The European Commission is considering opening an investigation into imports of certain construction materials from several Balkan countries over suspicions that they were made using low-cost Chinese glass fibre already subject to EU anti-dumping duties, according to people familiar with the matter.
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The probe will focus on so-called open mesh fabrics, including thermal insulation systems.
The case comes as the European Commission continues to step up pressure on low-cost Chinese imports, which are contributing to the EU’s record-high €1 billion-a-day trade deficit with China. The commission launched negotiations with Beijing in June in a bid to rebalance trade ties, with hopes of securing tangible results by October.
EU Trade Commissioner Maroš Šefčovič expected to travel to China in October.
At the same time, the Commission has warned that it would deploy its trade defence instruments before the deadline to counter low-cost Chinese imports, arguing that China uses unfair practices to gain access to the EU market – including strategies to circumvent EU tariffs.
Open mesh fabrics are often manufactured with Chinese glass fibre, which the Commission has accused Chinese producers of selling at unfairly low prices on the EU market, causing injury to European manufacturers. The EU has targeted glass fibre with additional duties several times in recent years, including imports from Egypt that are produced by Chinese companies.
But Chinese producers are suspected of circumventing those anti-dumping and anti-subsidy duties by relying on local manufacturers in several Balkan countries to assemble open mesh fabrics using low-cost Chinese glass fibre.
The overcapacity problem
The EU produces around 1 million tonnes of melted glass annually from installations operating in eight countries, among them Germany, France and Italy.
But according to Glass Fibre Europe, which represents the glass fibre industry in Brussels, Chinese glass fibre overcapacity exceeds 100 percent of total EU market demand, raising the risk of further harm to European producers unless the EU strengthens its trade defence measures.
Over the past year, the number of cases involving alleged Chinese unfair trade practices across several industrial sectors has increased, and the Commission has been criticised for the length of its investigations.
At a summit in mid-June, EU leaders gave the Commission a mandate to review and update its trade defence instruments.
But the EU’s current trade regulation toolbox remains limited, with Commission only able to address unfair trade practices on a product-by-product basis. Additional safeguard measures – including tariffs and quotas – are also under consideration, Euronews has learned, to protect the European chemicals sector from intense Chinese competition.
The Commission was contacted for comment but did not reply.
Fatima ‘Teema’ Mahmud uploaded a short clip on her Telegram Status that morning; it showed a leaked intimate video involving individuals in northern Nigeria. The time was 8:13 a.m.; minutes later, she uploaded another one and another. By midday, she had uploaded dozens of similar pieces of content. By evening, there were hundreds.
Some of the updates advertised leaked, non-consensual intimate videos that had circulated across social media timelines in the region days earlier. Others promoted sex work services, paid erotic video calls, and private VIP groups featuring explicit videos of women, particularly northern actresses. Among them, and pinned prominently at the top of Fatima’s Telegram profile, were screen records of what she claimed were sexual and nude videos of children, advertised under paid access tiers.
The next morning, the cycle began again.
This reporting was never supposed to become an investigation into child sexual abuse material. It began with a simpler question: where do the leaked intimate videos that circulate on northern Nigerian social media end up?
Every few weeks, another such video appears. The names change, but the outrage follows a familiar script: WhatsApp groups begin asking for links, X users post screenshots before directing followers to Telegram, and Facebook pages recycle the same clips. For a day or two, timelines become courtrooms. Then attention shifts elsewhere, and the people at the centre of those scandals disappear from public conversation, but the links do not.
One such link appeared in May. An X account, now suspended, promoting what it described as a leaked intimate video involving a woman, instructed followers to continue on Telegram. Instead of downloading the material, HumAngle followed the trail, using a pseudonymous account to trace the same path thousands of other users take whenever another intimate video erupts across northern Nigerian social media.
For three months, HumAngle watched what that trail led to: an ecosystem that had evolved to survive platform bans, rebuild audiences almost overnight, and transform some of women’s most private moments into commercial products. Within that ecosystem, children appeared to have become one of its most valuable commodities.
A snapshot of Fatima Mahmud’s X account, “TEEMATV” (@teemaMahmud). As of July 11, the account had over 4,000 followers. Here, she promotes explicit videos, often posting teaser clips and directing followers to continue on Telegram. Her previous account, also called TeemaTV (@teematv), which first drew HumAngle’s attention to this investigation, had more than 11,000 followers before X suspended it in May. Her bio reads “Best Hausa channel for content”, with a follow-up note beneath it explaining that her “previous account got banned.”
Following the trail
It started with “Teematv” on X. HumAngle stumbled on the account promoting a teaser video following a scandal involving a Kaduna-based woman, whom HumAngle will not name to avoid re-victimising her. The X account claimed to have the “full video” and encouraged followers to access it on Telegram.
We created a pseudonymous account and followed the trail.
The first Telegram channel, “Teematv” (@teematv9), which is the main feeder channel and had over 40,000 subscribers before it got suspended in June, looked much as expected: pornography, leaked videos, and VIP subscriptions. But the longer the investigation continued, the less it resembled another anonymous pornography page. The channel did not exist in isolation. Every video and image posted linked to something else, and subscribers were encouraged to save the phone numbers provided by the administrators. “Add my contact,” she often tells subscribers.
Once saved, these numbers unlocked Telegram Status updates, which promoted private VIP groups, which led to new administrators, who promoted replacement channels. When one account disappeared, another had already taken its place.
It felt less like browsing social media and more like walking through a marketplace where every stall owner knew the next. The journey was remarkably consistent, and the pattern held across every operator HumAngle traced; the public channels attracted attention, Telegram Status sustained it, and private conversations completed the sale. Each platform served a different purpose within the same business. X functioned as a storefront, where explicit clips and provocative teasers attracted attention and encouraged users to click through. Telegram became the marketplace itself, while WhatsApp and private Telegram conversations handled the transactions.
Looking closer, the structure reflected an operation built specifically to survive the content moderation it was navigating.
The pattern started with what appeared, and what did not appear, on X. Operators such as Teema used their X accounts to post pornographic clips into X’s video feed, content that the platform’s moderation has grown relatively permissive toward, and whose recommendation algorithm readily surfaces more of it once a user engages with it repeatedly. At no point during our three months of monitoring did HumAngle observe child sexual abuse material posted directly on X.
Whether by experience or deliberate caution, the operators appeared to understand the distinction: ordinary pornography might slip through a platform that has relaxed many of its guardrails around adult content, but material involving children almost certainly would not survive there. The Telegram link attached to those X posts was, in turn, rarely the final destination. It served as an additional layer of security, requiring users to either save a phone number or send a private inquiry before anything further was revealed.
Only after that number was saved did the next stage begin, through Telegram Status. There, too, the same caution applied. Rather than posting material involving children directly, operators uploaded blurred collages or screenshots, with titles and scenes presented as proof that a fuller collection existed, along with a caption advertising group access and a price, directing interested buyers into a private conversation. Nothing that could be mistaken for the material itself appeared in a space Telegram or outside observers could easily flag; the proof of possession and the point of sale were kept one careful step apart. HumAngle observed screenshots of children naked and being abused.
The advertisements rarely remained online for long. Telegram Status updates disappear automatically after 24 hours, and the administrators appeared to exploit that feature deliberately, because the posts remain accessible on the profile itself to anyone who has saved their contact. On some days, one operator uploaded close to 200 Status updates, rotating through advertisements, teaser clips, and promotional graphics before repeating the process the following morning.
The result was a constantly changing catalogue. One day, the focus might be leaked intimate videos. The next, sex work services. Then paid video calls. Then another newly emerging leaked-video scandal that had just begun trending elsewhere on social media. The operators appeared to respond quickly to public attention: whenever an intimate video began circulating widely online, it often appeared inside the network within hours, repackaged as a commercial product, a short preview posted publicly with the full video available, administrators claimed, after payment. The scandals that dominated social media for a day or two became inventory.
Identifying the operators
There was one problem with Telegram usernames: they rarely lasted. By the time HumAngle finished documenting one account, another had often appeared. The usernames, invitations, and even profile photographs changed. But the people behind them did not.
To understand who was operating the network, our investigation moved beyond monitoring channels and focused instead on the digital traces the administrators had left behind, rather than the material they were advertising. The approach was deliberate: HumAngle had already decided it would not purchase access to private VIP groups or attempt to obtain any material advertised as involving children.
Beyond the obvious ethical concerns, doing so could expose journalists to illegal content and compromise the investigation itself. Instead, we focused on the operators’ own mistakes, and the first was surprisingly ordinary: money.
Like any online business, the administrators eventually needed customers to pay. Across multiple Telegram channels and Status updates, Teema repeatedly instructed interested buyers to save a phone number before making enquiries or completing payments. Unlike her usernames, the number rarely changed. It became the first real-world lead.
A search through Truecaller, a popular caller identification service, returned the name “Fatima Mahmud”. One result was not enough, so the same number was cross-checked against Nigerian online banking applications, including OPay and PalmPay, both of which use registered phone numbers as account identifiers and display the associated account name before a transfer is completed. Both returned the same name. For the first time, the investigation had connected one of the network’s most active operators to a real-world name, confirmed through two independent verification methods.
Finding the person behind that name proved harder. Searching “Fatima Mahmud” and “Teema” on social media produced dozens of unrelated results, and many of the accounts connected to the investigation had already been suspended or had disappeared before they could be examined. So HumAngle changed direction, following relationships rather than names: Telegram usernames led to older accounts, older accounts led to replacement accounts, and replacement accounts led to suspended X profiles, each revealing another fragment of the same digital footprint.
The same process and the same dual verification through Truecaller and banking app records identified a second recurring figure in the network who used several online identities: Deejah, Nanadady, and Deharjah. Once again, the payment trail pointed to one name: Khadija Adamu.
Illustrated by Akila Jibrin/HumAngle, edited using AI.
Despite the frequent account suspensions and identity changes, traces of her activity remained visible. As recently as July 17, Khadija remained active. In a Telegram Status update, she told followers her phone had been damaged and appealed for financial support to replace it, posting her Union Bank account details. The account name she provided, Khadija Adamu Abubakar, was confirmed through a mobile banking application search, adding a third independent verification to the identity already established through Truecaller and her OPay and PalmPay records. Fatima’s administrator account was also active at the time of publication.
A collage of screenshots documenting the recent activity of Fatima Mahmud and Khadija Adamu, captured three days before publication. In the first frame, dated July 17, Khadija appeals to her followers for financial support to replace a damaged phone, posting her Union Bank account details beneath the request. The second frame, dated July 13, shows Fatima sharing her WhatsApp number on Telegram and directing followers to save her contact and message her there for access to her WhatsApp Status. The third frame, also dated July 17, shows Fatima advertising a VIP channel containing what HumAngle’s monitoring observed as more than 1,200 videos of child sexual abuse material, captioned “Bonanza 20k,” indicating a discounted access price of ₦20,000.
Khadija’s operation mirrored Teema’s in structure, but she operated across a considerably wider segment of the online sex trade, advertising leaked intimate videos, homosexual pornography, sex work, paid sexual video chats, sex toys, sexual stimulants, and VIP groups promoted as containing child sexual abuse material. Of that range, child sexual abuse material appeared to be one of her primary products, and her pricing across the board was consistently higher than Teema’s, with VIP access advertised at between ₦50,000 and ₦100,000. From what HumAngle observed, she made no attempt to obscure or apologise for any of it.
A further question remained: were the photographs attached to their profiles genuine? At first glance, they appeared convincing: young Hausa women in casual portraits and self-portraits, but reverse-image searches using Google Lens and facial-recognition software found that several did not belong to the account holders at all. Instead, they matched publicly available photographs of Hausa actresses and other individuals whose images had been lifted from elsewhere online. The people running the accounts had carefully concealed their own identities behind someone else’s faces.
Fatima addressed this directly in the description of her main feeder channel, Teematv (@teematv9), which had more than 40,000 subscribers before it was suspended on June 12. “I post pretty Hausa girls on my page. If you see your picture here, then know [that] you are pretty,” she wrote. “Some of you are complaining. I just leave compliments as the caption. I mean no harm. [It] is just for fun.”
A final search, this time relying on Facebook’s “People You May Know” recommendation feature after the administrators’ phone numbers were saved as contacts, surfaced a profile that strongly matched the identity already established for Khadija. Fatima’s case proved less conclusive; several profiles appeared, but none could be verified with sufficient confidence. The search stopped there. We do not possess the legal powers available to law enforcement agencies, but what the reporting established was enough: two operators had been identified through the payment infrastructure they themselves had created, and neither appeared to be working alone.
The product
A collage of screenshots from Fatima Mahmud’s main Telegram feeder channel, “Teematv” (@teematv9), showing advertisements for child sexual abuse material posted on April 15, 23, and 28. In each post, she offered discounted access to interested subscribers and directed them to contact her privately. The channel had more than 40,000 subscribers before Telegram suspended it in June.
The advertisements followed a consistent commercial logic, and the same pricing structure recurred across all operators and channels documented in this investigation.
Individual leaked Hausa intimate videos, after a short teaser had been posted publicly, typically sold for between ₦2,000 and ₦5,000. Buyers seeking larger collections were encouraged to pay for VIP memberships instead, which administrators claimed offered hundreds of additional videos. The advertisements suggested a tiered business: casual customers bought individual videos, regular customers subscribed, and those willing to spend more were offered access to increasingly exclusive groups.
At the top of the pricing structure were advertisements for group access explicitly involving children. Unlike the adult-content advertisements, which typically promoted individual clips, these posts promised something larger: a collection, membership, exclusivity. They were usually brief: a blurred collage or screen record, a short caption, sometimes only a few words, followed by a price. Most commonly, that price was ₦50,000, though some operators, like Khadija, advertised memberships as high as ₦100,000. The wording varied slightly from one administrator to another, but the sales strategy did not, and the same pattern appeared consistently across multiple Status updates, different administrators, and different channels over the three months of monitoring.
At first, HumAngle questioned whether the advertisements were genuine; exaggerated claims to lure paying customers are common online. But the consistency, repeated across unrelated administrators using nearly identical language, made coincidence difficult to sustain as an explanation.
Teema’s advertisements illustrated how the claims were built up over time. In a sequence of Status updates viewed chronologically, she claimed her VIP collection had grown from around 600 videos to more than 800, and eventually to over 1,200. HumAngle could not independently verify those figures, but documented them as part of the marketing strategy: growth itself had become a product, with a larger claimed catalogue used to strengthen the sales pitch.
A collage of screenshots from the Telegram Status updates of Fatima Mahmud and Khadija Adamu, advertising paid access to VIP groups where child sexual abuse material is sold. Both posts offered discounted entry prices. Fatima’s post, dated June 16, shows the advertised VIP channel with one subscriber; Khadija’s, dated June 22, shows four.
The operators appeared to understand a basic principle of online commerce: that people rarely arrive intending to make their largest purchase but are guided towards it. Every stage encouraged the next. The channels resembled a subscription business more than an ordinary social media page. Only the product was different, and its advertisements did not appear hidden in obscure corners of the internet. They appeared alongside the same promotional posts advertising leaked intimate videos, prostitution, and paid video calls. Children were not presented as something separate. They were presented as another product category, another premium tier.
Illustrated by Akila Jibrin/HumAngle, edited using AI.
HumAngle also decided not to attempt to identify the children referenced in the advertisements. INTERPOL’s International Child Sexual Exploitation database, the tool specialist law enforcement units use to identify victims and offenders worldwide, treats abusive images and videos as evidence tied to real children, real locations, and real offenders, material to be handled by trained victim-identification specialists rather than pursued independently. Attempting to trace the children through the material risked compounding the harm the investigation was seeking to expose.
The network
For much of the investigation, Teema and Khadija appeared to be running separate operations: different Telegram channels, different X usernames, different pricing. It was easy to assume they were competitors. Then one Status update changed that.
While reviewing Teema’s Telegram Status one afternoon, HumAngle noticed she was no longer advertising her own channel, but Khadija’s. Only days earlier, one of Khadija’s Telegram accounts had disappeared or been removed before we could complete the documentation of its activity. The replacement account appeared almost immediately, and Teema introduced it to thousands of followers. Over the following days, the same promotion resurfaced repeatedly across dozens of Status updates before disappearing after 24 hours, only to return.
Illustrated by Kingsley Chibueze/HumAngle, edited using AI.
Tracing the followers who interacted with those promotions on X uncovered dozens of accounts exhibiting remarkably similar behaviour. When one profile disappeared, another announced its replacement. When Telegram removed a channel, fresh invitation links circulated through WhatsApp Status updates and newer Telegram accounts. The audience rarely needed to search; the network guided them. Investigators documented several accounts operating under different versions of Teema’s identity, including @teematv2 and @teematv3, with Khadija running parallel replacements under her own aliases.
Around them was a wider ecosystem. Channels such as AREWA GIDAN DADI, Arewagidanharkazallah, and Sadearharka surfaced repeatedly throughout the investigation.
HumAngle found no evidence that these accounts were all controlled by the same individual, nor could we establish that every operator knew every other one personally. What our investigation does establish is narrower but significant: the accounts consistently promoted one another, shared audiences, and directed followers towards replacement channels, forming a distribution network that platform bans repeatedly failed to disrupt.
A collage of screenshots showing the premium subscription badges held by operators and channels within the network. The subscriptions grant access to features including unlimited Status updates and unlimited cloud storage, capabilities that appear to have supported the scale and persistence of their operations.
The blind spot
The most surprising thing about the network was not that it existed, but that it appeared to operate in plain sight. The operators behaved less like people trying to disappear than people confident they would not be noticed. That raises a broader question: why did a network operating so openly prove so resilient?
Part of the answer may lie in language. Almost every account documented in this investigation communicated primarily in Hausa, and the cities referenced in conversations, such as Kano, Kaduna, Maiduguri, Katsina, Sokoto, and Abuja, pointed overwhelmingly to audiences in northern Nigeria. This was not simply a Nigerian online marketplace; it was a Hausa-speaking one.
Researchers have increasingly warned that many widely spoken African languages remain “low-resource” from the perspective of artificial intelligence and automated content moderation. While Hausa is spoken by tens of millions of people across West Africa, there are comparatively fewer linguistic datasets and moderation tools to help technology companies automatically identify harmful content in the language, meaning abusive or exploitative content can be harder to detect at scale than equivalent content in English.
Nothing in HumAngle’s investigation suggests the operators tried to hide the language they used; on the contrary, their marketing relied on local expressions and reflected the culture of Arewa social media. The same characteristics that made the network accessible to its intended audience may also have made it less visible to moderation systems built primarily around better-resourced languages.
This is not a uniquely Nigerian, or even uniquely Hausa-language, problem. Investigations in other parts of the world have documented strikingly similar patterns, in which mainstream platforms funnel users toward Telegram-based child sexual abuse material (CSAM) marketplaces that survive enforcement through rapid replacement.
A BBC Eye investigation published in July found that Instagram’s advertising system in India was itself directing a test account toward paid child sexual abuse material sold through Telegram channels, with material advertised for as little as the naira equivalent of one US dollar; Meta’s own moderation team initially cleared one flagged advertisement as compliant with its policies, and only acted once BBC journalists sought formal comment.
A separate investigation by Sudan’s Ayin Network documented Telegram channels operating an almost identical structure to the one described here: administrators charging roughly $30 for VIP access to material described as exclusive, channels going dark after reports only to be quickly recreated with subscribers migrated across, and content sourced from economically vulnerable communities with little legal recourse.
Malaysiakini’s Kini News Lab has separately described Telegram as functioning as a “dark mall” for this kind of material, in which promotional content on more visible platforms consistently routes interested users toward Telegram, where moderation is comparatively lighter.
Another investigation, conducted by the Brazilian outlet Núcleo with the Pulitzer Centre’s AI Accountability Network, found dozens of Telegram bots capable of generating AI-manipulated child sexual abuse imagery, most operating despite Telegram’s own public commitments on child safety.
These investigations point to a recurring global pattern. Broader research suggests the problem extends far beyond the networks examined in any single investigation. Research conducted by UNICEF Innocenti, ECPAT International, and INTERPOL across 13 countries in Africa and Southeast Asia found that, depending on the country, up to one in five internet-using children aged 12 to 17 had experienced online sexual abuse within a single year. Social media platforms were among the environments where children most frequently encountered the abuse.
Nigeria was not included among the countries studied, leaving no comparable national estimate of how many Nigerian children may be affected. UNICEF and the WeProtect Global Alliance have warned that online child sexual exploitation is becoming increasingly complex as offenders adapt quickly to new technologies, encrypted platforms, and gaps in national responses, arguing that effective responses require cooperation between technology companies, law enforcement, child-protection organisations, and governments, rather than isolated moderation decisions by individual platforms. UNICEF Nigeria has separately noted that violence against children increasingly occurs in both physical and digital spaces, while support for victims remains limited.
As we identified the operators of these accounts, an obvious question emerged: if journalists could trace those digital footprints using publicly available tools, what prevented authorities from doing the same?
Nigeria does not lack the relevant laws. The Cybercrimes (Prohibition, Prevention, etc.) Act criminalises the production, distribution, and possession of child sexual abuse material, alongside offences relating to the use of digital platforms to facilitate unlawful activities, including the non-consensual distribution of intimate images.
The Violence Against Persons (Prohibition) Act recognises image-based sexual abuse, and children receive further protection under the Child Rights Act and the Trafficking in Persons (Prohibition) Enforcement and Administration Act.
The activity documented in this investigation appears to fall squarely within conduct already prohibited under Nigerian law. Over three months of monitoring, HumAngle found no public record of investigations or prosecutions specifically targeting the Hausa-language Telegram ecosystem documented in this reporting, even as channels disappeared, replacement channels emerged, subscribers migrated, and the marketplace continued operating.
The threat was not entirely new to Nigerian authorities. In 2023, the National Agency for the Prohibition of Trafficking in Persons (NAPTIP) said it had observed increasing cases involving child sexual abuse material, sextortion, and revenge pornography, and had established a Cybersecurity Response Team, in partnership with organisations including Meta and the United States National Centre for Missing and Exploited Children (NCMEC). That year, the agency said it was investigating six cyber-tip reports involving online child exploitation and sextortion, drawing on NCMEC’s CyberTipline, the centralised reporting system through which tech companies and the public flag suspected child exploitation to law enforcement worldwide. What remains unclear is whether the Hausa-language network HumAngle documented had ever entered that reporting system.
The network appeared to exploit precisely the jurisdictional and institutional gaps that researchers have long warned about: Telegram channels directed users toward WhatsApp, WhatsApp conversations led back to Telegram, and X attracted new audiences, with each platform seeing only one part of the picture while the operators appeared to see the whole. Platform enforcement removed accounts. Law enforcement, at least publicly, appeared largely absent, aside from the small number of cases NAPTIP said it was already investigating.
What follows
Before publication, HumAngle shared its findings with Telegram and NAPTIP, seeking answers about the network, its operators, and the apparent gaps that allowed it to persist. The advertisements, the Telegram links, the payment instructions, and the phone numbers had all been public. The operators had made no effort to hide them.
Bob Blumenfield would like to see Angelenos’ old banana peels and moldy bread stay local.
On Tuesday morning, the City Council member told a small crowd of waste advocates in front of city hall that he was introducing a motion to reduce the city’s greenhouse gas emissions by strengthening local composting infrastructure and decreasing reliance on distant facilities.
Currently, when city residents separate their food waste and yard clippings, chances are it’s being trucked to faraway processing facilities in Bakersfield or Lancaster.
The motion would help the city meet targets set by California’s Short-Lived Climate Pollutant Reduction Strategy, or Senate Bill 1383, which phases out sending green waste to the landfill, because it is a major source of the powerful climate pollutant methane.
It also would help meet Mayor Bass’ Climate Action Plan, which aims to use at least 50% of locally produced compost and mulch within Los Angeles by 2030. Currently, only 25% to 30% of the city’s material is applied to land locally.
The city produces approximately 350,000 tons of organic material a year, Blumenfield told the crowd, which he said equates to roughly 1.2 to 1.5 million metric tons of carbon dioxide.
“That’s a big number, and when you do the math,” he said, that’s roughly the same amount of carbon dioxide released by the entire country of Belize, the entirety of Humboldt County or the equivalent of burning 1.6 billion pounds of coal per year.
As the announcement was underway, in the background a fire burned for a sixth day in a Boyle Heights warehouse, where 85 million pounds of frozen food was thawing and beginning to rot.
Signed into law in 2016, the state’s composting bill mandated a gradual increase in the amount of organic waste that must be diverted away from landfills. It required 50% of all green and food waste be diverted by 2020; by 2025, that number was supposed to hit 75%.
But it hasn’t. Although Los Angeles has pushed to get a residential curbside bin program in place — recall the “Great Green Bin Apocalypse of 2025” — it has struggled to get people to comply.
According to reports for the recycLA program, a commercial and multifamily waste collection franchise program, only about half of households and business are separating their compostable waste.
Alex Helou, assistant general manager of L.A. Sanitation & Environment, provided a much brighter picture of the city’s food waste situation. L.A. is the first major city to provide green bins to 750,000 residential customers, he said. The city has “exceeded expectations” in food recovery, he said, saving 80 million meals that would have been thrown out and redirecting them to people in need.
Helou said Blumenfield’s motion completes the loop by keeping food waste close to home, creating more local composting and reducing greenhouse gas emissions from transporting waste outside of the city. It doesn’t directly affect the city’s compliance with SB 1383, but that isn’t necessary, he said. “We’re meeting that and exceeding that at multiple fronts.”
Blumenfield’s initiative directs the Bureau of Sanitation to develop a plan for expanding local composting across the city. It would also increase the use of locally produced compost and mulch.
For instance, the motion would encourage using the compost on urban farms and at community gardens and city parks. It also would be used to replace artificial grass and turf.
It will support a “citywide transition away from artificial turf and towards nature-based solutions, such as California native plants and natural grass plant fields, and ensure everyone has access to safer, cooler, and sustainable parks, schools, and communities,” said Terry Saucier, a Tarzana resident and member of the Neighborhood Council Sustainability Alliance and the Tarzana Neighborhood Council.
The state’s composting law has proved challenging on several fronts.
The Antelope Valley has become a dumping site for many of the city’s haulers looking to cut transport and facility costs — causing concern among environmentalists and others who say the material is destroying fragile ecosystems.
Complying has been particularly difficult for Los Angeles and much of coastal Southern California, where there are few large composters and low demand for compost. Unlike areas to the north, there is little agricultural demand for compost and mulch.
Experts say dumping in the desert has always been a problem, but the law made it worse by making it more expensive and difficult to deal with.
In addition, composters are struggling with the amount of plastic and other debris that people and businesses put in the food waste bins.
According to a report by Closed Loop Partners, which partners with companies such as Pepsico and McDonald’s, nearly 4% of food waste is contaminated with other materials — most of it plastic. State law requires that finished compost contains no more than 0.5% by dry weight of physical contaminants.
Two of the biggest box-office standouts of 2026 so far were not made by established studio directors or built on franchise IP.
“Obsession” and “Backrooms” — horror films from internet-native directors in their 20s — have outperformed far more expensive studio releases.
The breakout success of these films has ignited debate across Hollywood about what made these movies so popular, especially among Gen Z moviegoers who haven’t been flocking to cinemas in recent years. Here’s what to know:
The numbers
”Obsession” was directed by 26-year-old Curry Barker, who got his start on YouTube with sketch comedy and horror shorts. Released May 15 by Focus Features, the film was made for just $750,000 but opened to a staggering $17 million and has improved on its debut every weekend since.
“Obsession” set an all-time horror record for the biggest fourth weekend for a film at the domestic box office, raking in $25.4 million. It now ranks as the year’s fifth most popular film, nearing $200 million domestically and roughly $295 million worldwide — ahead of Pixar’s “Hoppers” ($166 million) and Paramount’s “Scream 7” ($121 million), per Box Office Mojo.
Released May 29 by A24 (known for such acclaimed films as “Moonlight” and Everything Everywhere All at Once”) on a reported $10-million budget, it opened to $81 million and crossed $100 million in under a week.
Within two and a half weeks, it had outgrossed the entire theatrical runs of horror films “Five Nights at Freddy’s 2,” “Smile” and “Scream 7.” It sits as 2026’s eighth-highest-grossing film.
Who is watching?
The audiences are young. In recent weeks, nearly 90% of “Backrooms’” viewers were under 35, with more than half under 25. Over “Obsession’s” first few weekends, 75% of the audience was 17 to 34, which is significant at a time when major studios have struggled to consistently get younger viewers to trek to the multiplex.
Why it’s working
Audiences have clearly latched onto the stories, said Jason Blum of Blumhouse–Atomic Monster, who worked on both films.
“There’s been an audience kind of waiting to get back to the movie theaters, and we in Hollywood really have not landed on what would get them back,” he told The Times in an interview this week.
Blum, who upended horror genre with the “Paranormal Activity” franchise, ties the success of “Backrooms” and “Obsession” to a connection to the directors’ origins.
Because the films were made by creators who speak to younger viewers daily on YouTube, he said, that generation “feels like they’re being spoken to.”
David Gross, an analyst at FranchiseRe, framed it as a new pipeline of talent and material. Creators can build large followings very inexpensively, he said, and their stories arrive further developed — which expedites the development and discovery process. He called internet-based storytelling “another additive source for material for movies.” Blum added that the films’ success could make studios more willing to bet on undiscovered directors who “might not have been considered” before.
Rosie Ramirez, chief marketing officer at Galaxy Theatres, said a young first-wave audience tends to generate buzz. More than a month after “Obsession” was released, she said, the Nevada chain’s four California locations are only now seeing a second wave of moviegoers curious about the hype.
Whether this marks a lasting shift or a fluke is unclear. May crossed $1 billion in box office — with “Backrooms” and “Obsession” doing much of the heavy lifting. Despite the improvement, the box office has yet to full return to pre-pandemic levels, with the summer tracking roughly 3.5% behind summer 2019, said Comscore’s Paul Dergarabedian.
And Dergarabedian questioned how the industry could replicate a success that, in his words, was “authentically and organically created” rather than manufactured: “It just happened,” he said.
Ramirez argued the broader summer slate — franchise tentpoles like “Toy Story 5” alongside some original surprises — points to a healthy box office regardless, a reminder that “it doesn’t always have to be the big summer blockbuster.”
A federal judge on Friday rejected former President Biden’s attempt to block the Trump administration from releasing to a conservative group the recordings that Biden made with a ghostwriter.
U.S. District Judge Dabney Friedrich found that the public interest in the material outweighed whatever privacy rights Biden had.
The recordings were obtained by special counsel Robert Hur in the course of his investigation into whether Biden improperly retained classified documents while a senator and vice president. Republicans in Congress demanded them after Hur declined to file charges against the then-president.
Biden’s Democratic administration refused to turn over the 2017 recordings and transcripts, leading congressional Republicans to hold his attorney general, Merrick Garland, in contempt.
President Trump’s Department of Justice authorized the release of the materials. That led Biden last month to sue to seek to block the release to a staffer at the conservative Heritage Foundation who had formally requested the records.
Biden objected to the release as an invasion of privacy, saying the recordings included him discussing sensitive personal matters such as the death of his older son, Beau Biden. But Friedrich found that the administration redacted that material.
The judge wrote that the materials “contain no mention of highly sensitive topics like illness or death, nor do they mention any non-public persons, including members of Biden’s family.”
Representatives for Biden did not immediately comment but asked Friedrich to bar release of the material while they appeal her decision. The Justice Department did not immediately respond to a request for comment.
Friedrich was nominated by Trump, a Republican, in 2017.
Cape Fear,” premiering Friday on Apple TV, is a 10-episode limited series remake of a 1991 Martin Scorsese remake of a 1962 film adapted from John D. MacDonald’s 1957 novel “The Executioners,” and as in a game of telephone each subsequent version adds new material and moves a little farther from the original. (The credits to the series, created by Nick Antosca, note all previous sources and screenwriters.) Thirty-four years having passed since the last go-round, we are treated to such modern advances as catfishing, drones, deep fakes, social media and pushy true-crime podcasters.
In each iteration, a family is menaced by a recently released ex-con who blames one or more of them for his incarceration. Antosca fills his extra-long take on the material with complications and inventions; though the series is also chock full of borrowings from and allusions to its predecessors — you can hardly call them Easter eggs, lying there as they do in plain sight. (And sound: Bernard Herrmann and Elmer Bernstein‘s earlier scores share space with Jeff Russo’s new one.)
In every version, the antagonist is a now-charming, now-menacing psychopath named Max Cady (Javier Bardem), memorably played by Robert Mitchum in 1962 and Robert De Niro in 1991. In the novel and movies, Cady was serving time for rape; here it’s for the murder of his wife and unborn child, when new evidence suddenly springs him from prison after 17 years. We are invited to suspect this evidence from the very beginning, though this suspicion will itself become suspect. “Or is it?” is a question you’ll be prompted to ask through the series.
The objects of Cady’s slow-boiling vengeance — seemingly — are married lawyers Tom (Patrick Wilson) and Anna Bowden (Amy Adams), sharing the position previously represented solely by Gregory Peck and Nick Nolte in turn. Anna, who had unsuccessfully represented Cady, ironically works for an Innocence Project-type nonprofit, whose chief, Noa Toussaint (CCH Pounder), is only too delighted to fundraise on the back of Cady’s celebrity. Cady, claiming no hard feelings, insinuates himself into their world, apparently friendly, apparently helpful, so that it’s not always clear what’s sincere and what’s strategy. Is he a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or just a creepy, sometimes violent sheep? (“Killed his wife, didn’t kill his wife,” a minor character will volunteer, “he’s an arrogant bastard either way.”)
There are now two Bowden children in the picture, doubling earlier versions. Natalie (Lily Collias), Anna’s daughter from a previous relationship, is a good girl looking to go just a little bad, who feels unseen by her busy parents. Sad, sullen younger half-brother Zach (Joe Anders), unrecovered from a social media misstep, is acting more strangely than teenage boys usually do.
This is a cat and mouse — or cats and mice — melodrama, with customized stock characters given dark secrets and backstory traumas less as explanation than complication. (Good, bad, whatever, everyone’s got issues.) Cady, who has a prison-acquired brain injury — cue flashback, in black and white, naturally — suffers from headaches and hallucinations, reacting painfully to flashbulbs (a Chekov gun, I wondered?), seeing visions of his dead wife and son, whom he pictures grown. (He is sad about it, whether or not it’s his fault.) And is that masked woman in green he keeps seeing real or imagined?
On a nuts and bolts level, it’s all screwed together tight, even the pieces that stick out at weird angles. (Is there a reason to make Cady an apparently talented chef, other than to demonstrate his knife skills?) The actors fill their parts with feeling. Bardem gets the most, and most extreme attitudes, to play, whether cozying up individually to the Bowdens, threatening a groupie, undergoing a religious conversion, acting normal or being weird. Adams is low-key forceful as his primary opponent. (Tom’s comparatively weak character is underscored by his secret habit of microdosing LSD and a nothingburger flirtation with a colleague.) Collias is impressively real. The dialogue is well-crafted, the Southern atmosphere (Atlanta doubling Savannah, with Savannah here and there standing for itself) suitably oppressive.
Nevertheless, it’s fair to ask whether this story, even with its yards of extra material, could be told in under nine hours? The answer, most assuredly, is yes. And might it be better shorter? It might.
Not that I’ve ever been a fly on the walls of the executive conference or dining or washrooms where such deals are made, but I suspect the length has less to do with artistic necessity than A) the obscure economics of streaming and B) the not unrelated habits of viewers, who, to judge by questions I get asked, abhor a vacuum. A 10-episode series will put off the moment when they have “nothing to watch,” while the streamer gets to keep them in the ecosystem longer. “Cape Fear” is hardly the only series to which this applies. As I imagine the series will do well — mystery with a smattering of horror seems very much what the people want — more may be just the ticket for some people. Still, there’s a sense that the story has expanded to fill the space, with plotlines for all and crazy side trips (snakes! drugs!) in escalating levels of nuttiness.
That might be more feature than bug, but I can’t say I felt much of anything for the characters, or was concerned whether the Bowdens would emerge from their ordeals a stronger family. (Whatever the outcome, I’d say they have work to do.) Having been given only eight of 10 episodes to review, I’m interested, in a disinterested way, how this all will shake out, when the story finally moves to the Cape Fear River, and whatever final twists — that there will be twists, I am certain — an inevitably Action Packed Finale has in store.
