decade

Gavin Newsom and Kamala Harris have long circled one another.

The two moved in the same political slipstream, wooed the same set of Democratic donors and, for a time, even shared the same group of campaign advisors.

Harris rose from San Francisco district attorney to elected positions in Sacramento and Washington before twice running unsuccessfully for president.

Newsom climbed from San Francisco mayor to lieutenant governor to California’s governorship, where he quietly stewed as Harris leapfrogged past him into the vice presidency. While she served in the White House, Newsom tried any number of ways to insinuate himself into the national spotlight.

Now both have at least one eye on the Oval Office, setting up a potential clash of egos and ambition that’s been decades in the making.

Newsom, whose term as governor expires in January, has been auditioning for president from practically the moment the polls closed in 2024 and horrified Democrats realized Harris had lost to Donald Trump.

Harris, who’s mostly focused on writing and promoting her campaign autobiography — while giving a political speech here and there — hasn’t publicly declared she’ll seek the White House a third time. But, notably, she has yet to rule out the possibility.

In a CNN interview aired Sunday, Newsom was asked about the prospect of facing his longtime frenemy in a fight for the Democratic nomination. (California’s gallivanting governor is embarked on his own national book tour, promoting both the “memoir of discovery” that was published Tuesday and his all-but-declared presidential bid.)

“Well, I’m San Francisco now, she’s L.A.,” Newsom joked, referring to Harris’ post-Washington residency in Brentwood. “So there’s a little distance between the two of us.”

He then turned zen-like, saying fate would determine if the two face off in the 2028 primary contest. “You can only control what you can control,” Newsom told CNN host Dana Bash.

A decade ago, Newsom and Harris swerved to keep their careers from colliding.

In 2015, Barbara Boxer said she would step down once she finished her fourth term in the U.S. Senate. The opening presented a rare opportunity for political advancement after years in which a clutch of aging incumbents held California’s top elected offices. Between Lt. Gov. Newsom and state Atty. Gen. Harris, there was no lack of pent-up ambition.

After a weekend of intensive deliberations, Newsom passed on the Senate race and Harris jumped in, establishing herself as the front-runner for Boxer’s seat, which she won in 2016. Newsom waited and was elected governor in 2018, succeeding Jerry Brown.

Once in their preferred roles, the two got along reasonably well. Each campaigned on the other’s behalf. But, privately, there has never been a great deal of mutual regard or affection.

Come 2028, there will doubtless be many Democrats seeking to replace President Trump. The party’s last wide-open contest, in 2020, drew more than two dozen major contestants. So it’s not as though Harris and Newsom would face each other in a one-on-one fight.

But dueling on the national stage, with the country’s top political prize at stake, is something that Hollywood might have scripted for Newsom and Harris as the way to settle, once and for all, their long-standing rivalry.

The two Californians would start out closely matched in good looks and charisma.

Those who know them well, having observed Newsom and Harris up close, cite other strengths and weaknesses.

Harris has thicker skin, they suggested, and is more disciplined. Her forte is set-piece events, like debates and big speeches.

Newsom is more of a policy wonk, a greater risk-taker and is more willing to venture into challenging and even hostile settings.

Newson is more fluent in the ecosphere of social media, podcasts and the like. Harris has the advantage of performing longer on the national stage and bears nothing like the personal scandals that have plagued Newsom.

But Harris’ problem, it was widely agreed, is that she has run twice before and, worse, lost the last time to Trump.

“To a lot of voters, she’s yesterday’s news,” said one campaign strategist.

“She had her shot,” said another, channeling the perceived way Democratic primary voters would react to another Harris run. “You didn’t make it, so why should we give you another shot?”

(Those half-dozen kibbitzers who agreed to candidly assess the prospects of Newsom and Harris asked not to be identified, so they could preserve their relationships with the two.)

Most of the handicappers gave the edge to Newsom in a prospective match-up; one political operative familiar with both would have placed their wager on Harris had she not run before.

“I think her demographic appeal to Black women and coming up the ranks as a Black woman working in criminal justice is a very strong card,” said the campaign strategist. “The white guy from California, the pretty boy, is not as much of a primary draw.”

That said, this strategist, too, suggested that “being tagged as someone who not only lost but lost in this situation that has set the world on fire … is too big a cross to bear.”

The consensus among these cognoscenti is that Harris will not run again and that Newsom — notwithstanding any demurrals — will.

Of course, the only two who know for sure are those principals, and it’s quite possible neither Harris nor Newsom have entirely made up their minds.

Those who enjoy their politics cut with a dash of soap opera will just have to wait.

“That’s my pot dealer!” exclaimed Michelle Phillips in a crowded movie theater in 1977. Months earlier, the Mamas & the Papas singer had only known Harrison Ford as a stoner-carpenter with a few bit parts to his credit. Now he was Han Solo in “Star Wars,” directed by a young upstart, George Lucas. Clearly the world was changing.

How much, though? Conventional wisdom about the Hollywood renaissance of the ‘60s and ‘70s suggests that starting with “Bonnie and Clyde” and “Easy Rider,” a batch of emerging auteurs shook the studios out of a rut and transformed American film. There’s plenty of truth to that: Francis Ford Coppola’s shift in 10 years from a director-for-hire on an old-hat musical, “Finian’s Rainbow,” to the auteur behind “Apocalypse Now” is just one of the era’s most remarkable achievements.

A pair of new books, though, suggest that the overall shift was only so modest, ultimately shoring up not just the old-school studio system but the social norms the interlopers were supposed to be upending.

Paul Fischer’s lively history of the new wave of California directors, “The Last Kings of Hollywood,” concentrates on Lucas, Coppola and Steven Spielberg. (New York contemporaries like Martin Scorsese and Brian De Palma are present but relatively off-screen.) Fischer has a gift for highlighting the ways that moments that we now accept as inevitable were often the product of dumb luck, pyrrhic victories and tough decisions. Coppola made “The Godfather” out of financial desperation, averse to adapting a mob novel; Spielberg’s “Jaws” was beset with mishaps, from a foolhardy attempt to train a real shark to its malfunctioning mechanical one; only when Lucas learned that the rights to Flash Gordon were unavailable did he pursue a space-opera concept all his own.

Their brashness and can-do spirit were worth cheering for: As the trio delivered films that broke box office records — ”The Godfather,” “American Graffiti,” “Jaws” and more — there were reasons to believe that big-budget films could operate outside the studio system. Lucas in particular was driven as much by resentment of the old as passion for the new. He never forgot how Warner Bros. manhandled his debut feature, “THX 1138” and was driven to muscle “Graffiti” into existence to spite the suits who said he couldn’t. In 1969, Coppola and Lucas launched their own studio, American Zoetrope, in San Francisco, with a passel of scripts in progress (including “Apocalypse Now” and “The Conversation”) and a $300,000 investment from Warner Bros. But Coppola wasn’t much of a businessman, and he had an easier time putting the office’s fancy espresso machine to work than the suite of state-of-the-art editing bays: “He ran his business like he ran a film set — on vibes,” Fischer writes.

A decade later, both Coppola and Zoetrope would declare bankruptcy, and he would split with Lucas, who’d used the success of “Star Wars” to cut his own path as a Hollywood kingmaker via his own production company, Lucasfilm. It allowed him to indulge his love of classic cliffhanger serials, and he tapped Spielberg to direct “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” But Fischer frames Lucas’ career arc as a disappointment, despite all those dollar figures — Lucas wanted to return to artsier “THX”-style fare, but needed cash flow. “If George was ever going to be independent from Hollywood, he thought he wouldn’t get there by making abstract mood poems,” Fischer writes. By the ‘80s, with two “Star Wars” sequels done, Lucas was out of the mood-poem business entirely.

While “Last Kings” focuses exclusively on directors’ relationship to movie economics, Kirk Ellis’ “They Kill People” considers “Bonnie and Clyde” and the New Hollywood from a variety of angles — filmmaking, the social turmoil of the ‘60s, America’s complex relationship with outlaws in general and guns in particular. It’s a meaty yet accessible book that captures the lightning-in-a-bottle nature of the generation’s ur-text, capturing the unlikely nature of its creation and the somewhat dodgy nature of its legacy.

“Bonnie” was such a provocation — nakedly, almost giddily violent — that its studio, Warner Bros, all but willed it not to exist. It was given a shoestring budget, was mocked by studio chief Jack Warner (who sarcastically referred to director Arthur Penn and producer-star Warren Beatty as “the geniuses”), and initially released largely in Southern drive-ins. “They figured the redneck kids would like the guns,” Penn said.

Everybody liked the guns. A few scolding critics lamented the film’s violence, especially its then-shocking bloody finale, but Beatty and co-star Faye Dunaway were deeply seductive onscreen. (Ellis notes that the two are always the best-dressed characters in the film.) And its outlaw sensibility resonated with young audiences in the late‘60s. Moreover, writes Ellis (a historical-drama screenwriter best known for “John Adams”), it represented the culmination of decades of American culture that equated American gun culture with freedom — a notion that would’ve baffled the founding fathers, who dwelled little on gun-rights matters in the Federalist Papers and other constitutional drafting documents, but gained traction thanks to gun manufacturers. “In the printed legend of American history, guns and freedom have become synonymous,” Ellis writes, but it was a new legend — stoked in part by “Bonnie and Clyde” — not America’s origin story.

It’d be a mistake to reduce the New Hollywood to the filmmakers highlighted by these two books — though, focused as they are on white men, they echo the way women and people of color were largely shut out of the system, or relegated to more marginal blaxploitation work. Artists looking to operate outside the system have plenty of inspiration to draw from in the ‘70s. Yet the books also expose how commerce does what it always does — take provocations and sand the edges off of them, then look for ways to make them profitable. In the early ‘80s, a decade after Coppola and company stormed the barricades, Paramount chief Michael Eisner shared a fresh and contradictory vision, such as it was: “We have no obligation to make history. We have no obligation to make art. We have no obligation to make a statement. To make money is our only objective.”

It would take another decade — and auteurs on the East Coast — to launch another attack on that sensibility, via films like “Do the Right Thing” and “sex, lies, and videotape.” They would help usher in the Miramax era — but that’s another story, with its own problematic twists.

Athitakis is a writer in Phoenix and author of “The New Midwest.”

Casey Wasserman, the embattled sports and entertainment mogul who is the face of the Los Angeles 2028 Olympics, is preparing to sell his talent agency.

In a memo to his staff Friday, Wasserman acknowledged his appearance in a recently released batch of documents related to the late sex trafficker Jeffrey Epstein and his companion, Ghislaine Maxwell, had “become a distraction.”

In his memo, which was reviewed by The Times, Wasserman said he was “heartbroken that my brief contact with them 23 years ago has caused you, this company, and its clients so much hardship over the past days and weeks.”

Representatives for Wasserman did not immediately return for requests for comment.

“I’m deeply sorry that my past personal mistakes have caused you so much discomfort,” Wasserman wrote to his staff. “It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to the clients and partners we represent so vigorously and care so deeply about.”

Over the last two weeks, artists including Chappell Roan and athletes such as soccer star Abby Wambach announced they would leave Wasserman’s eponymous Los Angeles-based talent agency that he founded more than two decades ago.

“I know what I know, and I am following my gut and my values,” Wambach wrote on Instagram. “I will not participate in any business arrangement under his leadership…He should leave, so more people like me don’t have to.”

Wasserman told his staff that Mike Watts, a longtime company executive, would assume day-to-day management of the firm while he begins the process of selling it.

The Wall Street Journal first reported Wasserman’s staff memo.

Wasserman’s grandfather, Lew Wasserman, was a Hollywood titan who built the studio MCA into a powerhouse that acquired Universal Pictures. Casey Wasserman’s sports and talent agency, also built through a series of savvy acquisitions, has about 4,000 employees.

Wasserman plans to stay in his position leading the LA28 Olympic Committee, which has stood by him. In a recent statement, LA28 noted that the racy emails with Maxwell were sent following a humanitarian mission to Africa two decades “before Mr. Wasserman or the public knew of Epstein and Maxwell’s deplorable crimes…This was his single interaction with Epstein.”

“The Executive Committee of the Board has determined that based on these facts, as well as the strong leadership he has exhibited over the past ten years, Mr. Wasserman should continue to lead LA28 and deliver a safe and successful Games,” LA28 concluded.

The messages to Maxwell were part of a massive trove of Epstein-related documents made public by the Department of Justice this month.

In them, Wasserman wrote to Maxwell, who is now serving a lengthy prison sentence for sex trafficking of minors, “I thought we would start at that place that you know of, and then continue the massage concept into your bed … and then again in the morning … not sure if or when we would stop.”

She responded: “Umm — all that rubbing — are you sure you can take it? The thought frankly is leaving me a little breathless. There are a few spots that apparently drive a man wild — I suppose I could practise them on you and you could let me know if they work or not?”

Wasserman released a statement saying: “I deeply regret my correspondence with Ghislaine Maxwell which took place over two decades ago, long before her horrific crimes came to light. I never had a personal or business relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. As is well documented, I went on a humanitarian trip as part of a delegation with the Clinton Foundation in 2002 on the Epstein plane. I am terribly sorry for having any association with either of them.”

Last year, LAPD leaders quietly brought on a temporary consultant to advise on how to give the department’s battered public image a spit shine.

In a proposal reviewed by The Times, the consultant wrote that the LAPD’s standing as “one of the most prominent and visible law enforcement agencies in the world” was on the line.

The name of the person offering to help chart the path forward was not mentioned when the contract went before the Police Commission for approval. Nor did it come up Feb 3. when, after a heated debate, the City Council approved the creation of a new LAPD communications strategist role with an annual salary of $191,000.

LAPD Deputy Chief Jonathan Pinto, head of the Human Resources Bureau, acknowledged under questioning from council members that the department already had someone in mind for the role — but declined to say who.

Numerous department sources, who were not authorized to speak publicly about the confidential personnel matter, identified the candidate as the consultant: Robert Port, a filmmaker, writer and director who has worked for decades in Hollywood.

Port declined to comment, as did an LAPD spokesperson.

Winner of a 2003 Academy Award for his documentary short “Twin Towers,” about a pair of brothers — a policeman and a fireman — who responded to the World Trade Center on 9/11, Port has served as an executive producer or written for shows ranging from Amazon Prime’s “Jack Ryan” to “Numb3rs” on CBS.

A biography attached to his consulting proposal says he has been a reserve Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputy for the last decade. His ties to LAPD Chief Jim McDonnell and the city’s former top cop, William Bratton, date back years through shared East Coast roots.

In his consulting proposal, Port said he would “outline a forward-looking plan that strengthens messaging, builds trust, supports officer morale, and protects the LAPD’s image as the most professional and polished agency in the country.”

“In other words, let’s bring some luster back to the badge!” he wrote.

But the secrecy around Port’s hiring has already triggered fresh criticism, along with questions about whether the LAPD — which already has multiple officers working in its press shop — really needs more help communicating.

During the City Council hearing last week, Pinto said the department’s press shop would continue focusing on dealing with outside media inquiries, but that the new civil service-exempt role would draft “comprehensive integrated communication plans.”

Reporting directly to McDonnell, the position would allow the department to present a clear, unified message to the agency’s 8,700-some officers, said Pinto, while building “brand awareness” and boosting recruitment.

Several council members questioned how the new position might influence the LAPD’s messaging, noting that McDonnell has been out of lockstep with city leaders on issues such as the response to federal immigration enforcement and the use of force against protesters.

Others on the council pressed Pinto about what they saw as a lack of clarity on the job description.

“If we’ve got nothing to hide, then we shouldn’t be acting like we have something to hide,” said Councilmember Monica Rodriguez, adding that she was uncomfortable approving such a high salary given the city’s financial straits and the possibility of other civilian employees being furloughed.

The council eventually voted 10 to 5 to approve the position.

Port has kept a relatively low public profile since he started his consulting work last fall, mostly operating behind the scenes. Images posted on social media showed him walking around the crime scene at the Brentwood home of Rob Reiner, where authorities say the filmmaker and his wife were murdered by their son in December.

In his consulting proposal, Port cited conversations with McDonnell, Assistant Chief Dominic Choi and other department leaders in which they “emphasized the need for outside expertise in shaping the department’s image, both within the organization and to the public in all aspects of communication, video, and media.”

Among his proposals was to create a more “centralized” social media strategy rather than continuing to let the LAPD’s 21 stations spread across the city each handle their own online accounts.

“The goal is to maintain strong community engagement while also giving the LAPD a single, recognizable voice across all platforms and portraying its positive messaging to fellow Angelians.”

For decades, Hollywood helped sell the LAPD’s nationwide image as the epitome of professional law enforcement with shows such as “Dragnet,” “Adam-12” and “T.J. Hooker.” Today, Port said, that relationship was “less structured.” Using his industry background, he said, he could help the department better vet proposals, including a recent pitch from a major production company for a “ride-along”-style reality series.

He also suggested that he could advise a public relations firm previously hired by the LAPD to overhaul its marketing strategy. “Port’s experience in storytelling and award-winning creative expertise in advertising enable him to review these materials with a critical eye,” the proposal said.

Port’s four-month media consulting contract was paid for by a $20,000 donation from the Police Foundation, a nonprofit group that raises funds for LAPD equipment and offers other forms of support. The paperwork around the donation did not include Port’s name but said that the money would go to pay for a consultant “to develop forward-looking, integrated communications plan that strengthens messaging, builds trust, and supports officer morale.”

Then-Commissioner Erroll Southers voted against the contract, saying at the time he was uncomfortable with the department’s unwillingness to share details about the position — even with its civilian bosses.

The decision to try to bring on Port marks the latest shakeup of the department’s press office. The unit has had four different police captains in as many years, and the chief civilian spokesperson job has been vacant since the abrupt resignation of Jennifer Forkish last October.