Culture

As Netflix grapples with fallout from historic layoffs and upheaval in its senior executive ranks, the streaming giant is facing mounting scrutiny from investors about its growth strategy, diversification plans and response to rising competition from the likes of YouTube.

But the biggest challenge confronting the Los Gatos, Calif., company may be something more fundamental: a clash between the firm’s roots as a technology-driven upstart and its ambition to be a force in Hollywood.

Increasingly, tensions have flared between the L.A.-based executives dedicated to movies and TV shows and its engineers and technologists in Silicon Valley. Internal disputes have erupted over how best to expand the business and promote content on the platform to boost audience engagement, according to former Netflix employees and industry insiders who spoke to The Times.

The friction has deepened since co-founder Reed Hastings stepped away from management, handing the reins in January 2023 to Ted Sarandos and Greg Peters, who share the job of chief executive.

The dual-boss structure has at times hobbled the company and contributed to muddled messages and some costly misfires, such as its foray in the games business, said the sources, who were not authorized to speak publicly due to the sensitivity of the topic.

“With two CEOs, it’s hard to have a singular vision,” said a former Netflix executive who was not authorized to speak publicly.

Netflix declined to comment for this article.

But a person close to the company disputed the claim that there was a culture divide in Netflix.

“The idea that this is a power struggle between Hollywood and Silicon Valley misses how Netflix actually operates,” said the person, who was not authorized to speak publicly. “Ted and Greg bring different perspectives to the table, and that’s the point. They debate, make decisions together and recognize that neither great content nor great technology succeeds here without the other.”

Netflix, which laid off 6% of staff this month, has faced rising pressure after losing its status as a Wall Street darling and a Hollywood star.

(Allen J. Schaben/Los Angeles Times)

Only about 1% of the largest 3,000 publicly traded companies in the U.S. have co-CEOs, according to research firm Equilar. But there are high-profile examples of the arrangement, including software company Oracle, Comcast Corp., Spotify and private equity behemoth KKR.

The Larry Ellison family, which this month merged Paramount Skydance and Warner Bros. Discovery in a $111-billion transaction, installed scion David Ellison as CEO and the former leader of Mattel Corp., Ynon Kreiz, as co-CEO. Hollywood has had prosperous pairings, including longtime Warner Bros. studio chiefs Bob Daly and Terry Semel. Disney achieved tremendous success in the early 1990s when the late Frank Wells worked alongside former CEO Michael Eisner.

“The division of labor is just extremely powerful,” said Henning Piezunka, a management professor at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School. “If there is a disagreement between the CEOs, you still have two very smart people that are battling it out, and I kind of prefer that over one single person making the decision.”

But Netflix’s top leaders now face mounting pressure as the company has lost its status as a Wall Street darling and a Hollywood star.

Netflix’s proposed $82.7-billion bid to buy Warner Bros. late last year failed dramatically, causing its stock price to plummet.

Investors have grown impatient; they want to see better growth metrics, which has become increasingly difficult as the service, which has more than 325 million subscribers, has neared saturation in the U.S.

This month, Netflix laid off 6% of its staff, including several key movie and TV executives. It bounced its chief content officer, Bela Bajaria, replacing her with former Fox and Disney executive Peter Rice, who starts on Monday. Several programming executives were also let go, including film chief Dan Lin and his top deputy, Doug Belgrad, and the director of original TV series, Carolina Garcia.

“They have got to have a plan to reignite revenue growth, and it can’t just be about making better TV content,” said Laura Martin, media analyst with Needham & Co. “Everybody’s trying to make hit content.”

Former Netflix Chief Executive Reed Hastings, left, and Ted Sarandos attend at 2011 launch party in Mexico City.

(Elizabeth Fuentes/Getty Images)

A dynamic leader

Former CEO Hastings, who co-founded the company in Scotts Valley just outside of Santa Cruz in 1997, was a dynamic leader. The mathematics and computer science graduate, who spent two years in the Peace Corps, launched Netflix by mailing DVDs in red envelopes to customers bothered by Blockbuster Video chain’s practices and late fees. In 2007, Netflix began offering streaming.

Hastings oversaw the creation of a pioneering technology that could offer helpful recommendations to users on what to watch next.

That recommendation algorithm has long been viewed as Netflix’s secret sauce. It quickly became the envy of rival entertainment firms that were late to recognize how disruptive the streaming business would become.

With Hastings, a Silicon Valley entrepreneur at the helm, power at the company was cleanly split between the tech teams who worked at its Bay Area headquarters and the executives who worked with talent and content on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood.

Hastings established Netflix’s unique left-brain/right-brain culture, where people pitching projects were encouraged to openly debate and disagree.

To prepare for an eventual leadership transition, the company set up a dual CEO structure in 2020 by promoting Sarandos, its longtime content chief, to co-CEO.

Hastings, a 66-year-old billionaire, stepped down in 2023 as co-CEO, leaving his lieutenants in charge.

Hastings did not respond to a request for a comment.

Sarandos, 62, was known for making splashy bets on programming that paid off, including agreeing to pay $100 million for the first two seasons of a political drama, “House of Cards,” starring Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright that turned into one of Netflix’s first big TV hits.

Peters, 55, who was previously chief operating officer, has a tech background that complemented Sarandos’ entertainment industry insights. He holds a bachelor degree in physics and astronomy from Yale University and was taught code by his mother, a computer programmer.

Under Sarandos’ leadership, Netflix grew its presence in Hollywood and created content teams internationally. With Hastings no longer in the day-to-day mix, the power tilted toward Hollywood and Sarandos, who oversees the bulk of the company’s $20-billion programming budget.

“Over time, the center of gravity moved to L.A.,” one industry executive said.

The company expanded its business, including offering customers a cheaper subscription plan with ads. It also pushed into live sports, which Bajaria championed, and games.

The Dallas Cowboys’ Gene Jones, left, and Jerry Jones chat with Netflix executive Ted Sarandos during a 2025 premiere at the Egyptian Arena Theatre in Hollywood.

(Amy Sussman / Getty Images)

Escalating tensions

But as Netflix expanded and diversified, internal divisions intensified over operations and strategy.

In one instance, tech employees were surprised when Sarandos’ team signed a deal to release 2024 NFL Christmas Day games on Netflix without consulting tech and product executives, whose staffers would be responsible for providing the tech support for such a key event, two people familiar with the matter said. Those concerns were magnified after Netflix experienced widespread technical difficulties during the streaming of the Mike Tyson-Jake Paul fight that November, though the NFL broadcast was largely free of glitches.

Disputes also emerged over how best to promote and market shows and movies on the platform. Under Hastings, the trailers and thumbnails of programs were overseen by the product team, who analyze consumer behavior. But Sarandos has given the company’s marketing team more control over the promotional assets of programs, leading to disagreements with the product team over how to best to represent programs and engage viewers, two people familiar with the matter said.

Another source of internal friction has centered on Netflix’s aggressive venture into games that Peters championed, as part of a strategy to diversify its business and retain subscribers.

The streamer acquired several game studios beginning in 2021, investing billions into the space, sources said.

But the effort has badly misfired. In August, Netflix announced it was closing Hollywood-based gaming studio Night School and shuttering Finland-based gaming studio Moonloot. It previously shuttered Allen, Texas-based Boss Fight Entertainment.

The focus on games also sparked disagreements between Peters and Sarandos, who believed the tech and product teams were giving too much attention to games, creating confusion among teams over how they should operate, said a source with knowledge of the matter.

The leaders also disagreed in other areas as well, including over a 2025 deal with French broadcaster TF1 to bring its free channels into Netflix in France as a way to draw more viewers to both services.

Peters pushed for the deal, which Sarandos initially opposed, and the debate delayed an effort that could have helped the business sooner, according to three people familiar with the deal who were not authorized to comment. The TF1 partnership was a success that Netflix wants to replicate with other partners.

Sarandos and Peters also raised eyebrows when they appeared to send conflicting signals on the company’s interest in buying Warner Bros. During an Oct. 8, 2025, conference appearance, Peters said Netflix had a deep heritage of being a builder rather than a buyer.

“One should have a reasonable amount of skepticism around big media mergers,” Peters said. “They don’t have an amazing track record over the history of time.”

Netflix executives Greg Peters, left, and Ted Sarandos, right, visit a studio lot with Warner Bros. Discover chief David Zaslav.

(Joe Pugliese and John Nowak / For Warner Bros. Discovery)

A week later, Sarandos called Warner Bros. Discovery CEO David Zaslav to express interest in acquiring Warner’s streaming and studios business, according to regulatory filings. Netflix in December unveiled its $82.7-billion proposal, which Peters also supported, according to knowledgeable sources.

But, after spending months touting the benefits that Warner assets would bring, Netflix abruptly pulled out of the auction in late February when Paramount’s Ellison upped his company’s offer. Warner executives expected Netflix to go the distance, but they soon recognized deep anxiety within Netflix’s board, according to an executive who was not authorized to speak publicly.

Netflix’s stock hasn’t recovered. Its shares traded for $109 before the Warner bid. On Friday, the stock closed at $65.85.

Netflix is profitable, with net income increasing 44% to $3.7 billion in the third quarter and revenue up 12% to $12.87 billion from the third quarter a year ago, but the company remains under scrutiny by Wall Street.

Sarandos in an earnings call last week there is “no need for a fundamental shift in the strategy” but said the company needs to develop more hit shows in the U.S. that can “travel around the world.”

Netflix projected its revenue would come in the lower range of its estimate for the year, citing a lower ad revenue forecast.

“Their advertising growth has been very slow … and the video game business has been disappointing,” Martin, the analyst, said. “The problem is that the market is maturing and they need a Plan B, and they don’t really have a Plan B right now.”

Far-right President Abelardo de la Espriella says he will wage a ‘counterrevolution’ against cultural institutions.

Colombian President Abelardo de la Espriella has announced he is spearheading a cultural “counterrevolution” that includes removing dozens of exhibits from the National Museum, drawing protests and comparisons to United States President Donald Trump.

De la Espriella, a conservative Trump ally, said last week that he wants to prevent cultural institutions from being taken over by what he calls “atheist social communism”.

Since then, exhibits have been taken down that once addressed the history of social movements, including feminist and LGBTQ+ activism, and Colombia’s political violence.

The changes have sparked protests by civil rights groups, artists and students who have accused the government of censorship and warn that important parts of the country’s history could be erased.

Dozens of demonstrators gathered on Wednesday outside the National Museum in downtown Bogota as riot police guarded its entrance.

“I find it outrageous that they want to erase part of our history,” said Azul Riascos, a history student.

He said the government was promoting a vision of Colombia as exclusively white, Catholic and Spanish-speaking. That image, he explained, excluded Black, Indigenous and LGBTQ+ communities.

Gimena Sanchez-Garzoli, director for the Andes at the Washington Office on Latin America, a research and advocacy organisation, said the Colombian government’s approach reflects a broader trend among Trump allies who are copying US political narratives and strategies.

Trump has been fiercely critical of museums in Washington, particularly those tied to the Smithsonian Institution.

The White House released a report in July branding leaders of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History as radical activists and has ordered signs to be installed outside the museum telling visitors that some of the exhibits are inaccurate.

Nearly three months after that order, such signs haven’t been installed. The museum’s director, Anthea Hartig, told Congress that the White House report “does not fairly or accurately characterise the full body of work at the museum”.

Sanchez-Garzoli said Trump’s cooperation with allied Latin American governments on security and counternarcotics efforts also has an ideological dimension.

“These are imported narratives about terrorism and about being ‘woke,’” anthropologist Arturo Sanabria said during Wednesday’s protest, describing the Colombian government’s approach as a form of neocolonial intervention.

Colombia’s Culture Minister Paola Holguin said the government was reviewing and redesigning exhibitions and curatorial practices at other museums overseen by her ministry.

The Foreign Ministry also renamed a courtyard previously honouring an Indigenous leader, describing the change as part of the president’s campaign against “woke” ideology.

“The government is making serious efforts in a cultural battle that probably doesn’t exist,” political scientist Estefania Cardozo said outside the museum. “It is inventing one to erase identities that cannot be erased because they already exist.”

Bitupan Deka was out shopping for a “gamusa” (traditional scarf) with his mother in India’s northeastern state of Meghalaya when he noticed something unusual.

“Every shop selling the scarf had the same handful of patterns repeated over and over,” he told Al Jazeera over the telephone from Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya.

“When I asked around, I found that weavers in Sualkuchi [district in neighbouring Assam state] are paid a one-time fee of roughly 2,000 rupees [$21] for each design they develop, instead of royalties. Cutting down the number of designs they produce was a cost-saving practice followed by the manufacturers.”

This discovery prompted Deka, an assistant professor of computer technology at Shillong’s MIT University, to create a system that can produce infinite new designs for such fabrics.

“My work isn’t meant to replace the traditional designers. I hope, instead, that it will become a tool in their hands to create new and modern motifs more easily, so the consumers can have variety,” Deka said.

Once the patent, which is being applied for under the research and development department of his university, comes through, Deka plans to monetise the system by making it a commercial designing service that the textile industry can avail.

In India’s varied textile traditions, patterns and motifs carry the memory of a place and the mythology of its people – sometimes even the history of migrations.

The designs are imagined by weavers from things that exist around them, and then painted with locally available colours, mostly using carved clay and wooden frames. These weavers do not simply reproduce a pattern; they inherit it. Their hands hesitate where their grandmother’s did, and they know why a particular flower must face left.

A computer has no such inheritance or hesitation. It learns by analysing pictures and repeating them in endless variations. And yet, as Deka’s system shows, the computer can now draw and weave the same flower.

The Rekh Sanganeri Dataset is a similar system developed for hand-block printed Sanganeri textiles from the western Indian state of Rajasthan. It includes high-resolution images of printed patterns, annotated down to ink bleed and slight misalignment – the imperfections that are the hallmark of the handmade work.

Its developer, Reddy Sai Nivas C, says it should be used as a resource for research and art, not as a substitute for artisans.

But the disclaimer is the paradox: Tools built to preserve a craft are making its visual language easier to digitally reproduce without involving the craftsperson.

Dinesh Chhipa comes from one of the oldest Chhipa families, an artisan and merchant caste renowned for dyeing and block printing. He is a Bagru designer – a block printing technique from Bagru town in the western state of Rajasthan – and a textile businessman.

“Traditional craft is slow to produce. Even if someone offered us a fortune, we wouldn’t be able to produce these pieces in mass numbers, so I don’t fault those using digital technology and AI to fill the gap,” he told Al Jazeera.

“But don’t borrow craft and regional names like Bagru and Jaipuri [named after the capital city of Rajasthan]. These designs and motifs were born out of a culture and necessities of the communities they come from.”

Who owns culture when it turns into plain data?

India has been digitising its textile memory for years – from the Botanical Survey of India’s historical collections to the Bharatiya Vastra Shilpa Kosh, a national portal built by the state-run National Institute of Fashion Technology and the Centre for Development of Advanced Computing (C-DAC).

Without documentation, the fragile traditions and knowledge could disappear. But digitisation also allows the same archive to be used by an AI system seeking to reproduce these crafts at scale.

At the India AI Impact Summit in New Delhi in February this year, Indian software company Tata Consultancy Services (TCS) showcased Bridgital Loom, an AI system that converts textile designs into loom-ready instructions. LED lights on the loom guide a weaver through the thread sequences of intricate Banarasi and Kanchipuram patterns – named after the cities where these iconic arts grew.

TCS says the technology helps weavers execute complex designs faster and with fewer errors, and is meant to be a bridge between the artisans and technology. A pilot project that uses the loom is already under way at Kanchipuram, a town in southern Tamil Nadu state.

In an interview with the online platform Digit at the New Delhi summit, the head of AI strategy at Bridgital Loom, Muthulakshmi Nellaiappan, pointed out that a new weaver takes more than 15 years to master the art.

“With the technologies we have in hand … the younger weaver who has just entered the skill can become a master much sooner,” she said.

Technology flattens the master-apprentice hierarchy of traditional knowledge systems. The weaver no longer has to conceptualise or remember patterns, colours and codes; he blindly follows the machine’s instructions, handing creativity and memory to AI.

Nellaiappan said that since a large percentage of India’s looms are non-electronic, TCS has ensured its system works with handlooms as well and that it was essential for scaling up the technology.

But digital looms also raise another question: Who owns culture when it turns into plain data?

For generations, India’s textile knowledge sat outside intellectual property systems. It lived in community memory, passed from master to apprentice with no certificate of ownership. Kanchipuram, Mekhela-Sador, Sanganeri and Banarasi are names for places that these textiles helped shape, not merely emerged from.

Now, this knowledge is entering generative models that owe nothing to these traditions.

For designers and manufacturers, the possibilities are seductive: Motifs combined at will, colours changed with a command, and thousands of designs generated instantly. The machine offers abundance.

The artisan, on the other hand, has always lived with scarcity: Of money, bargaining power, or recognition.

Ananthalakshmi Vadivel, a third-generation weaver and owner of Vadivel Silk Looms in Kanchipuram, says their venture is already competing in the market with cheaper Kanchipuram sarees produced on electronic looms.

“Perhaps, with AI, these sellers can create trending designs faster and cheaper to attract mass consumers. But these imitations can never replace the original,” she told Al Jazeera.

“There will always be a market for authentic Kanchipuram and handcrafted textiles, no matter how much technology makes the imitation cheaper. True Kanchipuram weave, colour, and designs can only be created by hand, and discerning buyers know this.”

Then again, the question is no longer whether AI can recreate a textile. It sure can. The question is: Who gets paid when it does?

Legal gaps

In December 2025, the federal government’s Department for Promotion of Industry and Internal Trade floated a statutory “blanket licence” – a system where AI developers could train models on lawfully obtained copyrighted material without seeking permission from each rights holder. Once commercialised, those systems would owe royalties to copyright owners at rates set by the government.

But intellectual property (IP) laws assume a traceable work with a traceable author. A motif, on the other hand, is communal property, its technique passed down through generations with no single originator.

In such cases, who is entitled to royalty and copyright? The artisan who first created the design? The photographer who documented it? The researcher who assembled the dataset? The developer who built the tool? India’s laws offer no clear answers. The artisan whose name never appeared on a label may once again be missing from the paperwork.

Meanwhile, the government is planning a dedicated AI-handloom research department under the Centre of Excellence for Handloom Technology at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) in the capital, New Delhi. Inaugurated in August, the $1.4m facility aims to modernise India’s handloom sector by combining traditional weaving heritage with contemporary technology.

The government also plans to register thousands of weavers and fit their handlooms with sensors that convert weave patterns into digital data, and issue QR-coded tags to trace provenance. Maharashtra’s Vingatha system does something similar at the state level by authenticating handloom sarees such as Paithani and Karvat Kathi.

The idea is simple: If a saree can tell you where it came from, the person who made it becomes harder to erase.

While these measures cannot stop AI-enabled design and mass production, they may give artisans more visibility and turn each piece into an archive.

In art galleries, the traditional textiles are increasingly shedding the label of craft for the more lucrative category of contemporary art.

Gurjeet Singh, an artist from Chandigarh city, recently hosted a textile-based solo show in New York. His work transforms discarded fabrics, buttons and embroidered scraps into sculptures that explore queer identity and social prejudices surrounding gender and sexuality.

Sayan Chanda, an Indian artist based in London, works with cut and rewoven vintage Bengali quilts to question fixed notions of cultural belonging. Gurugram-based artist Sumakshi Singh uses delicate embroidery and suspended thread structures to reconstruct the architectural fragments of vanished homes, gardens and personal histories. There are many more.

In New Delhi, 20 such artisans and craft-led collectives featured last month at an art show celebrating the traditional textile crafts.

“Our aim is to present these traditional crafts as living practices that continue to evolve through contemporary artisans, rather than as heritage to be archived. Kanmai Payun, one of the artists featured in the show, for example, is the last practitioner of Fulor Saneki, a flower pattern used by Assamese weavers. We encouraged her to teach her 17-year-old son so the craft outlives her,” Aparupa Ray Ganguly, the curator of the show, told Al Jazeera.

But as textiles gain value in art galleries, their makers do not necessarily gain automatic control over their work.

In April, another art exhibition in New Delhi, titled No ‘One’ Maker, saw artisans missing from the show’s preview, exposing how traditional textiles are aestheticised, but the people who carry that knowledge remain unrecognised.

“You cannot separate the names from the community. Call your mass-produced work digital prints and leave the traditional names to the original artisans,” says Chhipa, the artisan and merchant from Rajasthan.

Miguel Rojas didn’t want to take his cleats off.

The veteran infielder stood by his locker at Dodger Stadium, his eyes red and watery, his uniform covered in dirt, knowing that when he pulled them off, it would be for the last time.

“This is it, guys,” he said, announcing his retirement, after the Dodgers were swept by the Milwaukee Brewers in the National League Championship Series on Thursday. “It’s been a lot, the last four years of my life here. And obviously making my debut here in 2014 changed my life, not just for me but for my whole family. They took care of my son, my daughter, my wife, and everybody in my family. It’s really amazing what I can think about, what happened to me and to my family the last few years.”

Rojas addressed the team after the 6-4 loss to the Brewers. He said he was going to stay loyal to the Dodgers organization but in a different role.

Rojas, 37, has a player development role lined up, the first step in a post-playing career that he hopes eventually will land him in a manager’s seat.

“I just wanted to say thank you to all the veteran guys for allowing me to be myself when I got here, even though I didn’t play one game for the Los Angeles Dodgers for the last eight or nine years before I came here,” Rojas said. “They allowed me to be the leader that I wanted to be, the person that I wanted to change the culture and kind of give a little bit more of a culture, chemistry to the clubhouse. I feel like that is going to be a legacy that I wanted to leave here, other than my performance on the field. … I want them to remember me as a guy who always did everything possible to help my teammates win and to help the team get better every single day.”

Rojas put together a 13-year career split between the Dodgers and Miami Marlins. He had a career .260 batting average, won two World Series rings and three straight Roy Campanella Awards for his leadership in the Dodgers’ clubhouse.

Miguel Rojas hits a single during Game 3 of the NLCS against the Brewers on Wednesday.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

After Rojas made his major league debut with the Dodgers in 2014, the team traded him to the Marlins. He played eight seasons there. Then in 2023, the Marlins traded him back to the Dodgers.

Rojas, a key contributor in the Dodgers’ back-to-back championship seasons, saved the Dodgers’ 2025 World Series with his Game 7 home run. He re-signed in December for what was expected to be his last season.

Right before the playoffs, Rojas, who is from Venezuela, took his U.S. citizenship test. He said the person administering his interview didn’t realize he was a baseball player until she asked who his employer was.

“I actually wanted it to be that way because I didn’t want to have any kind of preference or anything because this process has nothing to do with baseball,” he said last week. “I felt like, as a citizen, as a human being, I always wanted to be a good person off the field and not let my performance influence anything, because we all know how hard this game can be and how high you can be and how low you can be one day. I don’t want to be judged by my performance on the field. I want to be judged by the person I am and my preparation.”

R&B icon Stephanie Mills revealed she had an unresolved beef with “Mother Monster” Lady Gaga.

During Wednesday’s episode of “The Jason Lee Show,” the Grammy-winning “Wiz” star didn’t hold back when she explained what went down between her and Gaga and how the experience left a sour taste in her mouth.

“I feel like Lady Gaga is a culture vulture,” Mills said. “Can I tell you something. … I don’t even know if I should say it now.”

But Mills went on and said it anyway.

She said she was approached by her former manager a few years ago and asked to fly to New York, where Lady Gaga was doing a fashion shoot. Mills’ megahit “Home” was Gaga’s favorite song, according to the manager, who asked Mills, “Would you come and surprise her and sing?”

“At first I said no,” Mills continued. “Why would I do that? And I was talked into it. Never let somebody talk you into something.

“I went,” Mills said. “She had a little black dog there, and all the other people, and so I sang for her. She didn’t smile. She didn’t do anything. She looked at me like I had two heads.”

Mills said she finished singing “Home,” and the stars took photos, but before she left, Gaga’s team stopped her at the elevator and insisted she delete the pictures. “And they did not let us leave until they saw every picture being deleted,” she said. “Very disrespectful.”

The Broadway star further explained that she thought Gaga was a culture vulture because she was managed by a Black man, Troy Carter, who also worked with John Legend, Eve, Nelly, Meghan Trainor and Charlie Puth. Carter is widely credited with ushering the “Born This Way” singer into superstardom in the aughts.

“I know who I am. I did it. I sang a song for her. I had admiration for her. I don’t any longer,” Mills said.

“I give everybody grace, and I’ve learned throughout the years to take my temperature down and not react but show them who I am later. … It’s like you don’t have to always react, but sooner or later you’ll get your chance to say, ‘Do you remember?’”

She followed the statement by looking straight into the camera and addressing Gaga, “I hope you watch, and I hope you remember what you did. And I feel like you owe me an apology.”

Reps for Gaga did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment, but the star — as well as many other musicians and actors — has a history of nixing photographs.

The cultural exchange comes amid strengthening ties between the two countries.

Israel has returned 22 ancient artefacts stolen from Greece, a cultural exchange that comes as the two countries strengthen ties.

Greek and Israeli officials did not provide details on Tuesday on how the artefacts were discovered in Israel or the circumstances surrounding their illegal removal from Greece.

The Israel Antiquities Authority’s Theft Prevention Unit had located the items, Pninat Yanay, Israel’s ambassador to Greece, said.

Greek Minister of Culture Lina Mendoni accepted the objects from the Israeli Antiquities Authority at a ceremony held at the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.

“It is the first time that Israel has returned antiquities to Greece, marking the starting point of closer cooperation between the two countries for the protection of cultural heritage,” Mendoni said.

“Every return of a cultural object to its place of origin has a broader symbolic and moral dimension.”

The collection includes 15 Attic vases, six Corinthian vases, and a bronze female statuette.

The objects are dated between 700 BC and 320 BC.

Yanay said the return of the antiquities created “the conditions for further strengthening cooperation between Greece and Israel”.

Greece-Israel relations

Greece and Israel have strengthened energy and defence ties in recent years.

In August, Israel signed a $3.5bn defence deal to build a multi-layered air defence system in Greece, called the Achilles Shield. It is the largest defence deal between the two countries, and one of the most significant export agreements in Israel’s recent history.

It’s early morning in Erfurt, the capital of Germany’s Thuringia region, and Domplatz is abuzz with local growers setting out crates of vegetables and flowers beneath the soaring medieval cathedral towers. This 14th- and 15th-century engineering wonder holds the Gloriosa, the world’s largest medieval free-swinging bell, cast in 1497 and weighing 12 tonnes. Though the city and surrounding landscape are notably flat, its skyline is pierced by soaring church towers and steeples, the atmospheric old town hardly changed over the centuries.

Thuringia – often called the “green heart of Germany” – lies in the centre of the country, between Hesse, Saxony and Bavaria. It’s famous for its dense forests, intellectual heritage and hearty cuisine, and I’m here for four days to explore using public transport.

Leaving Frankfurt behind, my three-hour coach journey rolls through rising forested highlands before descending into the wide, agricultural basin that cradles Erfurt. After checking out Domplatz’s morning market, it’s just a short walk to one of the town’s other famous sights, the 120-metre-long Krämerbrücke – a 14th-century bridge lined with colourful half-timbered houses.

Erfurt was once at the crossroads of two major trade routes, and the wealth that built its impressive churches and merchants’ houses came partly from waid, or woad, a plant cultivated in the surrounding fields and processed for its blue dye. I stroll past the craft shops (some still sell the dye) to Petersberg Citadel, one of the largest and best-preserved fortresses in Europe, with a maze of underground tunnels. This is also the city where the Protestant Reformation took root – Martin Luther studied here and was a monk in the Augustinian monastery (you can join a guided tour or even stay overnight).

Dinner is in a suitably historic setting; Wirtshaus Christoffel, in the Haus zur weißen Lilie (House of the White Lily), dates back to the 12th century (the house-brewed beer and beef roulade with Thuringian dumplings are delicious).

Next morning, I head to Egapark (a seven-minute bus ride or a 30-minute walk from town). Spread across 36 hectares (89 acres), it was created for the 1961 international horticultural exhibition. The old Cyriaksburg fortress houses the German Horticultural Museum, which traces the history of gardening, while displays range from landscapes of cacti and succulents to tropical planting.

The city of Weimar, a 30-minute bus journey away, is next on my list. The birthplace of the artistic Bauhaus movement, and where Germany’s first democratic constitution was adopted, it’s full of interesting historic sites and design gems. I visit the Bauhaus museum, with its ceramics, textiles, metalwork and painting, and wander around town, passing the former art school buildings that now house the Bauhaus-Universität.

The next morning, I swap culture for chilling and take another bus to Bad Langensalza, a spa town of 10 parks and themed gardens, 40 miles (64km) away. My guide, Markus Fromm, explains that people come here to “cure, to relax, to refresh”.

Sulphur springs were discovered here in 1811, and today, the Friederiken Therme is the town’s main thermal spa, offering natural sulphur, brine and drinking mineral waters, alongside indoor and outdoor pools, saunas and treatments. Traces of the older spa history remain around the town: at Friederikenschlösschen, an 18th-century summer residence, a fountain still runs with sulphur water that has been used for healing since 1812.

But it’s the town’s gardens that really win me over. I wander Friederikenschlösschen’s restored baroque garden and visit the Klagetor, a gate tower dating from about 1365, where the old town gives way to the Japanese garden, Kofuku no Niwa (Garden of Happiness), with its koi ponds, clipped azaleas and sculpted pines.

For nature on an even grander scale, I take a bus to Hainich national park, 10 minutes away (you can easily rent a bike/e-bike and follow cycling paths to get there too). Spanning 7,500 hectares, Hainich offers more than 75 miles of signposted walking trails through its beech forests, part of a Unesco world heritage site. The wider Hainich is Germany’s largest unbroken deciduous woodland area. “Parts of this landscape have been left entirely untouched for decades, abandoned to their own devices without a shred of human meddling,” says park director Rüdiger Biehl.

Before hitting the trail, I stop at the park’s restaurant, Forsthaus Thiemsburg, for a regional lunch – roast pork in black beer and Thuringian dumplings, washed down with a cold Köstritzer pilsner. Then, into the trees. Deep in the beeches, the sun sporadically breaks through the branches and the leaves crunch loudly under my boots. Up in the canopy, it’s mostly just the birds making noise – chaffinches and wood warblers chatter, interrupted by the occasional sharp rattle of a middle spotted woodpecker drilling into a trunk.

The Baumkronenpfad, a wooden walkway through the treetops, rises to a 44-metre observation tower. Here, the canopy of an oak that is estimated to be 350 years old is almost at eye level. It’s a spectacular view, but the forest’s real engine is down below. Deadwood is left to decay where it falls, providing habitat for rare wood-boring insects and endangered Bechstein’s bats. Back in Erfurt that evening, I catch the final symphony concert of the season at Theaterplatz. It’s a reminder of the winning combination of culture and nature that I’ve enjoyed over my four days in Thuringia. I had come looking for a less familiar corner of Germany and found a region that offers plenty of variety – and all accessible with a few short bus rides.

The trip was provided by the German National Tourist Board. Dorint Hotel am Dom in Erfurt has doubles from £85. For journey planning, VMT has information on buses, trains and trams across central Thuringia, as well as a free app with live departure updates

For more than 40 percent of US presidents, the fraternity hall was an early stop on the road to the White House.

Fraternal organisations, more commonly known as fraternities or frats, have a long and storied history on college campuses in the United States.

One industry group, the North American Interfraternity Conference (NIC), represents 58 fraternities spread across 600 schools. It claims nearly 200,000 undergraduate students as active members and an alumni population of 4.2 million.

The draw for college-aged men is the promise of brotherhood, a bond that transcends keg parties and late-night revelry. Like sororities and other members-only student organisations, fraternities are often touted as pathways to personal, academic and professional success.

But critics argue that some fraternities have leveraged their exclusivity to encourage and normalise violence, dangling social acceptance as a reward for compliance.

“This isn’t [some sort of] a hobbyist club,” said anthropologist Aldo Cimino, a Kent State University professor who studies fraternity hazing. “It is the seriousness of the affiliation that has generated the intensity of these induction rituals.”

In recent weeks, one case has renewed debate over fraternity culture and whether the campus organisations use their exclusivity to shield bad behaviour.

In September, an anonymous woman known as Jane Doe filed a civil lawsuit against the Chi Phi fraternity at Cornell University and seven of its members, accusing them of gang raping her during a party on the night of October 19, 2024.

Doe’s sorority, Delta Delta Delta, and Cornell itself are among the co-defendants.

Her lawsuit raises questions about fraternity and sorority culture at US schools, collectively known as “Greek life” for the groups’ use of Greek lettering and symbols.

Upon her admission to Cornell, Doe argues she encountered a “glorified – yet materially false and misleading – facade” for Greek life.

“She arrived on a campus where the University actively promoted Greek membership as a ‘vital’ part of the campus community and endorsed these organizations as well-managed, worthy pathways to new friendships and improving one’s educational and professional opportunities,” the lawsuit said.

The complaint accuses the fraternities of instead perpetuating a pattern of sexual assault and abuse.

What are fraternities?

Now a multibillion-dollar industry, fraternities in the US trace their origins to men-only clubs established at some of the country’s oldest universities.

The tradition began at the College of William and Mary in 1776, when Phi Beta Kappa was founded as a secret society for debate and scholarly exchange.

Its adoption of the Greek alphabet, oath of secrecy, and arcane membership rites helped establish a blueprint for future fraternities and sororities. Often with houses of their own, fraternities eventually grew into informal extensions of the campus residential system.

Historian Nicholas Syrett wrote about the origins of such groups in his book The Company He Keeps: A History of White College Fraternities.

In an interview with Al Jazeera, he explained that fraternities have long embraced so-called masculine ideals. But those ideals have changed from generation to generation.

In the past, fraternities sought to position themselves in “opposition to boyhood” by embracing “independence, strength of character, handsomeness and loyalty”, Syrett explained.

But their modern iteration has shifted to include a greater emphasis on “athleticism, sexual success with women, and recklessness” as well as alpha-male posturing.

Syrett argues that the fraternity system’s cult of toughness reflects a wider matrix of gendered expectations and social hierarchies.

Early fraternity men, Syrett says, prized intellect and academic distinction, provided neither betrayed too much effort. But “this has largely taken a backseat in contemporary fraternities”, he explained.

“When [men] are initiated, they are taught that loyalty to the brotherhood is of the utmost importance,” Syrett said of fraternities today. “This leads to the keeping of all kinds of secrets, including things that are against the rules and/or the law.”

A mark of elite status

In the two and a half centuries since the first fraternities were formed, Greek life has expanded to include different races and identities outside of white men.

Some Greek groups have even eschewed the traditional gender divide altogether to better embrace transgender and non-binary members.

But fraternities and sororities overall tend to act as “microcosms of the larger society”, according to Elizabeth Allan, a professor at the University of Maine and director of its Hazing Prevention Research Lab, “with race, pretty privilege and economic segregation helping shape the system”.

“The [social] stratification that we see in the larger society is going to be reflected, in large part, in many of these organisations, unless they’re actively working to disrupt it,” she added.

Between membership dues and rent at fraternity chapter houses, Greek organisations can price out all but the more affluent students, according to Allan.

“Pretty privilege” – the social bias in favour of those deemed conventionally attractive – can add to the pressure, with sorority applicants in particular shelling out hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars for cosmetic treatments and outfits.

Experts say the sense of exclusivity that many fraternities and sororities cultivate is a powerful draw for incoming students, who see membership as a path to upward social mobility.

That perception is reinforced by the groups’ internal dynamics. Many sororities and fraternities encourage networking among members.

A 2021 Gallup survey commissioned by the NIC and the National Panhellenic Conference found that 42 percent of fraternity or sorority alumni said a fellow member had helped them find an internship or job.

Meanwhile, 51 percent of Greek members reported having a job waiting at graduation or found employment within two months. The rate was much lower among those who were not members of such fraternities or sororities, at 36 percent.

How hazing shapes fraternities

Critics often point to hazing rituals in particular as shaping a culture of violence at some fraternities and sororities.

Hazing is a process through which prospective Greek life members undergo humiliating and sometimes perilous tasks to secure admission.

The phenomenon is prohibited by law in most US states, though the definitions, penalties and scope of such laws vary. The consequences, however, can be deadly.

One of the earliest recorded deaths associated with fraternity hazing took place at Cornell in 1873.

At the time, a group of “pledges” – would-be fraternity members – were blindfolded and led far from campus at night, with instructions to make their way back on their own.

In the dark, one of the pledges, Mortimer M Leggett, and two fraternity members stumbled over a cliff and plunged into the gorge of Six Mile Creek. The two fraternity members survived. Leggett, however, did not.

Secret initiation rituals can forge an “informal psychological social contract in which members feel obligated to protect the organisation”, according to Pietro Sasso, who studies college student experience at Old Dominion University.

Some members may feel the need to rally around the fraternity even when “doing so conflicts with their personal values or responsibilities to others”, Sasso added.

“My research on fraternity cultures suggests that organisational socialisation can normalise behaviours that individuals might otherwise question, making the environment itself an important part of prevention,” he explained.

Inside Doe’s lawsuit against Chi Phi

Doe’s case cites some of the social pressures and incentives that lead young men and women to Greek life on campus.

“She was drawn to the sorority and its promises of sisterhood and lifelong friendships, the status it conferred on its members, and the community it provided on campus when she was over 1,000 miles away from home,” the lawsuit said of Doe.

But Doe said she joined Cornell’s Greek community without being fully aware of the pattern of sexual assault associated with the local fraternities.

During Doe’s first semester, in 2022, there were at least five reported cases of victims at Cornell being drugged, and two alleged cases of sexual assault. All of those cases, according to her lawsuit, took place at fraternities.

Two years later, on the night of the alleged gang rape, Doe claims she was pressured by fraternity members to take drugs like ketamine, marijuana and alcohol. After agreeing to a threesome, she said she found herself in a “room full of predatory, fraternity men” who raped her while she was incapacitated.

A photo of a group chat included in her lawsuit shows one Chi Phi member informing his fellow fraternity brothers that there was “free pussy” in an upstairs alumni room. A member of the chat replies, “I f***ing love chi phi.” Another chimes in, “Like you can walk in and whip it out.”

Several of the men have denied any wrongdoing.

But the case has sparked questions about whether the culture of Greek life contributes to a high rate of sexual assault in fraternities and sororities.

One 2021 survey published by the American Psychological Association tracked male students from high school through their second year of college. It found that fraternity members were 62 percent more likely to report sexual aggression during their first two years of college.

Separately, a 2009 study published in the journal Violence Against Women estimated that 29 percent of sorority members reported suffering sexual assault during college, roughly four times the rate of non-members.

Reforming Greek life

After the alleged gang rape in 2024, Cornell’s Chi Phi chapter was closed, and the fraternity remains barred from campus. Two male defendants in Doe’s lawsuit were expelled, while another two were suspended.

But some student activists say too little is being done to reform Greek life in the wake of Doe’s case. They want stronger measures to enforce accountability within private, members-only groups where secrecy often reigns.

CJ Barles, a junior at the University of California, Davis, is one of the students across the US organising protests in support of Doe. She told Al Jazeera she understands the appeal of the fraternity and sorority systems.

“Affiliated students say it looks good on their resume,” Barles explained. “They see it as a built-in cult, a seat at the table and a crew to call their own.”

But Barles said she has heard troubling reports. Some fraternities, she explained, hold parties “requiring every man” to arrive with several women in tow. That requirement says “a lot about the culture some of these spaces cultivate”, she added.

At a rally last week, Barles and other protesters called on the University of California system to implement new measures to hold fraternities accountable for sexual assault, including enshrining students’ right to withdraw consent during sexual encounters.

But Barles said she left feeling dumbstruck by the accounts of sexual violence shared by women on campus, many of whom spoke from personal experience.

“It’s unbelievably upsetting, the amount of stories I heard,” said Barles. The litany of grievances has fanned her scepticism of the Greek system: “I wouldn’t step within a mile of most of them.”

Renoir art heist suspects were planning ‘imminent’ second robbery, prosecutors say.

Two paintings by the impressionist master Renoir which were stolen from a French museum last month have been found damaged behind a false wall in a private home after police made several arrests ahead of what prosecutors say was an imminent second heist.

Marseille prosecutor Nicolas Bessone said six suspects were arrested on Wednesday after authorities discovered they were planning to target the Fondation Maeght in Saint-Paul-de-Vence, home to one of Europe’s largest collections of modern art.

Bessone said the arrests were prompted by the “very strong suspicion that another heist was imminent”.

“We were very clearly looking at the repetition of a criminal scheme”, said Eric Antonetti, the head of the Alpes-Maritimes judicial police.

On September 8, thieves used an electric saw to cut through a fence to enter the Renoir Museum in Cagnes-sur-Mer on the French Riviera, according to investigators.

An alarm sounded and police officers arrived four minutes later, a swift response that “apparently caused the perpetrators to panic,” Bessone said.

The stolen works, “Madame Colonna Romano” and “Young Woman at the Well” by impressionist painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir, were valued at about 4.2m euros ($4.7m), Bessone said.

The thieves also attempted to steal two other Renoir paintings, “Madame Pichon” and “Coco Reading”, which depicts Renoir’s young ‌son ‌Claude. They abandoned them in the museum gardens while fleeing police.

“As they fled, they were unable to take all four paintings and abandoned two of them, which were later found in a protective sleeve,” he said.

Damaged and torn

The paintings were found hidden behind a false wall in a house on Friday. Both works were damaged and will need ⁠restoration. One of the paintings, “Madame Colonna Romano”, had been torn.

“These two paintings are not simply works of art. They are part of our city’s history,” Bryan Masson, the mayor of Cagnes-sur-Mer, near Nice, said on Friday. “Knowing they have been recovered is an immense relief.”

The recovery came almost exactly one month ⁠after the theft, following an investigation that used ⁠DNA evidence, mobile phone geolocation data and surveillance video.

The two key suspects include a 29-year-old, who was charged after investigators recovered DNA from a bag left behind during the getaway.

They ⁠were charged with organised theft and other offences. A third man, accused of hiding the paintings, was charged with organised handling of stolen goods.

A fourth suspect, who investigators say was approached about buying the artworks, was charged ‌with handling stolen goods and taking part in a criminal conspiracy.

Bessone said the suspects had denied planning a second museum raid, but he added that he did “not believe the principal suspect visited that ‌museum simply out of a love of art”.

The recovered Renoir paintings, valued at millions, were stolen in a daring heist at Cagnes-sur-Mer last month.

Two paintings by the French Impressionist artist Pierre-Auguste Renoir that were stolen from a museum in southern France a month ago have been recovered, the town’s mayor said.

“These two paintings are not simply works of art. They are part of our city’s history,” Bryan Masson, the mayor of Cagnes-sur-Mer, near Nice, said on Friday. “Knowing they have been recovered is an immense relief.”

Six people have been arrested in connection with the theft, local authorities said. Masson did not say where the paintings were found or in what condition.

How the theft unfolded

Two thieves broke into the Renoir Museum a little before 6am on September 8, cutting through a fence to enter the grounds, smashing a window and using an electric saw to cut the clips securing the frames, Masson said at the time.

He described them as “well equipped” and “well informed”.

The museum alarm sounded at 5:48am, and municipal police arrived five minutes later, forcing the thieves to flee.

They had taken four paintings, valued by the mayor at about nine million euros ($10.5m).

Two of the stolen works – Renoir’s “Portrait of Madame Pichon” and “Coco Reading” – were later found dropped in the museum garden, the prosecutor’s office said at the time.

The two works that remained missing were “Portrait of Madame Colonna Romano” and “Young Woman at the Well”, the office said.

Police said last month that the thieves were not first-time offenders and had scoped out the premises.

The Marseille prosecutor opened a theft investigation into an organised gang, and the national office for trafficking in cultural goods joined the probe.

A string of museum heists

The museum, opened in 1960, is in the painter’s last home, where he died in 1919.

“This incident should serve as a warning about the protection of our museums,” Masson said after the robbery.

The theft came less than a year after jewels worth about $100m were stolen from the Louvre in Paris in a daylight robbery.

The four suspected robbers have been arrested, but the jewels have not been found.

In August, Italian police said they had recovered paintings by Renoir, Cezanne and Matisse worth more than $10.4m that were stolen from a museum in March.

As autumn approaches, the rhythmic thud of wooden mallets pounding lamb echoes across courtyards and back lanes in Kashmir, where cooks prepare Wazwan – a lavish, multi-course mutton feast that remains central to traditional wedding celebrations.

Wazwan arrived in the valley from Central Asia in the 14th century, when rulers brought skilled chefs along with the carpet and shawl weavers that later defined the region’s craft heritage.

Today, the feast is both a marker of social status and a powerful symbol of Kashmiri identity.

Among its guardians is 74-year-old Ghulam Nabi Baba, a veteran Wazwan chef who traces his lineage to those early migrants. His forefathers settled in Srinagar’s old city as part of a community of cooks known as Wazpora.

“There were only seven mutton dishes at that time. Over the centuries we added more, and now there are around 20,” Baba said.

He explained how the number of dishes and the amount of meat often reflect a family’s wealth.

“Forty years ago in Delina [a village in north Kashmir] I cooked 4,500kg (9,920 pounds) of meat. That was a very big wedding. Normally, at an average marriage we cook 200kg (440 pounds),” he added.

Despite the expanding menu, the core techniques have changed little. Lightly spiced meat is still pounded by hand before being simmered slowly over wood fires – a labour-intensive process Baba has followed since joining his father as a cook at 15.

But the pressures of modern life are reshaping the tradition. Baba’s son has chosen to open a restaurant rather than work weddings, saying the round-the-clock demands are too exhausting.

He believes he is still carrying forward the family’s centuries-old culinary legacy – just in a different setting, as Wazwan adapts to contemporary tastes and lifestyles.

“Crunch, crunch.”

If the above sounds familiar, then you might already be a Wholigan — someone who routinely listens to the long-running celebrity podcast “Who? Weekly.” Part of the fun of listening to the thrice-weekly show (one being for Patreon members), aside from its hosts contextualizing a dizzying array of tabloid headlines, is learning its lexicon. For example, “Crunch, Crunch” spoofs a bit of sponsored content the pop singer Bebe Rexha did for Lay’s Potato Chips in 2019. Other popular phrases unique to the Who-verse: “Good form, Bella Thorne.” “Scar-Jo Yummy Pop.”

Launched in 2016 by pop culture journalists Bobby Finger and Lindsey Weber, “Who? Weekly” eagerly mines the growing world of lower-tier celebrity, with the two hosts categorizing trending names under two main umbrellas: the fame-hungry “Whos” (influencers, reality stars, a pre-royal Meghan Markle) and the instantly recognizable, likely critically acclaimed “Thems” (Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift, Beyoncé). Rounding out the paradigm are the “Nahs,” or folks who aren’t well known enough to claim “Who” status.

“We came of age reading all the [gossip] bloggers, from Perez Hilton to Liz Smith,” Weber tells The Times of why she and Finger originally started “Who? Weekly,” which technically began as a newsletter before it morphed into a podcast.

Lindsey Weber and Bobby Finger have co-written the newly released book, “I Want to Be Famous: When Everybody and Nobody Is a Celebrity.”

(Justin Jun Lee / For The Times)

Finger also cites influence from “Oh No They Didn’t,” a 2000s-era LiveJournal page that aggregated celebrity headlines and invited users to comment (kind of like a proto-Subreddit). “You read the story just as you read the comments, which were integral to the story,” Finger says. “All of the inside jokes, the additional commentary. That’s what ‘Who? Weekly’ has become, especially in our Patreon Discord. [Listeners] are always chiming in and creating their own language and extensions of the ‘Who? Weekly’ universe.”

That universe is about to expand again: In conjunction with the pod turning 10 this year, Weber and Finger are releasing a new book, “I Want to Be Famous: When Everybody and Nobody Is a Celebrity,” which looks at fame and celebrity through a historical lens while also exploring how the line between Whos and Thems got that much blurrier in the social media age. “I feel like we were always barreling towards a book,” Weber says. “Both of us are trained journalists. We were always kind of like, ‘When are we going to put our money where our mouth is?’”

To demonstrate how the binary is evolving into a spectrum, Weber and Finger revisit juicy pop cultural anecdotes (remember when Courtney Love threw her compact at Madonna at the VMAs? Or when Ariana Grande dated Pete Davidson? Or when Katy Perry flew into space on the Blue Origin?) while blanketing every chapter with an elucidation of why, no matter what decade we’re in, society just can never get enough gossip.

Meanwhile, unlike the podcast, “I Want to Be Famous” gives the hosts ample room to go deeper into the cultural framework of modern celebrity than they normally have time for. Each week, Weber and Finger dedicate one episode to unpacking a prepared list of Who-y headlines, and a follow-up episode, titled “Who’s There?,” is dedicated to listener calls. Which is to say, Weber and Finger usually spend more time explaining and trading jokes about what each micro-celeb is known for rather than how celebrity itself has evolved.

Lindsey Weber and Bobby Finger are celebrating the 10th year of their podcast “Who? Weekly.”

(Justin Jun Lee / For The Times)

“The pod is on the surface funny, [but] if you are a real fan, you’re like, ‘Oh, there’s actually some interesting stuff beneath the funny,’” Finger says. “We wanted this book to be the opposite, where it’s actually outwardly interesting and smart, and then inwardly funny when it can be.”

The writers’ tone might lean more academic within “I Want To Be Famous,” but longtime fans of the pod will recognize dozens of niche names, stories and extremely online subjects that were at one point or another discussed on the show. The authors present their grand theory of Whos and Thems by opening with the story of how former Who Meghan Markle shot to Them-dom after marrying Prince Harry. Other chapters observe what happens when Thems date or marry Whos. There’s a history of how celebrities say sorry (where there were once press releases there are now Notes app apologies) and a conversation about how nepo babies fit into the framework. As the book moves across history and demonstrates how the internet has completely upended the binary, they also show what hasn’t changed about the way fans relate to their favorites. “What we want most in a celebrity is authenticity,” Weber theorizes.

For Weber and Finger, the chance to tie the disparate threads they discuss on “Who? Weekly” was a major incentive to work on their book. “I kept being like, ‘Is this the first time anyone’s ever written about this in a book?’” Weber says with a laugh. “Because some of it was so stupid — these references to fandoms and Club Chalamet and niche things that are newer … I’m like, ‘Oh my God, are we doing this thing where now people have to read about Club Chalamet in 100 years?’ Obviously that would be incredible.”

“There’s a temporality to our show that is not the case with this book, which is very exciting,” Finger adds. “Because our show kind of exists to go in one ear and out the other. And I say that because it goes in one of our ears and out the other too, as the creators.”

Woven into the conversations around Whos, Thems, Thems behaving like Whos (see: brand deals), and Whos aspiring to be Thems is the authors’ palpable anxiety about the decaying role of entertainment journalism in an age in which celebrities can simply promote themselves via social media — or host their own podcasts. The authors are also painfully aware that most audiences have less of an appetite for reading, period. A chapter titled “The 2010s Killed the Cover Star” looks back what is thought to be the greatest piece of celebrity journalism ever written (Gay Talese’s 1966 Esquire classic, “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold”) and contrasts it with today’s style of uncritical, PR-friendly celebrity Q&As that boast nothingburger headlines that don’t tell us much of anything.

Conversations about media and journalism itself run through the podcast too, and that’s by design. “Sometimes we go so niche that it’s like, ‘Are we just making a podcast for our friends that work in media?’ And sometimes the answer is yes,” Weber says. “We can only speak from our experience. … But the most shocking thing about ‘Who? Weekly’ is that [media discourse] is actually quite interesting for lots of people.”

Finger adds, “Our past in media and our abundance of friendships with people who are still in media is like a crucial part of our show. It’s an industry we respect so much, you know, and we’re obsessed with the way it evolves. If we didn’t have that background, I don’t think the show would exist the way it does at this current moment.”

Even with a massive archive of episodes and no plans to stop, Weber and Finger are thrilled to have cemented their legacy with a book that could (and really should) be taught in media and communications classes. “Bobby and I both obviously love celebrities,” Weber says. “But we love media more.”

Brodsky is an L.A. culture and music writer. Her biography of Stevie Nicks, “Lessons & Lace,” published by Penguin Random House, is out now.