Chris Evans might need some new superhero gear for his next gig. Perhaps a supercharged stroller?
The Marvel alum, 44, and his wife, Portuguese actor Alba Baptista, 28, on Friday welcomed their first child together in Evans’ home state of Massachusetts, People reported Tuesday. The couple named their newborn daughter Alma Grace Baptista Evans, according to the outlet.
Representatives for Evans and Baptista did not reply immediately Tuesday to The Times’ request for comment.
Evans and Baptista, who began dating around 2021, wed in 2023 in a pair of ceremonies in Cape Cod and Portugal, Evans explained amid much fanfare during a panel that year at New York Comic Con. The couple’s East Coast nuptials were attended by Evans’ fellow Marvel legends Robert Downey Jr. (Iron Man), Chris Hemsworth (Thor), Jeremy Renner (Hawkeye) and Scarlett Johansson (Black Widow), Page Six reported at the time.
During the Comic Con panel, Evans called the festivities “wonderful and beautiful,” but said that he and his belle were happy to be winding down after the whole ordeal.
“Planning a wedding, it’s a lot,” he said. “For those of you who are married, you know, it takes a lot out of you, but now that we’re through that, we’ve just kinda been enjoying life and gearing up for autumn, my favorite season. It’s like the best time of year right now. … Now we’re just relaxing and enjoying life and reflecting.”
Evans last year confided about his aspirations toward fatherhood to “Access Hollywood,” saying he “absolutely” hoped to be a “superhero dad” like his “Red One” co-star Dwayne Johnson.
“The title of ‘dad’ is an exciting one,” the actor said.
Since passing Captain America’s shield to Anthony Mackie in 2019’s “Avengers: Endgame,” Evans has flexed his creative muscles with high(er) brow indies including Celine Song’s buzzy romance “Materialists” and Ethan Coen’s dark detective comedy “Honey Don’t.”
But despite intel from the source himself, Marvel die-hards aren’t buying that Evans’ time with the franchise has come to a close. They’ll know once and for all come December, when “Avengers: Doomsday” hits theaters.
Baptista for her part has tacked several film credits onto to her resume since Netflix canceled her cult-favorite series “Warrior Nun” in 2022. She is notably slated to appear in A24’s upcoming film “Mother Mary,” which will feature original songs by Charli XCX and Jack Antonoff and an ensemble cast including FKA Twigs and Hunter Schafer of “Euphoria” fame.
WASHINGTON — House Republicans on Tuesday unveiled their long-promised report on former President Biden’s use of the autopen, delivering a blistering critique of his time in office and inner circle that largely rehashes public information while making sweeping accusations about the workings of his White House.
The GOP report does not include any concrete evidence that aides conspired to enact policies without Biden’s knowledge or that the president was unaware of laws, pardons or executive orders signed in his name. But Republicans said their findings cast doubt on all of Biden’s actions in office. They sent a letter to Attorney General Pam Bondi urging a full investigation. President Trump ordered a similar inquiry earlier this year.
At its core, the report advances contested claims that Biden’s mental state declined to a degree that allowed White House officials to enact policies without his knowledge. It focuses heavily on the pardons he granted in office, including to his son, Hunter Biden, based on depositions with close Biden aides.
“The cost of the scheme to hide the fallout of President Biden’s diminished physical and mental acuity was great but will likely never be fully calculated,” the report reads. “The cover-up put American national security at risk and the nation’s trust in its leaders in jeopardy.”
Biden has strenuously denied he was unaware of his administration’s actions, calling such claims “ridiculous and false.” Democrats on the House Oversight committee denounced the probe as a distraction and waste of time.
Republicans are shifting attention back to Biden at a tumultuous time, 10 months into Trump’s presidency, with the government shut down and Congress at a standstill over legislation to fund it. House Speaker Mike Johnson, R-La., has kept the House out of session for nearly a month, with most public-facing committee work grinding to a halt.
The report on Biden was largely compiled over several months before the shutdown began. Based on interviews with more than a dozen members of Biden’s inner circle, the report offers few new revelations, instead drawing broad conclusions from unanswered questions.
It includes repeated references to polls of Biden’s approval rating and perceptions of his public gaffes and apparent aging, much of it publicly known.
It alleges a “cover-up of the president’s cognitive decline” orchestrated by Biden’s inner circle and takes particular aim at Biden’s doctor, Kevin O’Connor, who invoked his Fifth Amendment right against testifying. Republicans also singled out senior aides Anthony Bernal and Annie Tomasini, who similarly pleaded the Fifth. All three “should face further scrutiny” from the Justice Department, Republicans said.
Republicans also sent a letter to the D.C. Board of Medicine urging that O’Connor face “discipline, sanction or revocation of his medical license” and “be barred from the practice of medicine in the District of Columbia.”
The report does not include full transcripts of the at-times multiple hours of recorded testimony that witnesses delivered before the committee. It repeatedly scolds Biden officials and Democratic allies for defending Biden’s mental state.
“The inner-most circle, or cocoon, of the White House senior staff organized one of the largest scandals in American history — hiding a cognitively failing president and refusing any means of confirmation of such demise,” the report says.
While the report claims that record-keeping policies in the Biden White House “were so lax that the chain of custody for a given decision is difficult or impossible to establish,” Republicans do not offer any concrete instances of the chain of command being violated or a policy being enacted without Biden’s knowledge.
Still, Republicans argue that Biden’s use of the autopen should be considered invalid unless there is documented proof of him approving a decision.
“Barring evidence of executive actions taken during the Biden presidency showing that President Biden indeed took a particular executive action, the committee deems those actions taken through use of the autopen as void,” the report says.
Democrats and legal experts have warned that broad scrutiny of executive actions could pose future legal headaches for the Trump administration and congressional Republicans, who also often enact policies directed by lawmakers through devices like the presidential autopen.
Brown and Cappelletti write for the Associated Press.
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Last year the prolific and gifted Zadie Smith stumbled into controversy with the publication of “Shibboleth” in the New Yorker. She purportedly approached the white-hot Gaza demonstrations with the nuance and complexity they deserved and yet derided pro-Palestinian students at Columbia University as “cynical and unworthy,” stirring up a hornets’ nest among her young fans, who expressed their anger on various internet platforms. The controversy gained traction because of Smith’s record of championing the marginalized, citing theorists like Frantz Fanon while targeting empires and the omnipresent patriarchy. That she singled out one group of activists, many Jewish, at the very moment Arab toddlers were being blown apart by U.S.-funded bombs raised doubts about her touted values. Her conclusion was startling, her tone defiant: “Put me wherever you want: misguided socialist, toothless humanist, naïve novelist, useful idiot, apologist, denier, ally, contrarian, collaborator, traitor, inexcusable coward.” The lady doth protest too much?
“Shibboleth” appears in “Dead and Alive,” Smith’s collection of previously published essays, in which she assumes most if not all those roles she attributes to herself. Fanon is here as well, amid an array of artists and authors such as Joan Didion, Toni Morrison, and Philip Roth. Smith is arguing for the necessity of vigorous criticism and often makes her case. The book’s finest pieces wrangle, in elegant prose, with humanity’s contradictions; the weaker ones indulge in name-dropping, footnotes and op-ed invective.
Zadie Smith
(Ben Bailey-Smith)
“The Muse at Her Easel,” in the opening section, probes the relationship between English painter Lucian Freud and his model, Celia Paul, also a painter, via a review of her memoir. (Paul is the mother of one of 12 children he fathered outside of marriage.) Smith’s sly trick here is a bit of Freud-play: Lucian seen through the prism of his grandfather Sigmund, the family romance on steroids. Celia revolves around the artist here much as she did when he was alive, vulnerable and reflective, a moon to his sun. It’s both a restrained and overwrought essay, a cryptic tale of sexual politics, like her fellow Brit Rachel Cusk’s novel, “Second Place,” but one that urges us to think hard about abuses in the service of “museography.”
Smith brings an empathic eye to other artists, from the allegorical Toyin Ojih Odutola to the subversive Kara Walker. And she shines a bright light on numerous writers who have inspired her, particularly in remembrances of Didion (whose influence we sense throughout “Dead and Alive”) and the great Hilary Mantel. Her pieces on two books, “Black England” and “Black Manhattan,” excavate hidden histories of Black resistance and the painful compromises brokered to move forward. Her tone in “Fascinated to Presume: In Defense of Fiction” is elegiac, as though smartphones have killed off the craft; yet it’s also a manifesto of sorts, and a declaration of her own aesthetics. “Belief in a novel is, for me, a by-product of a certain kind of sentence,” Smith observes. “Familiarity, kinship, and compassion will play their part, but if the sentences don’t speak to me, nothing else will.” Amen, sister.
Her forays into social commentary are more problematic. She’s strong on the weird population kink known as Gen X, squeezed between the larger boomers and millennials, and the switchback road we traveled to marriage and parenthood: “We all still dressed like teenagers, though, and in the minds of the popular culture were ‘slackers,’ suffering from some form of delayed development, possibly the sad consequences of missing such key adulting experiences as a good war or a stock market crash,” Smith asserts. “We felt history belonged to other people: that we lived in the time of no time.” She’s persuasive when she remains within her comfort zone, opining on race, gender and, occasionally, class. Not so much when she ventures into technology. In “Some Notes on Mediated Time,” she broods at length on the destabilizing effects of the internet, social media and the algorithm silos that shape our present. It’s tough to parse irony from self-congratulation. “I have to say how immensely grateful I am that the work I have been so fortunate to do these last twenty years — writing books — has also gifted me the opportunity, the privilege, of devoting the time of my one human life to an algorithm. To keep almost all of it, selfishly, outrageously, for myself, my friends, my colleagues, my family,” Smith writes. “There are memes I will never know. Whole Twitter meltdowns I never witnessed. Hashtags I will forever remain ignorant about.” Which raises the question: Why lament a social paradigm shift if you haven’t bothered with it in the first place? Something isn’t right. Elsewhere in the essay she claims that social media is “excellent for building brands and businesses and attracting customers.” Could the same be said of a disingenuous essayist?
She comes across as preaching to her peers rather than seeking converts, a whiff of Oxbridge elitism. Hence references to Derrida, Dickinson, Knausgaard, Borges, shout-outs to Booker laureates “Salman” (Rushdie) and “Ian” (McEwan). This level of self-regard in a writer and thinker as justifiably exalted as Smith may explain why our nation is turning on reading: aristocracies breed resentment among the proles. Then Smith steps into the muck of global conflicts. The moral bothsidesism found in “Shibboleth” splits the baby; she does herself no favors with Solomonic pronouncements and Pontius Pilate-like self-exoneration. (Elsewhere she indicts Trump and Netanyahu while neglecting the money and media that empower them.)
“Dead and Alive” does what it was designed to do: It gathers the author’s criticism, literary obituaries, a university address and an interview with a Spanish journal between two covers. The execution falters. Smith’s provocations are often stunning; her prose is thrillingly strident; but her fiction better captures the messiness of public and private selves at war with each other.
Cain is a book critic and the author of a memoir, “This Boy’s Faith: Notes From a Southern Baptist Upbringing.” He lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.
It was excruciating. It was exhausting. It was ecstatic.
It was Fred-die, Fred-die, Fred-die, forever.
Repeating history, rocking the Ravine, winning the unwinnable, Freddie Freeman has done it again for the Dodgers, knocking a baseball for a second consecutive October into probably a second consecutive championship.
In the 18th inning of the longest World Series game in baseball history Monday, nearly seven hours after it started, Freeman smashingly ended it with a leadoff home run against the Toronto Blue Jays to give the Dodgers a 6-5 victory and a two-games-to-one lead.
This time last year he was hitting an extra-inning, walk-off grand slam against the New York Yankees that propelled the Dodgers to the title. At the time, he was being compared to Kirk Gibson and his memorable 1988 World Series homer.
This time, he can only be compared to himself, a guy who was struggling so much in the postseason that both Shohei Ohtani and Mookie Betts had been intentionally walked in front of him late in the game.
Three times in extra innings, he could have ended the game with a hit. Three times he left runners stranded.
But, finally, Freddie once again became Freddie, driving the ball deep over the center field fence, thrusting his right hand in the air, and watching his teammates dancing and jumping and screaming with a jubilation not previously seen by this workmanlike team this postseason.
“I don’t think you ever come up with the scenario twice,” said Freeman. “To have it happen again, it’s kind of amazing, crazy, and I’m just glad we won.”
Nobody seemed happier than Ohtani, who left the scrum to run down to the bullpen to embrace teammate Yoshinobu Yamamoto. Despite throwing a complete game two days ago, Yamamoto was preparing to pitch in this game because the Dodgers had run out of arms.
It was that kind of night. It was two seventh-inning stretches. It was umpires nearly running out of baseballs. It was Vladimir Guerrero Jr. eating in the dugout.
“It’s one of the greatest World Series games of all time,” said Dodger Manager Dave Roberts while meeting the media after midnight. “Emotional. I’m spent emotionally. We got a ball game later tonight, which is crazy.”
When Ohtani returned toward the dugout he was hugged by water-spraying teammates, and for good reason.
Throughout the night Ohtani once again wrapped Dodger Stadium in his giant arms and shook it down to its ancient roots.
The win was set up after Tommy Edman made a perfect relay throw to the plate to gun down Davis Schneider in the top of the 10th, then Clayton Kershaw dramatically worked out of a base-loaded inherited jam in the 12th.
But before Freeman’s homer, Ohtani owned the night.
He led off the game with a ground-rule double. Then he gave the Dodgers a 2-0 lead with a third-inning homer. Then he closed a 4-2 deficit with a fifth-inning RBI double. Then he tied the game at 5-all with a seventh inning home run.
Then, his aura became even crazier.
Four times in a five-inning stretch from the ninth inning to the 15th, Ohtani was intentionally walked — drawing a fifth walk on four pitches in the 17th. Twice the bases were empty. Once he had to pause at second base to relieve leg cramping. It was nuts.
Imagine a player so dangerous he is given a base four times with a World Series game on the line. One can’t imagine. That’s Ohtani.
“He’s a unicorn,” said Freeman. “There’s no more adjectives you can use to describe him.”
Remember 10 days ago when Ohtani had three home runs and struck out 10? Monday night was nearly as impressive because it was in the World Series, his four extra-base hits tying a record that had last been set in 1906.
And, yeah, he pitches again Tuesday in Game 4, so by the time you comprehend all this, he may have done it again.
“Our starting pitcher got on base nine times tonight,” said Freeman with wonder.
Ohtani was so good, he was better than the Dodgers bad, which included bad baserunning, bad fielding, and a bit of questionable managing.
The Dodgers stranded the winning run on base in the ninth,10th, 11th, and 13th, 14th and 15th inning and 16th…and really should have won it in the 13th.
That’s when Roberts surprisingly batted for Kiké Hernández after a Tommy Edman leadoff double. Miguel Rojas bunted Edman to third, but Alex Call and Freeman couldn’t get him home.
That was only one of numerous potentially game-changing plays on a night when the Dodgers took a 2-0 lead, fell behind 4-2, tied it up at 4-all, fell behind 5-4, then tied it up again in the seventh. Who’d have thought it would remain tied for the next 11 innings?The Dodgers left 18 men on base. They were two-for-14 with runners in scoring position.
Max Muncy went 0-for-7. Mookie Betts went 1-for-8. Freeman was just 2-for-7.
“Weird how the game works sometimes, huh?” said Freeman.
The official time of this one was 6:39, which wasn’t so long that one thought of actor Jason Bateman’s reminder to the crowd during a pregame cheer. He noted that the Dodgers had not clinched a World Series championship at Dodger Stadium since 1963.
Two wins in the next two days and they’ll finally do it again.
After Monday’s doubleheader sweep, it’s hard to believe they won’t.
When Gigi Perez took to the stage at the Austin City Limits Festival earlier this month, it felt like the universe was holding up a mirror, reflecting back all the growth she’d done in the four years since her last performance there.
Back in 2021, the Cuban American singer-songwriter had a newly-minted record deal and a handful of viral SoundCloud singles — the wistful acoustic guitar track “Sometimes (Backwood)” and the devastatingly raw “Celene.” The 2021 edition of ACL was the first festival she ever performed, and though her early afternoon slot at one of the smaller stages attracted a few dozen audience members, Perez had spent so many years dreaming of the opportunity that it didn’t matter. She was happy just to be there.
This month, Perez returned to Austin no longer an emerging artist, but as a rising star. Her mega-viral single, the lovesick folk ballad from 2024, “Sailor Song,” had topped the U.K. singles chart and earned more than 1 billion streams on Spotify. On the back of its success, she spent the first half of this year opening for Hozier in support of her 2025 debut LP, “At the Beach, in Every Life.”
So when she took the stage at ACL in October, this time it was for a coveted golden hour set, with a sea of people stretched out before her — and a chorus of voices singing along to her every word.
“It was magical,” Perez told De Los. “There were people there who were actually at my first set in 2021, standing in the front. It meant a lot to me. I think that there’s a shock that I still experience with people coming to my set at a festival.”
At 25 years old, Perez has lived more life than most. Born in New Jersey and raised in West Palm Beach, Fla., the singer grew up in a devoutly Christian Cuban household, the middle child of three sisters.
As a teenager, the religious values she’d been steeped in were beginning to clash with her own realizations about her sexuality — and music provided a lifeline. The queer artists she listened to, like Hayley Kiyoko and Troye Sivan, tapped into feelings she hadn’t been able to articulate, and inspired her to write music that would allow her to express them in her own words.
At 18, just as she was preparing to head to the Berklee College of Music in Boston, her grandmother and uncle passed away, just weeks apart from each other. These dual losses set off a wave of grief and sparked difficult questions about her faith. She was struggling to regain her footing over the next year when, just months into the pandemic, her family experienced the sudden loss of her older sister Celene.
Perez felt unmoored. Her whole life, Celene had been a north star, a guiding light who inspired her to take up music, and who wanted to be a singer herself. Perez did what she knew how: wove her pain and anger and devastation into music, writing the soul-stirring tribute, “Celene.”
“The other day, I thought of something funny, but no one would’ve laughed but you,” she sings. “And mom and dad are always crying. And I wish I knew what to do.”
(Cat Cardenas / For De Los)
Her first original songs gained traction on TikTok, getting the attention of Interscope Records. From there, her career began to take off. She opened for Coldplay and Noah Cyrus, releasing her first EP, “How to Catch a Falling Knife,” in April 2023. Then, just months into a string of performances scheduled in London that summer, the label released her from her contract.
“I remember just being dumbfounded,” she said. “It was this immediate, very deep sense of fear and failure.”
But the funny thing about grief — that all-consuming force that had dragged her out to sea multiple times over the last several years — was that as suffocating as it could be, it was also surprising and unpredictable. So despite the depth of complicated emotions washing over her, Perez was acutely aware that this news was nothing compared to the loss of her sister. “So many things that happen in my life don’t affect me in that same profound way,” she said. “That was one of the things that made me. I don’t know, it’s hard to find the words even now.”
Growing up, Celene had her sights set on Broadway. She introduced Gigi to several musicals, from a bootleg version of “Legally Blonde,” to her first live theater experience in “Wicked,” to the cast album of Lin–Manuel Miranda’s “In the Heights.” They played one song from the soundtrack, “Breathe,” on repeat. It’s sung by the character Nina, the daughter of immigrants in Washington Heights, who returns home in shame after having to drop out of Stanford University.
“That’s how I was feeling at the time,” Perez professed.
In London, she listened to the song on repeat. Then, she started writing. From the beginning, her style has always been instinctual; a freeform jam session where she sits at the piano or with her guitar and just lets her ideas flow out. The title came to her first — “At the Beach, in Every Life” — and the song poured out of her, nearly word for word.
“I remember the first time I played those chords on the piano, I had no idea what was going to happen,” she said. “I just knew something was opening up inside me, but I had no idea how deep the well was going to be, or that I was going to be an artist who gets to travel the world. I just had these desires, these visions, but to really live it is something else.”
After finishing out her commitments in the U.K., she moved back home to Florida. From her childhood bedroom, she began to rebuild. She taught herself music production and kept writing more songs. Without intending to, the puzzle pieces of the last few years of her life began to fall into place, and the grief that had consumed so much of her story finally had an outlet.
“At the Beach, In Every Life” details a breaking down of Perez’s walls. Her sadness and regret washes over tracks like “Sugar Water” and “Crown,” building into fiery passion on “Chemistry” and “Sailor Song,” before cresting into the haunting resolution of the title track that closes it out. It’s a portrait of loss and yearning, made up of vivid recollections from her childhood, her family, and her previous relationships. In short, it’s the album she wishes she could’ve listened to five years ago when her pain seemed insurmountable.
“I had just been operating blind for so long,” she said. “Being able to share my experience of loss in this specific way, it’s something that my 20-year-old self would be in disbelief of. At the time, it was like being without air, the isolation was so suffocating.”
Not long ago, Perez’s sadness could sometimes make her self-conscious. She wanted to share what she was going through, but she also didn’t want to be defined by it. “I didn’t want to be that girl who was always talking about her sister, but there was this very genuine desire to cry out for help, or acknowledge her,” she said. “Everyone is different, but for me, I needed to acknowledge her in order to be well.”
Fans of Gigi Perez at the barricade during her performance at this year’s Austin City Limits Festival in Austin, Texas.
(Cat Cardenas / For De Los)
Now, not even five years later, it feels like she’s finally turned the page and started a new chapter. “I’ve been able to build a life around my grief, and honor the loss of my sister in a way that’s helped me,” she said. “I don’t know exactly what healing should look like, but her death affected me and continues to affect me in these very profound ways. This is the best case scenario for me, because I get to share it with others — that’s one of the things that makes it so difficult to navigate: the feeling that no one understands you.”
“Knowing that we’re not alone has really saved my life,” she said. “I used to be the person thinking, ‘What’s the point of being alive?’ But knowing there are other people with the same question, I know now that we can hold each other’s hands through that. That’s given me a purpose and that helps me continue to move through it.”
In the process of writing the album, Perez found ways to bring both of her sisters along for the ride. There are voice memos from Celene, along with a snippet of her singing on “Survivor’s Guilt.” But there’s also “Sugar Water,” a track she co-wrote with her younger sister, Bella, who joins her onstage to perform the song on tour. “Anyone who has two sisters knows the chaos and intensity that can bring,” she said. “But we loved each other, and we still do. My relationship to what it means to be a woman was shaped by having sisters, and Celene and Bella are the closest reflection that I have of myself.”
Amid this wild, almost unbelievable year, Perez has been grounded by her family’s presence. Her mom is part of her management team, and her dad has joined them on the road.
“There’s something to be said about being in it so much that it’s almost hard to physically feel it on the level you want to,” Perez said. But over the last few weeks, as she’s gotten the opportunity to revisit the places where she first found her footing as a performer, she’s had the opportunity to reflect on just how much she’s grown since then.
For now, she plans on heading back home to Florida once her tour is over to spend time reflecting on everything. “I think that’s when I’ll start to see the confetti fall,” she said. “Life is uncertain, and we never know what it’s going to throw our way, but this was a year that I prayed for. And I think it was a year that a lot of people who love me prayed for too. So for that, I’m very grateful.”
When Boxer retired in 2017, after serving 24 years in the Senate, she walked away from one of the most powerful and privileged positions in American politics, a job many have clung to until their last, rattling breath.
(Boxer tried to gently nudge her fellow Democrat and former Senate colleague, Dianne Feinstein, whose mental and physical decline were widely chronicled during her final, difficult years in office. Ignoring calls to step aside, Feinstein died at age 90, hours after voting on a procedural matter on the Senate floor.)
Last week, she drew a second significant challenger to her reelection, state Sen. Scott Wiener, who jumped into the contest alongside tech millionaire Saikat Chakrabarti, who’s been campaigning against the incumbent for the better part of a year.
Boxer, who turns 85 next month, offered no counsel to Pelosi, though she pushed back against the notion that age necessarily equates with infirmity, or political obsolescence. She pointed to Ted Kennedy and John McCain, two of the senators she served with, who remained vital and influential in Congress well into their 70s.
On the other hand, Boxer said, “Some people don’t deserve to be there for five minutes, let alone five years … They’re 50. Does that make it good? No. There are people who are old and out of ideas at 60.”
There is, Boxer said, “no one-size-fits-all” measure of when a lawmaker has passed his or her expiration date. Better, she suggested, for voters to look at what’s motivating someone to stay in office. Are they driven by purpose — and still capable of doing the job — “or is it a personal ego thing or psychological thing?”
“My last six years were my most prolific,” said Boxer, who opposes both term limits and a mandatory retirement age for members of Congress. “And if they’d said 65 and out, I wouldn’t have been there.”
Art Agnos didn’t choose to leave office.
He was 53 — in the blush of youth, compared to some of today’s Democratic elders — when he lost his reelection bid after a single term as San Francisco mayor.
“I was in the middle of my prime, which is why I ran for reelection,” he said. “And, frankly,” he added with a laugh, “I still feel like I’m in my prime at 87.”
A friend and longtime Pelosi ally, Agnos bristled at the ageism he sees aimed at lawmakers of a certain vintage. Why, he asked, is that acceptable in politics when it’s deplored in just about every other field of endeavor?
“What profession do we say we want bright young people who have never done this before to take over because they’re bright, young and say the right things?” Agnos asked rhetorically. “Would you go and say, ‘Let me find a brain surgeon who’s never done this before, but he’s bright and young and has great promise.’ We don’t do that. Do we?
“Give me somebody who’s got experience, “ Agnos said, “who’s been through this and knows how to handle a crisis, or a particular issue.”
“I thought that I had done a good job … and a number of people said, ‘Gee, it’s a pity that you can’t run for a third term,’ ” Wilson said as he headed to New Haven, Conn., for his college reunion, Yale class of ’55. “As a matter of fact, I agreed with them.”
Still, unlike Boxer, Wilson supports term limits, as a way to infuse fresh blood into the political system and prevent too many over-the-hill incumbents from heedlessly overstaying their time in office.
Not that he’s blind to the impetus to hang on. The power. The perks. And, perhaps above all, the desire to get things done.
At age 92, Wilson maintains an active law practice in Century City and didn’t hesitate — “Yes!” he exclaimed — when asked if he considered himself capable of serving today as governor, even as he wends his way through a tenth decade on Earth.
His wife, Gayle, could be heard chuckling in the background.
“She’s laughing,” Wilson said dryly, “because she knows she’s not in any danger of my doing so.”
TORONTO — There might be no greater reminder of how far the Dodgers have come than the opposing pitcher on Monday. When the World Series returns to Dodger Stadium for Game 3, the starting pitcher for the Toronto Blue Jays is scheduled to be Max Scherzer.
Don’t just take my word for it. This was the word from Hall of Fame pitcher Pedro Martinez at the time: “Dodgers analytics dept really misused probably the best rotation in all of baseball. …They need to figure out a way to let starters be who they really are and let them pitch how they are used to.”
In the 2021 postseason, by choice, the Dodgers used an opener three times, a 20-game winner as a middle reliever, and a Hall of Fame starter as a closer. There would be no parade.
In the 2024 postseason, and not by choice, the Dodgers ran four bullpen games. There would be a parade.
Just sit back and enjoy the show — on Saturday, Yoshinobu Yamamoto’s second straight complete game show. This must be less stressful, at least.
“I don’t think it’s less stressful,” Dodgers pitching coach Mark Prior said to an inquiring middle-aged reporter with gray hair getting a little too noticeable. “We’ve got matching hair.”
Still, there isn’t much mystery in the Dodgers’ 10-2 postseason record. In every game in which their starting pitcher has gotten an out in the sixth inning, they have won. In every game in which their starting pitcher has not gotten an out in the sixth inning, they have lost.
To Andrew Friedman and his front office, take a bow too. Just because your ownership provided you with a $1.35-billion rotation does not guarantee that you will leave well enough alone.
In the final month of the season, remember, the Dodgers entertained a flurry of ideas about how to best combine a talented rotation and an iffy bullpen into an effective October staff.
Would they deploy Ohtani in relief? Would they use their best arms as often as possible, as the Washington Nationals did in 2019, when they used their top three starters — Scherzer, Patrick Corbin and Stephen Strasburg — as starters and relievers?
The Dodgers let their starters be starters. The conventional wisdom does not always need to be challenged.
“Clearly, Blake Snell, Yama, Glasnow, Shohei, all really good pitchers,” Prior said. “I think we can all agree that they’re all really good pitchers, and any team would probably roll them out in a playoff game.
“So I don’t think this is any master plan.”
Said catcher Will Smith: “I think that’s just this team. We have four starters now that are pitching their best. … We’re just riding those guys.”
Dodgers pitcher Tyler Glasnow is set to start Game 3 of the World Series against the Toronto Blue Jays on Monday.
(Eric Thayer / Los Angeles Times )
That brings us back to 2021, when the front office decided the best way to approach the winner-take-all finale of the division series against the San Francisco Giants was to use reliever Corey Knebel as an opener, 20-game winner Julio Urías from the third through the sixth innings, closer Kenley Jansen in the eighth inning and Scherzer as the closer.
That is the kind of all-hands-on-deck approach better suited to the end of a World Series. The Dodgers won that game against the Giants, but Scherzer could not complete five innings in his first championship series start and said he could not take the ball for his next start, an elimination game.
“My arm’s been locked up the past couple of days,” Scherzer said then.
He said that he would be the one at risk if he were not honest with the Dodgers about his condition, rather than trying to push through.
“Guys, when they lie, they go out there and they take on too much, then they blow out,’’ he said. “That’s the ultimate risk here.”
That line of thought did not go over too well in some corners of the clubhouse. Urías was miffed because he believed the Dodgers did not believe in him. Walker Buehler, who started on short rest as a late replacement for Scherzer, gave up four runs in four innings. The Dodgers were eliminated.
Scherzer’s last World Series start, for the Texas Rangers in 2023, lasted three innings. He isn’t thinking about the Rangers, or for that matter the Dodgers.
“I wouldn’t be looking backwards at all for any motivation,’’ he said here Saturday. “I have plenty of motivation. I’m here to win and I’ve got a clubhouse full of guys who want to win too. So we’re a great team and that’s the only thing I need to think about.”
The only thing the Dodgers need to worry about on Monday, at least based on their postseason run: Can they get six or seven innings from Glasnow? If they can, they should be halfway to the World Series championship.
Highlights from the Dodgers’ 5-1 win over the Toronto Blue Jays in Game 2 of the World Series.
It’s dead certain that if you’ve been a television critic for, ahem, a number of years, you’re going to have reviewed a passel of shows based on the writing of Stephen King, America’s most adapted, if not necessarily most adaptable author. (It’s been a mere three months since the last, “The Institute,” on MGM+.) The latest float in this long parade premieres Sunday on HBO — it’s “It: Welcome to Derry,” a prequel to the 2017 film, “It” (and its 2019 follow-up, “It: Chapter Two”) based on King’s 1986 creepy clown novel, each of which made a packet. (There was a 1990 TV miniseries version as well.)
Developed by Andy Muschietti (director of the films), Barbara Muschietti and Jason Fuchs, “Derry” is an extension of the brand rather than an adaptation, which features a white-faced circus-style clown called Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård, back from the movies) who lives in the sewer and comes around every 27 years to feed on children’s fear — fear being the preferred dish of many famous monsters of filmland, and white-faced circus clowns having lost all goodwill in the culture. (No thanks to King. Or Krusty.) And while I assume some of the series’ points may be found within King’s original 1,138-page novel, life is short and that is going to have to remain an assumption. In any case, it’s very much a work of television — not what I’d call prestige television, despite a modicum of well-done fright effects — just ordinary, workman-like TV, with monsters. (Or one monster in many forms.)
It’s 1962 in Derry, Maine, and everywhere else. (Subsequent seasons — prequel prequels — will reportedly be set in 1935 and 1908.) The Cold War is heating up. Schoolchildren, forced to watch animated films about the effects of a nuclear blast, are ducking and covering beneath their desks (a psychological rather than a practical exercise). But the threat of annihilation has done nothing to slow them in their teenage rituals. Bullies chase a target down the street. A group of snobby girls is called the Pattycakes, because they play patty cake, and their leader is named Patty. On the other hand are the kids we care about, the outsiders, banded together in unpopularity. It’s a paradoxical quality of horror films that to be an outsider either qualifies you as a hero or the monster — the insiders are usually just food. Not that the monsters are particular about whom they eat.
We open in a movie theater. Robert Preston is on the screen in “The Music Man,” performing “Ya Got Trouble.” (Chronologically accurate foreshadowing!) In the audience is Matty (Miles Ekhardt), a boy way too old to be sucking on a pacifier. Chased from the theater — he’s been sneaking in — it’s a snowy night, and he accepts a ride from a seemingly normal family, who quickly turn abnormal. Suddenly it’s four months later and Matty is an officially missing child.
Taylour Paige, Blake Cameron James and Jovan Adepo play the Hanlon family, who have just moved to Derry, Maine.
(Brooke Palmer / HBO)
The series begins promisingly, setting up (as in “It,” or, hmmm, “Stranger Things”) a company of junior investigators. Phil (Jack Molloy Legault) has a lot of thoughts about aliens and sex; Teddy (Mikkal Karim Fidler) is studious and serious and has thoughts about Matty. Lilly (Clara Stack) is called “loony” because she spent time in a sanitarium — the King-canonical Juniper Hill Asylum — after her father died in a pickle factory accident. (Not played for laughs, although the pickle is perhaps the funniest of all foods.) Lilly thinks she heard Matty singing “Trouble” through the drain in her bathtub; Ronnie (Amanda Christine), the daughter of the cinema’s projectionist Hank (Stephen Rider), has heard voices in the theater’s pipes. The kids run the film, and supernatural mayhem ensues. It’s pretty crazy! Gross hallucinations — or are they? — will afflict them through the series.
Meanwhile, Air Force Maj. Leroy Hanlon (Jovan Adepo) has been transferred to the local base, where secret doings are afoot, involving (classic plot line) the military’s desire to claim and weaponize whatever barely understood dangerous thing that’s out there in the woods. (His value to this operation is that he cannot feel fear, the result of a brain injury.) The Hanlons — including wife Charlotte (Taylour Paige), a civil rights activist in a Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat, and son Will (Blake Cameron James) — are Black (as are Ronnie and her father, seemingly accounting for 100% of Derry’s in-town African American population). “Don’t be looking for trouble,” Leroy tells Charlotte, who responds, “There’s going to be trouble anywhere we go. That’s the country you swore your life to defend.” Will, who is scientific, will become friends with Rich (Arian S. Cartaya), an appealingly goofy kid in a band uniform; they’ll both wind up on the Pennywise case.
Typically, the kids — also including Marge (Matilda Lawler, the secret weapon of “Station Eleven” and “The Santa Clauses”), Lilly’s socially desperate friend — are the strongest element in the story and the show; their energy overwhelms the obviousness of the narrative, and whatever takes us away from them, into pace-slowing side plots, is time less well spent.
What else? There’s a Native American element — including the old Indian burial ground story — represented by Rose (Kimberly Guerrero), who runs a thrift store (called Second Hand Rose, in a nice nod to Fanny Brice) and whose indomitable air makes her a kind of counterpart and potential ally to Charlotte. Manifest destiny gets a mention, and the plot will conventionally pose Native humbleness against white hubris. Dick Hallorann (Chris Chalk) is a Black serviceman with a tragic mental gift, used cruelly by his superiors — a familiar King type. Racism is a recurring theme without becoming a consistent plot point, with messages for 2025. (Rich: “This is America. You can’t just throw people in jail for nothing.” Will: “Are we talking about the same country?”)
Also: A statue of Paul Bunyan is going up in town — and in fact a 31-foot-tall Bunyan statue was unveiled in Bangor, Maine, in 1959. This is pointed to a couple of times, so I would imagine some kind of Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man scenario coming in the series’ unseen back half. Or something.
Horror, especially body-horror — there are two monstrous birth sequences in the five episodes, out of nine, available to review — has, you may have noticed, moved from the fringes to the center of popular (even high) culture, with A-list stars signing on and Oscar and Emmy nominations not unlikely. Indeed, the good, cheap, unrespectable, unambitious variety of scare flick has mostly disappeared from the big screen. That “Welcome to Derry” is more of a cheesy B-picture than its makers might like to imagine, assembled from worked-over tropes — somewhat excusable for King having originated many of them — is more in its favor than not. TV remains a haven for cheesiness. Long may it remain so.
On the night of September 24, 2025, Hollis Frazier-Herndon performed an acoustic rendition of his song “Eldest Child” for a sold-out crowd at USC’s Shrine Auditorium. During his croon of the lyrics, “Eldest child, eldest child, I know your momma and your daddy so goddamn proud. They don’t know me, no. They don’t know me now,” the artist known as 2hollis went from a fractured growl to a sweet silky falsetto to a full collapse into tears.
It was a moment of raw catharsis as well as a culmination. During a pre-show interview backstage, Hollis revealed the hidden meaning behind the lyrics. He said the figurative “momma and daddy” are actually his fans, whose expectations he’s glad he’s fulfilled, even though they “don’t actually know each other” in real life. Thus, a sold-out crowd enthusiastically singing back at him evoked an emotional release. In tandem with that though, is the fact that this was 2hollis’ first show in his hometown since his Altadena childhood house burned down in the January 2025 fires. The embrace from his extended community after he persevered through that tragedy and continued to ascend to musical stardom was palpable.
“I’m at a place now where I feel like, in a way, it’s sort of a phoenix situation,” Hollis said about his post-fire rise from the ashes. “The whole town burned down. It was terrible and insane. But it weirdly felt like that needed to happen [to make the new album what it is]. I don’t know, it’s hard seeing somewhere you grew up just be a deserted place.”
On the day before the release of his fourth album, “star,” in April, 2hollis posted a picture of a burnt-edged tarot card with the same title. He added a message explaining that the star card was the only thing he and his mother found intact when they returned to Altadena to assess the damage. It was also later reported by 032c Magazine that atop a tall hill behind Hollis’ family property existed a wooden and metal star statue filled with lightbulbs that would glow at night. That star, which Hollis and his childhood friends would hike up to, also burned. The album “star,” 2hollis’ best version of his signature crystalline hardstyle EDM, meets grimy rage trap, meets velvet emo pop punk, emerged directly and impactfully from the remains of the roaring flames.
At the end of the full throttle album opener “flash,” Hollis said he added recorded sounds of the wind chimes from his Altadena home porch, triggered by the Santa Ana winds in the lead up to the fire. You can also hear faint gusts and flame sounds emerge sparsely throughout the project. He let the weather itself dictate the type of immersive experience the album could be, even as it also chronicles his layered chase for notoriety and glory.
“There are a lot of self-reflective moments, and it is very personal and emotional, but it’s also like one big party,” he explained. “I feel like, in a f—ed up kind of way, that’s what a fire is, too. It’s so big and full of visceral anger and emotion and almost a sad kind of wave. But then, also, it’s lit.”
2hollis is a visual thinker, thus he envisions scenes and uses optical inspiration to craft his imaginative rave-like soundscapes. Grammy-winning producer Finneas, during a recent interview with Spotify, recalled a time in the studio with 2hollis when he described a sound he was trying to capture as “a crystal with a pretty face on it.” This is a regular practice. Backstage, he described the process of juxtaposing an RL Grime-esque intense trap drop with a synth piano inspired by the movement and presence of a porcelain Chinese lucky cat he kept in his bedroom studio at the Altadena house. This was for his song “burn” from “star,” a scorcher which also happened to be the last song recorded in his home before the flames hit.
For 2hollis’ most openly psyche’d song on the album, “tell me,” where he professes lyrics like, “Everybody I don’t know tryna know me these days I don’t even know who I am,” his mental visual for the ending electro drop is illuminating. “I always imagined heavy rain there and lightning shining on someone’s face,” Hollis said about a perhaps heroic moment linked to the fire. “And it’s also like a face-off. Maybe me versus my ego on a rainy war field at the end of ‘Squid Game.’”
2hollis often creates outlandish alternate worlds he hopes to thrust his listening audience into. “I think there’s become this thing with a lot of artists where they feel the need to be relatable,” he proclaimed questioningly. “That’s cool, but I want [to present] the fantasy of, ‘Let me listen and pretend I’m not me for a few minutes.” In a time of constantly looming shaky ground, Hollis presents escapism as mindful.
2hollis
(Sandra Jamaleddine)
2hollis, at times, appears in tandem with a white tiger. The animal bears the name of his first album and appears on stage at his shows as a large figurine that roars vehemently behind him during song transitions. As much as it feels a part of his fantastical sonic world, it is also deeply tied to his personal story.
On a follow-up call from backstage at a later show in Detroit, Hollis recalled a period of debilitating psychosis he experienced at 18 years old. He mediated and prayed to Archangels as an attempt to pull himself back together. When he invoked the spirit of the Angel Metatron, he would picture a white tiger destroying all the darkness and “demonic shit” around him. “It was wild and sounds insane, but it really helped me come out of it,” he said.
The more one speaks to Hollis, the more one realizes he embodies the Shakespearean line “All the world’s a stage.” Even in the most wholesome times in his life, as a little league baseball player and school theater kid, he would get a similar “butterfly in the stomach feeling” from the performance of it all. But by that same token, he is also someone who values solitude and garnered his appreciation for it from Altadena itself.
Hollis describes it as a place of “untouched, unscathed innocence.” A place where he could walk his dog up to the star behind his home, meditate, and look at the city of LA in the distance. “I go back there all the time even though there’s nothing there anymore,” Hollis said from Detroit about his home’s unending pull. “It’s just comforting to be there by myself. The energy that was there before didn’t die.”
That far-gone youthful time alone is where Hollis dreamed of the world he’s in now. He said, if he could, he’d say to that wide-eyed yet apprehensive kid, “Dude, you’re doing it, you were right, you knew. Now it’s beautifully harmoniously coming together.” On “tell me” 2hollis raps that he’s equal parts scared of “press,” “death,” and “judgment.” But now, with overwhelming chaos in his rearview, he proclaims, “I’m running headfirst into everything. I’m not dying. I’m not scared of sh—.”
A star-studded lineup that sputtered through the previous two rounds of the playoffs sputtered again here Friday, this time without the cover of outstanding starting pitching.
The Dodgers had seven hits in their NLCS opener, when Blake Snell threw eight shutout innings. He picked up the offense.
They had six hits in the World Series opener, when Snell gave up five runs in five-plus innings, and they could not pick him up.
The Blue Jays scored 11 runs. The Dodgers led the National League in runs during the regular season, but even then they have scored at least 11 runs just three times since the All-Star break. The Blue Jays have done it three times in this postseason alone.
“You can make it something if you want to make it something,” shortstop Mookie Betts said. “We’re more than capable of scoring 10, 11 in a game. It’s just hard to do in the postseason.
“Obviously, they just did it. They’ve been doing it the whole time, so it may not be hard for them. For us, we haven’t done it. But we’ll find out ways to win games.”
Dodgers shortstop Mookie Betts reacts during an at-bat in the first inning against the Toronto Blue Jays in Game 1 of the World Series on Friday night.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
They had better find it soon. The Blue Jays are averaging seven runs per game in the postseason. The Dodgers have not scored seven runs in any game in the NLDS, NLCS or World Series.
“You look back at the last couple of weeks, there’s some pivotal at-bats that can flip games,” Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said. “At times, I think that the offense looks great as far as building innings, but there’s some key at-bats that you got to win pitches and use the other side of the field, get a hit, take a walk, whatever it might be.
“I think that we can be better. We need to be better.”
The Dodgers had three hits in seven at-bats with runners in scoring position, which sounds pretty good until you realize all seven of those at-bats came in the second and third innings.
In the third inning, three of their final four batters hit with a runner in scoring position, and they scored once. But the second inning was worse: they had the bases loaded with one out for three successive batters, and again they scored once.
“We’ve got to cash in in that situation, especially against a team like that that’s swinging it really well,” Betts said. “I feel like that was a big point in the game that really changed things.
“That really changed the game.”
The Dodgers struck out 13 times, the Blue Jays four. The Jays ran their high-contact, low-strikeout offense to perfection Friday. The Dodgers led the NL in home runs this season, and they hit 50 more than Toronto, but they hit only one home run Friday: a two-run shot from Shohei Ohtani, with the team down by nine runs.
The Blue Jays’ starting pitcher for Game 2, Kevin Gausman, has a long memory. On Friday, he thought back to Oct. 14, 2021.
That was the day the Dodgers eliminated the 107-win San Francisco Giants in the NLDS. Gausman, working in relief, was the final pitcher for the Giants. Max Scherzer, also working in Toronto now, was the final pitcher for the Dodgers.
The final pitch of the game: a highly debated third strike to Wilmer Flores.
“I still think about the check swing on Wilmer Flores,” Gausman said. “I don’t think it was a swing, but, you know, that’s kind of water under the bridge.”
Four years later, Gausman hasn’t forgotten. Thing is, just because the Dodgers count on getting to the World Series every year does not mean they will. If the team with three Hall of Famers atop their lineup doesn’t get its bats rolling, the Dodgers might not forget this for years to come.
Let’s just kick the elephant out of the room right away. It’s hard to write a guide to Highland Park without addressing the “G” word. The neighborhood has been described as a poster child of gentrification, and for anyone who spends time there, it’s easy to see why.
Get to know Los Angeles through the places that bring it to life. From restaurants to shops to outdoor spaces, here’s what to discover now.
Within the Northeast neighborhood nestled between downtown L.A. and Pasadena, you’ll see the Highland Park of the past: find remnants like the stone castle that was once the home of Charles F. Lummis, a poet and journalist who famously walked from Cincinnati to Highland Park — yes, you read that correctly — to accept a job at the Los Angeles Times in the mid 1880s. (He later went on to found the Southwest Museum, L.A.’s first museum, close by.)
You’ll see the Highland Park that remains: a working-class hub where bandas practice outside for all to hear, the smell of street tacos fills the air, multigenerational families play together at the park and iconic fixtures like the 22-foot-tall Chicken Boy statue that hovers over North Figueroa like a friendly mascot.
And you’ll see the Highland Park that’s emerging: an L.A. hot spot where young people flock to sip on fancy cocktails along York Boulevard and hang out at a chic Prohibition-era bowling alley.
Somehow, all these versions exist together. These days, it’s common to see luxury companies like Le Labo, which sells candles for upward of $90, move next door to small businesses such as the beloved Mexican family-ownedDelicias Bakery & Some that has been serving fresh pan dulce for nearly 35 years. The community collectively mourned when its100-year-old historic movie theater closed last March.
As one of L.A.’s first suburbs, Highland Park began the 20th century as an artsy oasis that was dotted with charming Craftsman homes. By the 1960s, the neighborhood had transformed into an epicenter for Latino life. The evolution of Highland Park has brought all the usual tensions between longtime residents and newcomers, many of whom were priced out of areas like Silver Lake and South Pasadena.
In spite of that, Highland Park has managed to hold onto its roots and small-town charm. This is in part thanks to nonprofits like the Highland Park Heritage Trust and community members who have been working to preserve the neighborhood’s rich history and cherished cultural hubs.
“A lot of the identity is still here, things that just make it feel like home,” says Michael Nájera, 35, whose family has lived in the neighborhood for three generations. He and his wife co-founded a running club calledTofu Scramble that meets at local coffee shops on Friday mornings.
“There’s a strong sense of community here. Even with everything going on these days, it’s amazing to see people out — some of us because we can, and others at risk because they have to,” he adds, referring to the recent ICE raids. “And still, this feels like a place where it’s OK to be brown and to be outside.” It’s common to see local businesses displaying Know Your Rights cards in support of their neighbors.
Rocio Paredes, a director and photographer who attended Franklin Middle School and High School in Highland Park, adds that “Chicanoism is very engraved in our DNA here.” You can see the culture’s influence in spaces like the Centro de Arte Público and the Mechicano Art Center, both of which were home to Highland Park’s Chicano Arts Collective, an organization that helped advance the political aims of L.A.’s Chicano movement in the 1970s. And also at local restaurants. At Las Cazuelas, a family-run Salvadoran pupuseria that’s been open since 1985, Parades says, “It’s like a f— time capsule.”
From historic Craftsman homes, beautiful hills, bountiful green spaces, cuisine from various cultures, vintage shops of varied prices and a vibrant nightlife scene, there’s so much to appreciate about Highland Park.
What’s included in this guide
Anyone who’s lived in a major metropolis can tell you that neighborhoods are a tricky thing. They’re eternally malleable and evoke sociological questions around how we place our homes, our neighbors and our communities within a wider tapestry. In the name of neighborly generosity, we may include gems that linger outside of technical parameters. Instead of leaning into stark definitions, we hope to celebrate all of the places that make us love where we live.
Our journalists independently visited every spot recommended in this guide. We do not accept free meals or experiences. What L.A. neighborhood should we check out next? Send ideas to [email protected].
Referencing these developments ahead of the screening in Park City, Utah, writer-director Bill Condon told the audience: “That’s a sentiment I think you’ll see the movie has a different point of view on.”
Released in theaters Oct. 10, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” is set in the final year of Argentina’s Dirty War, the violent military dictatorship that spanned from 1976-1983. The story begins in the confines of a Buenos Aires prison, where newfound cellmates Valentin Arregui Paz (Diego Luna) and Luis Molina (Tonatiuh) find they have little in common. Arregui is a principled revolutionary dedicated to his cause, while Molina is a gay, flamboyant window dresser who’s been arrested for public indecency.
Undeterred by their differences, Molina punctuates the bleak existence of their imprisonment — one marked by torture and deprivation — by recounting the plot of “The Kiss of the Spider Woman,” a fictional Golden Age musical starring his favorite actress, Ingrid Luna (Jennifer Lopez), casting himself and Arregui as her co-stars. Transported from their dreary cell to the bright, indulgent universe of the musical, their main conflicts become a quest for love and honor, rather than a fight for their basic human rights.
When Argentinian author Manuel Puig began writing the celebrated novel, “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” in 1974, it was just a year into his self-imposed exile to Mexico as his native Argentina lurched toward authoritarianism. By the time the book was released in 1976, a military junta had seized control of the government. The next seven years were marked by the forced disappearance of an estimated 20,000-30,000 people, many of whom were kidnapped and taken to clandestine detention camps to be tortured and killed. Among those targeted were artists, journalists, student activists, members of the LGBTQ+ community and anyone deemed “subversive” by the regime.
Initially banned in Argentina, Puig’s novel has been adapted and reimagined multiple times, including as an Oscar-winning film in 1985 and a Tony Award-winning musical in 1993. With each iteration, the central elements have remained unchanged. And yet, as the 2025 adaptation arrived in theaters this month, this queer, Latino-led story of two prisoners fighting the claustrophobia of life under fascism feels at once like a minor miracle, and a startling wake-up call.
Tonatiuh, left, and Diego Luna in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”
(Sundance Institute)
In the months since the film’s Sundance premiere, the parallels between the fraught political climate of 1970s Argentina and that of our present have only become more pronounced.
Amidst these headlines are people just like Molina and Arregui — activists, artists and human beings — finding their own ways to survive and resist an increasingly paranoid and repressive government. And while Arregui’s instinct is to remain unwavering in his cause, Molina’s is to retreat into the glamorous, over-the-top world of the “Spider Woman.”
In dazzling musical numbers expertly performed by Lopez, who delivers each song and dance with all the magnetism of a true Old Hollywood icon, both the prisoners and the audience can’t help but be drawn further and further into her Technicolor web.
Jennifer Lopez and Tonatiuh in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”
(Roadside Attractions)
It might be easy to write these moments off as nothing more than a superficial distraction, as Arregui does early on, and characterize musicals as shallow and cliche. At first, Molina is happy to admit that’s why he loves them, but the truth is more complicated.
During Argentina’s dictatorship, discrimination and attacks by paramilitary groups against LGBTQ+ people became more and more frequent. Molina accepts the role society has cast him in, allowing himself to be the “monster,” the “deviant” or the “sissy” that people want him to be, while retreating mentally into the world of classic films and pop culture. For him, their beauty is a salve — an opportunity to abandon reality and cast himself in a role that doesn’t actually exist for him.
Though he never explicitly claims an identity, it’s made clear that he doesn’t just love “La Luna” — he wants to be her. And in their first feature lead role, the queer, L.A.-born actor Tonatiuh embodies all of Molina’s contradictions — his bluster, his pain, his radiance — to heart-wrenching effect.
As Molina and Arregui grow closer, the boundaries between reality and fantasy begin to melt, and their formerly rigid perceptions collapse along with them. Arregui takes on some of Molina’s idealism, and the musical he once saw as a tired cliche becomes something invaluable: a sliver of joy that can’t be taken from him. A cynic convinced of the world’s brokenness, he realizes that revolutions need hope too.
In the film’s final act, while the world around Molina hasn’t changed, he has. Still trapped within the confines of a society that is doing its best to crush him, he adopts Arregui’s integrity and realizes that he has a choice: “I learned about dignity in that most undignified place,” he says in the film. “I had always believed nothing could ever change for me, and I felt sorry for myself. But I can’t live like that now.”
Like the film within the film, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” isn’t an escape. It’s a lifeline — and a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, art has the power to transport us, sustain us and embolden us to be brave.
Every night before going to bed, Ela Minus shuts off her phone.
Oftentimes, the Colombian artist-producer won’t even turn it back on until the following afternoon. One day, in mid-September, when Minus logged on, she received an unexpected flurry of messages from both close friends and people she hadn’t spoken to in years. Each notification was congratulatory, but Minus had no idea what had transpired the night before.
It turns out the Latin Grammy nominations had been announced — and her song “QQQQ,” off her 2025 sophomore album, “Día,” was nominated for Latin electronic music performance.
“I was very confused. Nobody said what was going on in their messages. They were just telling me congratulations,” says Minus, who laughs about the moment over our Zoom call. She dialed in from Mexico City, a few hours before catching a flight to Italy to kick off a new leg of her “Día” tour.
“As soon as I figured out that I was nominated, I turned my phone off again. I needed a second to myself. To be completely honest, it was not even a little bit in my radar. I didn’t even know we submitted anything.”
Since its release last January, “Día” has left lasting impressions on critics and fans alike. In 10 synth-powered tracks, Minus channels her fluctuating emotional state as she navigated a period of reckoning — characterized by a life almost entirely lived in airplanes, hotel rooms and foreign studios — through ominous synthesizer chords and blasts of vigorous dance beats.
Much like her music, her path to Latin Grammy-worthy acclaim has been anything but linear.
“It’s not like I started singing on television, and now I’m at the Latin Grammys. It’s been an interesting path of continuous surprises and unexpected turns,” says Minus. “Not to praise myself, but every time I’ve taken an unexpected turn or been presented with it, something amazing comes out of it.”
“Every time I’m in L.A. for a longer period of time, I feel like I retire into myself more. Staying downtown too, felt very aggressive, yet familiar to me,” says Minus, of how L.A. influenced her latest record.
(Alvaro Ariso)
Minus was born as Gabriela Jimeno Caldas, in Bogotá, Colombia. She got her start in music as a drummer in a local punk band called Ratón Pérez, which she joined at the age of 12. Her percussion skills led to her leaving Colombia to attend the Berklee College of Music, where she double majored in jazz drumming and music synthesis. At school, she was introduced to hardware and software synths, and continued to explore her drumming abilities by experimenting with electronica.
After working as a touring drummer and helping design synth software, Minus’ solo career started to take off with the release of her 2020 debut album, “acts of rebellion.” She created the entire project by herself, from the depths of her at-home studio in Brooklyn. Composed of icy club beats and steadfast synthetics, she describes the album as “sonically concise,” in that she intentionally used limited instrumentation.
When approaching her 2025 follow-up record, she says that she yearned to pick up new instruments, switch up the process and hopefully end up with an entirely different result.
In a sudden turn of events, her rent in New York quadrupled because of COVID-19 inflation rates, and she had to leave the city. She says her life quickly became a “mess.” But her next steps were clear as ever — instead of settling into a new apartment, she took on a nomadic lifestyle, with making new music as her only goal.
“I wanted to start and finish a record in the moment, while all of this is happening, and when I’m feeling this way,” says Minus, who says she was feeling a self-imposed artistic pressure. “I figured I could postpone my personal life out of wanting to make this record.”
Over the course of six months, she hopped from city to city, living out of her suitcase and renting recording studios. She ended up in places like London, Mexico City and Seattle. The repetitious process of packing up and settling into new places allowed her to easily decipher which tracks she wanted to keep pushing and which ones she would leave behind.
Along her journey, she lived in downtown Los Angeles for a short period of time. She says she finds the city to be a bit “alienating” with a “uniquely heavy” energy. To her luck, the city’s ethos aligned with the sonic soundscape she was building out in “Día.”
“Every time I’m in L.A. for a longer period of time, I feel like I retire into myself more. Staying downtown too, felt very aggressive, yet familiar to me,” says Minus, who noted the lack of people walking, the amount of traffic in the streets and the boundless nature of Los Angeles.
The album began at a low point in Minus’ life, where she seems to be going through an identity crisis. Over spacey sirens and an accumulating bass line, on “Broken,” she admits to being “a fool / acting all cool” and being on her knees, without a sense of faith. Throughout the first several tracks, she confronts her inner monologue through candid lyrics, offering herself a reality check.
“Producing beats with really low bass lines feels comfortable to me. It makes me want to open up naturally to get to the point of writing lyrics and singing. When the production is more sparse, like with a guitar, it’s harder to write more vulnerably. It feels kinda cheesy,” says Minus.
“In myself, there’s this constant cohabitation of dark and light and aggressive and sweet sounds,” she continues. So when vulnerable feelings come out, the really hardcore, distorted sounds follow.”
Songs like “Idk” and “Abrir Monte” simulate the experience of being submerged as a muffled, yet pounding bass line takes charge. Other times, as in “Idols,” Minus’ dissected blend of club pop and dark ambient sounds lends a grimy, industrial feel to her mechanical melodies. She captures the commonplace (yet cathartic) experience of losing yourself in a sweaty mass of limbs on a dance floor.
The Latin Grammy-nominated track “QQQQ” marks a turning point in the album. It was a song she wrote in a matter of hours to depict her own mindset change. “I was very aware that [for] the first half of the record, there was a lot of tension. I just needed a moment of release for this [album] to land fully. I needed a moment of uncontrollable sobbing on the dance floor.”
The album ends with her resolving to confront her struggles with self-acceptance, with the frankly written “I Want To Be Better” — which escalates with the feverish punk pulse of “Onwards.”
To her, the album is equal parts apocalyptic and hopeful, reflecting both the chaos of the outside world and her newfound inner peace. Since making the record and performing it frequently, she says she’s internalized the lessons she learned along the way. “When you’re going through something, sometimes the only thing you can trust is time. Your perspective will change, maybe for better or for worse.
“Time heals,” adds Minus. “That’s something I learned for sure.”
Ela Minus will be headlining at the Echoplex in Echo Park on Oct. 29.
Anthony Frias II will suffer a setback, like those scary months when the UCLA running back was stuck in transfer portal limbo, unsure if his college career was over, and he’ll hear those familiar words.
It’s part of the movie.
He’ll strain in anonymity, police repeatedly coming to the door of his home at 2:30 a.m. because neighbors kept complaining about the sound of weights slamming onto the floor of the garage after another sweaty deadlift, and here comes his father’s favorite phrase again.
UCLA running back Anthony Frias II’s family gathers for a photo in front of the Rose Bowl before cheering for him and the Bruins.
(The Frias family)
It’s part of the movie.
Then there’s moments like last weekend, when something happens that makes this whole improbable journey feel like it’s just getting started, like there’s so much left to do and so many people to inspire for the kid from a tiny town in the San Joaquin Valley who once had no college scholarship offers.
Having been made a bigger part of the offensive game plan against Maryland, Frias bolted for his first career touchdown run. Later, with the Bruins needing to reach field-goal range in the game’s final moments, he chugged ahead for 35 yards, dragging defenders with him to set up the winning score.
When Frias emerged from the tunnel inside the Rose Bowl afterward to reconnect with his family, having starred inside the stadium where he once stood as a teenager with a sign proclaiming that he would play there one day, it was only a matter of time before he heard that refrain once more.
“Every time something happens, he mentions it,” the namesake son said of his father, “and it gives me a little bit more belief each time that he’s right.”
For many years, the genre of Anthony Frias II’s story seemed uncertain.
Would it be a hero’s tale? A drama about unfulfilled dreams?
The only sure thing was the conviction of the boy and his father who believed their journey would take them well beyond the confines of Le Grand, Calif., population 1,592.
Little Anthony wanted to play football so badly growing up that after suffering a hairline fracture in his knee that was supposed to sideline him for the rest of the season, he made his own rehabilitation plan.
He was only 9.
Setting his alarm for 5:30 in the morning, he’d wake his father and they would go for a 1½-mile run to a relative’s home for workouts before running back. With his team on the verge of its championship game, Anthony needed a doctor’s clearance to return ahead of schedule.
One morning, he took a crumpled piece of paper to his mom in bed. When she awoke unexpectedly, he ran away nervously. Sabrina Frias looked at the paper, which outlined his recovery and mentioned that he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.
Anthony Frias II was in high school when he stood in front of the Rose Bowl while holding up a sign that read, “One day I will play here!” and featured the Stanford logo. He realized his dream of playing in the Rose Bowl, although it was for UCLA.
(The Frias family)
Anthony left his fate in his mother’s hands, asking her to make a choice — circle the “Yes” he had written alongside a happy face or the “No” alongside a sad face.
Her heart breaking at the thought of denying her son, she circled “Yes.” Anthony went on to score every point in his team’s 20-19 victory.
By the time he was 13, Anthony had modeled his playing style after Christian McCaffrey, the dynamic Stanford running back who was making a strong push for the Heisman Trophy. That made the Christmas present he received that year — tickets to see Stanford play Iowa in the Rose Bowl — an all-time favorite.
Before the game, Anthony’s father painted a giant red “S” on his son’s bare chest. Together, they made a sign that Anthony held above his head while standing outside the stadium. It read, “One day I will play here!”
Looking back, Anthony said the sign was mostly his father’s idea.
“He just knew,” Anthony said, “that I was gonna be so special.”
Few shared that belief when Anthony was coming out of high school.
Starring for Turlock High, which was not known for producing high-level college prospects, wasn’t enough to draw interest beyond a few Division II schools. What was the recruiters’ biggest hang up?
“When they looked at him,” Anthony’s father said of someone who now stands 5-foot-10 and weighs 225 pounds, “he wasn’t the guy they wanted.”
Enrolling at Modesto Junior College, Anthony quickly rose from fourth-stringer to featured tailback during the 2021 season, topping 100 yards rushing three times and leading all California junior college players with 17 rushing touchdowns.
It was enough to earn him a scholarship offer at Kansas State.
Kansas State running back Anthony Frias II catches the ball during a game against Tulane on Sept. 17, 2022, in Manhattan, Kan.
(Colin E Braley / Associated Press)
Buried on the depth chart, he redshirted during his first season with the Wildcats. The next season, playing mostly on special teams, Anthony rarely got more than a carry or two in any game. As confident as he was in his ability, it was impossible to keep out the doubt.
He forged ahead, bolstered by his religious faith and conversations with the father who also happened to be his therapist and best friend, telling him not to worry, that things would eventually pay off.
“You know, we talk it through, I’m there for him all the time,” the elder Frias said. “I’ve been there through the tears, I’ve been there through the needing to hold my son, through the questioning, ‘What more can I do, dad?’ But he never faltered, never quit.”
He did seek a new football home.
Kansas State running back Anthony Frias II carries the ball while running into the Central Florida defense on Sept. 23, 2023, in Manhattan, Kan.
(Travis Heying / Associated Press)
Before Kansas State played its bowl game at the end of the 2023 season, Frias entered the transfer portal. Then he waited. And waited. Months went by without a new offer to play elsewhere.
“Nobody was coming, nobody was calling, there was a moment where we were just like, ‘Man, what are we going to do?’” Anthony’s father said. “We just prayed and had faith, like it’s going to work out, don’t worry.”
Sure enough, the new coaching staff at Arizona, which had pursued Anthony when it was at San José State, offered a spot as a preferred walk-on. That meant Anthony was going to have to take out student loans and pay for his own apartment in Tucson.
About a week before he was scheduled to move in, Anthony received a call from Marcus Thomas, UCLA’s running backs coach. How would you like to become a Bruin? Anthony told him that he’d need to be more than a preferred walk-on because otherwise he was just going to go to Arizona.
Less than five minutes later, UCLA offensive coordinator Eric Bieniemy called. The team agreed to cover his tuition and living expenses through name, image and likeness funds, even though he wouldn’t be on scholarship.
Done.
When Anthony giddily walked into the Rose Bowl for the first time as a player, during a practice before the 2024 season opener, he FaceTimed his parents, even going over to the seat where he and his father had watched that Rose Bowl game.
“That,” Anthony said, “was like the first full-circle moment that I had.”
Anthony’s first season as a Bruin largely mirrored his final season as a Wildcat. There was a lot of special teams work and only a few carries before an expanded role in the season finale against Fresno State.
Entering what’s likely to be his final college season, the redshirt senior earned a scholarship but no guarantee of emerging from the shadows.
As usual, his father wore his son’s No. 22 jersey last weekend when he settled into his seat in the family section inside the Rose Bowl, never imagining the name on the back would be one of the most talked about inside the stadium.
When Anthony took a handoff early in the second quarter, cutting one way and then the other before breaking a tackle on the way to a 55-yard touchdown run, his every movement was accompanied by his father’s voice in the stands.
“I’m like, ‘Oh, oh dang, oh dang!’ ” the elder Frias said. “And then I stand up, like, ‘Oh!’ and I see that [defender] chase him and I’m like, ‘Come on, Ant, turn it up!’ and then he beats the guy out to score the touchdown and I just went crazy.”
With fellow running backs Anthony Woods and Jaivian Thomas later sidelined by injuries, Anthony Frias got a few more carries. His last one, on the game’s final offensive play, captured the essence of someone who refused to quit.
Running away from one defender who tried to grab him by the shoulders, he spun away from another before finally getting dragged down at the five-yard line to set up the winning field goal on the next play.
“Just all the pain, all the suffering, all the longing, all the workouts, all the late nights, all the no-love, no-opportunity, that run signified the release of that,” his father said. “And when he came out of there, he let out his roar. He was like, ‘I won’t be denied any more.’ ”
In one game and only four carries, Anthony had piled up 97 rushing yards — exceeding the 91 yards he had tallied in the three previous seasons combined.
“He made the most of the situation,” UCLA interim coach Tim Skipper said. “He made critical plays — I mean, we’re not just talking he got some first down or something, he made critical, impact, explosive plays that changed that game and for that to happen for him, it couldn’t have happened to a better person.”
Later, emerging from the tunnel leading to the same spot outside the Rose Bowl where he had held that sign over his head almost a decade earlier, Anthony flashed a smile that his father had never seen before when he reached a jubilant throng of family and friends.
“It just was all the years of the grinding and the behind-the-scenes stuff that I’ve been going through,” Anthony said, “and you know, getting opportunities here and there doing different things and showing that I could do more.”
Everyone shouting his name, waiting their turn for a hug, the only thing missing was a climactic score and rolling credits.
Hawkshead in the Lake District is a picturesque village that feels as if it has been frozen in time, with cobbled streets, whitewashed cottages, and the absence of cars on many of its pretty lanes
Hawkshead is a picturesque place(Image: by Andrea Pucci via Getty Images)
There’s a stunning village tucked away in the Lake District that transports visitors straight back in time.
Hawkshead, situated in the heart of the National Park, provides a charming window into days gone by. With its cobblestone pathways, whitewashed homes, and vehicle-free lanes, the village appears completely untouched by modern life.
Beatrix Potter remains the village’s most celebrated resident and one of its greatest champions. The Tale of Peter Rabbit writer purchased vast expanses of countryside surrounding Hawkshead after developing feelings for solicitor William Heelis, whom she encountered in the village and subsequently wed, reports the Express.
Potter’s fierce dedication to preserving the countryside, as a distinguished member of the agricultural community, led her to collaborate with the National Trust to maintain the picturesque landscape in its natural state. She wasn’t the sole writer to discover creative fuel in Hawkshead.
“His experiences in and around Hawkshead, where William and Richard Wordsworth began attending school in 1779, would also provide the poet with a store of images and sensory experience that he would continue to draw on throughout his poetic career,” writes the Poetry Foundation.
It’s hardly surprising that Potter and the poet laureate drew such creative inspiration from Hawkshead, which boasts a modest population of just 500 residents.
Hawkshead’s car-free village centre, featuring its winding lanes and passages, remains completely protected from motor traffic. Nestled amidst breathtaking natural landscapes, Hawkshead serves as an ideal hub for outdoor enthusiasts.
With a plethora of hiking trails, cycling routes, and water activities in nearby lakes such as Windermere and Coniston, there’s something for everyone, from seasoned hill walkers to those who prefer a leisurely stroll. The local fells offer both accessible paths and more challenging hikes.
Among the popular walks are the sculpture trail through the neighbouring Grizedale Forest and the route to Tarn Hows, one of the most cherished beauty spots in the entire Lake District.
After working up an appetite, you can quench your thirst and satisfy your hunger at one of the village’s four quaint country pubs, including The Queen’s Head. This dog-friendly inn has been welcoming guests since the 17th century with its roaring fires, cask ales, award-winning food, and overnight accommodation.
On a sunny day, what could be more delightful than savouring an ice cream while meandering through the village’s charming streets or pausing for a cuppa and homemade cake at a traditional tearoom?
You can even take a piece of Hawkshead back home with you, in the form of jams and chutneys from Hawkshead Relish, or some Grasmere Gingerbread. The renowned bakery has its only shop outside of Grasmere in the village.
The tranquil pace, picturesque scenery, and rows of unaltered, listed houses in Hawkshead have made it a firm favourite among visitors.
Local resident Ruth, writing for Lakeland Hideaways, describes the charm of her town: “The higgledy-piggledy cobbled streets lead you to village shops, bakeries, cafes and boutiques. Cars are banned from the village which makes this a particularly nice place to wander about and soak up the Cumbrian culture”.
She proudly adds, “Our village has been described as the ‘prettiest village in the Lake District’.”
Long-time visitor Clive Wheat shares his fond memories: “When I think of the Lakes I think of Hawkshead. I have been visiting this village for over forty-five years and even stayed here on our honeymoon. It’s always a pleasure to revisit this wonderful Lake District village.”
In its guide to the town, Choose Where paints a nostalgic picture: “Hawkshead feels like a step back into a quieter, more romantic version of England.”
They continue, “Hawkshead is worth visiting for its unspoilt character, literary heritage, and position as a gateway to some of the Lake District’s loveliest countryside. Unlike some Lake District towns that have been heavily modernised, Hawkshead retains its medieval street plan and historic charm, with car-free lanes winding past ancient buildings.”
Nestled between Coniston and Windermere, the village centre is car-free, but there is a large pay-and-display car park on the outskirts. Public transport options, including the 505 Stagecoach bus service, connect Hawkshead with nearby towns like Ambleside, Coniston, and Windermere.
“I’m in a huge, massive town I don’t really know,” he says, “and I’m looking for the movie district. And inevitably all the theaters are closed down. They’re all closed down. That’s what the dream is.”
I’m visiting Carpenter at his longtime production house in Hollywood on one of L.A.’s unjustly sunny October afternoons. A vintage “Halloween” pinball machine and a life-size Nosferatu hover near his easy chair. I tell him I don’t think Freud would have too much trouble interpreting that particular dream.
“No, I know,” he says, laughing. “I don’t have too much trouble with that either.”
Nonetheless, it truly haunts him — “and it has haunted me over the years for many dreams in a row,” he continues. “I’m either with family or a group, and I go off to do something and I get completely lost. [Freud] wouldn’t have too much trouble figuring that out either. I mean, none of this is very mysterious.”
Carpenter is a gruff but approachable 77 these days, his career as a film director receding in the rearview. The last feature he made was 2010’s “The Ward.” His unofficial retirement was partly chosen, partly imposed by a capricious industry. The great movie poster artist Drew Struzan died two days before I visited — Carpenter says he never met Struzan but loved his work, especially his striking painting for the director’s icy 1982 creature movie “The Thing” — and I note how that whole enterprise of selling a movie with a piece of handmade art is a lost one.
“The whole movie business that I knew, that I grew up with, is gone,” he replies. “All gone.”
John Carpenter with John Mulaney, appearing as a part of “Everybody’s in L.A.” at the Sunset Gower Studios in May 2024.
(Adam Rose / Netflix)
It hasn’t, thankfully, made him want to escape from L.A. He still lives here with his wife, Sandy King, who runs the graphic novel imprint Storm King Comics, which Carpenter contributes to. He gamely appeared on John Mulaney’s “Everybody’s in L.A.” series on Netflix and, earlier this year, the Los Angeles Film Critics Assn. gave him a Career Achievement Award — a belated lovefest for a veteran who was sidelined after “The Thing” flopped, cast out into indie darkness and was never personally nominated for an Oscar.
The thing that does keep Carpenter busy these days (other than watching Warriors basketball and playing videogames) is the thing that might have an even bigger cultural footprint than his movies: his music. With his adult son Cody and godson, Daniel Davies, Carpenter is once again performing live concerts of his film scores and instrumental albums in a run at downtown’s Belasco this weekend and next.
The synthy, hypnotic scores that became his signature in films like “Halloween” and “Escape from New York” not only outnumber his output as a director — he’s scored movies for several other filmmakers and recently made a handshake deal in public to score Bong Joon Ho’s next feature — but their influence and popularity are much more evident in 2025 than the style of his image-making.
From “Stranger Things” to “F1,” Carpenter’s minimalist palette of retro electronica combined with the groove-based, trancelike ethos of his music (which now includes four “Lost Themes” records) is the coin of the realm so many modern artists are chasing.
Very few composers today are trying to sound like John Williams; many of them want to sound like John Carpenter. The Kentucky-raised skeptic with the long white hair doesn’t believe me when I express this.
“Well, see, I must be stupid,” he says, “because I don’t get it.”
“The true evil in the world comes from people,” says Carpenter. “I know that nature’s pretty rough, but not like men.
(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)
Carpenter is quick to put himself down. He always says that he scored his own films because he was the only composer he could afford, and that he only used synths because they were cheap and he couldn’t properly write music for an orchestra. When I tell him that Daniel Wyman, the instrumentalist who helped program and execute the “Halloween” score in 1978, praised Carpenter’s innate knowledge of the “circle of fifths” and secondary dominants — bedrocks of Western musical theory that allowed Carpenter’s scores to keep the tension cooking — he huffs.
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Carpenter says, halfway between self-deprecation and something more rascally. “It all comes, probably, from the years I spent in our front room with my father and listening to classical music. I’m sure I’m just digging this s— out.”
Whether by osmosis or genetics or possibly black magic, Carpenter clearly absorbed his powers from his father, Dr. Howard Carpenter, a classically trained violinist and composer. Classical music filled the childhood home in Bowling Green and for young John it was all about “Bach, Bach and Bach. He’s my favorite. I just can’t get enough of Johann there.”
It makes sense. Bach’s music has a circular spell quality and the pipe organ, resounding with reverb in gargantuan cathedrals, was the original synthesizer.
“He’s the Rock of Ages of music,” says Carpenter, who particularly loves the fugue nicknamed “St. Anne” and the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. “Everybody would go back to Mozart or Beethoven. They are astonishing — Beethoven is especially astonishing — but they’re not my style. I don’t feel it like I do with Bach. I immediately got him.”
Carpenter was also a film score freak since Day 1. He cites the early electronic music in 1956’s “Forbidden Planet” and claims Bernard Herrmann and Dimitri Tiomkin as his two all-time favorites. Just listen, he says, to the way Tiomkin’s music transitions from the westerny fanfare under the Winchester Pictures logo to the swirling, menacing orchestral storm that accompanies “The Thing From Another World” title card in that 1951 sci-fi picture that Carpenter remixed as “The Thing.”
“The music is so weird, I cannot follow it,” he says. “But I love it.”
Yet Carpenter feels more personally indebted to rock ‘n’ roll: the Beatles, the Stones, the Doors. He wanted to be a rock star ever since he grew his hair long and bought a guitar in high school. He sang and performed R&B and psychedelic rock for sororities on the Western Kentucky campus as well as on a tour of the U.S. Army bases in Germany. He formed the rock trio Coupe de Villes with his buddies at USC and they made an album and played wrap parties.
He also kept soaking up contemporary influences, listening to Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London” while location scouting for “Halloween.” Peter Fonda later introduced Carpenter to Zevon and he wanted the director to adapt the song into a film that never happened (starring Fonda as the werewolf, but “this time he gets the girl,” Carpenter recalls). In the ’80s he blasted Metallica with his two boys and he still loves Devo.
It’s incredibly rare for a film director to score their own films, rarer still for one to spend decades on stage as a performing musician. The requisite personalities would seem diametrical.
“My dad was a performing musician, so it was just part of the family,” Carpenter says. However, until 2016, when Carpenter first toured with his music, he was consumed with stage fright. “I had an incident when I was in a play in high school,” he says. “I went up and I forgot my lines. Shame descended upon me and I had a tough time. I was scared all the time.”
The director credits his touring drummer, Scott Seiver, for helping him beat it.
“Your adrenaline carries you to another planet when that thing starts,” he sighs with pleasure. “You hear a wall of screaming people. It’s a big time.”
He pushes back against the idea that directors “hide behind the camera.”
“The pressure, that’s the biggest thing,” Carpenter says. “You put yourself under pressure from the studio, you’re carrying all this money, crew, you want to be on time.”
He remembers seeing some haggard making-of footage of himself in post-production on “Ghost of Mars” in 2001 and thinking: Oh my God, this guy is in trouble. “I had to stop,” he says. “I can’t do this to myself anymore. I can’t take this kind of stress — it’ll kill you, as it has so many other directors. The music came along and it’s from God. It’s a blessing.”
John Carpenter is grateful but he doesn’t believe in God. He believes that, when we die, “we just disperse — our energy disperses, and we return to what we were. We’re all stardust up there and the darkness created us, in a sense. So that’s what we have to make peace with. I point up to the infinite, the space between stars. But things stop when you die. Your heart stops, brain — everything stops. You get cold. Your energy dissipates and it just… ends. The End.”
This is not exactly a peaceful thought for him.
“I mean, I don’t want to die,” he adds. “I’m not looking forward to that. But what can you do? I can’t control it. But that’s what I believe and I’m alone in it. I can’t put that on anybody else. Everybody has their own beliefs, their own gods, their own afterlife.”
He describes himself as a “long-term optimist but a short-term pessimist.”
“I have hope,” he says, “put it that way.” Yet he looks around and sees a lot of evil.
“The true evil in the world comes from people,” says Carpenter, who has long used cinematic allegories to skewer capitalist pigs and bloodthirsty governments. “I know that nature’s pretty rough, but not like men. You see pictures of lions taking down their prey and you see the face of the prey and you say: ‘Oh, man.’ Humans do things like that and enjoy it. Or they do things like that for power or pleasure. Humans are evil but they’re capable of massive good — and they’re capable of the greatest art form we have: music.”
The greatest?
“You don’t have to talk about it. You just sit and listen to it. It’s not my favorite,” he clarifies, alluding to his first love, cinema — “but it’s the one that transcends centuries.”
Music has always been kinder to him than the movie business. That business recently reared its ugly head when A24 tossed his completed score for “Death of a Unicorn.” (At least he owns the rights and will be putting it out sometime soon.) In addition to the high he gets from playing live, he is currently working on a heavy metal concept album complete with dialogue. It’s called “Cathedral” and he’ll be playing some of it at the Belasco.
It’s essentially a movie in music form, based on a dream Carpenter had. Though not one he finds scary. What scares Carpenter, it seems, is not being in control.
That happened to him in the movie world, it’s happening more and more as what he calls the “frailties of age” mount and it happens in that nightmare about getting lost in a big city and not finding any theaters.
“But I can’t do anything about it,” he says. “What can I do? See, the only thing I can do is what I can control: music. And watching basketball.”
If you watched 54 Ultra’s music video for “Upside Down” and came away thinking it was a relic from 1980s music programs like “Solid Gold” or “Night Tracks” — you’d be forgiven for making the assumption.
Aside from the 25-year-old’s vintage wardrobe, hairstyle, and ‘stache that harks to that decade, the song itself — a silky, boppy ballad that channels the energy of groups like the Chi-Lites or solo acts like Johnnie Taylor — sounds and feels ripped from the era in a manner that’s hard to faithfully re-create these days.
That old-school vibe isn’t exactly how 54 Ultra started off when he began putting out solo music three years ago, but it’s what he’s settled into nowadays. The artist, whose real name is JohnAnthony Rodríguez (and yes, his name is supposed to be written together), hails from New Jersey and is of Puerto Rican and Dominican descent.
The name he settled on, 54 Ultra, came by way of uniting Frank Ocean’s 2011 album “Nostalgia, Ultra” and the historic nightclub Studio 54. It was sometime between 2019 and 2020 that he interned at a few different recording studios, songwriting in his spare time with the intention of writing and producing music for others.
“I remember I was trying to find a way to make a living out of music and introduce myself to other artists,” he says over the phone, recalling all the demos he had recorded and presented to artists he’d cross paths with.
“People would be like ‘Who’s singing this? Who demo’ed this?’ And I’d say ‘It was me.’ And then they’d say, ‘You keep it.’ After that [happened] a couple of times I realized that I might as well put it out by myself.”
His first solo singles, like the high-energy “What Do I Know (Call Me Baby)” and “Sierra,” were firmly rooted in the indie rock family tree. It wasn’t until more recently, first with “Where Are You” and later “Heaven Knows,” that Rodríguez began to explore a more retro and soulful approach.
The latter track made an appearance in a 2024 “rhythm and soul” playlist curated by Mistah Cee, an Australian DJ and music selector, who included the song between Bobby Caldwell’s “My Flame” and Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Devotion.” The segues between tracks are seamless, in no small part due to Rodríguez’s immaculate production and fealty to the tempo of the times. His was the only contemporary track on the playlist, but it fooled many who eventually caught on to the rest of his work.
“On YouTube, I remember that was a nice boost, because people would comment, ‘Who came from Mistah Cee?’ Or, ‘Who thought this was an oldie?’ or whatnot,” he says.
To date, it’s not only Mistah Cee’s most viewed playlist by a wide margin (5.6 million and counting) but also 54 Ultra’s most-streamed song on Spotify with 27 million. “That was a very organic wave of things happening, and I’m very grateful for that also because I didn’t expect [it] at all,” says Rodríguez.
Latin soul, of the kind that recalls the doo-wop and boogaloo era of the 1950s and ‘60s, has seen a resurgence in the past few years. Artists like Chicano Batman, Thee Sinseers, Los Yesterdays and the Altons, as well as solo acts like Jason Joshua and Adrian Quesada, have made inroads with listeners and on the radio. Rodríguez is enthusiastic about this opportunity to show different facets of Latin culture and music through this genre.
“I just feel like I’m grateful to be a part of that family, or that idea that people relate all the music together and being a part of that scene is pretty nice,” he says.
Despite his Gen Z status, he notably lacks the “smartphone face” that’s rampant among pop artists and celebrities — and is partial to dressing in an anachronistic way, which he pulls off with gusto. It might be easy to assume his regular getup is a result of wanting to match the music, but Rodriguez insists he was already dressing that way much before he ever considered dabbling in soul. There is a kind of freedom he associates with the wardrobe of that time.
“[The clothes] were never a costume or a gimmick,” he says. “Whether I did music or not, I enjoyed how it fits because that [period] just has the best clothes. I think that was peak menswear. No one cared about any type of gender assignment with clothing; everybody wore what they wanted, and all the measurements were the same … it seemed like everybody had fun back then. They weren’t worried so much about what people thought.”
“[The clothes] were never a costume or a gimmick,” says 54 Ultra of his vintage style.
(Max Tardio)
He shouts out Blood Orange, a.k.a. artist-composer Dev Hynes, as a major inspiration for him. “That’s my favorite guy,” he says. But at the same time, he offers an eclectic list of artists whose music lights fires for his own output; Brazilian musicians like Jorge Ben Jor, Lô Borges and Evinha have made his rotation, along with some moody ‘80s bands like the Smiths, the Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees.
“And Prefab Sprout,” he adds excitedly. “That’s my jam. That stuff’s crazy.”
His reputation has grown this past year, putting him in rooms he never expected to be invited to. Earlier this year he found himself producing the song “All I Can Say” for Kali Uchis, off her 2025 album, “Sincerely,” and recently opened for her during a concert stop in San José.
Earlier this month, he kicked off a world tour promoting his latest EP, “First Works,” that will take him from D.C. and Brooklyn to London and Paris. The schedule includes multiple stops in California, including two in Los Angeles: Oct. 26 at the Roxy Theatre and Oct. 28 at the Echoplex.
For Rodríguez, a tour like this is the culmination of everything he’s worked toward in his admittedly still nascent but steadily growing career. He confirms that he’s been chipping away at a debut LP, which will brandish a more “fast and punchy” rock sound that recall his days playing basement shows.
“Anytime anybody asked me what I wanted to do, I would say: ‘I want to perform anywhere I can and for anybody, wherever that may be.’ I’ve always wanted things to resonate, and I’ve always wanted it to make sense.”
For much of the year, the Dodgers’ starting rotation felt broken.
In large part, because the pitcher acquired to be its anchor was struggling to find himself.
It’s easy to forget now, with Blake Snell in the midst of a historic October performance that has helped lead the Dodgers back to the World Series. But for most of his debut season in Los Angeles, the two-time Cy Young Award winner and $182 million offseason signing was grappling with frustration, enduring what he described recently as “the hardest year of my career.”
First, there was well-documented early adversity: A shoulder problem that Snell quietly pitched through in two underwhelming starts at the beginning of the campaign, before sidelining him on the injured list for the next four months.
Then, there was an ordeal Snell detailed last week for the first time: In late August, on the same day his wife Haeley gave birth to the couple’s second child, Snell got so sick in the hospital that he fainted, was taken to the emergency room, and kept overnight hooked up to IV fluids.
“This is awful,” he thought to himself then.
Which now, has made his dominant postseason — including an 0.86 ERA in his first three playoff outings, and a scheduled Game 1 start in the World Series on Friday night — all the more gratifying.
“It’s been a lot,” Snell told The Times last week, while reflecting on a difficult season now primed for a triumphant final act. “But that’s what this is all about. Find the best in yourself. Fight through all the doubt, the bull—. And figure it out.”
Early in the year, that group dealt with its own rash of injuries, losing Snell, Tyler Glasnow, Roki Sasaki and others in a harrowing flashback to 2024.
This time, most of their top arms returned healthy. But up until six weeks ago, they still faced genuine questions for the fall.
At that point, Yoshinobu Yamamoto was mired in an up-and-down stretch following his All-Star selection in the first half of the year, raising worries he could be tiring en route to making a career-high 30 starts.
Glasnow had returned from his early-season shoulder problem, but grinded through six starts from July 29 to Aug. 30 with an ERA above 4.00.
And while Shohei Ohtani was pitching well, he was also continuing to build up in his return from a second career Tommy John surgery.
Suddenly, it all left Snell to be the linchpin for the pitching staff — thrusting him to the center of the late-season resurgence that was soon to come.
“With every great starting staff, you got to have that anchor,” manager Dave Roberts said. “Having him get back to pitch the way he did, sort of raised the bar for everyone.”
This past winter, the Dodgers made Snell their top priority for a reason.
They looked at the patchwork rotation that nearly derailed their 2024 World Series run, and decided the year’s staff needed another star to build around.
Yamamoto, Glasnow and Ohtani already provided a well-established foundation. Clayton Kershaw, Emmet Sheehan, Tony Gonsolin and Dustin May offered plenty of depth to withstand a 162-game marathon.
What was missing, however, was another bona fide ace; the kind capable of swinging postseason series and transforming October fortunes. In Snell, they saw such potential. His presence, they hoped, would complete their title-defense blueprint.
“As we were talking about ways that we could put ourselves in the best position to win a World Series in 2025,” president of baseball operations Andrew Friedman said the day Snell was introduced by the club, “all conversations kept coming back to Blake.”
For most of the year, of course, Snell’s impact was limited. After his two injury-hampered starts at the beginning of the season, he remained out of action until after the trade deadline.
During that time, the Dodgers slow-played Snell’s recovery — putting him through a meticulous process (similar to their handling of Glasnow and Ohtani) that was designed to have him ready for the stretch run of the season, and hopefully peaking in time for the start of the playoffs.
Upon his initial return in early August, Snell seemed to be on track, with the left-hander posting a sub-2.00 ERA in his first four outings off the IL.
Then, however, came another unforeseen setback, after he rushed home from an Aug. 22 outing in San Diego for the birth of his child.
By the time Snell’s wife went into labor later that week, the 32-year-old arrived at the hospital feeling “extremely sick,” he recounted last week. At one point, as he got up from a couch to go hold his newly born baby, he said he passed out and fainted right there in the room.
Snell was taken to the emergency room and stayed there overnight, getting two IVs to combat an unspecified illness undoubtedly compounded by exhaustion.
“I couldn’t really stand,” he said. “I just felt awful.”
And yet, a few days later, there Snell was back atop the Dodger Stadium mound; making sure that, after his extended absence earlier in the campaign, he wouldn’t miss another start.
“That’s what I signed up to do,” Snell said. “When I pitch, I just forget about it. I don’t allow a lot of excuses.”
Snell’s illness was unknown at the time, but the physical toll it had taken quickly became obvious. His velocity was noticeably down in a three-run, 5 ⅓ innings start on Aug. 29 against the Arizona Diamondbacks. Six days later, he toiled again during a “frustrating” outing in Pittsburgh, yielding a season-high nine hits and five runs to the lowly Pirates.
Pushing through those games, though, gave Snell a key to hone in on for the rest of the season. “If this is who you are today, figure it out,” he told himself. And finally, with no more disruptions to his routine, improvement flowed quickly.
Dodgers pitcher Blake Snell puts his arm around catcher Ben Rortvedt as they walk back to the dugout together on Sept. 17.
Snell said after that outing, which was followed by one more six-inning, one-run start in his regular-season finale in Arizona: “[I’m] starting to be able to play catch with more intent and work on stuff … Coming through in the push to the postseason, and being able to make it, that’s what the whole season is for.”
The old adage in baseball is that hitting can be contagious.
In the case of this year’s Dodgers, starting pitching evidently can be, too.
As Snell got hot in September, so did the rest of the team’s resurgent rotation. Yamamoto rediscovered his early-season form, winning National League pitcher of the month with an immaculate 0.67 ERA in four starts. Glasnow finished the month with a 2.49 mark, after finally refining the mechanics of his throw. Ohtani, meanwhile, got stretched out to six innings, maintaining his two-way dominance over repeated full-length appearances.
The bar had been raised, with the constant cycle of gems continuing to push it a little bit higher.
The pitchers rode off the momentum and relished in their shared success; to the point that Roberts joked they almost seemed to be competing to outdo one another.
“I think we’re all good,” Glasnow said. “So it was just a matter of time until all of us did good at the same time.”
But in these playoffs, no one has been more lethal than Snell. In his 21 innings so far, he has thrown a scoreless frame in all but one.
Dodgers pitcher Blake Snell walks off the mound after striking out the last batter of the second inning of Game 2 of the NLDS against the Philadelphia Phillies.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
He was good in his first start, producing seven innings of two-run ball against the Cincinnati Reds in the wild-card round. He was superb in the next, going six scoreless against the Phillies in a hostile road environment.
His masterpiece, however, came in Game 1 of the NL Championship Series, when he tossed eight scoreless innings, struck out 10 batters, and ruthlessly toyed with a Milwaukee Brewers lineup helpless to adjust to his manipulative changeup.
“We’ve all known this: Blake, when he’s right, is the best pitcher in the game,” Kershaw, his future Hall of Fame teammate, said afterward. “To have a guy that can do that, set the tone, and just have a guy that you can count on like that, it’s huge.”
For his part, Snell continues to insist that “I feel like I could be way better.” After his repeated setbacks earlier this year, he claims that, “even now, I’m still battling.”
The numbers, of course, tell a different story. In the live-ball era (since 1920), only three other pitchers with 20 or more innings in a postseason had at least 20 strikeouts and a sub-1.00 ERA (Sandy Koufax in 1965, John Smoltz in 1996 and Justin Verlander in 2013).
On Friday night, Snell will be on the bump once again, trying to continue a dazzling streak for himself and his rotation.
What once felt like the hardest year of his career, is now four wins away from being the most fulfilling.
“It’s what you have to go through to win a World Series,” he said. “You can find an excuse, or you can find a way to figure it out.”
In his new role as a special contributor to NBC’s coverage of the NBA — which returned to the network Tuesday night after a 23-year absence — Jordan was interviewed by Mike Tirico in a segment called “MJ: Insights to Excellence.”
In it, the six-time NBA champion who is still the league’s all-time leader in points per game made a somewhat startling admission.
“I haven’t picked up a ball in years,” Jordan said.
Pressed on the matter by a stunned Tirico, Jordan said he was last persuaded to shoot a ball when he was renting a house during the Ryder Cup (he did not specify that it was the most recent edition of biennial event that took place last month in Farmingdale, N.Y.).
The house had a basketball court, and the home owner wanted his grandchildren to see the legendary player in action. Jordan agreed to attempt one free throw.
“When I stepped up to shoot your free throw, it’s the most nervous I’ve been in years,” Jordan said. “The reason being is those kids heard the stories of the parents about what I did 30 years ago. So the expectation is 30 years prior, and I haven’t touched the basketball.”
But this is Air Jordan we’re talking about.
He swished it, right?
Right???
“Absolutely,” Jordan said. “The most gratifying event that made my whole week is that is that I was able to please that kid, not knowing if I could.”
Jordan retired as a player for the third and final time in 2003. Since then, he has become a highly successful businessman — he was the controlling owner of the Charlotte Bobcats/Hornets from 2010-2023 (he still retains a minority ownership in the team) and is the controlling owner of the NASCAR Cup Series team 23XI Racing — with a net worth of close to $4 billion.
In addition to his business pursuits, Jordan told Tirico, he strives to spend as much time as possible with his family.
“You never really know when you in the prime of your career how much time you really do not have for family,” Jordan said. “That’s what I have time to do now. I mean, the most valuable asset I have is time. So that’s probably why you don’t see enough of me, because that time I’m trying to spend with family members and things that I’ve been missing out on for such a long time.”
All that said, however, Jordan admits he still loves basketball and does wish he could be out there on the court playing at his peak.
“In all honesty, I wish I could take a magic pill, put on shorts and go out and play the game of basketball today,” Jordan said. “Because that’s who I am. That type of competition, that type of competitiveness is what I live for, and I miss it. I miss that aspect of playing the game of basketball, being able to challenge myself against what people see as great basketball.
“But it’s better for me to be sitting here talking to you, as opposed to popping my Achilles and I’m in a wheelchair for a while, but it’s nice to be able to share the things that can still make the game great going forward.”
If this World Series is going to turn into a food fight about the economics of baseball, Dave Roberts tossed the first meatball.
The Dodgers had just been presented with the National League Championship trophy. Roberts, the Dodgers’ manager, had something to say to a sellout crowd at Dodger Stadium, and to an audience watching on national television.
“They said the Dodgers are ruining baseball,” Roberts hollered. “Let’s get four more wins and really ruin baseball.”
The Dodgers had just vanquished the Milwaukee Brewers, a team that did everything right, with four starting pitchers whose contracts total $1.35 billion.
The Brewers led the major leagues in victories this year. They have made the playoffs seven times in the past eight years, and yet their previous manager and general manager fled for big cities, in the hope of applying small-market smarts to teams with large-market resources.
The Dodgers will spend half a billion dollars on player payroll and luxury tax payments this year, a figure that the Brewers and other small-market teams might never spend in this lifetime, or the next one.
The Brewers will make about $35 million in local television rights this year. The Dodgers make 10 times that much — and they’ll make more than $500 million per year by the end of their SportsNet LA contract in 2038.
Is revenue disparity a problem for the sport?
The owners say yes. They are expected to push for a salary cap in next year’s collective bargaining negotiations. A cap is anathema to the players’ union. At the All-Star Game, union executive director Tony Clark called a cap “institutionalized collusion.”
The union could say, yes, revenue disparity is the big issue and propose something besides a cap.
But that is not what the union is saying. The union does not agree that revenue disparity is the issue, at least to the extent that the players should participate in solving it. Put another way: Tarik Skubal should not get less than market value in free agency to appease the owner of the Pittsburgh Pirates.
For the most part, the union believes the owners should resolve the issue among themselves.
And the fundamental difference might be this: To most of the owners, the Dodgers’ spending is the big problem, or at least the symptom of a big problem. This was Commissioner Rob Manfred at the owners’ meetings last February: “Do people perceive that the playing field is balanced and fair and/or do people believe that money dictates who wins?”
To the union, the problem is not one of perception. The union believes the problem is that the Dodgers’ spending exposes other owners who would love a salary cap that would give them cover — not to mention cost certainty that could increase profits and franchise values.
“Players across the league show up every day ready to compete and ready to win,” Clark told The Times. “Excuses aren’t tolerated between the lines, and they shouldn’t be accepted outside them either.
“When decision-makers off the field mirror the competitive drive exhibited on it, everybody wins and baseball’s future is limitless. Fans and players alike deserve — and should demand — far more accountability from those to whom much is given.”
Tony Clark, executive director of the MLB Players’ Assn., speaks during a news conference in New York in March 2022.
(Richard Drew / Associated Press)
In its annual estimates, Forbes had the Dodgers’ revenue last season at a league-leading $752 million and the Pirates’ revenue at $326 million. The Pirates turned a profit of $47 million and the Dodgers turned a profit of $21 million, according to those estimates.
The Pirates — and other small-market teams — make more than $100 million each year in their equal split of league revenue (national and international broadcast rights, for instance, and merchandising and licensing) and revenue shared by the Dodgers and other large-market teams. That means the Pirates can cover their player payroll before selling a single ticket, beer, or Primanti sandwich stuffed with meat, cheese and fries.
“The current system is designed so larger markets share massive amounts of revenue with smaller markets to help level the playing field,” Clark said. “Small-market teams have other built-in advantages, and we’ve proposed more in bargaining — and will again.”
The union would be delighted to get a salary floor — that is, a minimum team payroll. The owners would do that if the union agreed to a maximum team payroll — that is, a salary cap.
Whether the owners believe recent and potential future changes — among them a draft lottery, more favorable draft-pick compensation for small-market teams losing free agents, providing additional draft picks for teams that promote prospects sooner and for small-market teams that win — can begin to mitigate revenue disparity is uncertain. Whether the players can condition revenue sharing on team progress also is uncertain.
And, perhaps most critically to owners, the collapse of the cable ecosystem means many teams have lost local television revenue that might not ever bounce completely back, even if Manfred can deliver on his proposed “all teams, all the time, in one place” service.
Whatever the issues might be, fans are not throwing up their hands and walking away. The league sold more tickets this year than in any year since 2017. Almost every week brought an announcement from ESPN, Fox or TNT about a ratings increase, and the league did not complain about the outstanding ratings the Dodgers and New York Yankees attracted in last year’s World Series.
Dodgers fans celebrate after Shohei Ohtani hits the second of his three home runs in Game 4 of the NLCS against the Brewers at Dodger Stadium on Oct. 17.
(Eric Thayer/Los Angeles Times)
Payroll is under the control of an owner. Market size is not.
Of the top 15 teams in market size, six made the playoffs. Of the bottom 15 teams in market size, six made the playoffs.
Is that a reasonable exhibition of competitive balance? Would the Dodgers winning the World Series in back-to-back years define competitive imbalance, even if they would become the first team in 25 years to repeat? The only other team currently dedicated to spending like the Dodgers — the New York Mets — has not won the World Series in 39 years.
The Kansas City Chiefs have played in the Super Bowl five times in six years, winning three times. That is because they have Patrick Mahomes, not because the NFL has a salary cap.
In the past three years, the Dodgers are the only team to appear in the final four twice — more diversity than in the final four in the NFL, NBA or NHL, each of which has a salary cap.
The league used to happily distribute information like that. After the winter chants about the Dodgers ruining baseball, the league started talking about how no small-market team had won the World Series in 10 years.
Payroll itself should not define competitive balance, but that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy if an owner decides competing with the Dodgers would be no less futile by spending another $25 million on players.
It is premature to count heads now. However, at this point, you wonder whether any team besides the Dodgers and Mets would lobby against the league pursuing a salary cap in negotiations. If the owners really want a salary cap, they need to be prepared to do what the NHL did to get one: shut down the league for an entire season.
We should be talking about the magic of Shohei Ohtani and Mookie Betts. Instead, on its grandest stage, the talk around baseball will be all about whether its most popular team is ruining the game to the point of depriving us of it come 2027. Well done, everyone.
