Humor

Assemblyman Lloyd Levine of Van Nuys wants his constituents to know that white supremacy is not a plank in his platform, no matter what the World Wide Web suggests.

Levine and other politicians in California and across the nation have felt compelled in recent weeks to take political stands they normally would consider unnecessary — denouncing racism, bestiality and the conversion of women’s breast milk into cheese — because someone has registered Web sites in their names and directed the traffic to politically unpopular organizations.

Levine, a freshman Democrat, learned last week about the existence of a site called lloydlevine.com. Initially, the Internet address pointed to the National Assn. for the Advancement of White People, which the Southern Poverty Law Center identifies as a hate group founded by former Ku Klux Klan grand wizard David Duke. By Tuesday, lloydlevine.com had become a gateway to the Raelians, a religious organization that recently claimed to have cloned a human.

“I would hate for one of my constituents to enter my name into a search engine … and think I in any way condone any of the views espoused here,” Levine said. “My name is Lloyd Levine, and I ought to have full control of it.”

The Legislature’s lawyers are trying to determine whether lawmakers have that right.

Claiming responsibility for these cyber-shenanigans is Jeremy Stamper, who calls himself president of the Seattle-based Council on Political Accountability.

Stamper says he has registered Web domains in the names of more than 100 governors, members of Congress and state legislators from California, Florida, New York and nine other states.

Stamper’s group is selling the domains on EBay and invites political activists — not the politicians — to “use them to criticize, to sound off, to hold politicians accountable … use your imagination.” The EBay page for the sale promises that 25% of the proceeds will go to the American Cancer Society.

Stamper said his group launched the “act of protest” this month to “make a statement about racial politics in the United States.”

“Republicans and Democrats are both complicit in fostering an atmosphere of bigotry,” he wrote in an e-mail to The Times.

Besides, Stamper said, people in the public eye should know to protect their identity online.

“The fact that these politicians didn’t have the foresight to register their own domain names makes me wonder whether they’ll have the competence necessary to jump-start the economy and safeguard our future,” he said.

At $99, the asking price, Levine’s name is a steal compared with colleagues whose Web addresses are listed at $149. Domains for several U.S. representatives and senators are priced at $499. As of Tuesday afternoon, there had been no bids.

An EBay spokesman said any lawmaker feeling maligned can ask to have his name pulled off the auction block.

Speaking for the National Assn. for the Advancement of White People, Vice President Rich Faraone said the group does not condone the confusion Stamper has created.

“We would never do something like that,” he said. “We would never mislead people like that.”

It takes a certain composure, as a teenager, to walk out onto Taylor Swift’s stage in a sold-out stadium and play an opening set to tens of thousands of fans who have never heard of you. But it takes even more conviction to use the occasion to play music almost guaranteed to leave them squirming — grimy, bloodletting noise-rock and electro about being a sexual menace and growing disillusioned with God.

The now-20-year-old singer-songwriter Sofia Isella did that last year, opening on the Australian run of Swift’s Eras tour. “Taylor was an angel for allowing me to share that stage,” L.A.-raised Isella said. “I wish I could have recorded that feeling. But the show itself is not as nerve-wracking as it is playing for 20 people. There’s something about a giant room that almost feels a little dissociative, like it’s not really happening or it’s not really there.”

“Dissociative” is a decent descriptor for Isella’s music, too — disorienting, unnerving, drawing out emotions you might not understand. But there’s so much skill in the performances and imagination in her arrangements that they may well get Isella — who plays the Fonda Theater on Nov. 16 — onto much bigger stages of her own, just as the world gets much bleaker around her.

“This next record, I’m having so much fun with s— that’s really f— dark,” Isella said. “It’s like, the only way to stop screaming about it is to have a moment laughing about it.”

Isella grew up in Los Angeles in a family with enough entertainment-biz acclaim to make being an artist feel like a viable career. Yet they still let her be feral and freewheeling in developing her craft. Her father, the Chilean American cinematographer Claudio Miranda, won an Oscar for 2012’s “Life of Pi” and shot “Top Gun: Maverick” and the recent racing hit “F1” (Her mom is the author Kelli Bean-Miranda). Looking back on her bucolic childhood in L.A., Isella recalled it filled with music and boundless encouragement, worlds away from her social media-addled peers.

“I’d been homeschooled my whole life,” Isella said. “My mom would leave little trails of poetry books for me to find, and my dad would set up GarageBand and leave me for hours with all the instruments and nothing but free time. I didn’t even have a phone until I was 16. When I first was on TikTok, I saw everyone had the same personality, because they had been watching each other for so long. Being around kids my age was so strange, because I’d grown up around adults — like, ‘Oh, these kids are so sweet and kind and adorable, but they think I’m one of them.’”

After her family temporarily moved to Australia during the pandemic and Isella began self-releasing music, it became clear that her talents set her very far apart. Drawing on her early background in classical music and a fascination with scabrous rock and electronic music, she found a sound that melded the Velvet Underground and Nico’s elegant miserablism, Chelsea Wolfe and Lingua Ignota’s doom-laden art metal and the close-miked , creepy goth-pop of Billie Eilish’s first LP.

Isella began self-releasing music during the pandemic. Since then, she’s landed opener spots on multiple high-profile tours.

(@okaynicolita)

Her early music showed a withering humor and skepticism of the culture around her (“All of Human Knowledge Made Us Dumb,” “Everybody Supports Women”), but singles came at rapid clip and translated surprisingly well on the social media platforms she loathed (she has 1.3 million followers on TikTok). It all got her onto stages with Melanie Martinez and Glass Animals and, eventually, Swift. (A Florence + The Machine arena tour opening slot is up next.)

On 2024’s writhing EP “I Can Be Your Mother,” songs like “Sex Concept” had the sensual fatalism of poets like Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, paired with the drippy erotic menace of Nine Inch Nails. “I’ll bend him over backwards, give him something to believe in,” she sings. “We’ll play the game, both go insane and then we’ll call it even … I’m the only god that you’ll ever believe in.”

“The first EP was this whole story of giving birth to yourself, this giant stretched-out muse,” Isella said, leaning into a stemwinder about the genesis of art. “It just doesn’t feel like it’s coming from me. It feels like it’s coming from some weird thing I somewhat worship.”

A May 2025 follow-up, “I’m Camera,” dealt with the depersonalizing effects of sudden attention. On “Josephine,” she makes tour life feel like a proverbial grippy-sock vacation to the breakdown ward — “I’m sock-footed, sick and selfish holding strangers’ hands … I lost something, I sold it, I only remember the ache.”

Isella’s wariness of institutions extends to her recording career. She’s still independent for now — surprising for an artist on Swift’s radar — and uncompromising about what a label would demand of her compared to what they can provide. “I’ve met with a lot of the big dogs, and they’re very kind people, but I just love the feeling of being independent,” Isella said. “Maybe I’ll change my mind on that, but I’m trying to fully understand a label and what its functions are, what it gives the artist in a social media day. I’m trying to fully assess that before I sign any magic papers.”

Her newest material (and her subversively eerie, Francesa Woodman-evoking music videos like “Muse”) feel perfectly timed to the apocalyptic mood in L.A. and the U.S. now, where an inexorable slide to ruin feels biblical. “Out In the Garden,” from September, hits some of the Southern gothic moods of Ethel Cain, but with a sense of acidic pity that’s all her own. “That there’s a small part of me that’s envious / That you full-heartedly believe someone is always there,” she sings. “That will always love you, and there’s a plan for you out there.”

Even at her bleakest, there’s a curdled humor underneath (her current tour is subtitled “You’ll Understand More, Dick”). But if this little sliver of young fame has taught Isella anything, it’s that even when everyone wants a piece of you, no one is actually coming to save any of us.

“There’s nothing with weight, nothing that’s meaningful, to blind faith,” Isella said. “On this next record, I’m about to go really angry because religion really pisses me off, it inflames me. But it’s the most beautiful placebo to imagine that there’s a father that loves you no matter what you do. I’m a really lucky person in that I’ve always been safe and protected, but if you’ve had a rough life, that is insanely powerful to imagine that and believe that.”

The prey may change — the planets, too, their digital backdrops swirling like screensavers — but take comfort in knowing that when it comes to a “Predator” movie, we’re still talking about a dude in a suit. This time, that dude is New Zealand’s Dimitrius Schuster-Koloamatangi, a game 7-foot-3 actor whose eyes bulge behind those motorized mandibles and sometimes shine with feeling.

Despite his size, his Dek in “Predator: Badlands” is what you might call a baby: an untested youth who endures a sibling’s beatdown in the film’s opening moments. Their warlord father is displeased with both of them. After some extreme parenting that would be frowned upon in most societies, alien or otherwise, neon-green blood flows and Dek is hurtling toward another world, vengeance burning in his heart.

“Bring it home — for Kwei,” he mutters in an elaborate creature language invented expressly for the film. (The dialogue itself gets less attention.) Dek will seek the “unkillable Kalisk,” prove his worth in the hunt and, presumably, have some terse words with Dad upon his return.

Not to kill a Kalisk or anything but these Yautja (to use their species name) were never meant to carry a movie. Put one in a film with Arnold Schwarzenegger in the original 1987 summer action hit and suddenly the Terminator seems chatty. Pit them against the immortally gross creatures of “Alien vs. Predator” and the Yautja are nearly huggable.

But main characters they are not. “Predator: Badlands” has a misshapen gait to it, like a comedy skit drawn out to feature length. Fortunately, almost as soon as Dek lands on Genna, a planet of murderous flora, to bag his Kalisk, he runs into a babbling half-robot missing her legs who makes the movie much more compelling. You can either wonder how Elle Fanning, the tremulous heart of “A Complete Unknown” and this season’s “Sentimental Value” found herself in it, or smile at the good fortune of her being a stealth nerd who apparently loves a challenge.

Strapped to Dek’s back C-3PO-style, the disembodied Thia (Fanning) fills the movie with a semi-stoned running commentary: “And what does the chewing — your outside fangs or your inside teeth?” she asks him. When a second Fanning shows up as Thia’s vicious sister Tessa, another “synthetic” built for dangerous off-world work, the film finds its groove as a new chapter in the continuing saga of our friends at the Weyland-Yutani Corporation, a fictional enterprise with such spectacularly bad luck at acquiring bioweapons, they should have faced a hostile takeover by now.

And, like virtually all of Hollywood’s anti-corporate sci-fi adventures, “Predator: Badlands” is, at heart, a pro-business statement, bowing especially deeply to James Cameron’s designs for 1986’s “Aliens,” including its squat vehicles, soulless directives (“The Company is not pleased,” says a computer who isn’t the screenwriter) and the colossal power loader that lets someone human-sized do battle with a beast.

There isn’t much of an original signature here. Returning director Dan Trachtenberg hits the beats competently but not too stridently, like a good superfan should. If you’re expecting Dek’s sensitivity to become an asset, give yourself a trophy. Yet if a machine — or a studio — can produce a robot as fun as Thia, there’s hope for this franchise yet.