust violations and that blocking athletes from participating at the Enhanced Games is illegal. As those organizations fight back, they will be seeking to protect the integrity of mainstream sports, but they will also inadvertently be promoting the Enhanced Games.

If we want kids to admire clean athletes rather than those using banned drugs, the Las Vegas launch must not reach the world as a Super Bowl would. The Enhanced Games should not be televised or allowed to stream online to minors. Otherwise, Las Vegas, in May, risks becoming an unregulated public-health experiment mislabeled as a sporting event.

Fabricio Ramos dos Santos is a lawyer, entrepreneur and sports investor.

Within a year where big language models write press releases, student papers, and even peer-reviewed articles with a single press of a button, guesswork is not an option that teachers, editors, and grant reviewers can afford. They require valid methods of determining whether they are looking at a page that was designed by a human being or generated by an algorithm. The boundary is more than ever indistinct: text generators of the modern era do not only imitate idiosyncratic diction, they also reference sources and sprinkle their text with rhetorical flourishes, which traditionally were the bane of automation. But there are still prints, prints of fingers, that are revealed by a rigorous check-up.

Why Detection Matters in 2026

Key Linguistic Signals Still Holding Up

Long before you open a dedicated detector, close reading can raise red flags. AI prose often exhibits low burstiness, sentence lengths fluctuate within narrow bands, and high lexical predictability, especially in mid-length passages. Repeated use of transitional adverbs such as “moreover,” “furthermore,” and “overall” in rhythmic sequences is another giveaway. Similarly, large models smooth out idiosyncratic contractions, turning informal drafts into formally homogenized copy. When a reviewer suspects such fingerprints, a quick trip to Smodin to check if text is AI generated offers an immediate probability score without exporting the manuscript. Still, numbers alone are insufficient; the linguistic context of the assignment, the native proficiency of the writer, and genre conventions must frame interpretation.

Burstiness versus Perplexity: What the Metrics Really Say

Turnitin is LMS-based but is English-centric. Copyleaks can also analyze code snippets or prose, and is used in computer-science classes. Smodin is more concerned with breadth and sub-second throughput, with a thousand-word manuscript taking less than five seconds. Comparative reviews, such as Quillbot vs Grammarly vs Smodin, show that no single tool prevails in every context. Experienced editors therefore run suspect passages through at least two detectors before escalating to human forensic analysis.

Layered Verification Workflow

Beyond Algorithms: Human Tactics That Still Work