scene

Ibiza might be famed for its sleepless nights, but where you stay can shape the whole experience.

From serene sea-view luxury to buzzy beachside energy, the White Isle serves up escapes to match every mood.

Find rooftop heaven at Ibiza’s Ocean Drive Talamanca,

says writer Mia Lyndon 

Sleepless nights are often a given on this island – but not at this stylish retreat. Here, you’ll find panoramic ocean views, an extensive pillow menu and truffles delivered at bedtime. 

 Tucked between Talamanca’s sandy beaches and whitewashed architecture are Ocean Drive’s four pools and 117 rooms, all facing the sparkling waters of Talamanca Cove.  

Our room is decked out with a rainfall shower, floor-to-ceiling windows and a tower speaker – plus a welcome flaó, an Ibizan mint and aniseed cheesecake.  

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There’s a complimentary hangover supplement, too (though that remains in its box).  

Downstairs, walls are adorned with local modern art, plus there’s a balmy sun terrace and the Almendra Boutique shop, stocked with whimsical Ibizan trinkets.  

We catch the sunset at the hotel’s rooftop Up And Down eatery, and sip Montenovo, a crisp, vibrant white wine, £35 a bottle, while gazing at Ibiza Castle across the bay, as we tuck into fresh seabass and prawns in a rich coconut, oyster and lime sauce, £30. 

Lunch is equally tempting, with indulgent sandwiches loaded with Iberian ham, Mahón cheese and truffle, £24, soaking up our rosé sangria, £7 a glass, before we plunge back into the rooftop pool. 

Mornings here are slow and relaxed – breakfast is served until noon and boasts local meats, Spanish cheeses and warm, freshly baked cookies. 

We stroll along Talamanca’s sandy boardwalk ogling the yachts, and stop by B London Boutique to browse the colourful rails of swimsuits, wraps and shades (Blondonboutique.com), before setting up camp on the golden beach.  

This is bliss. Double rooms at Ocean Drive Talamanca cost from £170 per night (Od-hotels.com).  

Seek out Hyde Ibiza. . . For a cool pool scene,

says Assistant Editor Kelly Allen

Perched in the hills of Cala Llonga, 15 minutes further along the Isle’s east coast, is boho-chic Hyde Ibiza.  

Head to its main pool, Hyde Beach, for an excellent playlist and cabanas, from £131 a day, to live it up – the fee is redeemable on food and drink.  

At beachside eatery Sonrojo, we order seafood paella, £30, and sangria, £35 a jug.  

Later, we catch the sunset on the terrace of Japanese restaurant Niko, feasting on umami-rich tuna and truffle maki, £24, and miso-glazed black cod, £37.  

Hyde is just steps from the public ferry to Ibiza Town, Santa Eulalia and Leonardo DiCaprio’s fave nearby island, Formentera.  

It’s also just 20 minutes from UNVRS, where we catch David Guetta (Unvrs.com), Ushuaïa, where Calvin Harris performs alfresco (Theushuaiaexperience.com), and Hï Ibiza, with its Wild Corner complete with a DJ booth inside the unisex loos (Hiibiza.com).  

Recovery at beach club Amante proves a winner (Amanteibiza.com), and the views are so impressive that a mate back home thinks my pics are AI! Double rooms at Hyde Ibiza cost from £161 per night (Hydehotels.com/ibiza). 

Cameron Collins was sick of Joe Biden.

The owner of concert promoter Brew Ha Ha Productions describes himself as a libertarian-leaning conservative who built his career in San Juan Capistrano. He’d kept his personal politics out of his popular SoCal events, like the ska fest OC Super Show and the nationally touring Punk in the Park fest, a staple for bands like Bad Religion and Pennywise.

On May 30, 2024, Collins felt dismayed that Biden had pursued reelection. In a fit of anger, he donated $225 to Donald Trump’s campaign.

“It was just an impulsive thing,” Collins said in an interview. “Biden had said he was going to run again. I was like, nope. He’d said he wasn’t. It was more about that than anything. I don’t post anything political or talk about anything politically. I’ve never donated to anything like that before.”

That donation proved fateful. After a small punk label discovered and decried Collins’ donation, the scene turned on him. Influential bands pulled out of his festivals or said they wouldn’t return.

On Feb. 27, Collins canceled every Punk in the Park date for 2026.

“The current climate surrounding the events has created challenges that make it impossible for us to move forward,” the organizers wrote on Instagram.

It’s no surprise that an underground music scene would loathe a Trump-donating promoter. Amid the Iran war, raids by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and the Epstein files, many Americans want Trump supporters gone from their lives, some viewing any form of support for him as an attack on their and others’ safety and dignity.

Yet until this donation, Collins was a respected promoter whose events sustained hundreds of acts, including progressive bands. Some artists who relied on Collins’ festivals — even if they hate his politics — said the backlash will hurt their livelihoods too.

“It was the worst money I ever spent,” Collins said. “It was not worth this.”

On a March afternoon after canceling his tours, Collins spoke to The Times on a Zoom from his home in Texas. He wore a thick gray beard and the chunky glasses of an aging rocker. His home office was plastered in concert posters from his decades of shows, which include Punk in Drublic (a long-running collaboration with his friends in the left-leaning band NOFX), Silverado Showdown in Orange County and SoCal rock radio station KLOS’ Sabroso Festival.

He expressed bewilderment over the fan revolt that turned him from a scene mogul who gave to pediatric cancer research charities to a villain with a gutted festival business.

“I feel like my reputation with every artist I ever worked with was that they would say, ‘The guy’s got integrity. He treats everyone right. He fights for this scene,’ ” Collins said. “I’m wondering what is happening right now that this has become so polarizing.”

Asked what Trump policies he supported, Collins sighed and said, “A vote for a candidate is not an endorsement of everything they stand for. I am very antiwar. There were promises that Trump made — no more foreign wars, supporting Ukraine by ending that war, lowering prices on gas and on groceries. Dinner table topics.”

Those goals are significantly at odds with the president’s track record. Did Trump deliver on Collins’ donation?

“The way that this whole fiasco has gone down — no one would have voted for that,” he said.

Punk has long struggled with a reactionary streak. British bands in the ‘70s wore swastika armbands for shock value. The Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten and the Ramones’ Johnny Ramone turned rightward, and Orange County’s hardcore scene has had neo-Nazi extremists. Gen X punk fans who consider themselves anti-establishment might see online leftists as imposing on their ability to have consequence-free political speech.

Yet the vitality of today’s punk scene is driven by young, racially and sexuality-diverse fans who believe they are in grave danger from Trump’s policies.

Last year, Brandon Lewis, the founder of the Columbus, Ohio-based label Punkerton Records, was poking around on the donor database Open Secrets. He was curious how his scene was donating, and he’d attended Brew Ha Ha events like the Ohio punk festival Camp Anarchy. He checked where Collins put his money and was appalled that it went to Trump.

“We refuse to support, defend, or stay silent about someone who gave money to a man actively destroying everything we care about, deporting our friends and families, erasing the existence of our trans community, stripping away civil liberties, civil rights, and workers’ rights, while dismantling the Constitution itself,” Lewis wrote from Punkerton’s Instagram.

“I’m a combat veteran, and this administration is just pushing everything I believe in about freedom out the window,” Lewis told The Times. “When I would listen to Trump’s rhetoric about ICE — I’ve got friends who are undocumented. Supporting that in a financial way, supporting someone saying my trans friends don’t exist, and to do so coming from a music scene that to me is accepting and kind and certainly not ripping families apart, I couldn’t in good conscience let that go.”

Other bands in the scene, like Dillinger Four, found more donations — around $100 or $200 each — from Collins going to the Trump-supporting political action committees WinRed and Never Surrender and the Trump National Committee. Collins’ support ran deeper than a one-off gesture.

Left-leaning fans demanded that bands drop off Collins’ festival bills.

Dropkick Murphys, a rough-and-ready enemy of Trumpism in punk, had played Collins’ past events. When word of his donations spread, the band came out swinging.

“Punk Rock and Donald Trump just don’t belong together,” they wrote in an Instagram post . “So, upon finding out that Brew Ha Ha promotions donated to the Trump campaign, we will not be playing any more Punk in the Park shows.”

Some acts, like old-guard punks the Adicts and ska group the Aquabats, canceled sets at Collins’ events. Other bands, like Dead Kennedys, said they opposed his beliefs but fulfilled their contracts.

“Dead Kennedys have always stood firmly against authoritarianism, racism, and fascism. That has not changed,” the group wroteon social media. “After these scheduled appearances, we will not be participating in future Punk In the Park events.”

Collins said he understood why bands jumped ship. “There was so much pressure building,” he said. “The bands are a business. You have to say, at what level is the pay worth the headache?”

Yet he insisted that “anyone that pulled off did not pull out because they were standing for something, but were being pummeled to the ground by everyone that said they’d better do it or else. I don’t want those bands to go through that.”

Many fans say that Collins is seeing the predictable consequences of supporting a politician the scene despises.

Others struggled with what to do in response. Monique Powell, the singer for the Orange County ska band Save Ferris, describes herself as a “queer anarchist anti-Netanyahu Jewish child of a North African immigrant,” and far from a Trump sympathizer. Yet Save Ferris played Collins’ OC Super Show event in spite of the protests and bands pulling out.

She said that, while she opposes MAGA, she “wasn’t willing to disappoint fans and put hundreds of people out of work just because someone had a view I didn’t agree with.”

She said Collins “has been an important part of creating and nurturing this scene. He gave a lot of people work. From onstage, I see all the vendors, the stage crew, all providing jobs for people of all backgrounds. He’s given a place for fans to come together, even if they don’t all believe the same stuff.”

Save Ferris was a breakout act in the ‘90s and is now a working-class band on the ska and punk festival circuit. “I see the midsized, hometown venues that the bands of my ilk play — they’re being bought out or dying,” Powell said. “I’m not about to start getting out pitchforks for someone who did something that’s nothing compared to the effects of larger companies.”

Take, for example, Beverly Hills-based concert giant Live Nation, which was in the news last week after a federal jury in New York ruled against it in an antitrust case. Live Nation’s chief executive, Michael Rapino, has donated to Democrats Kamala Harris, Sens. Jacky Rosen of Nevada, Lisa Blunt Rochester of Delaware and Adam Schiff of California, and the music biz-friendly Texas Republican John Cornyn. Live Nation’s PAC has given to Republican Sens. Marsha Blackburn of Tennessee and Ohio Rep. Jim Jordan, alongside several Democrats. Billionaire Philip Anschutz, whose namesake firm AEG is the parent company of Coachella promoter Goldenvoice, has donated millions to Republican politicians, PACs and party organizations for decades — exponentially more than Collins ever did.

It’s fair for to wonder why music fans who hold the line on supporting a Trump donor like Collins might attend those other shows. Lewis said he struggles with that contradiction too but said it hurt worse coming from a punk promoter.

“Donating to Trump is antithesis of what punk means. Hating people for their sexuality or skin color is not punk in the least bit. People clearly expected better from a punk rock festival,” he said.

“I think Live Nation should be broken in half,” Lewis added. “But it’s no knock on someone who wants to see Social Distortion at a Live Nation venue; they need escape as well. I’m just not going to pretend Live Nation is a beacon for good things.”

Those punk communities are pushing back beyond Collins’ events. The SoCal gothic-cumbia DJ collective Los Goths pulled out of the Orange County festival Los Darks after learning its organizers, Peachtree Entertainment, produced the MAGA-champion Kid Rock’s controversial Rock the Country festival. The Los Angeles crust-punk event C.Y. Fest was scrapped after its organizer, Ignacio “Nacho Corrupted” Rodriguera was accused of sexual misconduct (he called the claims “false allegations and misinformation,” but stepped back from the festival).

Collins’ company produces events outside the punk scene, focused on craft beer and other music genres. He recently revamped his upcoming Me Gusta festival into Sublime Fest after the rap group Cypress Hill pulled out. (Last year, Sublime played at the Trump National Doral golf course for the Saudi-backed LIV Golf tour.)

Collins is not sure how he’ll find his way back into the punk scene or if the fans will want him there again.

“I still go out into the audience because I just want to see, is it real? Do people hate me?” he said. “We have bands up there like the Casualties, who are flying [anti-ICE] flags. People are like, ‘You’re a fascist,’ but I’m paying a band to go on my stage to say whatever they want, and then signing a check and going, ‘Thanks for doing it.’ ”

In America‘s current political climate, left-leaning punk fans may not have patience for Trump sympathizers. Having heterodox beliefs is one thing; financially supporting the president is another. Collins is a free market guy, and the punk market has spoken.

Yet huge companies that donate to Trump and his allies are consolidating the industry. It’s harder for progressive punks who want the scene to reflect their values.

“I feel like we created a sustainable, realistic scene that can keep going for years, and bands can earn the money that they need to anchor those tours,” Collins said. His donation caused this avoidable backlash, but “if you take away festivals that are their anchors, like we have been for so many of these artists over the years, how do they tour? This is what the bands are telling me, that ‘we’re the ones getting killed here.’ ”

The third season of Apple TV’s “Shrinking” concludes with Jimmy (Jason Segel) being, well, “Jimmy-ed.”

For three seasons, Jimmy, a therapist grieving the loss of his wife, has used unconventional methods —think taking someone with aggression issues to a boxing ring — to get through to his patients. In the last moments of “And That’s Our Time,” Jimmy’s mentor and fellow therapist Paul (Harrison Ford) turns that approach on its namesake, flying across the country to give Jimmy a much needed push to move forward with his life. “Jimmy needed permission and encouragement from someone to say, ‘All right, it’s time,’” Segel says. “This is the end of this story and it’s time to start a new one.”

In the scene, Paul finally tells Jimmy he’s like a son to him. “I found ourselves writing a conversation that if we were lucky enough to have a conversation like that with our own fathers, we’d be grateful,” executive producer Bill Lawrence says. “A lot of my shows have an element of mentorship in them. To see Jimmy’s mentor come through for him in the way that I would always hope he would meant a lot to me.”

Lawrence had always envisioned the three-season arc for Jimmy ending this way. But when they found out the comedy would be returning for a fourth season, he and his fellow executive producers were faced with a dilemma: End the season the way they would have the series or push their original ending out for one more season. After much discussion, they decided to stick the landing.

“It still felt right,” Lawrence says. “This particular story with these characters has been told and you should feel, in a good way, like it’s gonna be OK for Jimmy. Jason is so good at it, watching him play the agony of trying to get through it all and come out on the other side was my favorite kind of journey on the whole show.”

Segel spoke to The Envelope about filming this pivotal scene and bringing the third season to a close.

What did filming this final scene mean to you? To play this part of Jimmy’s journey coming to an end?

I’m always really interested in, “What is the dirty underneath? If we go one level deeper, what is the thing that the person is not saying?” This arc with Jimmy over the three seasons had been building up to Jimmy finally saying the actual thing, which is some version of, “Who’s gonna want me now?”

Paul answers that question by telling Jimmy that his scars are “evidence of a life well–lived.”

I had a therapist I was talking to about having to show up somewhere with people I knew from 25 years ago. I remember having a little bit of apprehension because I’ve had a twisty-turny life. I thought, “God, there’s so much to catch up on and I’m showing up covered in scars.” And this therapist said to me, just matter of fact, “What a shame it would be to show up anywhere at 45 years old not covered in scars.” And I went straight to Bill and [executive producer] Neil [Goldman], this is a year ago, and I said, “This is what Harrison says to Jimmy at the end of this arc.” And we worked it in.

What was the actual day of filming the scene like for you?

It was a difficult day. It was loud that day. There was a little bit of discombobulation on the street. There was construction and they couldn’t hold the cars right. It wasn’t the ideal environment for a scene like this where you would love to hear a pin drop. People were coming into the restaurant asking, “Are you guys open?” It almost felt like we were making a student film. And Harrison and I took a minute and we walked away from the set and we started running the scene, walking up and down the busy street to kind of acclimate ourselves. And I’m walking up and down the street with this man who I idolize and we are at that moment like equals and teammates. We have to go build this scene together. It is a real honor to have that dynamic with him.

Do you think it was important to have such a pivotal scene outdoors?

They’re a good reminder that the show takes place in the real world and that you’re like a representative of reality almost. I think that there’s something vulnerable about all that taking place outside. … There’s other patrons there. It’s surrounded by people, surrounded by life, and Paul is showing up and telling Jimmy, “It’s time to step into it. Look, it’s all around you.”

This season we met Jimmy’s father (played by Jeff Daniels), who never really connected with his son and, in a heartbreaking moment, chooses a fishing trip with his buddies over staying for Alice’s (Lukita Maxwell) high school graduation.

One of the things this show does really well is handle these situations honestly. Whether it’s Parkinson’s or loss or a complicated relationship with a family member. It’s not gonna magically change. None of it. And so the show is very much true to, “How do we get through it with each other?” That’s really the theme of the show. These issues are gonna be there. What are we gonna do with the realities of life? I think the reason they brought Jeff Daniels in is to highlight why Jimmy so desperately wants Paul’s affection. Where is this coming from? Bill is a genius in terms of setting something up in a previous episode so that there’s a payoff in the finale. I think that we understand suddenly how desperate Jimmy is to have somebody say, “You’re my son and I love you.” And he finally gets that at the end from Paul.

The other major event that happens in the finale is that Alice leaves for college.

To me, [Jimmy’s relationship with Alice] has been the heart of the show and the most important storyline. The show started out with Alice parenting a troubled child in her father. And that dynamic slowly, slowly, slowly shifted to being the right direction. Until finally he is able to see her off to college and she feels safe to leave him behind. He is the parent and she is the child and everything is the right size again. I think watching Lukita as an actor and a human being grow up over these past four years, it’s been really the joy of my career. When I met her, she called me Mr. Segel. I realized she grew up with my “Muppet” movie. I have the real honor of being more of a mentor than a contemporary to Lukita. To get to the point where I am being surprised and challenged and blown away and moved to tears in scenes with Lukita is like the coolest thing in the world.

Cobie Smulders and Jason Segel in “Shrinking.”

(Apple TV)

We see Jimmy sit down at the restaurant with his potential love interest Sofi (Cobie Smulders), but we don’t hear their conversation.

It originally ended with a hard cut to black. Then then they did this beautiful cinematic pullback. I think the most important line is, “Hello.”

As the scene ends, Paul tells Jimmy that he can either “stay stuck” or “go make new scars.” Paul advises Jimmy to “choose wisely” and then winks at Jimmy. It’s a subtle nod to the famous “choose wisely” scene from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.”

Harrison is not so secretly one of the funnier people I know. He always knows exactly what he’s doing and we’ve had a few of those throughout the season, some little nods to Harrison’s body of work. It was a perfect way to end that scene. Paul slash Harrison is always just a little smarter than you. One of the great qualities that they have is they’re just a little bit ahead of you, which a great mentor should be, right?

Have you thought about how it will be to play Jimmy in the show’s fourth season now that this particular story arc has come to an end?

I think an equally interesting and complicated and fun area is someone deciding they’re ready to be happy. Because God knows it’s one thing in your house alone in front of the mirror [to say], “Now I’m gonna be happy.” And then you go out and in practice, it’s its own set of complications, right? And so, I’m actually really excited about that idea of someone saying, “OK, I’m ready to take it for a spin.” And then seeing that’s its own thing.

There’s a couple somewhere in Los Angeles who unknowingly inspired the second season of “Beef.”

Lee Sung Jin, the creator of Netflix’s anthology drama that swirls in the consequences of class struggles, resentment and the absurdity of life’s curveballs, once again found himself inspired by a tense interaction playing out before him. A road rage incident at a stoplight in Hollywood a few years ago, triggered by Lee’s delayed response to a green light, became the catalyst for the first season. An early idea to write about a men’s doubles partnership gone awry lost its luster after “Challengers,” Luca Guadagnino’s drama about a love triangle between tennis pros, came out. But a heated argument coming from a house in Lee’s neighborhood became the next spark that lit a narrative fuse.

“I told the story to people — it caused a little stir in the neighborhood,” he says. “And what I found fascinating was the different reactions. When I told younger folks, I’d get, ‘Did you call the police? Should you go check on them again?’ Very concerned, having an ideological view on relationships. When I told the story to older friends and couples, they were just kind of like, ‘Who among us hasn’t?’ I thought the idea of juxtaposing these couples at different stages felt like ripe ground.”

The overheard in L.A. moment inspired the eight-episode season,

Carey Mulligan and Oscar Isaac square off with Charles Melton and Cailee Spaeny in Season 2 of “Beef.”

(Netflix)

The twist-filled, darkly comic thriller kicks off when a young couple, Ashley and Austin (Cailee Spaeny and Charles Melton), who work at a Montecito country club, witness the explosive altercation between their boss Josh (Oscar Isaac) and his wife, Lindsay (Carey Mulligan), an interior designer, the night before the club’s new Korean billionaire owner, Chairwoman Park (Youn Yuh-jung), takes over. She has her own mess to tend to involving her husband (Song Kang-ho), a doctor whose health is affecting his work on patients. The calamities each couple faces spin out into a web of favors and coercion in this tale of broken systems and characters going to great lengths to get what they want.

“The idea of cycles felt interesting,” he says. “A lot of shows and movies cover marriage through the lens of one couple, you don’t really see that multigenerational juxtaposition.”

Speaking from his office on the Raleigh Studios lot in Hollywood, Lee discussed the season’s Montecito setting, the financial anxiety that drives the story and the four-legged breakout star of the show. These are edited excerpts from the conversation, which includes many spoilers.

Why did you want to set this season in Montecito?

Just writing what I know. My goddaughters — their parents are my best friends. They live in Montecito. The dad is my oldest friend in LA. He has a membership to Montecito Club, which is where we shot the exterior of our show. I was house-sitting for him during the writing of all this. He let me use his membership. I remember when he told me about the membership, I was like, “You pay how much? That’s insane, dude.” But then you start using the membership. This idea of hedonic adaptation — how humans so quickly adapt to this new comfort, this new stimulus — it felt like an interesting thing. I was observing how all the members seemed to be mostly boomers and Silent Gen; then all the workers were Gen Z and millennial. I thought: What a perfect metaphor for society right now. No matter how hard the Gen Z and millennials work, they’re never going to get to be members of this club because, as Austin says, “everyone grabbed the bag before they could.” That’s what made me want to set it at a Montecito country club.

Oscar Isaac as Josh Martin and Carey Mulligan as Lindsay Crane-Martin. Cailee Spaeny as Ashley Miller and Charles Melton as Austin Davis. The second season of “Beef,” follows the two California couples from different socioeconomic backgrounds — though both are struggling — as they spiral into a high-stakes feud. (Netflix)

That feeling of survival and resentment and entitlement really looms over this season. There’s speeches about love, but also capitalism. The anxiety about finances is so prevalent right now.

We certainly didn’t set out to make a season about capitalism. But if you’re constantly trying to chase truth as writers, I don’t know how you say anything in the modern era, in 2026, and not have capitalism be a huge variable because it permeates every aspect of life. It’s like going to get gas. Gas is almost $7 right now. You have to fill your tank and there goes $140? That’s crazy. And relationships face so much stress — everyone is being hit by all these curveballs and trying to keep your head above water — how can you enjoy each other?

It became very obvious to us that if you’re going to write a season about marriage and love to these two couples, financial implications have to be a big factor. There’s a lot of talk about the disappearance of the American dream right now. Birth rates are declining. No one’s owning homes anymore. But then you also see headlines about everyone’s scamming. CVS has everything locked down. You’re like, “Yeah, no wonder.” Everything’s connected. We wanted to really show how that survival instinct, the desperation, is starting to come for everyone. I don’t think it’s going to get easier, especially with AI moving on the horizon, and with leaders who refuse to put checks and balances in place.

Part of Ashley’s story is using the video of the fight between Josh and Lindsay as blackmail to get health insurance so she can afford treatment for her endometriosis. And that moment where she’s waiting in the ER for hours and it’s not until she collapses that they realize she needs emergency surgery — her big concern is whether she has to pay the deductible.

I wrote that episode in a literal day because it was based on an experience I had in an ER with my daughter’s mother. She had this illness fall upon her. We spent 12 hours at the ER and, the whole time, I had my Notes app out and was just writing down everything I saw. Almost everything in that scene is stuff that happened in real life. Our healthcare system is absolutely insane. It’s, again, unhinged capitalism and … felt like it really unlocked so much of the season.

There’s a moment where Josh has to sell some of his prized possessions to pay a gambling debt. Have you been there, needing to sell things to cover your financial obligations?

I’ve been there multiple times. I obviously struggled to find my way for a long time, even after becoming a writer. If you’re in a writing partnership, in a staff job on a show — first of all, this is what the guild has been fighting, trying to get these longer-term employment windows because these jobs sometimes are only … maybe eight to 12 weeks. You’re splitting a staff salary in two [if you’re in a partnership], and you probably haven’t qualified for health insurance by the end of that run. Sure, you’re a working writer, but I remember [by the time I landed at] “Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” my first real writing job, I had amassed so much debt, half of which were from parking tickets. I just didn’t have the money to pay these tickets, and so I just let them run rampant. So, yeah, I’ve been there. There’s this one guitar that I loved; it was the first guitar I bought with my own money after college — it was a Fender Telecaster. I think I bought it for $1,200. I ended up selling it for $300. I’ve sold collectibles. I’ve sold anything that had gold in it. I’ve scrapped to just find anything because you’re desperate.

Song Kang-ho as Dr. Kim, Youn Yuh-jung as Chairwoman Park in “Beef.” Recalling the opportunity to direct the pair, Lee says: “It just makes me feel like a little kid again. It stops feeling like work and starts feeling like play.”

(Netflix)

You directed this season. Is there a moment that stands out with this cast?

A peak of my career that I think about daily is the moment in Korea where we were shooting at Amorepacific. It’s one of the most beautiful buildings in Seoul. I’m shooting the scene between the great Youn Yuh-jung and the great Song Kang-ho — two of not only my favorite Korean actors, but favorite actors period. They have never been in a scene together in any Korean film ever. They’ve been in a movie together, but never acted together. And here we are making Korean history by having them shoot that breakfast scene and, while I’m in the middle of shooting that scene, director Bong Joon Ho surprises us on set. He comes over laughing, pulls up to me, looks at my monitor, gives me stage fright, then elbows me and says, “You sure you want to frame it like that?” He was teasing. Then we started shooting the scene, it’s all in Korean, and I look back at video village and Bong’s just doubled over in laughter. He is just cracking up. Younger me, and present me, is looking around like: Here I am in Korea, in this building I’ve always wanted to shoot in, two of the greatest living actors and the greatest living director — what is happening? What a crazy sentence to say. It just makes me feel like a little kid again. It stops feeling like work and starts feeling like play.

How did you want race and identity to figure into this season, particularly through Austin?

Charles was the first piece of the whole thing. After Season 1, I got to go to Korea multiple times. I shot a music video for one of the members of BTS. I was experiencing Austin’s journey of being courted by this level of Korea that I’d never been exposed to before and feeling warm and allured by it — I’m having dinners with K-pop idols, like what is happening? So, I knew I wanted to have that element of elite Korea involved. The writers and I discussed a lot whether it should be a Korean American that’s being pulled. We had covered a lot of Korean American ground in Season 1, [but] one of the things we didn’t get to cover is the half-Korean experience. Several of the writers on staff are either half-Asian or half-Korean. We don’t want to repeat things, but let’s do explore a half-Korean character who is about to have a child suddenly get this pull toward Korea.

Carey Mulligan as Lindsay acting alongside Jones, the dog who plays Burberry, in “Beef.” “Jones is the best dog actor I’ve ever worked with,” Lee says. “A24 is making Burberry merch. There’s going to be a Burberry shirt.”

(Netflix)

There are some pretty gross, petty and violent acts of revenge. One is Ashley swirling her period blood in Josh and Lindsay’s pitcher of orange juice. The other takes place during a flight — Lindsay wiping gunk from the toilet seat and transferring it to the rim of the cup Ashley drinks from. Please explain how you arrived at these acts. Were there any left on the cutting room floor?

Episode 4 was pouring out of me. And I remember I got to the point where Ashley snooping through the house [where Lindsay and Josh live]. Initially, I had her scratching up the trophy. She opened Josh’s pomade and blew a snot booger into it. I was thinking of juvenile things. But I had the thought of her going to the kitchen and having the thing that happened to her being the expression of her revenge. I remember I was so nervous to show the [writers’] room. The way I wrote it, I had her crouching over the pitcher and Anna Moench, as the main female writer on the show, was like, “Sonny, I don’t think you know this works.” So, we revised it. That’s how the OJ one happened. With Episode 7 [and the toilet seat], we wanted to have a bodily episode on a plane, and there’s just such limited ways to get revenge on a plane. But given the OJ drink — there’s so many mirrors between the two couples, we thought it’d be fun to mirror that with a drink from Lindsay to Ashley. The only place to do that on a plane is bathroom. We shot it on stage with a fake toilet and Carey was almost vomiting. She came to me after that scene, and she goes, “Sonny, in all my years in this business, that is the most vile, disgusting thing I’ve ever had to do.”

The final moments of the finale jumps eight years. Did you always know you wanted a time jump? And did you always know Ashley and Austin were going to repeat the cycle?

The Ashley and Austin side, I knew the inverse graph for both characters would be very satisfying — to me, at least. I didn’t know whether that happened in a time jump or not. That’s something we discovered later. There was great debate in the room. I had a couple writers plead with me, “Why aren’t you ending with the kiss? It’s so sweet. It’s so good. I feel so good at the kiss. Can we just end it at the kiss?” I took it very seriously, but then it felt very similar to Season 1’s ending. Taking two people who start apart and they finally discover that connection but too late. I didn’t want to leave with the same feeling. How we can make it different is the “what happens next?” Life comes at you fast. He’s [Josh] still in prison. She’s [Lindsay] got to move on. Once I started heading down that thought experiment, I’m like, “Whoa, you could do a whole coda showing the literal theme of the show, the cycles, that’s where we can show Ashley and Austin becoming Josh and Lindsay.” That’s where we show, even though they found a connection, it’s lost between Josh and Lindsay — even if they’re still hanging on to the past a little bit. You show Troy and Ava still together [laughs] — they have it all figured out. Then you show the billionaire who, even with all the money in the world, is crying at the graveside of her first love, filled with regret.

We didn’t see where Eunice (Seoyeon Jang) ends up.

I wanted to leave it open. I’m very curious what people think. She really put her neck out there. Austin burned her bad. I don’t know where Eunice is at but it’s probably not good.

Charles Melton as Austin Davis in “Beef.”

(Netflix)

We can’t talk about “Beef” without discussing the needle drops. When you have Austin listening to Billie Eilish’s “What Was I Made For?” it was over for me.

The needle drops are usually pre-picked even before we shoot. The source music that’s playing diegetically, usually we discover in the edit. Before, as scripted, it had him scrolling Instagram and it was [the song playing on] his Instagram feed — you know how those Reels have music overlayed on a POV? It just wasn’t that funny to me in the edit. He’s so down and out and I wanted to find different source music in there. One day, I told my editor, “Can you rip ‘What Was I Made For?’ And can you just temporarily do it where, as she opens the door, he’s like, pressing the volume up, being like ‘sh— … sh— …’ [intending to make the volume go down]?” Our AE [assistant editor] did the ADR temporarily of the “sh—, sh—,” filmed it on my phone and I texted it to Finneas [O’Connell, the show’s composer, who is Eilish’s brother and collaborator] being like, “Hey, is it cool if we do this?” And he was dying laughing. [O’Connell also makes a cameo in the season.]

Ahead of Season 1, you gifted the writers “The Sopranos Sessions” and also assembled a Letterboxd list of films that served as reference points. What guidance did you provide for Season 2?

I sent another Letterboxd playlist. For inspo, we got “Handmaiden,” “Phantom Thread,” “Force Majeure,” “Eyes Wide Shut,” “The Informant.” For some reason, I have “Margaret” on there, the [Kenneth] Lonergan film. I also had “Michael Clayton,” “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” “Burn After Reading,” and lastly, it’s a deep cut, there’s this movie called “Like Crazy,” starring Felicity Jones and Anton Yelchin.

Also, can we take a moment for Burberry’s acting?

Oh my god, Jones! Jones is the best dog actor I’ve ever worked with. He would hit his mark. He would listen. He would look at people when he’s supposed to be looking. It was his first time acting. Crushed it. A24 is making Burberry merch. There’s going to be a Burberry shirt.

It’s been decades since “Faces of Death” stirred panic among parents of teens trading the 1978 pseudo-snuff VHS. The “video nasty” spawned a number of sequels, spinoffs and now a remake starring Barbie Ferreira and Dacre Montgomery that hit theaters this month.

But back in the 1980s, the original film caused an uproar at Southern California schools.

Days before school was out for summer in 1985, Escondido High School math teacher Bart Schwartz, then 28, used a spare two hours during finals week to squeeze in a film screening with his class. Schwartz wanted to show the film because it was “interesting.”

According to the Times coverage of the incident and subsequent lawsuit, the scenes shown in the classroom included autopsies, decaying cadavers and live animals being butchered, mutilated and tortured. The original “Faces of Death” also includes scenes of a man being electrocuted, a decapitation and an orgy during which a man is gutted by a flesh-eating cult.

Although today’s audiences might be more desensitized to such gruesome scenes thanks to hyperrealistic special effects in modern horror movies, and the commonplace spread of graphic clips online, audiences of the ‘80s were reportedly traumatized and scandalized. Not only was the film considered macabre, but it also was widely believed to be composed entirely of real footage.

“The ultimate taboo,” “100% real” and “banned in 46 countries!” were taglines for the original film. It wasn’t until decades after the film’s release that director John Alan Schwartz publicly confirmed that while some footage was real and pulled from news and autopsy archives, much of the movie was staged and the shockumentary’s host pathologist, Dr. Gröss, was an actor.

“Each new generation discovers it,” Schwartz told New York Public Radio in 2012. “And even though things look hokey now, there are still segments that people actually believe are real that aren’t.”

The 2026 remake, by comparison, is clear about its fictional plot, but also includes real clips of death that were “carefully trimmed,” according to director Daniel Goldhaber.

Back to 1985 — Escondido High’s Schwartz, who had previously been named “teacher of the year,” reportedly would not allow students to leave the classroom while the film played. One student, then 16-year-old Diane Feese, said the teacher fast-forwarded through the dialogue and forced students to watch the film’s most gruesome scenes. She covered her eyes, according to reports from the time, but was still subjected to other students’ commentary and the audio of the deaths depicted on-screen.

That fall — when school was back in session — Feese sued the teacher and the school principal for $3 million. Schwartz was suspended with pay for 30 days, then an additional 15 days without pay.

In 1986, another student in Schwartz’s math class, Sherry Forget, followed suit and took the math teacher to court for being subjected to the film. In 1987, the lawsuits were settled with Feese receiving $57,500 and Forget, who asked for $1 million, netting $42,500.

Less than a decade later, a Los Angeles high school teacher was also sued by his students for showing “Faces of Death.”

Verdugo Hills High School social sciences teacher Roger Haycock showed his cultural awareness class the film in December 1993. Students Jesse Smith and Darby Hughes alleged in their lawsuit that they were required to watch the film and write a paper on it. The teen boys said they suffered nightmares, emotional problems and were harassed by other students for their reaction to the film.

According to The Times, Haycock showed excerpts from “Faces of Death” to five classes that day and gave students the option to write a paper for extra credit or go to the library if they didn’t want to see the film. Haycock said he showed only parts of the film depicting animals being killed and did not show portions of the film that depict human death.

“Basically it had to do with the treatment of animals and the way we get our food, which was the lesson,” Haycock said at the time. “We go to the supermarket and get our meat, and we think it sanitizes us because it’s wrapped in plastic. But it has to be slaughtered for us by someone else. I was trying to show how other cultures provide food for themselves versus the way we do, living in the city.”

The judge dismissed the lawsuit, siding with the district’s argument that students shouldn’t be able to sue based on what they are taught in class.

BROKEN Social Scene is more than just a band, it is a community.

The Canadian collective is at the beating heart of Toronto’s freewheeling indie music scene.

If you attempt to count the combined total of active and inactive members, you arrive at a mind-boggling approximation somewhere between 20 and 30.

“What I love about this band is that it’s an open door,” affirms singer and guitarist Kevin Drew.

Since forming Broken Social Scene in 1999 with Brendan Canning, Drew has been its lynchpin . . . albeit one with an unerringly democratic approach.

“We invited everybody in and we didn’t have rules,” adds the 49-year-old frontman. “And we went out and did our f***ing best.”

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Over the years, notable collaborators have included an array of Canada’s finest singers, including solo artist Feist, Amy Millan of Stars and SFTW’s other interviewee this week, Emily Haines of Metric.

Drew cemented his place at the centre of the scene by co-founding progressive label Arts & Crafts in 2003 and has known many of the artists since he was a teenager.

Now, Broken Social Scene are back with their first album in nine years, Remember The Humans, a typically multi-layered affair but one that never loses touch with a winning melody.

Through words and music, it serves as a telling reminder that in this dislocated tech-driven world, we are still mere mortals with very human feelings.

Drew is at home outside Toronto and I’m in London when we hook up for a video call this week.

Before we discuss Broken Social Scene’s welcome return to the fray, he balances his phone on a copy of Irma Rombauer’s hefty culinary classic, The Joy Of Cooking, to bring his face into full view.

He apologises for appearing a bit flushed and says with a big smile: “Sorry, I just took a sauna.”

I quickly discover that Drew is a disarming character with a refreshingly open take on life.

“My dad was from London originally,” he continues. “I said, ‘Hey Pops, I’m gonna speak to The Sun’, and he went, ‘Oh, my gosh, I remember The Sun — it used to have the pin-ups!’ ”

I inform Drew that one of my earliest reviews for SFTW was Broken Social Scene’s self-titled breakthrough third album, released in 2005. “So, we have a long relationship together, which I love,” he responds without a trace of irony.

Introductions out of the way, he’s ready for me to ask why it’s the right time for a new album, as well as a triple headliner tour with Metric and Stars, which is coming to the UK in September.

“We came to a realisation through playing shows after the pandemic that this IS our life,” he says. “This is something we have spent so much of our lives working on.

“We still find much joy in melody and we are part of the muscle memory business now.

“At the age we’re at and with what we’ve achieved already, we made a firm choice to continue.

“Between us all, we have had so much loss of family and friends, but we found that grief made us grateful for what we’ve got.”

Drew is thrilled to be heading out with his comrades from Metric (particularly Jimmy Shaw) and Stars, a trek that summons “the true spirit of what we have been from the beginning”.

Audiences can expect some band-hopping, meaning that Drew can’t really say how many people will be on stage with him.

“I haven’t a clue,” he says. “But I do know there will be a LOT.” The latest chapter in the Broken Social Scene story probably began in 2022 with a 20th anniversary tour of their second album, You Forgot It People, and its songs that still resonate today.

Drew and his fellow travellers realised they might provide some solace in a world where “identity is at war, fear is prominent at every turn” and where “hope is a very tired word”.

He says: “We thought, ‘Let’s do our tiny little protests, let’s continue to demonstrate community’. After all, it’s not hard for us to make music because there’s so many of us.

“Just by being around for 25 years, we have our own sound.”

One song from You Forgot It People — Anthems For A 17-Year-Old Girl, with Metric’s Haines on lead vocals — has acquired a new audience, as Drew explains.

“Thanks to the [2024] film I Saw The TV Glow, the trans community has brought that song into their lives and embraced it.

“It went viral on TikTok, then suddenly all our listens went up. It was the greatest award we’ve ever been given. We were so touched.”

For Drew, it was proof positive that “music helps to build your identity, to find your own people and to express yourself. Right now, that is something to hold on to”.

With its layers of horns, guitars and synthesisers as well as various distinctive voices, new album Remember The Humans is a triumph for freedom of expression.

There’s also a strong feeling of Broken Social Scene coming full circle, enhanced by the return of original producer David Newfeld.

Drew picks up the story: “I moved out of the city, just half an hour away from where Dave had moved 18 years ago.

“He started coming over for dinner and there was a lot of laughter. He’s so old school — still has a flip phone because he doesn’t think smart phones are smart.

“I reached out to him about working together again. I missed his sound and his passion, which were so unpredictable.

“Next thing I knew, I was on a two-and-a-half-year journey of starts and stops — and loss. I lost my mom and he lost his, so we bonded over that.”

It’s clear that the new album’s heartfelt opening song Not Around Anymore is, among other things, a product of their grieving process.

Drew adds: “Dave also latched on to the song And I Think of You. If you put it through headphones, you are hearing his grief over his mom. He records that thing, mixes it and he takes you on a journey.

“His mom was his world — they talked three times a day. Once he’d lost her, I realised it would help him to put love and loss into some of this music.”

We move on to other key contributors, firstly Feist, who resurrects What Happens Now, a song that reportedly didn’t make the cut for Broken Social Scene’s 2017 album Hug Of Thunder.

“Leslie Feist is a different entity because she’s so solo in her success,” says Drew. “There’s us, Metric and Stars, but she became the biggest of all on her own.”

He adds that Feist has “an open invitation” to be part of Broken Social Scene’s endeavours.

“I always tell her, ‘You’re welcome at this home any time you help build it. In fact, you’ve got your own wing!’ ”

Over acoustic strums, atmospheric electronica and occasional swells of horns, Feist’s ghostly delivery turns What Happens Now into a standout moment. “I’m honoured we were able to put it on this record,” says Drew. “It fits the theme.

“I love the cadence of Leslie’s vocals, the way it seems as if she is drowning before she becomes so clear. It’s so Feist.”

Another singer to make a significant contribution is Hannah Georgas, who became involved in Broken Social Scene’s world through being a support act.

Drew says she made Only The Good I Keep her own, and adds: “She neurologically removed my topline [lead vocal melody] — but we need people to have ownership.

“At first, I called Hannah and said, ‘This is great, but I’ve got something I can’t get in’. Two days later, I couldn’t even remember what I was saying and all I could hear was her version.”

Broken Social Scene regular Lisa Lobsinger brought the song Relief into the mix — providing another insight into the band’s democratic process.

Drew reports: “We got this email out of the blue from Lisa saying she kept singing a song in her head while meditating, and she thought it was by Social Scene.”

Lobsinger realised she was making up Relief by herself in that moment, so she submitted it.

“We sent it to the crew, and everyone loved it,” continues Drew. “So, I said, ‘Oh my God, Lisa, let’s do it!’ ”

Before we go our separate ways, Drew leaves me with telling observations about more general topics related to his home country.

Much as he appreciates iconic Canadian artists like Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell and Neil Young, he singles out some of the lesser-known trailblazers who inspired him — “Thrush Hermit, Sloan, Hayden and Godspeed You! Black Emperor”.

And he has this to say about Donald Trump’s wacky idea of making Canada the 51st US state.

“I say to the younger members of the band, ‘Don’t listen to this man. In fact, don’t listen to men in general — if they have a microphone, they won’t do you any favours, including rock singers!’ ”

It’s a typical comment from someone for whom community spirit means everything.

In Broken Social Scene, decides Drew, “we are empaths, not sociopaths. No one has their identity wrapped up in this band”.

BROKEN SOCIAL SCENE
Remember The Humans

★★★★★

No actor in a movie this month is enjoying themselves more than Ian McKellen as an egomaniac painter in Steven Soderbergh’s slender pleasure “The Christophers.” Once, his Julian Sklar was the bisexual provocateur of the London art scene commanding millions for a single piece. Now he’s better known as the villain of “Art Fight,” a reality competition show where he took cruel pleasure destroying amateurs’ hopes.

Equally dismissive of his own output, Julian hasn’t wielded a paintbrush in decades. And so his adult children Barnaby and Sallie (James Corden and Jessica Gunning of “Baby Reindeer”) — two money-grubbing, untalented brats — hire a broke art restorer, Lori (Michaela Coel), to finish a stack of half-sketched portraits Julian made of his male ex-lover that were left abandoned in the attic. Don’t think of it as forgery, Barnaby assures Lori, “more like forging through them until they are completed.”

That’s a great line, and “The Christophers” has a dozen more almost as good. Nearly all get delivered by McKellen’s Julian, waving a champagne coupe while monologuing about humidifiers, cancel culture and a doctor who smells like radishes. He seems to imagine acolytes — or at least, television audiences — eagerly soaking up his bon mots. Meanwhile, Lori, a young Black woman hired under false pretenses as an assistant, stares mutely. If their first meeting as boss and employee were freeze-framed into a painting, it would be called “A Study in Contrasts.”

The script is by Ed Solomon, who also collaborated with Soderbergh on the more action-packed 2021 gangster movie “No Sudden Move.” This plot doodles along, rarely going where we expect. Mostly, Julian and Lori take turns thwarting his obnoxious kids and threatening to quit. I chuckled every time Corden and Gunning showed up for more abuse, including from Soderbergh, who shoots them like a wall of stupidity, blocking doorways as they stand side-by-side like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

The inequalities of the art world are gestured to as fact. Lori, who might be every bit as technically gifted as Julian, ekes out a living serving egg rolls in a food truck while sharing a walk-up loft with three other struggling painters. Julian lords over not one but two swanky adjoining townhouses stuffed with antiques. Once, to flip off the establishment, he sold a work worth 2 million British pounds for the price of a used car. His version of disdain is her idea of a fortune.

One stick figure by Julian would be worth more than anything Lori’s ever done, which makes it extra maddening that he chooses instead to earn a little extra pocket money recording video messages for fans who only care about him as that mean guy on TV. In the glow of a ring light, he tosses off glib advice that might itself be worthless. Quit art school, he tells one, and “happy birthday, blah, blah, blah.” (Even imagining a popular TV show about art is, in itself, culturally aspirational for those of us who enjoy reruns of Bob Ross.)

Why is there such disparity between the value of Julian and Lori’s work? The reasons are so obvious that, to the film, they’re barely worth mentioning: age, gender, era, fame and skill. Julian would dismiss the first two, claiming that wokeness gives an old, white male like him the handicap. But it’s frustrating that the film doesn’t dig very deep into the rest, either. I especially wanted a scene where Julian must reckon with a no-name interloper’s ability to copy his genius, but comparing whether Lori is Julian’s equal would call the film’s bluff and force it to actually show us their art. The handheld camera prefers to lurk on the wooden side of the easel.

Really, I’m not sure Soderbergh even has an opinion on their clash. He just wants to be an eavesdropper in the room, standing back against the dusty brick-a-brack. Of course, if you squint, you can see what interests Soderbergh in this set-up. Like Julian, he’s been threatening to retire for years. He knows how irritated people are when an artist claims they don’t want to bother anymore. And like the neglected paintings in the attic — the Christophers of the title — every filmmaker has their own unfinished projects taking up mental space overhead, treasured ideas that will never emerge to their satisfaction.

Still, I suspect that even if Soderbergh personally identifies with the premise (even though he continues to release more movies in one year than his peers do in five), he still finds Julian’s paralysis a bit pathetic. Julian just needs paint, a brush and the will to create. Filmmakers, now those poor bastards need rich patrons.

Even so, Soderbergh likes to make movies as resourcefully as he can, doing his own editing and cinematography and, above all, prioritizing the act of invention. He can’t be copied because his own work is so eclectic. Have you ever heard of any director being called the next Soderbergh? You sense that, to him, forgery is as creatively dull as a factory-issued franchise sequel. (Except, of course, his “Magic Mike” and “Ocean’s” series, which are, at their best, closer to wacky Warhols.)

Tasked to play the foil to McKellen’s clown, Coel comes off stiff. She has the spine to hold her own against him, but it’s hard to play withholding, particularly when the film needs her character to be both the voice of reason and a politically correct scold. Only her carved cheekbones give off an impression of Lori’s hungry ambition. Still, when she does deign to speak, there’s a dynamite scene where she dresses down Julian critically and psychologically. Whether or not she’s the second coming of him as an artist, she’s more insightful than he ever was insulting watercolors of kittens on TV.

Really, we’re just watching McKellen give a bravura, scene-gobbling performance that doesn’t hold back one iota. My favorite detail he pulls off comes when he greets Lori at the front door undressed and, when she insists he wear clothes, ties on a trench coat that somehow makes him look even more pervy and naked in how McKellen wears it, leaving one bare shoulder roguishly exposed.

The film has plenty of funny little asides like that which make it worth your while. Angelenos will chuckle at a scene in which two characters verbally commit to a meet-up both know won’t happen — or, as we say here, let’s do lunch. Out of magnanimity, I’ll liken this trifle to a Rothko. The more I think about “The Christophers,” the more I imagine it has interesting layers. But I won’t fault anyone who just sees a simple square.

Aubrey Plaza is pregnant!

Plaza and “Girls” star Christopher Abbott are expecting their first child together. Representatives for Plaza confirmed to People that the pair are set to become parents in the fall. The couple, who have kept their romance under wraps, were spotted together at the Khaite Fall/Winter 2026 fashion show during New York Fashion Week in February.

Plaza, who’s become Hollywood’s favorite weirdo since splashing onto the scene as April Ludgate in the mockumentary sitcom “Parks and Recreation,” met Abbott when they worked together in 2020. The two starred in the psychological thriller “Black Bear,” and then joined forces once more in 2023 for the off-Broadway revival of “Danny and the Deep Blue Sea.” Abbott may be best known for stealing the hearts of “Girls” fans when he portrayed Charlie Dattolo on the HBO megahit.

In “Danny,” the pair portrayed volatile lovers, and they raved about working with each other while chatting with the New York Times ahead of the production’s premiere. “He cares but he also doesn’t care; it’s the best recipe for me for a scene partner,” Plaza said.

“It’s fun and it’s also good and it’s also safe. I like to just throw things out the window also and laugh and mess around and not take it so seriously. It’s a hard combo to come by.”

“We’re both unafraid to be ugly and weird and strange,” Abbott added. The two also agreed that although they aim to entertain the audience, they both hoped to entertain each other.

Plaza — who is known for her deadpan delivery not only on screen but also while giving interviews on red carpets and the late-night circuit — has become known for dropping lines tailor-made for internet culture. In 2011, she notoriously told Jay Leno that she was too awkward for dating. “I’m kind of like all or nothing,” she said. “Either put a baby inside of me or leave me alone.”

The big baby news arrives for the “White Lotus” star a year after the death of husband Jeff Baena, an independent filmmaker who directed Plaza in “The Little Hours.” Baena, who died at 47 in January 2025, had been separated from Plaza for a few months before his death.

On March 29, Taix as we know it closes forever. The iconic French restaurant originally opened downtown in 1927 and relocated to its current chalet on Sunset Boulevard in 1962. It’s a grim reminder of L.A.’s insatiable appetite to destroy its own heritage and especially devastating to a certain milieu of writers and artists, myself very much included. Since it announced its closure, I’ve been visiting as often as I can to say farewell, not only to the charmingly shabby faux-1920s interiors, but to the many lives I’ve lived at its tables. First as a young guitarist when a bandmate worked the bar’s soundboard, next with the Chinatown artist scene, then with Semiotext(e)’s avant-garde lit circle, later through firecracker romances and heartbreaks during the art party Social Club, recently floating through the louche carnival of Gay Guy Night and now with the circus of beatniks from my reading series Casual Encountersz.

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It’s difficult to explain why this cavernous and windowless restaurant means so much, so I’ve tried to list everything I love about Taix.

I love that they don’t play music. I love the 1960s bathrooms. I love the bottomless tureens of soup. I love the complimentary crudité from the pre-pandemic era. I love the cold pats of butter. I love that you can always get a table, no matter how many people roll in. I love the free refills on Diet Cokes. I love the 80-year-old couples on dates. I love how the dim lighting makes everyone seem chic. I love the frayed carpeting. I love the fake votive candles. I love the icy martinis. I love the corner booth beside the fireplace. I love the smoked mirrors and tin-plate ceilings in the elegant back dining rooms. I love the small fortune I’ve spent there picking up the check for many strippers, poets and bohemians. I love its rundown glamour, which miraculously evokes Old Hollywood, Belle Époque and trashy Americana all at once. I unironically love the food, which isn’t spectacular, but is very comforting. I love how a waitress once ran off with a friend of mine and slept on my couch for a week. I love how my wife generally hates eating at restaurants but loves eating at Taix. I love how every L.A. artist I know has their own singular version of this list.

The only thing I don’t love about Taix is that its owners are tearing it down to erect soulless condos. I know the city needs housing, but not like this. I hope we’ll all find a new place to call home again soon.

Taix shaped me as a writer and artist, along with so many others, which is why before the new owners demolish this cultural institution, I asked other creatives what the Echo Park landmark means to them.

Chris Kraus.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Chris Kraus, writer, artist and co-editor of the independent press Semiotext(e): When I moved to L.A. in 1995, Taix was the go-to place, with its deep banquettes, cuisine bonne-femme and its nightly prix-fixe specials. Mostly it was police officers and their wives who went there. Sylvère Lotringer and I went often, for him it was a little reprieve from the non-Frenchness of L.A. He could order in French and exchange pleasantries with an elderly French waiter who seemed to live there. Years later, when Sylvère moved to Ensenada and was less active with Semiotext(e), Taix was the site of our “Annual General Meetings” — Hedi El Kholti, Sylvère and I would have dinner together and Hedi would catch Sylvère up on all the forthcoming publications and projects. Taix was a place to run into people unexpectedly. About a decade ago, when the bar was refreshed, it changed again and I kind of lost track of it.

Rachel Kushner, novelist: I dined at Taix probably once per week for 23 years. It hurts so much that it is closing. I simply stopped going, so that I could begin to grieve, and also to avoid every last random tourist standing by the host station, on their phone, and the glum possibility of being seated in the second dining room, a.k.a “the Morgue” as my friend Benjamin Weissman put it. I want to protect my memories of the special occasions I enjoyed in this perennial special occasion establishment … I want to remember Bernard, a cheerful Basque from Biarritz who worked there 60 years, got progressively trashed over the course of his shift, went to Bakersfield on Sundays to party with his sheep-herding countrymen, came back Wednesdays sunburned and happy. The old valets who were let go during the pandemic. I used to give them a Christmas bonus every year, as a thanks for letting me park my classic out front. Look, I was born in Taix. I mean, in a way. I nursed my newborn in Taix. He grew up there. People who criticize the food are losers, and will never understand. The steak frites are great. The panna cotta, discontinued after the pandemic, was my favorite. The Louis Martini Cabernet was reliable. (Bernard told me the wine cellar downstairs took up the entire footprint of the main restaurant. Don’t know if that’s true.) Meanwhile, I can’t put my arm around a memory. All the smart girls know why. It doesn’t mean I didn’t try.

Cord Jefferson, writer and director: When I started going to Taix, in 2004, you could still gamble at the bar. They sold keno slips and lottery tickets, and whenever Powerball got over $100 million, I’d buy a ticket with my pint. Where else can you do all that while simultaneously watching a game and eating a tourte de volaille? Taix was where I watched the heroic Zinedine Zidane headbutt the gutless Marco Materazzi in the saddest World Cup final ever. When France lost that afternoon, my favorite server, Phillipe, cried. Phillipe’s teeth were often as wine-stained as his customers’. He’d bum me cigarettes in the parking lot and speak abusively about the ways the neighborhood was changing. I’m happy Phillipe is not around to see the digital renderings of what they plan to erect once they demolish the Taix chateau: another condo building with all the charm of a college dorm. It’s a damn shame what’s happening to Taix. I wish I had more money so I could buy it and keep it around, but I never won the Powerball.

John Tottenham, novelist and poet: It’s a shame that Taix is closing, not only because other plans will now have to be made for my funeral reception, but because it was the last civilized watering hole in the neighborhood. There isn’t anywhere else that one can walk into and immediately satisfy the social instinct among a convivial and refreshingly diverse clientele in what is becoming an increasingly homogenized locality. It has been the nexus of my social life for over 20 years, and is simply irreplaceable.

Jade Chang.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Jade Chang, novelist: I’d only known Taix as a raucous bardo of a French restaurant, then there was a memorial service for Alex Maslansky, my beloved friend Max’s brother, owner of Echo Park’s best bookstore, Stories. Alex was a beautiful and beleaguered soul, born worried, born romantic, difficult and hopeful and apparently a shockingly good poker player. The room was packed with music people and book people, sober friends and poker friends, packed with the gorgeous girls who’d always loved him, our collective sorrow potent and sweet enough to pull the walls in around us tight as we said goodbye and goodbye.

Alexis Okeowo, New Yorker staff writer: I was a late discoverer of Taix, stumbling upon it when I moved to a bungalow just above Sunset during the pandemic from New York. I seemed to only see writer friends there. I met up with a journalist for drinks and then ran into a new writer friend at the bar. I later had a big, spontaneous dinner with TV writer friends and then a birthday celebration in the dining rooms that ended in two friends escorting me home, sick and happy off a mostly-martini meal and the selfies I took in the bathroom with the iconic pink and gold wallpaper. Every time, there was talk about ideas and gossip and so, so much laughter.

Alberto Cuadros, writer/curator and co-founder of the Social Club: About 10 years ago, Max Martin and I started Social Club as a weekly social salon at Taix. We thought of it as a kind of Beuysian social sculpture, it was a weekly ritual, and over time it became something of an institution in the L.A. art world. Everyone knew where to go in L.A. on a Wednesday if they wanted to meet interesting people or find friends. I even met my wife there who was visiting from Montreal.

Siena Foster-Soltis, playwright: Taix felt like one of the few remnants of the L.A. I grew up in and love so dearly.

Ruby Zuckerman.

(Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

Ruby Zuckerman, writer and co-founder of the reading series This Friday: Taix is the only restaurant in L.A. that doesn’t lose its mind if new friends drop in halfway through dinner or if you stay at your table for hours after you stopped ordering. That kind of flexibility leads to spontaneous nights where what started off as an intimate hang expands into an all-out party. As a writer, that flexibility has allowed me to meet editors, collaborators and readers, drawn together by pure fun rather than networking. One of my favorite nights involved getting in a physical altercation with novelist John Tottenham after he stole my phone to send prank texts to my boyfriend. I’ll miss taking selfies in the bathroom.

Blaine O’Neill, DJ and events organizer: I always say Taix is the “People’s Country Club.” It is exceptional because of the staff who understand the importance of hospitality, and the scale of the space is humane. You’re able to evade feeling pinched by the noose of transactional cosmopolitanism.

Tif Sigfrids, gallerist and publisher Umm…: Taix was a cultural nexus. A space with broad range. It went from being the dark bar I read books and day-drank at in my 20s to the place where I rented a private room to host my son’s first birthday party. It’s where I watched Barack Obama get elected twice, the Lakers win back-to-back championships, and where I indulged in countless night caps and an unreasonable amount of all-you-can-eat split pea soup. You never knew what kind of hot jock, wasted poet or other type of intrigue you might run into there. You can’t make a place like Taix up. It’s a place that just miraculously happens.

Kate Wolf, writer and editor: Though I have been going to Taix for nearly 20 years, embarrassingly, it was only in the last year that I realized the building wasn’t from the 1920s. Those smoke-stained mirrors, that tin ceiling, the drapery and light fixtures are in fact set-dressed — ersatz! Which of course only makes me love the place more. Taix’s history, and its spot in the city’s cultural firmament, cannot be denied. But what really makes it so special are the people who work there and the clientele, not its past. This point is perhaps my only hope in losing what is my favorite restaurant in Los Angeles. That by some divine grace, we will all find each other again in another spot, designed to a different decade than the horror-filled present, and fill it with the same warmth, the same bottomless soup bowl, the same cheer.

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Hedi El Kholti, the co-editor of Semiotext(e).   (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

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Writers Lily Lady and Siena Soltis-Foster.  (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

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Poet Meat Stevens (Steven Lesser).   (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

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Sammy Loren, writer and curator of Casual Encountersz.  (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

Hedi El Kholti, artist and co-editor Semiotext(e): Taix is where we would end up after every reading since 2004 when I started working at Semiotext(e). I have memories of being there with Kevin Killian, Dodie Bellamy, Gary Indiana, Michael Silverblatt, Colm Tóibín, Rachel Kushner and Constance Debré among others … Taix has that particular anachronistic vibe that made L.A. so charming when I moved here in 1992, one of these places that time forgot. It was odd when it became really hip in the last 10 years. It made me think of what Warhol wrote about Schrafft’s restaurant when it had been redesigned to keep up with the fashion of the moment and had consequently lost its appeal. “If they could have kept their same look and style, and held on through the lean years when they weren’t in style, today they’d be the best thing around.”

Loren is the founding editor of the art and literary conceptual “tabloid” On the Rag and curator of the reading series Casual Encountersz.

We spoke exclusively to Altered Carbon and For All Mankind actor Joel Kinnman about his brand-new Netflix crime drama Jo Nesbø’s Detective Hole

Netflix has dropped a brand new crime drama that’s perfect for audiences looking for their next binge watch.

Jo Nesbø’s Detective Hole is adapted from the internationally best-selling author’s acclaimed books and follows alcoholic but brilliant detective Harry Hole (Tobias Santelmann) as he tries to hunt down a brutal serial killer on the prowl in Oslo, Norway.

However, Harry is also trying to take down corrupt fellow detective Tom Waaler (Joel Kinnaman) as the two men try to out-wit each other.

The nine-part series, which can be described as Luther meets Line of Duty, has some gruesome moments putting it in on par with Idris Elba’s BBC detective drama.

In a recent interview with the Mirror’s publishers Reach Plc, Detective Hole star Joel Kinnaman broke down perhaps the most stomach-churning moment in the show and shared some surprising behind-the-scenes insight into bringing the grisly scene to life.

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WARNING: This article contains major spoilers from Jo Nesbø’s Detective Hole on Netflix

The scene in question saw Kinnaman’s sociopathic police officer Waaler luring an unsuspecting man into public toilets on the promise of sexual favours, before castrating and murdering his victim.

Kinnaman said: “When we were shooting that, that’s where you really felt like this big budget was coming in because that penis prosthesis was so perfect. It felt very real holding it.” Adding: “It was a very realistic experience.”

Despite the sequence proving a tough watch, filming it was another matter for Kinnaman and the rest of the crew.

The star joked that every time the prosthetic appeared, he would “make a soundtrack” for its entrance.

“It was pretty hard to keep from laughing but then when he got into it, it became sort of horrifying,” he said.

Adding: “It was a very strange feeling. It was very strange to do it, but I enjoyed it.”

Addressing joining the crime drama, the Swedish-American actor said he was “very excited” about the idea of playing the Swedish character in a Netflix production, which he said would make it “accessible” to audiences.

Kinnaman went on to say that he was excited to step into acclaimed crime author Nesbø’s world and the character of Waaler, saying: “I’ve never got to play this kind of mouth-watering, crazy role. So fun and such an opportunity.”

The star went on to say about Waaler’s mindset: “He’s sort of morally conflicted and he’s driven by his sexual confusion and his sexual desires and his strive for power and power games. But what is also fuelling all of this is his childhood trauma.

“I sort of play him as a malignant narcissist on the scale of psychopathy. That was sort of the hypothesis that I was playing off of and that’s someone… he’s not born a psychopath, but he has been damaged at a young age.

“And then it veers, it makes his personality veer off in this direction and course.”

Kinnaman said that childhood trauma had created a lack of empathy in Waaler that led to his extremely violent behaviour.

Jo Nesbø’s Detective Hole is streaming on Netflix now