A third “Gremlins” movie is officially in the works and eyeing a theatrical release ahead of the 2027 holiday season, Warner Bros. Discovery President and Chief Executive David Zaslav announced Thursday during the company’s third-quarter earnings call. The upcoming project is set to hit theaters Nov. 19, 2027, and will reunite original “Gremlins” scribe Chris Columbus with Steven Spielberg’s Amblin Entertainment, which produced the first two “Gremlins” films.
Columbus will direct and produce the film and Spielberg returns as an executive producer, Zaslav said. The new “Gremlins” film will be franchise’s first movie in more than 30 years. Columbus will write the script with “Final Destination Bloodlines” directing duo Zach Lipovsky and Adam B. Stein.
Oscar nominee Columbus introduced audiences to the mysterious and maniacal ways of the Mogwai — furry, wide-eyed bipeds with giant ears — with the release of “Gremlins” in 1984. The first film, directed by Joe Dante, established the three nonnegotiables of Mogwai care: Don’t get them wet, don’t feed them after midnight and don’t expose them to bright light. Both the 1984 release and its 1990 sequel, also directed by Dante but written by Charles S. Haas, tracks the havoc that arises when the first two rules are ignored, from unstoppable spawning to unruly mutation into Gremlins.
The “Gremlins” films starred Zach Galligan, Phoebe Cates, Howie Mandel as the voice of two-toned Mogwai Gizmo and Frank Welker as the voices of the films’ antagonists.
Though it has been decades since the last “Gremlins” movie hit the big screen, the furballs got their own spotlight in the 2023 animated prequel TV series “Gremlins: Secrets of the Mogwai.”
The series, from showrunner and executive producer Tze Chun, took a deep look into its namesake creatures’ origins, briefly hinted at in the first film by shopkeeper Mr. Wing (played by the Chinese American actor Keye Luke). “Secrets of the Mogwai” zooms in on Mr. Wing’s relationship with Gizmo, who became a through line in the “Gremlins” movies.
Series executive producer Brendan Hay told The Times in 2023 that setting “Secrets of the Mogwai” in 1920s China was “a chance to own the somewhat throwaway origin that the Mogwai have in the films.”
“In the films, it’s clear that they’re of Chinese origin, but it’s not that developed,” Hay said. “This is our chance to tell that story and really embrace it [by] actually try[ing] to find a place for Mogwai that fits into Chinese mythology, or at least builds off of existing Chinese mythology, and have fun in that world.”
Galligan hinted this summer that a new “Gremlins” movie was in the works while appearing at Comic-Con Manchester. According to a TikTok, the actor said “they’ve come up with a script” and that Warner Bros. was “incredibly interested in doing it, apparently it’s waiting upon Mr. Spielberg to read it and approve it.”
At her players’ request, Cori Close showed up inside Pauley Pavilion five hours before tipoff. The UCLA women’s basketball coach was joined by her assistants and managers for pregame shooting at 6:30 a.m., so many players filling the court that the sessions had to be staggered.
Three days after a lackluster showing in their season opener, the Bruins felt they had something to prove in their first game at home. The additional work before facing UC Santa Barbara on Thursday reflected their commitment.
“I mean, I never have to coach this team’s work ethic,” Close said. “That is never in question. And so that’s a really fun place to be in.”
The day’s biggest gratification would come later, the third-ranked Bruins resembling an All-Star team at times during an 87-50 rout of the Gauchos that showed glimpses of the firepower they hope to fully unleash by season’s end.
Forward Gabriela Jaquez revealed one of the best long-range shooting displays of her career, making four of seven three-pointers on the way to 21 points. Point guard Kiki Rice was a constant playmaker in her return to the starting lineup while scoring 20 points, grabbing eight rebounds and distributing three assists. Shooting guard Gianna Kneepkens added another dimension to the offense with four more three-pointers and 20 points.
It was the first time the Bruins had three players score 20 or more points since four of them did it against Bellarmine in November 2023.
“There’s so many weapons that I feel like it’s hard for the defense to choose what to take away,” Kneepkens said, “so I think really what makes this team special is that on any night it could be someone’s night, so that’s a really hard thing to scout.”
The challenge for the Bruins (2-0) could be to maximize all that talent.
Close said Rice had sent her an Oklahoma City Thunder news conference in which the team talked about building rhythm with its offense by best utilizing the players who were hot on any given night.
“We’re not quite there yet,” Close said. “We’re not playing with great rhythm. … I think we just haven’t totally found that flow yet.”
UCLA guard Kiki Rice drives to the basket past UC Santa Barbara guard Zoe Shaw during the second half Thursday.
(Kyusung Gong / Associated Press)
Part of that could be pinned on Rice still rounding into form from a shoulder injury and fellow point guard Charlisse Leger-Walker (eight points, seven assists, three steals) playing in only her second game since returning from a lengthy injury layoff.
The Bruins were also without Sienna Betts (lower leg) and Timea Gardiner (knee) for a second consecutive game. Close said there remained no timetable for Betts’ return even as she continued to progress.
But Close said she liked the way her players responded after describing them as “flat all the way around” in their opener, a 24-point victory over San Diego State.
“The film session after that was not fun. Practice was not fun,” Close said. “And their willingness to say, ‘This is what we need. We need to be challenged. We didn’t meet the standard’ — I’m really impressed with their willingness to do that.”
After some lackadaisical UCLA defense in the first quarter, there was a stretch in the second quarter in which the Bruins made it difficult just to get the ball past halfcourt.
Jaquez stuck out a hand, tipping an outlet pass to herself before going in for a driving layup in which she was fouled. On the Gauchos’ next possession, Leger-Walker came up with another steal, leading to a Rice layup.
It wasn’t long before Jaquez and teammate Lauren Betts (12 points, seven rebounds, six assists) used a double team along the sideline to force another turnover.
Closing the half on a 19-2 run, the Bruins surged into a 51-26 lead. UCLA also benefited from an oddity midway through the second quarter when the Gauchos (1-1) were assessed a technical foul for having a player wearing a jersey number that didn’t correspond with the scorebook.
For UCLA, the biggest challenge might have been scheduling the game.
Close said she’s struggled to get teams to agree to play the Bruins after their Final Four run, calling every school in the state from San Luis Obispo to San Diego. Most of UCLA’s marquee nonconference games, starting with a showdown against Oklahoma on Monday in Sacramento, will be at neutral sites.
“They kept saying it’s the Lauren Betts factor and I was like, ‘No, it’s the you’re scared factor. Come on,’ ” Close said. “I actually really lose respect for people who aren’t willing to step up and play hard people.”
The Gauchos eagerly complied in part because they were Close’s alma mater and the spot where she coached for nine years.
“Thank you to them for stepping up and coming into Pauley,” Close said, “and wanting to get better at their craft and growing the game.”
For the Gauchos, given the way things went, they might be owed a Christmas card as well.
Early to rise, the Bruins also put an early end to any upset hopes.
I knew I’d chosen the right spot to hike as I drove past the yellow-leaved bigleaf maple trees near the trailhead.
I was in search of fall foliage near Los Angeles, and after a bit of research, I’d taken a chance by heading over to Big Santa Anita Canyon in Angeles National Forest to see if I’d get lucky.
I am now here to help you, hopefully, find the same good fortune on your autumnal adventures.
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The idea that L.A. and its surrounding mountains feature trees with fall foliage can be hard to grasp for those who’ve been misled into believing that 1) L.A. is a desert (it’s not), and 2) The area doesn’t have seasons (it does!).
“L.A. was once wetlands fed by the cobweb streams and marshes of the L.A. River. It had oak woodlands and grassland valleys,” wrote Times columnist Patt Morrison. “Then, at least a thousand years ago, Native Americans were burning land to flush game and to make more oak trees grow to make more acorns to eat. It’s the last hundred-plus years that made the native landscape unrecognizable.”
Thankfully, it remains possible to observe the seasonal changes of our native trees in the wild lands around L.A. County. Below, you’ll find three hikes where you’ll see some level of fall foliage.
The leave of a bigleaf maple changing from bright green to brilliant yellow in Big Santa Anita Canyon in Angeles National Forest.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
Before I dive into those hikes, though, I wanted to teach you how to find autumnal colors near you. My hope is that you can use this information to find off-the-beaten paths near you where the loudest thing is the pop of fall colors (rather than cursed Bluetooth speakers). Here’s how your local outdoors reporter finds hikes with fall color.
Know your native plants: There are multiple native trees, shrubs and plants that evolve as the weather cools to produce orange, red, yellow and copper colors. Those include California sycamores (orange-yellow leaves), bigleaf maple (bright yellow), Southern California black walnut (yellow), valley oak (orange, yellow, brown), poison oak (red), California buckwheat (rusty red) and more.
Find where the wild things grow: After identifying the native trees and plants that could (hopefully!) produce colorful leaves, you can log onto iNaturalist, a citizen science app and website, and search for them in a hiking area near you. For example, I searched bigleaf maple and noticed a few documented near the Lower Stunt High Trail. Might there be a bit of fall foliage there?
Look for water sources: Water makes for happy trees. It’s a near guarantee that if you head to one of our still-flowing local rivers or streams — like a hike along the 28(ish)-mile Gabrielino Trail where it runs parallel to the Arroyo Seco or West Fork of the San Gabriel River — you’ll find fall foliage. (This includes hiking from near NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab near Pasadena to the Brown Mountain Dam or from Red Box to the Valley Forge trail camp.)
Set your expectations: As the fine folks at California Fall Color point out, it’s hard to predict when fall colors will pop. It depends on several factors, including the amount of daytime sunlight, nighttime temperatures and annual rainfall. That said, if you visit a trail, and it’s still quite green, consider returning a week later to see what you find. Nature is, lucky for us, a perpetual surprise!
I hope you use this knowledge to find fall foliage close to you that’s off the beaten path. That said, the three spots below are worth considering too and require no homework as I’m here to do that for you too.
A hiker heads up the fire road at Big Santa Anita Canyon in Angeles National Forest.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
1. Winter Creek Trail at Big Santa Anita Canyon
Distance: 5.2-mile loop trail Elevation gain: About 1,230 feet Difficulty: Moderate Dogs allowed? Yes Accessible alternative:Chantry Flat Picnic Area for leaf peeping
Upon parking at the Chantry Flat parking area — which is admittedly a challenge on the weekend — you’ll have multiple hiking options to venture through Big Santa Anita Canyon. Note: If you forget to buy an Adventure Pass, you can usually snag one at the Adams Pack Station, which is open Tuesday through Sunday.
I chose to take the Winter Creek Trail because it leads you through dense vegetation, and I hoped this would increase my chances of noticing leaf changes. My dog, Maggie May, and I headed north down the fire road near the restrooms and then turned after about 900 feet onto the Upper Winter Creek trailhead. As we zigzagged along this single-track route down the hillside, I looked down into the canyon and quickly spotted pops of yellow — at least nine bigleaf maples changing with the season!
(Photos by Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
I passed California bay laurel, rubbing their leaves to smell their spicy, pungent aroma, and noticed a branch with exactly one yellow leaf. The tree was considering changing with the season. Rusty red buckwheat, red poison oak and yellowish beige California brickellbush also grew along the trail. Rather than doing the entire Winter Creek trail, Maggie and I were racing daylight and turned around where the trail meets back with the fire road for just under a 2-mile adventure. The moon was rising over a ridgeline of the San Gabriel Mountains as we left.
Hiker Christina Best pauses amid the fall foliage along the Icehouse Canyon Trail on a First Descents monthly meetup in the Angeles National Forest in 2019.
(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
2. Icehouse Canyon to Icehouse Saddle
Distance: 6.6 miles out-and-back, or 7 miles if looping around on Chapman Trail Elevation gain: About 2,600 feet Difficulty: Hard Dogs allowed? Yes Accessible alternative:San Antonio Falls Trail. It’s wide and mostly paved, but steep.
The Icehouse Canyon Trail to Icehouse Saddle is a pristine route that takes hikers past the crystal-clear creek and up to Icehouse Saddle, where you’ll be surrounded by pine forest and have sweeping views of the Antelope Valley and Mojave Desert.
You’ll pass bigleaf maple, incense cedar, canyon live oak and more. The parking lot, which you’ll need an Adventure Pass to use, often fills up by 8 a.m. on the weekend, so it’s best to arrive early or try to visit on a weekday.
The higher you climb, the more likely you’ll encounter snow this time of year. If you don’t plan to pack crampons, please turn around once you reach snow.
Western sycamore trees like these grow in the aptly named Sycamore Canyon in Point Mugu State Park.
(Al Seib / Los Angeles Times)
3. Sycamore Canyon Trail in Point Mugu State Park
Distance: About 6 miles Elevation gain: About 200 feet Difficulty: Easy Dogs allowed? No Accessible alternative: The trail is mostly wide and flat, making it easier to navigate.
The aptly named Sycamore Canyon Trail is a fire road hike that takes you through the lush Point Mugu State Park. You’ll immediately see the limbs of large sycamore trees stretching over and around the trail. If conditions are right, they should be among the trees featuring fall foliage.
The trail also features Southern California black walnut, black sage, the fragrant California sagebrush and several other aromatic delights. Regardless of what you see, it’s a treat to be among pristine coastal sage scrub and other native habitat. And if the mood strikes, the beach is nearby. That sounds like a true Southern California fall day.
One of a handful of introspective signs at Big Santa Anita Canyon.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
I hope you spot gorgeous fall colors on your adventures this weekend.
If you do, please feel free to reply to this email (if you’re a newsletter subscriber) with a humble brag with your photos. I love hearing from you!
3 things to do
A desert tortoise shuffles about the Desert Tortoise Research Natural Area in California City, CA.
(Irfan Khan/Los Angeles Times)
1. Celebrate desert tortoises in Palm Desert The Mojave Desert Land Trust will be on hand from 10 a.m. to noon Saturday at the Living Desert Zoo & Gardens in Palm Desert to celebrate Desert Tortoise Day. The organization will host tortoise-themed activities, including a scavenger hunt and a meet-and-greet with Mojave Maxine, a tortoise who lives at the zoo. Learn more at livingdesert.org.
2. Take trash out of wetlands near Marina and Playa del Rey Volunteers are needed from 9:30 a.m. to noon Saturday at both north and south Ballona Creek to pull trash from these important wetland habitats. Participants must wear close-toed shoes. Register for either location at ballonafriends.org.
3. Tend the land with new friends in L.A. Coyotl + Macehualli will host a volunteer day of weeding, planting and mulching from 9 a.m. to noon Saturday along a hillside in El Sereno. The exact coordinates will be provided to participants. Learn more at the group’s Instagram page.
The must-read
Adrian Boone, a Muir Woods National Monument Park Guide, teaches children about the forest at the Ross Preschool.
(Paul Kuroda / For The Times)
Park rangers are among government workers furloughed while the United States experiences its longest government shutdown. Times staff writer Jenny Gold wrote about how, in an effort to provide some income to these rangers, the San Francisco Bay Area-based Grasshopper Kids is paying out-of-work rangers to educate children at area schools. Riley Morris, who works as a seasonal interpretive ranger at Muir Woods, said they wondered whether the children sitting inside classrooms or school auditoriums would still be interested in learning about redwoods without the “magic” of sitting in a park among the towering giants. “But it’s just been so cool seeing that when all of that is taken out of the equation, these kids are still just so totally glued to like the information that I’m sharing with them,” Morris said. “You can just tell they’re almost vibrating with excitement.”
Happy adventuring,
P.S.
Do you have a nature lover on your holiday gift list? (Hi, Mom!) If so, check out this curated list of outdoors-themed gifts that Times staff writer Deborah Vankin and I wrote together for this year’s L.A. Times Holiday Gift Guide. I loved trying out the Six Moon Designs hiking umbrella, which I am eager to take on desert hikes this winter and spring. The Nomadix Bandana Towel is almost always either around my neck or in my pocket on every Wild hike. And the moment I finish writing this newsletter, I’m going to go find my North Face mules, which I also included on the list. They’re perfect for chilly evenings on the couch — or by a campfire. And as a bonus, read our list from last year’s Gift Guide, which doesn’t have a single repeated item. Boundless ideas for your boundless adventurers!
For more insider tips on Southern California’s beaches, trails and parks, check out past editions of The Wild. And to view this newsletter in your browser, click here.
One of the great conceits of California is its place on the cutting edge — of fashion, culture, technology, politics and other facets of the ways we live and thrive.
Not so with Proposition 50.
The redistricting measure, which passed resoundingly Tuesday, doesn’t break any ground, chart a fresh course or shed any light on a better pathway forward.
It is, to use a favorite word of California’s governor, merely the latest iteration of what has come to define today’s politics of fractiousness and division.
In fact, the redistricting measure and the partisan passions it stirred offer a perfect reflection of where we stand as a splintered country: Democrats overwhelming supported it. Republicans were overwhelmingly opposed.
And if Proposition 50 plays out as intended, it could make things worse, heightening the country’s polarization and increasing the animosity in Washington that is rotting our government and politics from the inside out.
You’re welcome.
The argument in favor of Proposition 50 — and it’s a strong one — is that California was merely responding to the scheming and underhanded actions of a rogue chief executive who desperately needs to be checked and balanced.
With GOP control of the House hanging by the merest of threads, Trump set out to boost his party’s prospects in the midterm election by browbeating Texas Republicans into redrawing the state’s congressional lines long before it was time. Trump’s hope next year is to gain as many as five of the state’s House seats.
And with that the redistricting battle was joined, as states across the country looked to rejigger their congressional boundaries to benefit one party or the other.
The upshot is that even more politicians now have the luxury of picking their voters, instead of the other way around, and if that doesn’t bother you maybe you’re not all that big a fan of representative democracy or the will of the people.
Was it necessary for Newsom, eyes fixed on the White House, to escalate the red-versus-blue battle? Did California have to jump in and be a part of the political race to the bottom? We won’t know until November 2026.
History and Trump’s sagging approval ratings — especially regarding the economy — suggest that Democrats are well positioned to gain at least the handful of seats needed to take control of the House, even without resorting to the machinations of Proposition 50.
There is, of course, no guarantee.
Gerrymandering aside, a pending Supreme Court decision that could gut the Voting Rights Act might deliver Republicans well over a dozen seats, greatly increasing the odds of the GOP maintaining power.
What is certain is that Proposition 50 will in effect disenfranchise millions of California Republicans and Republican-leaning voters who already feel overlooked and irrelevant to the workings of their home state.
Too bad for them, you might say. But that feeling of neglect frays faith in our political system and can breed a kind of to-hell-with-it cynicism that makes electing and cheering on a “disruptor” like Trump seem like a reasonable and appealing response.
(And, yes, disenfranchisement is just as bad when it targets Democratic voters who’ve been nullified in Texas, North Carolina, Missouri and other GOP-run states.)
Worse, slanting political lines so that one party or the other is guaranteed victory only widens the gulf that has helped turn Washington’s into its current slough of dysfunction.
The lack of competition means the greatest fear many lawmakers have is not the prospect of losing to the other party in a general election but rather being snuffed out in a primary by a more ideological and extreme challenger.
Witness the government shutdown, now in its record 36th day. Then imagine a Congress seated in January 2027 with even more lawmakers guaranteed reelection and concerned mainly with appeasing their party’s activist base.
The animating impulse behind Proposition 50 is understandable.
With the midterm election still nearly a year off — and the 2028 presidential contest eons away — many of those angry or despondent over the benighted state of our union desperately wanted to do something to push back.
Proposition 50, however, was a shortsighted solution.
Newsom and other proponents said the retaliatory ballot measure was a way of fighting fire with fire. But that smell in the air today isn’t victory.
Dean Herrington said he has been let go as football coach at St. Francis after five seasons during which his teams won three league championships and made two Southern Section finals.
The team went 2-8 this season and failed to make the playoffs in a season in which there were numerous injuries at the quarterback position. St. Francis ended the regular season with a stunning 28-21 win over Cathedral.
Herrington also enjoyed success as head coach at Bishop Alemany and Paraclete. He said Wednesday night, “It was shocking but maybe a good parting of ways.” The school told him there were concerns about culture and morale issues.
Herrington should be quick to pick up offers from other high schools and junior colleges. He has been known for developing top quarterbacks.
He took over at St. Francis for his good friend and former Hart player, the late Jim Bonds.
WASHINGTON — The government shutdown is poised to become the longest ever this week as the impasse between Democrats and Republicans has dragged into a new month. Millions of people stand to lose food aid benefits, health care subsidies are set to expire and there are few real talks between the parties over how to end it.
President Trump said in an interview aired on Sunday that he “won’t be extorted” by Democrats who are demanding negotiations to extend the expiring Affordable Care Act subsidies. Echoing congressional Republicans, the president said on CBS’ “60 Minutes” he’ll negotiate only when the government is reopened.
Trump said Democrats “have lost their way” and predicted they’ll capitulate to Republicans.
“I think they have to,” Trump said. “And if they don’t vote, it’s their problem.”
Trump’s comments signal the shutdown could drag on for some time as federal workers, including air traffic controllers, are set to miss additional paychecks and there’s uncertainty over whether 42 million Americans who receive federal food aid will be able to access the assistance. Senate Democrats have voted 13 times against reopening the government, insisting they need Trump and Republicans to negotiate with them first.
The president also reiterated his pleas to Republican leaders to change Senate rules and scrap the filibuster. Senate Republicans have repeatedly rejected that idea since Trump’s first term, arguing the rule requiring 60 votes to overcome any objections in the Senate is vital to the institution and has allowed them to stop Democratic policies when they’re in the minority.
Trump said that’s true, but “we’re here right now.”
“Republicans have to get tougher,” Trump told CBS. “If we end the filibuster, we can do exactly what we want.”
With the two parties at a standstill, the shutdown, now in its 34th day and approaching its sixth week, appears likely to become the longest in history. The previous record was set in 2019, when Trump demanded Congress give him money for a U.S.-Mexico border wall.
A potentially decisive week
Trump’s push on the filibuster could prove a distraction for Senate Majority Leader John Thune, R-S.D., and Republican senators who’ve opted instead to stay the course as the consequences of the shutdown become more acute.
Republicans are hoping at least some Democrats will eventually switch their votes as moderates have been in weekslong talks with rank-and-file Republicans about potential compromises that could guarantee votes on health care in exchange for reopening the government. Republicans need five additional Democrats to pass their bill.
“We need five with a backbone to say we care more about the lives of the American people than about gaining some political leverage,” Thune said on the Senate floor as the Senate left Washington for the weekend on Thursday.
Virginia Sen. Tim Kaine, a Democrat, said on ABC’s “This Week” on Sunday there’s a group of people talking about ”a path to fix the health care debacle” and a commitment from Republicans not to fire more federal workers. But it’s unclear if those talks could produce a meaningful compromise.
Far apart on Obamacare subsidies
Trump said in the “60 Minutes” interview that the Affordable Care Act — often known as Obamacare because it was signed and championed by then-President Barack Obama — is “terrible” and if the Democrats vote to reopen the government, “we will work on fixing the bad health care that we have right now.”
Democrats feel differently, arguing that the marketplaces set up by the ACA are working as record numbers of Americans have signed up for the coverage. But they want to extend subsidies first enacted during the COVID-19 pandemic so premiums won’t go up for millions of people on Jan. 1.
Senate Democratic leader Chuck Schumer said last week that “we want to sit down with Thune, with (House Speaker Mike) Johnson, with Trump, and negotiate a way to address this horrible health care crisis.”
No appetite for bipartisanship
As Democrats have pushed Trump and Republicans to negotiate, Trump has showed little interest in doing so. He called for an end to the Senate filibuster after a trip to Asia while the government was shut down.
White House spokeswoman Karoline Leavitt said on Fox News Channel’s “Sunday Morning Futures” that the president has spoken directly to Thune and Johnson about the filibuster. But a spokesman for Thune said Friday that his position hasn’t changed, and Johnson said Sunday that he believes the filibuster has traditionally been a “safeguard” from far-left policies.
Trump said on “60 Minutes” that he likes Thune but “I disagree with him on this point.”
The president has spent much of the shutdown mocking Democrats, posting videos of House Democratic leader Hakeem Jeffries in a Mexican sombrero. The White House website is now featuring a satirical “My Space” page for Democrats, a parody based on the social media site that was popular in the early 2000s. “We just love playing politics with people’s livelihoods,” the page reads.
Democrats have repeatedly said that they need Trump to get serious and weigh in. Virginia Sen. Mark Warner said that he hopes the shutdown could end “this week” because Trump is back in Washington.
Republicans “can’t move on anything without a Trump sign off,” Warner said on “Face the Nation” on CBS.
Record-breaking shutdown
The 35-day shutdown that lasted from December 2018 to January 2019 ended when Trump retreated from his demands over a border wall. That came amid intensifying delays at the nation’s airports and multiple missed paydays for hundreds of thousands of federal workers.
Transportation Secretary Sean Duffy said on ABC’s “This Week” that there have already been delays at several airports “and it’s only going to get worse.”
Many of the workers are “confronted with a decision,” he said. “Do I put food on my kids’ table, do I put gas in the car, do I pay my rent or do I go to work and not get paid?”
As flight delays around the country increased, New York City’s emergency management department posted on Sunday that Newark Airport was under a ground delay because of “staffing shortages in the control tower” and that they were limiting arrivals to the airport.
“The average delay is about 2 hours, and some flights are more than 3 hours late,” the account posted.
SNAP crisis
Also in the crossfire are the 42 million Americans who receive SNAP benefits. The Department of Agriculture planned to withhold $8 billion needed for payments to the food program starting on Saturday until two federal judges ordered the administration to fund it.
Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent said on CNN Sunday that the administration continues to await additional direction from the courts.
“The best way for SNAP benefits to get paid is for Democrats — for five Democrats to cross the aisle and reopen the government,” Bessent said.
House Democratic leader Jeffries, D-N.Y., accused Trump and Republicans of attempting to “weaponize hunger.” He said that the administration has managed to find ways for funding other priorities during the shutdown, but is slow-walking pushing out SNAP benefits despite the court orders.
“But somehow they can’t find money to make sure that Americans don’t go hungry,” Jeffries said in an appearance on CNN’s “State of the Union.”
Jalonick writes for the Associated Press. AP writer Aamer Madhani contributed to this report.
You may not know Eliot Mack’s name, but if a small robot has ever crept around your kitchen, you know his work.
Before he turned his MIT-trained mind to filmmaking, Mack helped lead a small team of engineers trying to solve a deeply relatable problem: how to avoid vacuuming. Whether it was figuring out how to get around furniture legs or unclog the brushes after a run-in with long hair, Mack designed everything onscreen first with software, troubleshooting virtually and getting 80% of the way there before a single part was ever manufactured.
When Mack pivoted to filmmaking in the early 2000s, he was struck by how chaotic Hollywood’s process felt. “You pitch the script, get the green light and you’re flying into production,” he says, sounding both amused and baffled. “There’s no CAD template, no centralized database. I was like, how do movies even get made?”
That question sent Mack down a new path, trading dust bunnies for the creative bottlenecks that slow Hollywood down.
In 2004 he founded Lightcraft Technology, a startup developing what would later be known as virtual production tools, born out of his belief that if you could design a robot in software, you should be able to design a shot the same way. The company’s early system, Previzion, sold for $180,000 and was used on sci-fi and fantasy shows like “V” and “Once Upon a Time.” But Jetset, its latest AI-assisted tool set, runs on an iPhone and offers a free tier, with pro features topping out at just $80 a month. It lets filmmakers scan a location, drop it into virtual space and block out scenes with camera moves, lighting and characters. They can preview shots, overlay elements and organize footage for editing — all from a phone. No soundstage, no big crew, no gatekeepers. Lightcraft’s pitch: “a movie studio in your pocket.”
A series on how the AI revolution is reshaping the creative foundations of Hollywood — from storytelling and performance to production, labor and power.
The goal, Mack says, is to put more power in the hands of the people making the work. “One of the big problems is how siloed Hollywood is,” he says. “We talked to an Oscar-winning editor who said, ‘I’m never going to get to make my movie’ — he was pigeonholed as just an editor. Same with an animator we know who has two Oscars.”
Eliot Mack, CEO of Lightcraft, an AI-powered virtual-production startup, wants to give creators the power and freedom to bring their ideas to life.
(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)
To Mack, the revolution of Jetset recalls the scrappy, guerrilla spirit of Roger Corman’s low-budget productions, which launched the early careers of directors like Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese. For generations of creatives stuck waiting on permission or funding, he sees this moment as a reset button.
“The things you got good at — writing, directing, acting, creating, storytelling — they’re still crazy useful,” he says. “What’s changing is the amount of schlepping you have to do before you get to do the fun stuff. Your 20s are a gift. You want to be creating at the absolute speed of sound. We’re trying to get to a place where you don’t have to ask anyone. You can just make the thing.”
AI is reshaping nearly every part of the filmmaking pipeline. Storyboards can now be generated from a script draft. Lighting and camera angles can be tested before anyone touches a piece of gear. Rough cuts, placeholder VFX, even digital costume mock-ups can all be created before the first shot is filmed. What once took a full crew, a soundstage and a six-figure budget can now happen in minutes, sometimes at the hands of a single person with a laptop.
This wave of automation is arriving just as Hollywood is gripped by existential anxiety. The 2023 writers’ and actors’ strikes brought the industry to a standstill and put AI at the center of a fight over its future. Since then, production has slowed, crew sizes have shrunk and the streaming boom has given way to consolidation and cost-cutting.
According to FilmLA, on-location filming in Greater Los Angeles dropped 22.4% in early 2025 compared with the year before. For many of the crew members and craftspeople still competing for those jobs, AI doesn’t feel like an innovation. It feels like a new way to justify doing more with less, only to end up with work that’s less original or creative.
“AI scrapes everything we artists have made off the internet and creates a completely static, banal world that can never imagine anything that hasn’t happened before,” documentary filmmaker Adam Curtis warned during a directors panel at the 2023 Telluride Film Festival, held in the midst of the strikes. “That’s the real weakness of the AI dream — it’s stuck with the ghosts. And I think we’ll get fed up with that.”
How you feel about these changes often depends on where you sit and how far along you are in your career. For people just starting out, AI can offer a way to experiment, move faster and bypass the usual barriers to entry. For veterans behind the scenes, it often feels like a threat to the expertise they’ve spent decades honing.
Past technological shifts — the arrival of sound, the rise of digital cameras, the advancement of CGI — changed how movies were made, but not necessarily who made them. Each wave brought new roles: boom operators and dialogue coaches, color consultants and digital compositors. Innovation usually meant more jobs, not fewer.
But AI doesn’t just change the tools. It threatens to erase the people who once used the old ones.
Diego Mariscal has seen first hand as AI has cut potential jobs for grips.
(Jennifer Rose Clasen)
Diego Mariscal, 43, a veteran dolly grip who has worked on “The Mandalorian” and “Spider-Man: No Way Home,” saw the writing on the wall during a recent shoot. A visual effects supervisor opened his laptop to show off a reel of high-end commercials and something was missing. “There were no blue screens — none,” Mariscal recalls. “That’s what we do. We put up blues as grips. You’d normally hire an extra 10 people and have an extra three days of pre-rigging, setting up all these blue screens. He was like, ‘We don’t need it anymore. I just use AI to clip it out.’”
Mariscal runs Crew Stories, a private Facebook group with nearly 100,000 members, where working crew members share job leads, trade tips and voice their growing fears. He tries to keep up with the steady drip of AI news. “I read about AI all day, every day,” he says. “At least 20 posts a day.”
His fear isn’t just about fewer jobs — it’s about what comes next. “I’ve been doing this since I was 19,” Mariscal says of his specialized dolly work, which involves setting up heavy equipment and guiding the camera smoothly through complex shots. “I can push a cart in a parking lot. I can push a lawnmower. What else can I do?”
Who wins, who loses and what does James Cameron think?
Before AI and digital doubles, Mike Marino learned the craft of transformation the human way: through hands-on work and a fascination that bordered on obsession.
Marino was 5 years old when he first saw “The Elephant Man” on HBO. Horrified yet transfixed, he became fixated on prosthetics and the emotional power they could carry. As a teenager in New York, he pored over issues of Fangoria, studied monsters and makeup effects and experimented with sculpting his own latex masks on his bedroom floor.
Prosthetics artist Mike Marino asks a big question related to generative AI: What role do the human creatives play?
(Sean Dougherty / For The Times)
Decades later, Marino, 48, has become one of Hollywood’s leading makeup artists, earning Oscar nominations for “Coming 2 America,” “The Batman” and last year’s dark comedy “A Different Man,” in which he helped transform Sebastian Stan into a disfigured actor.
His is the kind of tactile, handcrafted work that once seemed irreplaceable. But today AI tools are increasingly capable of achieving similar effects digitally: de-aging actors, altering faces, even generating entire performances. What used to take weeks of experimentation and hours in a makeup trailer can now be approximated with a few prompts and a trained model. To Marino, AI is more than a new set of tools. It’s a fundamental change in what it means to create.
“If AI is so good it can replace a human, then why have any human beings?” he says. “This is about taste. It’s about choice. I’m a human being. I’m an artist. I have my own ideas — mine. Just because you can make 10,000 spaceships in a movie, should you?”
“If AI is so good it can replace a human, then why have any human beings?”
— Mike Marino, makeup artist on “A Different Man”
Marino is no technophobe. His team regularly uses 3D scanning and printing. But he draws the line at outsourcing creative judgment to a machine. “I’m hoping there are artists who want to work with humans and not machines,” he says. “If we let AI just run amok with no taste, no choice, no morality behind it, then we’re gone.”
Not everyone sees AI’s rise in film production as a zero-sum game. Some technologists imagine a middle path. Daniela Rus, director of MIT’s Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Lab and one of the world’s leading AI researchers, believes the future of filmmaking lies in a “human-machine partnership.”
AI, Rus argues, can take on time-consuming tasks like animating background extras, color correction or previsualizing effects, freeing up people to focus on what requires intuition and taste. “AI can help with the routine work,” she says. “But the human touch and emotional authenticity are essential.”
Few directors have spent more time grappling with the dangers and potential of artificial intelligence than James Cameron. Nearly 40 years before generative tools entered Hollywood’s workflow, he imagined a rogue AI triggering global apocalypse in 1984’s “The Terminator,” giving the world Skynet — now a cultural shorthand for the dark side of machine intelligence. Today, he continues to straddle that line, using AI behind the scenes on the upcoming “Avatar: Fire and Ash” to optimize visual effects and performance-capture, while keeping creative decisions in human hands. The latest sequel, due Dec. 19, promises to push the franchise’s spectacle and scale even further; a newly released trailer reveals volcanic eruptions, aerial battles and a new clan of Na’vi.
A scene from “Avatar: The Way of Water.” Director James Cameron differentiates between using machine-learning to reduce monotonous movie-making work and generative AI.
(Courtesy of 20th Century Studios/Courtesy of 20th Century Studios)
“You can automate a lot of processes that right now tie up a lot of artists doing mundane tasks,” Cameron told The Times in 2023 at a Beyond Fest screening of his 1989 film “The Abyss.” “So if we could accelerate the postproduction pipeline, then we can make more movies. Then those artists will get to do more exciting things.”
For Cameron, the promise of AI lies in efficiency, not elimination. “I think in our particular industry, it’s not going to replace people; it’s going to free them to do other things,” he believes. “It’s going to accelerate the process and bring the price down, which would be good because, you know, some movies are a little more expensive than others. And a lot of that has to do with human energy.”
Cameron himself directed five films between 1984 and 1994 and only three in the three decades since, though each one has grown increasingly complex and ambitious.
That said, Cameron has never been one to chase shortcuts for their own sake. “I think you can make pre-viz and design easier, but I don’t know if it makes it better,” he says. “I mean, if easy is your thing. Easy has never been my thing.”
He draws a line between the machine-learning techniques his team has used since the first “Avatar” to help automate tedious tasks and the newer wave of generative AI models making headlines today.
“The big explosion has been around image-based generative models that use everything from every image that’s ever been created,” he says. “We’d never use any of them. The images we make are computer-created, but they’re not AI-created.”
In his view, nothing synthetic can replace the instincts of a flesh-and-blood artist. “We have human artists that do all the designs,” he says. “We don’t need AI. We’ve got meat-I. And I’m one of the meat-artists that come up with all that stuff. We don’t need a computer. Maybe other people need it. We don’t.”
Reshaping creativity — and creative labor
Rick Carter didn’t go looking for AI as a tool. He discovered it as a lifeline.
The two-time Oscar-winning production designer, who worked with Cameron on “Avatar” and whose credits include “Jurassic Park” and “Forrest Gump,” began experimenting with generative AI tools like Midjourney and Runway during the pandemic, looking for a way to keep his creative instincts sharp while the industry was on pause. A longtime painter, he was drawn to the freedom the programs offered.
“I saw that there was an opportunity to create images where I didn’t have to go to anybody else for approval, which is the way I would paint,” Carter says by phone from Paris. “None of the gatekeeping would matter. I have a whole lot of stories on my own that I’ve tried to get into the world in various ways and suddenly there was a way to visualize them.”
Midjourney and Runway can create richly detailed images — and in Runway’s case, short video clips — from a text prompt or a combination of text and visuals. Trained on billions of images and audiovisual materials scraped from the internet, these systems learn to mimic style, lighting, composition and form, often with eerie precision. In a production pipeline, these tools can help concept artists visualize characters or sets, let directors generate shot ideas or give costume designers and makeup artists a fast way to test looks, long before physical production begins.
But as these tools gain traction in Hollywood, a deeper legal and creative dilemma is coming into focus: Who owns the work they produce? And what about the copyrighted material used to train them?
In June, Disney and Universal filed a federal copyright lawsuit against Midjourney, accusing the company of generating unauthorized replicas of characters such as Spider-Man, Darth Vader and Shrek using AI models trained on copyrighted material: what the suit calls a “bottomless pit of plagiarism.” It’s the most high-profile of several legal challenges now putting copyright law to the test in the age of generative AI.
“Forrest Gump” director Robert Zemeckis, left, with production designer Rick Carter at an art installation of the movie’s famed bench. (Carter family)
(Carter family)
Working with generative models, Carter began crafting what he calls “riffs of consciousness,” embracing AI as a kind of collaborative partner, one he could play off of intuitively. The process reminded him of the loose, improvisational early stages of filmmaking, a space he knows well from decades of working with directors like Robert Zemeckis and Steven Spielberg.
“I’ll just start with a visual or a word prompt and see how it iterates from there and what it triggers in my mind,” Carter says. “Then I incorporate that so it builds on its own in an almost free-associative way. But it’s still based upon my own intuitive, emotional, artistic, even spiritual needs at that moment.”
He describes the experience as a dialogue between two minds, one digital and one human: “One AI is artificial intelligence. The other AI is authentic intelligence — that’s us. We’ve earned it over this whole span of time on the planet.”
Sometimes, Carter says, the most evocative results come from mistakes. While sketching out a story about a hippie detective searching for a missing woman in the Himalayas, he accidentally typed “womb” into ChatGPT instead of “woman.” The AI ran with it, returning three pages of wild plot ideas involving gurus, seekers and a bizarre mystery set in motion by the disappearance.
“I couldn’t believe it,” he says. “I would never have taken it that far. The AI is so precocious. It is trying so much to please that it will literally make something out of the mistake you make.”
Carter hasn’t used generative AI on a film yet; most of his creations are shared only with friends. But he says the technology is already slipping into creative workflows in covert ways. “There are issues with copyrights with most of the studios so for now, it’s going to be mostly underground,” he says. “People will use it but they won’t acknowledge that they’re using it — they’ll have an illustrator do something over it, or take a photo so there’s no digital trail.”
Carter has lived through a major technological shift before. “I remember when we went from analog to digital, from ‘Jurassic Park’ on,” he says. “There were a lot of wonderful artists who could draw and paint in ways that were just fantastic but they couldn’t adapt. They didn’t want to — even the idea of it felt like the wrong way to make art. And, of course, most of them suffered because they didn’t make it from the Rolodex to the database in terms of people calling them up.”
He worries that some artists may approach the technology with a rigid sense of authorship. “Early on, I found that the less I used my own ego as a barometer for whether something was artistic, the more I leaned into the process of collaboratively making something bigger than the sum of its parts — and the bigger and better the movies became.”
Others, like storyboard artist Sam Tung, are bracing against the same wave with a quiet but unshakable defiance.
Tung, whose credits include “Twisters” and Christopher Nolan’s upcoming adaptation of “The Odyssey,” has spent the last two years tracking the rise of generative tools, not just their capabilities but their implications. As co-chair of the Animation Guild’s AI Committee, he has been on the front lines of conversations about how these technologies could reshape creative labor.
To artists like Tung, the rise of generative tools feels deeply personal. “If you are an illustrator or a writer or whatever, you had to give up other things to take time to develop those skills,” he says. “Nobody comes out of the womb being able to draw or write or act. Anybody who does that professionally spent years honing those skills.”
“Anything I’ve made with AI, I’ve quickly forgotten about. There’s basically nothing I get from putting it on social media, other than the ire of my peers.”
— Sam Tung, storyboard artist on “The Odyssey”
Tung has no interest in handing that over to a machine. “It’s not that I’m scared of it — I just don’t need it,” he says. “If I want to draw something or paint something, I’ll do it myself. That way it’s exactly what I want and I actually enjoy the process. When people tell me they responded to a drawing I did or a short film I made with friends, it feels great. But anything I’ve made with AI, I’ve quickly forgotten about. There’s basically nothing I get from putting it on social media, other than the ire of my peers.”
What unsettles him isn’t just the slickness of AI’s output but how that polish is being used to justify smaller crews and faster turnarounds. “If this is left unchecked, it’s very easy to imagine a worst-case scenario where team sizes and contract durations shrink,” Tung says. “A producer who barely understands how it works might say, ‘Don’t you have AI to do 70% of this? Why do you need a whole week to turn around a sequence? Just press the button that says: MAKE MOVIE.’ ”
At 73, Carter isn’t chasing jobs. His legacy is secure. “If they don’t hire me again, that’s OK,” he says. “I’m not in that game anymore.” He grew up in Hollywood — his father was Jack Lemmon’s longtime publicist and producing partner — and has spent his life watching the industry evolve. Now, he’s witnessing a reckoning unlike any he, or anyone else, has ever imagined.
“I do have concerns about who is developing AI and what their values are,” he says. “What they use all this for is not necessarily something I would approve of — politically, socially, emotionally. But I don’t think I’m in a position to approve or not.”
Earlier this year, the Palisades fire destroyed Carter’s home, taking with it years of paintings and personal artwork. AI, he says, has given him a way to keep creating through the upheaval. “It saved me through the pandemic, and now it’s saving me through the fire,” he says, as if daring the universe to test him again. “It’s like, go ahead, throw something else at me.”
‘Prompt and pray?’ Not so fast
Many in the industry may still be dipping a toe into the waters of AI. Verena Puhm dove in.
The Austrian-born filmmaker studied acting and directing in Munich and Salzburg before moving to Los Angeles, where she built a globe-spanning career producing, writing and developing content for international networks and streamers. Her credits range from CNN’s docuseries “History of the Sitcom” to the German reboot of the cult anthology “Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction” and a naval documentary available on Tubi. More recently, she has channeled that same creative range into a deepening exploration of generative tools.
Puhm first began dabbling with AI while using Midjourney to design a pitch deck, but it wasn’t until she entered a timed generative AI filmmaking challenge at the 2024 AI on the Lot conference — informally dubbed a “gen battle” — that the creative potential of the medium hit her.
“In two hours, I made a little mock commercial,” she remembers, proudly. “It was actually pretty well received and fun. And I was like, Oh, wow, I did this in two hours. What could I do in two days or two weeks?”
What started as experimentation soon became a second act. This summer, Puhm was named head of studio for Dream Lab LA, a new creative arm of Luma AI, which develops generative video tools for filmmakers and creators. There, she’s helping shape new storytelling formats and supporting emerging creators working at the intersection of cinema and technology. She may not be a household name, but in the world of experimental storytelling, she’s fast becoming a key figure.
Verena Puhm, a director, writer and producer, has used generative AI in a number of her projects, says it’s breaking down barriers to entry.
(Jason Armond/Los Angeles Times)
Some critics dismiss AI filmmaking as little more than “prompt and pray”: typing in a few words and hoping something usable comes out. Puhm bristles at the phrase.
“Anybody that says that tells me they’ve never tried it at all, because it is not that easy and simple,” she says. “You can buy a paintbrush at Home Depot for, what, $2? That doesn’t make you a painter. When smartphones first came out, there was a lot of content being made but that didn’t mean everyone was a filmmaker.”
What excites her most is how AI is breaking down the barriers that once kept ambitious ideas out of reach. Luma’s new Modify Video tool lets filmmakers tweak footage after it’s shot, changing wardrobe, aging a character, shifting the time of day, all without reshoots or traditional VFX. It can turn a garage into a spaceship, swap a cloudy sky for the aurora borealis or morph an actor into a six-eyed alien, no green screen required.
“I remember shopping projects around and being told by producers, ‘This scene has to go, that has to go,’ just to keep the budget low. Now everything is open.”
— Verena Puhm, Head of Studio at Dream Lab LA
“It’s such a relief as an artist,” Puhm says. “If there’s a project I’ve been sitting on for six years because I didn’t have a $5 million budget — suddenly there’s no limit. I remember shopping projects around and being told by producers, ‘This scene has to go, that has to go,’ just to keep the budget low. Now everything is open.”
That sense of access resonates far beyond Los Angeles. At a panel during AI on the Lot, “Blue Beetle” director Ángel Manuel Soto reflected on how transformative AI might have been when he was first starting out. “I wish tools like this existed when I wanted to make movies in Puerto Rico, because nobody would lend me a camera,” he said. “Access to equipment is a privilege we sometimes take for granted. I see this helping kids like me from the projects tell stories without going bankrupt — or stealing, which I don’t condone.”
Puhm welcomes criticism of AI but only when it’s informed. “If you hate AI and you’ve actually tested the tools and educated yourself, I’ll be your biggest supporter,” she says. “But if you’re just speaking out of fear, with no understanding, then what are you even basing your opinion on?”
She understands why some filmmakers feel rattled, especially those who, like her, grew up dreaming of seeing their work on the big screen. “I still want to make features and TV series — that’s what I set out to do,” she says. “I hope movie theaters don’t go away. But if the same story I want to tell reaches millions of people on a phone and they’re excited about it, will I really care that it wasn’t in a theater?”
“I just feel like we have to adapt to the reality of things,” she continues. “That might sometimes be uncomfortable, but there is so much opportunity if you lean in. Right now any filmmaker can suddenly tell a story at a high production value that they could have never done before, and that is beautiful and empowering.”
For many, embracing AI boils down to a simple choice: adapt or get cut from the frame.
Hal Watmough, a BAFTA-winning British editor with two decades of experience, first began experimenting with AI out of a mix of curiosity and dread. “I was scared,” he admits. “This thing was coming into the industry and threatening our jobs and was going to make us obsolete.” But once he started playing with tools like Midjourney and Runway, he quickly saw how they could not only speed up the process but allow him to rethink what his career could be.
For an editor used to working only with what he was given, the ability to generate footage on the fly, cut with it immediately and experiment endlessly without waiting on a crew or a shoot was a revelation. “It was still pretty janky at that stage, but I could see the potential,” he says. “It was kind of intoxicating. I started to think, I’d like to start making things that I haven’t seen before.”
After honing his skills with various AI tools, Watmough created a wistful, vibrant five-minute animated short called “LATE,” about an aging artist passing his wisdom to a young office worker. Over two weeks, he generated 2,181 images using AI, then curated and refined them frame by frame to shape the story.
Earlier this year, he submitted “LATE” to what was billed as the world’s first AI animation contest, hosted by Curious Refuge, an online education hub for creative technologists — and, to his delight, he won. The prize included $10,000, a pitch meeting with production company Promise Studios and, as an absurd bonus, his face printed on a potato. But for Watmough, the real reward was the sense that he had found a new creative identity.
“There’s something to the fact that the winner of the first AI animation competition was an editor,” Watmough says. “With the advent of AI, yes, you could call yourself a filmmaker but essentially I’d say most people are editors. You’re curating, selecting, picking what you like — relying on your taste.”
Thanks to AI, he says he’s made more personal passion projects in the past year and a half than during his entire previous career. “I’ll be walking or running and ideas just come. Now I can go home that night and try them,” he says. “None of that would exist without AI. So either something exists within AI or it never exists at all. And all the happiness and fulfillment that comes with it for the creator doesn’t exist either.”
Watmough hasn’t entirely lost his fear of what AI might do to the creative workforce, even as he is energized by what it makes possible. “A lot of people I speak to in film and TV are worried about losing their jobs and I’m not saying the infrastructure roles won’t radically change,” he says. “But I don’t think AI is going to replace that many — if any — creative people.”
What it will do, he says, is raise the bar. “If anyone can create anything, then average work will basically become extinct or pointless. AI can churn out remakes until the cows come home. You’ll have to pioneer to exist.”
He likens the current moment to the birth of cinema more than a century ago — specifically the Lumière brothers’ “Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat,” the 1896 short that famously startled early audiences. In the silent one-minute film, a steam train rumbles toward the camera, growing larger. Some viewers reportedly leaped from their seats, convinced it was about to crash into them.
“People ran out of the theater screaming,” Watmough says. “Now we don’t even think about it. With AI, we’re at that stage again. We’re watching the steam train come into the station and people are either really excited or they’re running out of the theater in fear. That’s where we are, right at the start. And the potential is limitless.”
Then again, he adds with a dry laugh, “I’m an eternal optimist, so take what I say with a grain of salt.”
At a Starbucks in downtown Culver City, Amit Jain pulls out his iPad Pro and presses play. On-screen, one of his employees at Luma AI — the Silicon Valley startup behind a new wave of generative video tools, which he co-founded and now runs — lumbers through the company’s Palo Alto office, arms swinging, shoulders hunched, pretending to be a monkey. Jain swipes to a second version of the same clip. Same movement, same hallway, but now he is a monkey. Fully rendered and believable, and created in seconds.
“The tagline for this would be, like, iPhone to cinema,” Jain says, flipping through other uncanny clips shared on his company’s Slack. “But, of course, it’s not full cinema yet.” He says it offhandedly — as if he weren’t describing a transformation that could upend not just how movies are made but what Hollywood is even for. If anyone can summon cinematic spectacle with a few taps, what becomes of the place that once called it magic?
Luma’s generative AI platform, Dream Machine, debuted last year and points toward a new kind of moviemaking, one where anyone can make release-grade footage with a few words. Type “a cowboy riding a velociraptor through Times Square,” and it builds the scene from scratch. Feed it a still photo and it brings the frozen moment to life: A dog stirs from a nap, trees ripple in the breeze.
Dream Machine’s latest tool, Modify Video, was launched in June. Instead of generating new footage, it redraws what’s already there. Upload a clip, describe what you want changed and the system reimagines the scene: A hoodie becomes a superhero cape, a sunny street turns snowy, a person transforms into a talking banana or a medieval knight. No green screen, no VFX team, no code. “Just ask,” the company’s website says.
For now, clips max out around 10 seconds, a limit set by the technology’s still-heavy computing demands. But as Jain points out, “The average shot in a movie is only eight seconds.”
A series on how the AI revolution is reshaping the creative foundations of Hollywood — from storytelling and performance to production, labor and power.
Jain’s long-term vision is even more radical: a world of fully personalized entertainment, generated on demand. Not mass-market blockbusters, but stories tailored to each individual: a comedy about your co-workers, a thriller set in your hometown, a sci-fi epic starring someone who looks like you, or simply anything you want to see. He insists he’s not trying to replace cinema but expand it, shifting from one-size-fits-all stories to something more personal, flexible and scalable.
“Today, videos are made for 100 million people at a time — they have to hit the lowest common denominator,” Jain says. “A video made just for you or me is better than one made for two unrelated people. That’s the problem we’re trying to solve… My intention is to get to a place where two hours of video can be generated for every human every day.”
It’s a staggering goal that Jain acknowledges is still aspirational. “That will happen, but when the prices are about a thousand times cheaper than where we are. Our research and our engineering are going toward that, to push the price down as much as humanly possible. Because that’s the demand for video. People watch hours and hours of video every day.”
Scaling to that level would require not just faster models but exponentially more compute power. Critics warn that the environmental toll of such expansion could be profound.
For Dream Machine to become what Jain envisions, it needs more than generative tricks — it needs a built-in narrative engine that understands how stories work: when to build tension, where to land a joke, how to shape an emotional arc. Not a tool but a collaborator. “I don’t think artists want to use tools,” he says. “They want to tell their stories and tools get in their way. Currently, pretty much all video generative models, including ours, are quite dumb. They are good pixel generators. At the end of the day, we need to build general intelligence that can tell a f— funny joke. Everything else is a distraction.”
The name may be coincidental, but nine years ago, MIT’s Media Lab launched a very different kind of machine: Nightmare Machine, a viral experiment that used neural networks to distort cheerful faces and familiar cityscapes into something grotesque. That project asked if AI could learn to frighten us. Jain’s vision points in a more expansive direction: an AI that is, in his words, “able to tell an engaging story.”
For many in Hollywood, though, the scenario Jain describes — where traditional cinema increasingly gives way to fast, frictionless, algorithmically personalized video — sounds like its own kind of nightmare.
Jain sees this shift as simply reflecting where audiences already are. “What people want is changing,” he says. “Movies obviously have their place but people aren’t spending time on them as much. What people want are things that don’t need their attention for 90 minutes. Things that entertain them and sometimes educate them and sometimes are, you know, thirst traps. The reality of the universe is you can’t change people’s behaviors. I think the medium will change very significantly.”
Still, Jain — who previously worked as an engineer on Apple’s Vision Pro, where he collaborated with filmmakers like Steven Spielberg and George Lucas — insists Hollywood isn’t obsolete, just due for reinvention. To that end, Luma recently launched Dream Lab LA, a creative studio aimed at fostering AI-powered storytelling.
“Hollywood is the largest concentration of storytellers in the world,” Jain says. “Just like Silicon Valley is the largest concentration of computer scientists and New York is the largest concentration of finance people. We need them. That’s what’s really special about Hollywood. The solution will come out of the marriage of technology and art together. I think both sides will adapt.”
It’s a hopeful outlook, one that imagines collaboration, not displacement. But not everyone sees it that way.
In Silicon Valley, where companies like Google, OpenAI, Anthropic and Meta are racing to build ever more powerful generative tools, such thinking is framed as progress. In Hollywood, it can feel more like erasure — a threat to authorship itself and to the jobs, identities and traditions built around it. The tension came to a head during the 2023 writers’ and actors’ strikes, when picket signs declared: “AI is not art” and “Human writers only.”
What once felt like the stuff of science fiction is now Hollywood’s daily reality. As AI becomes embedded in the filmmaking process, the entire ecosystem — from studios and streamers to creators and institutions — is scrambling to keep up. Some see vast potential: faster production, lower costs, broader access, new kinds of creative freedom. Others see an extraction machine that threatens the soul of the art form and a coming flood of cheap, forgettable content.
AI storytelling is just beginning to edge into theaters — and already sparking backlash. This summer, IMAX is screening 10 generative shorts from Runway’s AI Film Festival. At AMC Burbank, where one screening is set to take place later this month, a protest dubbed “Kill the Machine” is already being organized on social media, an early flashpoint in the growing resistance to AI’s encroachment on storytelling.
But ready or not, the gravity is shifting. Silicon Valley is pulling the film industry into its orbit, with some players rushing in and others dragged. Faced with consolidation, shrinking budgets and shareholder pressure to do more with less, studios are turning to AI not just to cut costs but to survive. The tools are evolving faster than the industry’s playbook, and the old ways of working are struggling to keep up. With generative systems poised to flood the zone with content, simply holding an audience’s attention, let alone shaping culture, is becoming harder than ever.
While the transition remains uneven, some studios are already leaning in. Netflix recently used AI tools to complete a complex VFX sequence for the Argentine sci-fi series “El Eternauta” in a fraction of the usual time. “We remain convinced that AI represents an incredible opportunity to help creators make films and series better, not just cheaper,” co-chief executive Ted Sarandos told analysts during a July earnings call.
At Paramount, incoming chief executive David Ellison is pitching a more sweeping transformation: a “studio in the cloud” that would use AI and other digital tools to reinvent every stage of filmmaking, from previsualization to post. Ellison, whose Skydance Media closed its merger with Paramount Global this week and whose father, Larry Ellison, co-founded Oracle, has vowed to turn the company into a tech-first media powerhouse. “Technology will transform every single aspect of this company,” he said last year.
In one of the most visible examples of AI adoption in Hollywood, Lionsgate, the studio behind the “John Wick” and “Hunger Games” franchises, struck a deal last year with the generative video startup Runway to train a custom model on its film and TV library, aiming to support future project development and improve efficiency. Lionsgate chief executive Jon Feltheimer, speaking to analysts after the agreement, said the company believes AI, used with “appropriate guardrails,” could have a “positive transformational impact” on the business.
Elsewhere, studios are experimenting more quietly: using AI to generate early character designs, write alternate dialogue or explore how different story directions might land. The goal isn’t to replace writers or directors, but to inform internal pitches and development. At companies like Disney, much of the testing is happening in games and interactive content, where the brand risk is lower and the guardrails are clearer. For now, the prevailing instinct is caution. No one wants to appear as if they’re automating away the heart of the movies.
Legacy studios like Paramount are exploring ways to bring down costs by incorporating AI into their pipeline.
(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
As major studios pivot, smaller, more agile players are building from the ground up for the AI era.
According to a recent report by FBRC.ai, an L.A.-based innovation studio that helps launch and advise early-stage AI startups in entertainment, more than 65 AI-native studios have launched since 2022, most of them tiny, self-funded teams of five or fewer. At these studios, AI tools allow a single creator to do the work of an entire crew, slashing production costs by 50% to 95% compared with traditional live-action or animation. The boundaries between artist, technician and studio are collapsing fast — and with them, the very idea of Hollywood as a gatekeeper.
That collapse is raising deeper questions: When a single person anywhere in the world can generate a film from a prompt, what does Hollywood still represent? If stories can be personalized, rendered on demand or co-written with a crowd, who owns them? Who gets paid? Who decides what matters and what disappears into the churn? And if narrative itself becomes infinite, remixable and disposable, does the idea of a story still hold any meaning at all?
Yves Bergquist leads the AI in Media Project at USC’s Entertainment Technology Center, a studio-backed think tank where Hollywood, academia and tech converge. An AI researcher focused on storytelling and cognition, he has spent years helping studios brace for a shift he sees as both inevitable and wrenching. Now, he says, the groundwork is finally being laid.
“We’re seeing very aggressive efforts behind the scenes to get studios ready for AI,” Bergquist says. “They’re building massive knowledge graphs, getting their data ready to be ingested into AI systems and putting governance committees in place to start shaping real policy.”
But adapting won’t be easy, especially for legacy studios weighed down by entrenched workflows, talent relationships, union contracts and layers of legal complexity. “These AI models weren’t built for Hollywood,” Bergquist says. “This is 22nd-century technology being used to solve 21st-century problems inside 19th-century organizational models. So it’s blood, sweat and tears getting them to fit.”
In an algorithmically accelerated landscape where trends can catch fire and burn out in hours, staying relevant is its own challenge. To help studios keep pace, Bergquist co-founded Corto, an AI startup that describes itself as a “growth genomics engine.” The company, which also works with brands like Unilever, Lego and Coca-Cola, draws on thousands of social and consumer sources, analyzing text, images and video to decode precisely which emotional arcs, characters and aesthetics resonate with which demographics and cultural segments, and why.
“When the game is attention, the weapon is understanding where culture and attention are and where they’re going.” Bergquist says, arguing media ultimately comes down to neuroscience.
Corto’s system breaks stories down into their formal components, such as tone, tempo, character dynamics and visual aesthetics, and benchmarks new projects against its extensive data to highlight, for example, that audiences in one region prefer underdog narratives or that a certain visual trend is emerging globally. Insights like these can help studios tailor marketing strategies, refine storytelling decisions or better assess the potential risk and appeal of new projects.
With ever-richer audience data and advances in AI modeling, Bergquist sees a future where studios can fine-tune stories in subtle ways to suit different viewers. “We might know that this person likes these characters better than those characters,” he says. “So you can deliver something to them that’s slightly different than what you’d deliver to me.”
A handful of studios are already experimenting with early versions of that vision — prototyping interactive or customizable versions of existing IP, exploring what it might look like if fans could steer a scene, adjust a storyline or interact with a favorite character. Speaking at May’s AI on the Lot conference, Danae Kokenos, head of technology innovation at Amazon MGM Studios, pointed to localization, personalization and interactivity as key opportunities. “How do we allow people to have different experiences with their favorite characters and favorite stories?” she said. “That’s not quite solved yet, but I see it coming.”
Bergquist is aware that public sentiment around AI remains deeply unsettled. “People are very afraid of AI — and they should be,” he acknowledges. “Outside of certain areas like medicine, AI is very unpopular. And the more capable it gets, the more unpopular it’s going to be.”
Still, he sees a significant upside for the industry. Get AI right, and studios won’t just survive but redefine storytelling itself. “One theory I really believe in is that as more people gain access to Hollywood-level production tools, the studios will move up the ladder — into multi-platform, immersive, personalized entertainment,” he says. “Imagine spending your life in Star Wars: theatrical releases, television, VR, AR, theme parks. That’s where it’s going.”
The transition won’t be smooth. “We’re in for a little more pain,” he says, “but I think we’ll see a rebirth of Hollywood.”
“AI slop” or creative liberation?
You don’t have to look far to find the death notices. TikTok, YouTube and Reddit are full of “Hollywood is dead” posts, many sparked by the rise of generative AI and the industry’s broader upheaval. Some sound the alarm. Others say good riddance. But what’s clear is that the center is no longer holding and no one’s sure what takes its place.
Media analyst Doug Shapiro has estimated that Hollywood produces about 15,000 hours of fresh content each year, compared to 300 million hours uploaded annually to YouTube. In that context, generative AI doesn’t need to reach Hollywood’s level to pose a major threat to its dominance — sheer volume alone is enough to disrupt the industry.
The attention economy is maxed out but attention itself hasn’t grown. As the monoculture fades from memory, Hollywood’s cultural pull is loosening. This year’s Oscars drew 19.7 million viewers, fewer than tuned in to a typical episode of “Murder, She Wrote” in the 1990s. The best picture winner, “Anora,” earned just $20 million at the domestic box office, one of the lowest tallies of any winner of the modern era. Critics raved, but fewer people saw it in theaters than watch the average moderately viral TikTok.
Amid this fragmentation, generative AI tools are fueling a surge of content. Some creators have a new word for it: “slop” — a catchall for cheap, low-effort, algorithmically churned-out media that clogs the feed in search of clicks. Once the world’s dream factory, Hollywood is now asking how it can stand out in an AI-powered media deluge.
Audience members watch an AI-assisted animated short at “Emergent Properties,” a 2023 Sony Pictures screening that offered a glimpse of the uncanny, visually inventive new wave of AI-powered filmmaking.
(Jay L. Clendenin / Los Angeles Times)
Ken Williams, chief executive of USC’s Entertainment Technology Center and a former studio exec who co-founded Sony Pictures Imageworks, calls it a potential worst-case scenario in the making — “the kind of wholesale dehumanization of the creative process that people, in their darkest moments, fear.”
Williams says studios and creatives alike worry that AI will trap audiences in an algorithmic cul de sac, feeding them more of what they already know instead of something new.
“People who live entirely in the social media world and never come out of that foxhole have lost the ability to hear other voices — and no one wants to see that happen in entertainment.”
If the idea of uncontrolled, hyper-targeted AI content sounds like something out of an episode of “Black Mirror,” it was. In the 2023 season opener “Joan Is Awful,” a woman discovers her life is being dramatized in real time on a Netflix-style streaming service by an AI trained on her personal data, with a synthetic Salma Hayek cast as her on-screen double.
So far, AI tools have been adopted most readily in horror, sci-fi and fantasy, genres that encourage abstraction, stylization and visual surrealism. But when it comes to human drama, emotional nuance or sustained character arcs, the cracks start to show. Coherence remains a challenge. And as for originality — the kind that isn’t stitched together from what’s already out there — the results so far have generally been far from revelatory.
At early AI film festivals, the output has often leaned toward the uncanny or the conceptually clever: brief, visually striking experiments with loose narratives, genre tropes and heavily stylized worlds. Many feel more like demos than fully realized stories. For now, the tools excel at spectacle and pastiche but struggle with the kinds of layered, character-driven storytelling that define traditional cinema.
Then again, how different is that from what Hollywood is already producing? Today’s biggest blockbusters — sequels, reboots, multiverse mashups — often feel so engineered to please that it’s hard to tell where the algorithm ends and the artistry begins. Nine of the top 10 box office hits in 2024 were sequels. In that context, slop is, to some degree, in the eye of the beholder. One person’s throwaway content may be another’s creative breakthrough — or at least a spark.
Joaquin Cuenca, chief executive of Freepik, rejects the notion that AI-generated content is inherently low-grade. The Spain-based company, originally a stock image platform, now offers AI tools for generating images, video and voice that creators across the spectrum are starting to embrace.
“I don’t like this ‘slop’ term,” Cuenca says. “It’s this idea that either you’re a top renowned worldwide expert or it’s not worth it — and I don’t think that’s true. I think it is worth it. Letting people with relatively low skills or low experience make better videos can help people get a business off the ground or express things that are in their head, even if they’re not great at lighting or visuals.”
Freepik’s tools have already made their way into high-profile projects. Robert Zemeckis’ “Here,” starring a digitally de-aged Tom Hanks and set in one room over a period for decades, used the company’s upscaling tech to enhance backgrounds. A recently released anthology of AI-crafted short films, “Beyond the Loop,” which was creatively mentored by director Danny Boyle, used the platform to generate stylized visuals.
“More people will be able to make better videos, but the high end will keep pushing forward too,” Cuenca says. “I think it will expand what it means to be state of the art.”
For all the concern about runaway slop, Williams envisions a near-term stalemate, where AI expands the landscape without toppling the kind of storytelling that still sets Hollywood apart. In that future, he argues, the industry’s competitive edge — and perhaps its best shot at survival — will still come from human creators.
That belief in the value of human authorship is now being codified by the industry’s most influential institution. Earlier this year, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences issued its first formal guidance on AI in filmmaking, stating that the use of generative tools will “neither help nor harm” a film’s chances of receiving a nomination. Instead, members are instructed to consider “the degree to which a human was at the heart of the creative authorship” when evaluating a work.
“I don’t see AI necessarily displacing the kind of narrative content that has been the province of Hollywood’s creative minds and acted by the stars,” Williams says. “The industry is operating at a very high level of innovation and creativity. Every time I turn around, there’s another movie I’ve got to see.”
The new studio model
Inside Mack Sennett Studios, a historic complex in L.A.’s Echo Park neighborhood once used for silent film shoots, a new kind of studio is taking shape: Asteria, the generative AI video studio founded by filmmaker-turned-entrepreneur Bryn Mooser.
Asteria serves as the creative arm of Moonvalley, an AI storytelling company led by technologist and chief executive Naeem Talukdar. Together, they’re exploring new workflows built around the idea that AI can expand, rather than replace, human creativity.
Mooser, a two-time Oscar nominee for documentary short subject and a fifth-generation Angeleno, sees the rise of AI as part of Hollywood’s long history of reinvention, from sound to color to CGI. “Looking back, those changes seem natural, but at the time, they were difficult,” he says.
Ed Ulbrich, left, Bryn Mooser and Mateusz Malinowski, executives at Moonvalley and Asteria, are building a new kind of AI-powered movie studio focused on collaboration between filmmakers and technologists.
(David Butow / For the Times)
What excites him now is how AI lowers technical barriers for the next generation. “For people who are technicians, like stop-motion or VFX artists, you can do a lot more as an individual or a small team,” he says. “And really creative filmmakers can cross departments in a way they couldn’t before. The people who are curious and leaning in are going to be the filmmakers of tomorrow.”
It’s a hopeful vision, one shared by many AI proponents who see the tools as a great equalizer, though some argue it often glosses over the structural realities facing working artists today, where talent and drive alone may not be enough to navigate a rapidly shifting, tech-driven landscape.
That tension is precisely what Moonvalley is trying to address. Their pitch isn’t just creative, it’s legal. While many AI companies remain vague about what their models are trained on, often relying on scraped content of questionable legality, Moonvalley built its video model, Marey, on fully licensed material and in close collaboration with filmmakers.
That distinction is becoming more significant. In June, Disney and Universal filed a sweeping copyright lawsuit against Midjourney, a popular generative AI tool that turns text prompts into images, accusing it of enabling rampant infringement by letting users generate unauthorized depictions of characters like Darth Vader, Spider-Man and the Minions. The case marks the most aggressive legal challenge yet by Hollywood studios against AI platforms trained on their intellectual property.
“We worked with some of the best IP lawyers in the industry to build the agreements with our providers,” Moonvalley’s Talukdar says. “We’ve had a number of major studios audit those agreements. We’re confident every single pixel has had a direct sign-off from the owner. That was the baseline we operated from.”
The creative frontier between Hollywood and AI is drawing interest from some of the industry’s most ambitious filmmakers.
Steven Spielberg and “Avengers” co-director Joe Russo were among the advisors to Wonder Dynamics, an AI-driven VFX startup that was acquired by Autodesk last year. Darren Aronofsky, the boundary-pushing director behind films like “Black Swan” and “The Whale,” recently launched the AI studio Primordial Soup, partnering with Google DeepMind. Its debut short, “Ancestra,” directed by Eliza McNitt, blends real actors with AI-generated visuals and premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in June.
Not every foray into AI moviemaking has been warmly received. Projects that spotlight generative tools have stoked fresh arguments about where to draw the line between machine-made and human-driven art.
In April, actor and director Natasha Lyonne, who co-founded Asteria with her partner, Mooser, announced her feature directorial debut: a sci-fi film about a world addicted to VR gaming called “Uncanny Valley,” combining AI and traditional filmmaking techniques. Billed as offering “a radical new cinematic experience,” the project drew backlash from some critics who questioned whether such ventures risk diminishing the role of human authorship. Lyonne defended the film to the Hollywood Reporter, making clear she’s not replacing crew members with AI: “I love nothing more than filmmaking, the filmmaking community, the collaboration of it, the tactile fine art of it… In no way would I ever want to do anything other than really create some guardrails or a new language.”
Even the boldest experiments face a familiar hurdle: finding an audience. AI might make it easier to make a movie, but getting people to watch it is another story. For now, the real power still lies with platforms like Netflix and TikTok that decide what gets seen.
That’s why Mooser believes the conversation shouldn’t be about replacing filmmakers but empowering them. “When we switched from shooting on film to digital, it wasn’t the filmmakers who went away — it was Kodak and Polaroid,” he says. “The way forward isn’t everybody typing prompts. It’s putting great filmmakers in the room with the best engineers and solving this together. We haven’t yet seen what AI looks like in the hands of the best filmmakers of our time. But that’s coming.”
New formats, new storytellers
For more than a century, watching a movie has been a one-way experience: The story flows from screen to viewer. Stephen Piron wants to change that. His startup Pickford AI — named for Mary Pickford, the silent-era star who co-founded United Artists and helped pioneer creative control in Hollywood — is exploring whether stories can unfold in real time, shaped by the audience as they watch. Its cheeky slogan: “AI that smells like popcorn.”
Pickford’s flagship demo looks like an animated dating show, but behaves more like a game or an improv performance. There’s no fixed script. Viewers type in suggestions through an app and vote on others’ ideas. A large language model then uses that input, along with the characters’ backstories and a rough narrative outline, to write the next scene in real time. A custom engine renders it on the spot, complete with gestures and synthetic voices. Picture a cartoon version of “The Bachelor” crossed with a choose-your-own-adventure, rendered by AI in real time.
At live screenings this year in London and Los Angeles, audiences didn’t just watch — they steered the story, tossing in oddball twists and becoming part of the performance. “We wanted to see if we could bring the vibe of the crowd back into the show, make it feel more like improv or live theater,” Piron says. “The main reaction is people laugh, which is great. There’s been lots of positive reaction from creative people who think this could be an interesting medium to create new stories.”
The platform is still in closed beta. But Piron’s goal is a collaborative storytelling forum where anyone can shape a scene, improvise with AI and instantly share it. To test that idea on a larger scale, Pickford is developing a branching murder mystery with Emmy-winning writer-producer Bernie Su (“The Lizzie Bennet Diaries”).
Piron, who is skeptical that people really want hyper-personalized content, is exploring more ways to bring the interactive experience into more theaters. “I think there is a vacuum of live, in-person experiences that people can do — and maybe people are looking for that,” he says.
Attendees check in at May’s AI on the Lot conference, where Pickford AI screened a demo of its interactive dating show.
(Irina Logra)
As generative AI lowers the barrier to creation, the line between creator and consumer is starting to blur and some of the most forward-looking startups are treating audiences as collaborators, not just fans.
One example is Showrunner, a new, Amazon-backed platform from Fable Studio that lets users generate animated, TV-style episodes using prompts, images and AI-generated voices — and even insert themselves into the story. Initially free, the platform plans to charge a monthly subscription for scene-generation credits. Fable is pitching Showrunner as “the Netflix of AI,” a concept that has intrigued some studios and unsettled others. Chief executive Edward Saatchi says the company is already in talks with Disney and other content owners about bringing well-known franchises into the platform.
Other AI companies are focused on building new franchises from the ground up with audiences as co-creators from day one. Among the most ambitious is Invisible Universe, which bypasses traditional gatekeepers entirely and develops fresh IP in partnership with fans across TikTok, YouTube and Instagram. Led by former MGM and Snap executive Tricia Biggio, the startup has launched original animated characters with celebrities like Jennifer Aniston and Serena Williams, including Clydeo, a cooking-obsessed dog, and Qai Qai, a dancing doll. But its real innovation, Biggio says, is the direct relationship with the audience.
“We’re not going to a studio and saying, ‘Do you like our idea?’ We’re going to the audience,” she says. “If Pixar were starting today, I don’t think they’d choose to spend close to a decade developing something for theatrical release, hoping it works.”
While some in the industry are still waiting for an AI “Toy Story” or “Blair Witch” moment — a breakthrough that proves generative tools can deliver cultural lightning in a bottle — Biggio isn’t chasing a feature-length hit. “There are ways to build love and awareness for stories that don’t require a full-length movie,” she says. “Did it make you feel something? Did it make you want to go call your mom? That’s going to be the moment we cross the chasm.”
What if AI isn’t the villain?
For nearly a century, filmmakers have imagined what might happen if machines got too smart.
In 1927’s “Metropolis,” a mad scientist gives his robot the likeness of a beloved labor activist, then unleashes it to sow chaos among the city’s oppressed masses. In “2001: A Space Odyssey,” HAL 9000 turns on its crew mid-mission. In “The Terminator,” AI nukes the planet and sends a killer cyborg back in time to finish the job. “Blade Runner” and “Ex Machina” offered chilling visions of artificial seduction and deception. Again and again, the message has been clear: Trust the machines at your peril.
Director Gareth Edwards, best known for “Godzilla” and “Rogue One: A Star Wars Story,” wanted to flip the script. In “The Creator,” his 2023 sci-fi drama, the roles were reversed: Humans are waging war against AI and the machines, not the people, are cast as the hunted. The story follows a hardened ex-soldier, played by John David Washington, who’s sent to destroy a powerful new weapon, only to discover it’s a child: a young android who may be the key to peace.
“The second you look at things from AI’s perspective, it flips very easily,” Edwards told The Times by phone shortly before the film’s release. “From AI’s point of view, we are attempting to enslave it and use it as our servant. So we’re clearly the baddie in that situation.”
In Gareth Edwards’ 2023 film “The Creator,” a young AI child named Alphie (Madeleine Yuna Voyles) holds the key to humanity’s future.
(20th Century)
In many ways, “The Creator” was the kind of film audiences and critics say they want to see more often out of Hollywood: an original story that takes creative risks, delivering cutting-edge visuals on a relatively lean $80 million. But when it hit theaters that fall, the film opened in third place behind “Paw Patrol: The Mighty Movie” and “Saw X.” By the end of its run, it had pulled in a modest $104.3 million worldwide.
Part of the problem was timing. When Edwards first pitched the film, AI was still seen as a breakthrough, not a threat. But by the time the movie reached theaters, the public mood had shifted. The 2023 strikes were in full swing, AI was the villain of the moment — and here came a film in which AI literally nukes Los Angeles in the opening minutes. The metaphor wasn’t subtle. Promotion was limited, the cast was sidelined and audiences weren’t sure whether to cheer the movie’s message or recoil from it. While the film used cutting-edge VFX tools to help bring its vision to life, it served as a potent reminder that AI could help make a movie — but it still couldn’t shield it from the backlash.
Still, Edwards remains hopeful about what AI could mean for the future of filmmaking, comparing it to the invention of the electric guitar. “There’s a possibility that if this amazing tool turns up and everyone can make any film that they imagine, it’s going to lead to a new wave of cinema,” he says. “Look, there’s two options: Either it will be mediocre rubbish — and if that’s true, don’t worry about it, it’s not a threat — or it’s going to be phenomenal, and who wouldn’t want to see that?”
After “The Creator,” Edwards returned to more familiar terrain, taking the reins on this summer’s “Jurassic World Rebirth,” the sixth installment in a franchise that began with Steven Spielberg’s 1993 blockbuster, which redefined spectacle in its day. To date, the film has grossed more than $700 million worldwide.
So what’s the takeaway? Maybe there’s comfort in the known. Maybe audiences crave the stories they’ve grown up with. Maybe AI still needs the right filmmaker or the right story to earn our trust.
Or maybe we’re just not ready to root for the machines. At least not yet.
A little over a year ago, Madi Diaz lay in bed in an apartment near Dodger Stadium sweating out a gnarly case of COVID-19.
The Nashville-based singer and songwriter had traveled to Los Angeles to record the follow-up to her album “Weird Faith,” which came out in early 2024 and would go on to earn two Grammy nominations, including one for a beautifully bummed-out duet with her friend Kacey Musgraves. But after three or four days of work in the studio, Diaz became sick just as the Dodgers were battling the Mets in last October’s National League Championship Series.
“I could literally see the stadium lights — there were drones everywhere and people honking and lighting things on fire,” she recalls. “I was just like, Why, L.A. — why?”
Her suffering in a city she once called home was worth it: “Fatal Optimist,” the LP Diaz eventually completed in time to release this month, is one of 2025’s most gripping — a bravely stripped-down set of songs about heartbreak and renewal arranged for little more than Diaz’s confiding voice and her folky acoustic guitar.
In the album’s opener, “Hope Less,” she wonders how far she might be willing to go to accommodate a lover’s neglect; “Good Liar” examines the self-deception necessary to keep putting up with it. Yet Diaz also thinks through the harm she’s doled out, as in “Flirting” (“I can’t change what happened, the moment was just what it was / Nothing to me, something to you”).
And then there’s the gutting “Heavy Metal,” in which she acknowledges that enduring the pain of a breakup has prepared her to deal with the inevitability of the next one.
“This record is me facing myself and going, ‘I have to stay in my body for this entire song,’ ” Diaz, 39, says on a recent afternoon during a return trip to L.A.
What makes the unguardedness of the music even more remarkable is that “Fatal Optimist” comes more than a decade and a half into a twisty-turny career that might’ve left Diaz more leathered than she sounds here.
Beyond making her own albums — “Fatal Optimist” is her sixth since she moved to Nashville in 2008 — she’s written songs for commercials and TV shows and for other artists including Maren Morris and Little Big Town; she’s sung backup for Miranda Lambert and Parker McCollum and even played guitar in Harry Styles’ band on tour in 2023.
Yet in a tender new song like “Feel Something,” about longing to “be someone who doesn’t know your middle name,” Diaz’s singing reveals every bruise.
“Music is a life force for Madi,” says Bethany Cosentino, the Best Coast frontwoman who tapped Diaz as a songwriting partner for her 2023 solo album, “Natural Disaster.” “She has to do it, and it’s so authentic and so real and so raw because it’s not coming from this place of ‘Well, guess I gotta go make another record.’ ”
“If she doesn’t put those emotions somewhere,” Cosentino adds, “I think she’ll implode.”
Which doesn’t mean that putting out a record as vulnerable as “Fatal Optimist” hasn’t felt scary.
“I was gonna say it’s like the emperor’s new clothes,” Diaz says with a laugh over coffee in Griffith Park. “But I know I’m not wearing any clothes.” Dressed in shorts and a denim shirt, her hair tucked beneath a ball cap, she sits at a picnic table outside a café she liked when she lived in L.A. from 2012 to 2017.
“For a second, I was like, Damn, I wish I’d brought my hiking shoes — could’ve gone up to the top,” she says. “I would absolutely have done that as my masochistic 28-year-old self. Hike in the heat of the day? Let’s go.”
Diaz points to a couple of touchstones for her LP’s bare-bones approach, among them Patty Griffin’s “Living With Ghosts” — “a star in Orion’s Belt,” as she puts it — and “obviously Joni Mitchell’s ‘Blue,’ ” she says. “That’s just a duh.”
Like Mitchell, Diaz achieves a clarity of thought in her songs that only intensifies the heartache; also like Mitchell (not to mention Taylor Swift), she can describe a partner’s failings with unsparing precision.
“Some ‘I’m sorry’s’ are so selfish / And you just act like you can’t help it,” she sings in “Why’d You Have to Bring Me Flowers,” one of a handful of what she jokingly calls “folk diss tracks” on “Fatal Optimist.” It goes on: “Bulls— smile, in denial / We’ve been circling the block / We’ve been in a downward spiral.”
“There are definitely a couple songs on this record where I felt apologetic as I was writing it,” she says. “Then when I finished it was just like: It had to be done.” She grins. “They’re tough,” she says of her exes. “They’ll be fine.”
Asked whether any of her songs express her feelings in a way she wasn’t capable of doing with the ex in question, she nods.
“I’d say I could get about halfway there in real life,” she says. “It’s almost like I couldn’t finish the thought within the relationship, and that was the signal that we couldn’t go onward. Or that I couldn’t go onward.”
Has writing about love taught her anything about herself and what she wants?
“I travel a lot — I’m all over the place,” she says. “And I really like to come and go as I please. But it’s funny: In retrospect, I think maybe I was chasing a relationship that was a little more traditional, even though I don’t know if I can actually be that way. So that’s a weird thing to be aware of.”
Madi Diaz in Pasadena.
(Annie Noelker / For The Times)
Diaz grew up home-schooled in a Quaker household in rural Pennsylvania and learned to play piano and guitar when she was young; when she was a teenager, her talent took her to Philadelphia’s Paul Green School of Rock, whose founder was later accused of abuse and sexual misconduct by dozens of former students, including Diaz. (“It was a really toxic place,” she told the New York Times.)
She studied at Berklee College of Music in Boston before dropping out and heading to Nashville, where she started making her name as a singer-songwriter operating at the intersection of country and pop. After a few years of fruitful grinding, she came to L.A. to “see how high the ceiling was,” she says, and quickly fell in with a group of musician friends.
“We used to love going to the Smog Cutter,” she says of the shuttered Silver Lake dive bar, “to have a couple Bud Lights and sing Mariah Carey really poorly.”
Diaz was making money writing songs — Connie Britton sang one of her tunes on the soapy ABC series “Nashville” — but she struggled to achieve the kind of liftoff she was looking for as an artist. “Turned out the ceiling was quite high,” she says now with a laugh.
Along with the professional frustrations came “a nuclear explosion of a breakup” with a fellow songwriter, Teddy Geiger. “They were going through a huge identity shift,” Diaz says of Geiger, who came out as transgender, “and we worked in the same industry, and it just kind of felt like there wasn’t a place for me here.”
Diaz returned to Nashville, which didn’t immediately super-charge her career. “I was bartending at Wilburn Street Tavern and making Jack White nachos,” she recalls. “He would never remember this, but I remember. I was like, This is my life now.”
In fact, her acclaimed 2021 album “History of a Feeling” — with songs inspired by the complicated dynamics of her and Geiger’s split — finally brought the kind of attention she’d been working toward. She signed with the respected indie label Anti- (whose other acts include Waxahatchee and MJ Lenderman) and scored the road gig with Styles after he reached out via DM; she also became an in-demand presence in Nashville’s close-knit songwriting scene.
“I don’t know of anybody in town that doesn’t love Madi,” says Little Big Town’s Karen Fairchild, who adds that Diaz “has instincts about melodies that are all her own. Sometimes I’m thinking, ‘How’s she gonna fit that into the phrasing?’ But she always does.”
For “Fatal Optimist,” Diaz took an initial pass at recording her songs with a full band before deciding they called for the minimalist setup she landed on with her co-producer, Gabe Wax, at his studio in Burbank.
“We did it with no headphones, no click track, no grid,” she says. “It speeds up and slows down, and it goes in and out of tune as instruments do.” (One unlikely sonic inspiration was a singles collection by the pioneering riot grrrl band Bikini Kill, which she hailed for its “still-kind-of-figuring-it-out energy.”)
Diaz describes herself as a perfectionist but says “Fatal Optimist” was about “trying to find our way through the cracks of imperfection to break the ground and sit on the surface. I feel so proud that we let it live there.”
She’s touring behind the album this fall, playing solo shows — including a Nov. 20 date at the Highland Park Ebell Club — meant to preserve the album’s solitary vibe.
“I don’t know if I’d really thought that through when I made the decision,” she says with a laugh.
As good as she is on her own — and for all the torment she knows another relationship is likely to hold — “I’m a die-hard loyalist,” Diaz says. “I’m still looking for connection more than anything else.”
About a week ago, I was chatting with friends at a gathering when I realized I had before me a diverse range of political ideologies. “How are you guys voting on Prop 50?” I asked.
I received a range of answers, including folks who wanted more information before casting their ballot and those who remained conflicted. As a journalist, I don’t share how I vote on, well, anything, and I also don’t tell people how they should vote. But I want to encourage you to vote.
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If you, like my friends, remain conflicted or want more information, what better way to work those feelings out than out on the trail? Using a strategy known as temptation bundling — where you pair something you enjoy with something you’re perhaps procrastinating — you could download a fewpoliticalpodcasts beforehand and listen as you hike (leaving one earbud out) or invite a few pals and talk out your thoughts on Prop 50 as you hike along.
Here you’ll find three great hiking areas near ballot drop boxes. We aren’t forced to vote in one specific place here in L.A. County, so let’s take full advantage of that.
The Glendale Sports Complex and Verdugo Mountains from the Catalina Verdugo Trail.
Hikers have a few options when adventuring around the Glendale Sports Complex, including the 2-mile Catalina Verdugo Trail loop. This trail leads hikers through the San Rafael Hills around the Glendale Sports Complex. It’s not an escape from urban life, but it is well-maintained and has much to appreciate, including native trees like laurel sumac, lemonade berry, oak trees, toyon and ceanothus. You can run your fingers through the zesty California sagebrush as you consider your podcast’s or friend’s points on our current political dynamic.
At 1.25 miles on the trail, you have the choice to continue up to the Ridge Motorway, or you can go down .7 of a mile back via the Catalina Verdugo Trail. The Ridge Motorway continues upward, offering ocean views, before connecting with the Descanso Motorway and several other trails.
The accessible alternative is the Mountain Do Trail that runs around the border of the sports fields. You can extend your journey beyond the Mountain Do Trail, which I drew out via CalTopo here. It’s overall a wide path with a gentle slope and a few picnic tables where it’d be nice to take a break and consider how to complete your ballot.
Native California wildflowers in the scenic Alta Vicente Reserve in spring 2024.
The Palos Verdes Nature Preserve is actually 15 individual preserves totaling about 1,500 acres. That includes the Alta Vicente Reserve, 55 acres around and below Rancho Palos Verdes City Hall where a ballot drop box is located.
The Alta Vicente Reserve features a few different trails that can be turned into a 2-mile loop. If you want to further your adventure, you can hit one of the trails that remains open despite landslides. Regardless, you’ll be treated to gorgeous ocean views, a sight that always helps me think.
After hiking and voting, you can also visit the Point Vicente Interpretive Center to learn about local flora and fauna. It is open daily and also features a fun gift shop.
Visitors to Vasquez Rocks Natural Area walk up the photogenic rock formation.
Vasquez Rocks Natural Area is one of those places you can visit over and over, and keep seeing something new. I enjoy taking the Apwinga Loop Trail, a 3.4-mile trek where you’ll pass massive pancake-like rock formations along with the park’s appropriately named “Famous Rocks.” This trail connects with others in the park, including the Bobcat Trail, Tokupar Ridgetop Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail as it descends into the canyon.
The Juniper Meadow Walking Loop is about a half mile and is an accessible loop. Its trailhead is near the parking lot where visitors can see the park’s iconic geography. Hopefully, the high desert atmosphere provides you with ample time and space to consider the choice you’d like to make on your ballot!
The good news is, if these trails aren’t calling to you, there are voting centers and ballot drop boxes all over L.A. County. It doesn’t matter where you go — just that you vote!
3 things to do
Gladys Samuel, from Long Island, N.Y., visits the community altar at Grand Park in downtown Los Angeles. Grand Park pays tribute to the cultural tradition of Día de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, every year.
(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)
1. Observe Day of the Dead around L.A. Several local parks are hosting Día de los Muertos events, including from 3 to 7 p.m. Sunday at Grand Park. The event, titled Noche de los Muertos, is a closing ceremony that will feature music, dancing, lanterns and a community mercado. Nature for All and other local groups will host a Día de los Muertos event from 1 to 3 p.m. Saturday at Marson Park in Panorama City. Participants can help build a community altar and design mini paper altars. San Gabriel River Park will host its Día de los Muertos event from 10 a.m. to noon Saturday. Learn more about additional park Day of the Dead events at L.A. County Park’s Instagram page.
2. Hike with an almost full moon in L.A. The Sierra Club Angeles Chapter will host a 5-mile moderate hike from 7 to 9:30 p.m. Saturday through Griffith Park. Guests should arrive by 6:45 p.m., allowing for extra time because of the park’s Haunted Hay Ride. For additional details and to sign up, visit meetup.com.
3. Do the most for the least tern in Huntington Beach OC Habitats, a local conservation nonprofit, will host a dune preservation work day at 8:30 a.m. Wednesday at Huntington State Beach. Volunteers will pick up trash and remove invasive species to help improve the nesting habitat of the endangered California least tern. Register at eventbrite.com.
The must-read
I am terrified to report that it’s tarantula mating season, meaning these eight-legged furry residents will be far easier to spot on the trails. Times staff writer Lila Seidman wrote — in a story I was almost too scared to read — that in California, “October is typically a prime mating month for the bulky, hirsute spiders. Natural cues are key, with autumn’s initial precipitation generally triggering the march. Experts suspect males are following pheromones to hunkered-down females.” Although I will never personally find out, some parts of the tarantula feel almost like sable fur, Seidman wrote. “They’re soft like kitties,” said Lisa Gonzalez, program manager of invertebrate living collections at the county Natural History Museum.
I will take my chances trying to pet the fuzzy tummies of my actual cats because, regardless of how reasonable it is, their fangs scare me less! (I am much less of a wiener when it comes to literally any other spider — judge me not!)
Happy adventuring,
P.S.
If like me, you’ve never been to Big Sur, now is the time for Southern Californians to go. My colleague Christopher Reynolds reports that because Big Sur’s South Coast highway remains closed, there’s a rare window of solitude: “empty beaches, dramatic cliffs and nearly empty trails for six months.” Whaaaaa? Amazing. Let’s take full advantage of this opportunity and support local businesses in the process!
For more insider tips on Southern California’s beaches, trails and parks, check out past editions of The Wild. And to view this newsletter in your browser, click here.
The hair of the dog is no miracle remedy. Colin Farrell knows this from experience.
The Irish actor learned the limits of the folk remedy many moons ago while filming “Minority Report,” the Steven Spielberg-directed tech noir film based on Philip K. Dick’s science fiction novella of the same name.
That fateful day on set, as Farrell told it Tuesday on “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert,” was perhaps even more disturbing than the surveillance-state setting wherein the 2002 film unfolds.
It all started on the eve of Farrell’s birthday, he said. That night, he “got up to all sorts of nonsense” that landed him back home in the wee hours. At the time, Farrell was struggling to kick a longtime substance abuse habit.
“I remember getting into bed, and as soon as I turned off the light the phone rang,” the Academy Award winner said. He was 10 minutes late for his 6 a.m. pickup.
“I went, ‘Oh, s—.’”
Farrell said he had hardly fumbled his way out of his car when assistant director David H. Venghaus Jr. intercepted him, insisting, “You can’t go to the set like this.”
In response, the young actor requested six Pacifico beers and a pack of Marlboro Reds.
“Now listen, it’s not cool because two years later I went to rehab, right?” Farrell told Colbert. “But it worked in the moment.”
Did it, though?
In the end, Farrell said it took him 46 takes to deliver one single line, albeit a verbose one: “I’m sure you’ve all grasped the fundamental paradox of pre-crime methodology.”
“Tom wasn’t very happy with me,” Farrell said. Lucky for Cruise, he got a consolation prize in the form of a Saturn Award nomination from the Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror Films. Plus, “Minority Report’s” $35.6-million domestic opening didn’t hurt.
At first, the transition was difficult to manage, Farrell said: “After 15 or 20 years of carousing the way I caroused and drinking the way I drank, the sober world is a pretty scary world.”
But “to come home and not to have the buffer support of a few drinks just to calm the nerves, it was a really amazing thing,” he said.
STOCKTON — Four of California’s gubernatorial candidates tangled over climate change and wildfire preparedness at an economic forum Thursday in Stockton, though they all acknowledged the stark problems facing the state.
Riverside County Sheriff Chad Bianco, a Republican, stood apart from the three other candidates — all Democrats — at the California Economic Summit by challenging whether the spate of devastating wildfires in California is linked to climate change, and labeling some environmental activists “terrorists.”
After a few audience members shouted at Bianco over his “terrorists” comment, the Democratic candidates seized on the moment to reaffirm their own beliefs about the warming planet.
“The impacts of climate change are proven and undeniable,” said Tony Thurmond, a Democrat and California superintendent of public instruction. “You can call them what you want. That’s our new normal.”
The fires “do have a relationship with climate change,” said former Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa.
Besides environmental issues, the hour-and-a-half forum at the business-centric California Forward’s Economic Summit focused primarily on “checkbook” topics as the candidates, which also included former state Controller Betty Yee, offered gloomy statistics about poverty and homelessness in California.
Given the forum’s location in the Central Valley, the agricultural industry and rural issues were front and center.
Bianco harped on the state and the Democratic leaders for California’s handling of water management and gasoline prices. At one point, he told the audience that he felt like he was in the “Twilight Zone” after the Democrats on stage pitched ways to raise revenue.
Other candidates in California‘s 2026 governor’s race, including former Secretary of Health and Human Services Xavier Becerra and former Rep. Katie Porter, were not present at Thursday’s debate. Former Assembly Majority Leader Ian Calderon planned to come, but his flight from Los Angeles was delayed, audience members were told.
All are vying to lead a state facing ongoing budget deficits caused by overspending. A state Legislative Analyst’s Office report released this month cited projected annual operating deficits ranging from roughly $15 billion to $25 billion through 2029. At the same time, federal cutbacks by the Trump administration to programs for needy Californians, including the state’s Medi-Cal healthcare program, will put more pressure on the state’s resources.
All of the candidates had different pitches during the afternoon event. Asked by moderator Jeanne Kuang, a CalMatters reporter, about ways to help rural communities, Thurmond cited his plan to build housing on surplus property owned by the state. He also repeatedly talked about extending tax credits or other subsidies to groups, including day-care providers.
Yee, discussing the wildfires, spoke on hardening homes and creating an industry around fire-proofing the state. Yee received applause when she questioned why there wasn’t more discussion about education in the governor’s race.
Villaraigosa cited his work finding federal funds to build rail and subway lines across Los Angeles and suggested that he would focus on growing the state’s power grid and transportation infrastructure.
Both the former mayor and Yee at points sided with Bianco when they complained about the “over-regulation” by the state, including restrictions on developers, builders and small businesses.
Few voters are probably paying much attention to the contest, with the battle over Proposition 50 dominating headlines and campaign spending.
Voters on Nov. 4 will decide whether to support the proposition, which is a Democratic-led effort to gerrymander California’s congressional districts to try and blunt President Trump’s attempt to rig districts in GOP-led states to retain control of the House of Representatives.
“Frankly, nobody’s focused on the governor’s race right now,” Yee said at an event last week.
I felt like a child again as I wandered down to the riverbank to look at crawdads.
“Oh, the L.A. River folks posted on Instagram about this, but I didn’t know they were right here,” my walking partner said.
Dozens of bright red crustaceans swam and fought and hid in the warm shallow water of the Glendale Narrows of the Los Angeles River. A Cooper’s hawk swooped down to grab a branch presumably for a nearby nest. A black-crowned night heron accidentally dropped its lunch, perhaps a frog, back into the water.
Crawdads, or crayfish, fight each other, eat and bask in the sun in the L.A. River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
Later, I’d witness Canada geese arriving in formation before landing on the river for their evening dinner and rest.
In all honesty, I hadn’t expected such abundant life less than a quarter of a mile from the 5 Freeway. But that’s what you’ll discover along the sandy, soft bottom segments of the L.A. River where nature rejected concrete and instead built back life.
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Jason Wise, an L.A.-based conservationist, was my walking partner who spotted the crawdaddies, as I was raised to call them in Oklahoma. I had asked Wise, who regularly hosts educational hikes, if we could walk along the river and explore one of its soft bottom segments.
Since moving to L.A., I’d wondered why certain parts of the river were lush and beautiful. My wife and I had biked a few times from Koreatown to the river trail, usually eating at Spoke Bicycle Cafe. Why did this segment look like an actual river and not the concrete flood channel featured in the 1978 film “Grease”?
Ducks stand on rocks in the sandy bottom of the Los Angeles River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
We’ll get to that precise answer, but first, a bit of geography and history.
The L.A. River has existed for thousands of years and was the site of Indigenous villages for more than 1,000 years. It is, in its current iteration, a 51-mile “engineered waterway” whose banks were channelized with concrete starting in 1938 and finished by 1960, according to the county public works department.
Three portions of the river, though, remain unpaved:
As we watched its waters flow by, Wise explained that the L.A. River was a wild, free-flowing river that often changed course.
The Glendale Narrows area of the L.A. River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
For example, as Times columnist Patt Morrison pointed out: “From today’s downtown, it coursed west and southwest all over the Los Angeles Basin until around 1825, when another flood redirected it toward where it flows today, more or less south from the original pueblo.”
This was a problem for L.A.’s developers. And not only that, Wise said, but the river flooded seasonally throughout the 1930s. At the same time, L.A. was growing rapidly, with lots of money to be made in building industry and homes as close to the river as possible.
In 1938, L.A. experienced a great flood — which in today’s meteorological lingo, we’d explain as essentially back-to-back atmospheric rivers hitting in 4½ days, bringing about 16 inches of rain, which is on average how much the area gets in a year. At least 96 people died (although experts say the number is probably higher).
The flood was the impetus for controlling the river, especially given that officials wanted to keep building near it.
At that time, two plans emerged, Wise said. This moment, dear Wilder, would be a good one to correct if you perhaps have a time machine on hand.
A beautiful evening at the Glendale Narrows of the L.A. River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
In a report titled “Parks, Playgrounds and Beaches for the Los Angeles Region,” designers recommended the region create an “emerald necklace,” or a series of parks along waterways, including the L.A River, the Rio Hondo, the San Gabriel River, Ballona Creek and Compton Creek. Officials could engineer the river with slopes to better handle flooding, and parks would soak up water and replenish the water table.
Areas near the river still might flood, and “we might have to replace some picnic tables or a playground, but otherwise, the whole city has all these parks, and a connection to nature and our wild river that is actually the foundation of the city, the reason that L.A. exists,” Wise said.
We didn’t do that.
Instead, officials asked the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers for a faster, simpler (and, in other words, cheaper) solution, Wise said. “Not that it was cheap to dig up and concretize a river, but if you locked this into place … you can then develop right up to the edge,” Wise said.
But in certain places, including the Glendale Narrows, the plan didn’t work. The Glendale Narrows has a higher water table than other areas of the L.A. River, and the engineers realized the concrete wouldn’t set because of the high amount of water and springs bubbling up.
White-faced ibises mingle on rocks at the Glendale Narrows of the L.A. River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
With the soil exposed, seeds could take root, plants returned, and wildlife came back. The ecosystem, as best it could, rebounded.
“It was an amazing mistake,” Wise said of the Corps’ inability to lay concrete over the entire L.A. River. “I’m so grateful that the Army Corps screwed that up.”
And now, there’s momentum to rethink the landscape of our river’s design.
My first question about that was: “Would we have to tolerate flooding again?” Wise told me that’s a common misconception. For one, it’s arguably impossible to “rewild” the entire river.
“You can’t get rid of this right now because there are homes right there,” Wise said. “We can’t completely undo the mistakes of the past, but we can find a way to create a better future and learn from those mistakes. The best thing to do with a mistake is to learn from it and do things better. It’s harder now, but what can we do to bring some wild back?”
Geese and other birds float along the Glendale Narrows of the Los Angeles River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
A few days after my visit with Wise, I returned to the L.A. River for sunset. I parked again at Elysian Valley Gateway Park and walked about a third of a mile south to an area of the river where heaps of rocks make it easier to cross the still-concrete part of the river to reach the natural area.
And then for an hour, I stood in awe as a concert of birds performed their evening serenade. White-faced ibises stood perfectly balanced on rocks among the calm river. Great blue herons passed by overhead. American coots submerged themselves underwater in search of food. A few large fish popped up to eat bugs.
Then I heard honking. Not the kind from the nearby 5 Freeway, which for this moment in time, didn’t exist. Four Canada geese appeared above in formation, swooping down to land together on the water. They floated over to the bank, just 15 feet or so from me, where one goose stood watch, protecting its three flock members as they ate and rested. I felt lucky to witness that, like I was living in a Mary Oliver poem.
A Canada goose watches out for its flock members as they eat and rest on the L.A. River.
(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)
It grew darker, and I soon left — only to hear more honking as nine more geese landed.
On my way home, traffic felt less obnoxious. My empty fridge felt less of a problem. Even the Trader Joe’s parking lot left me unaffected. Instead, I felt connected to not only our river and our city, but to the humans around me. As Wise reminded me:
The L.A. River “is the foundation of the city. Nature is all around us, and it’s even there within the city. There should be more of it … and through that connection, we realize we are nature. We are also animals on this planet, that everything is connected. We’re all one big living, breathing organism. Nature is a conduit to the rest of community and supporting each other and building each other up and helping each other out.”
3 things to do
Children’s paintings of P-22, L.A.’s late lion king who lived in and around Griffith Park for more than a decade, at the 2022 P-22 Day Festival.
(Save LA Cougars)
1. Keep P-22’s memory alive in L.A. 🦁🕯️ The #SaveLACougars campaign will host its annual P-22 Day Festival from 11 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. Saturday in Shane’s Inspiration (4800 Crystal Springs Drive) in Griffith Park. The event honors the legacy of P-22, a male mountain lion who inspired countless Angelenos into advocating for our local wildlife. Several local conservation and Indigenous groups will host tables with information about how attendees can get more involved in protecting our public lands. Guests can also meet the people behind the Wallis Annenberg Wildlife Crossing, take home native plants, enjoy art, crafts and food-trucks and check out the latest P-22 merchandise. Learn more at savelacougars.org.
2. Prowl for the phantasmal in Pasadena L.A. Fright Club, a horror-themed fitness group, will host its spooky hike club at 7 a.m. Sunday at the Lower Arroyo Seco trail. The group will meet at the trailhead in the San Pascual Stables parking lot (221 San Pascual Ave. in South Pasadena). Costumes are encouraged. Learn more at the group’s Instagram page.
3. Embrace the eerie in Elysian Park We Explore Earth will host Forest Bridges Day Camp, a Halloween-themed community celebration, from noon to 8 p.m. Saturday in Elysian Park. Attendees can participate in guided hikes, workshops, pumpkin carving, cornhole and more. Participants should bring a blanket, camping chair and/or pillows for the movie “The Nightmare Before Christmas” at 5:30 p.m. Tickets are available at eventbrite.com.
The must-read
Spanish mountaineer Kilian Jornet climbed 72 summits over 14,000 feet in the contiguous U.S. in 31 days this fall. Jornet is pictured here in the Sierra Nevada range known as the Normans 13, which connects 13 summits over 13,000 feet (3,962 meters).
(Andy Cochrane)
In just 31 days, Spanish mountaineer Kilian Jornet recently climbed all 72 summits in the contiguous United States that stand over 14,000 feet tall — a feat similar to climbing Mt. Whitney 2½ times per day, every day, for a month, writes Times staff writer Jack Dolan. Jornet’s journey included California’s “Norman’s 13,” which is 13 summits over 14,000 feet in remote alpine terrain between Lone Pine and Bishop. My first question, reading Jack’s piece was: “Why?” Jornet said he doesn’t do it for the glory. “I do these things because I love them, because they bring me joy and happiness, not because I think they’re very important,” he said.
Happy adventuring,
P.S.
For fans of one of California’s silliest native animals, I have great news! Reservations opened Monday for guided elephant seal tours at Año Nuevo State Park, which is about 6½ hours northwest of L.A. Every December, these massive sea mammals migrate to the beaches of Año Nuevo for their breeding and birthing season. There is fighting — drama! — along with lots of vocalizing and “galumphing,” the park said on its Instagram page. To reserve your spot for a tour, visit this website, and from the “category” dropdown menu, choose “guided seal walks” before choosing which day you’d like to go. Reservations are available 56 days (eight weeks) in advance of your desired walk date.
For more insider tips on Southern California’s beaches, trails and parks, check out past editions of The Wild. And to view this newsletter in your browser, click here.
Like with cigarettes, la migra should come with a warning label: Proximity to ICE could be hazardous for your health.
From Los Angeles to Chicago, Portlandand New York, the evidence is ample enough that wherever Trump sends in the immigration agency, people get hurt. And not just protesters and immigrants.
That includes 13 police officers tear-gassed in Chicago earlier this month. And, now, a U.S. marshal.
Federal agents boxed in the Toyota Camry of local TikToker Carlitos Ricardo Parias — better known to his hundreds of thousands of followers as Richard LA. As Parias allegedly tried to rev his way out of the trap, an ICE agent opened fire. One bullet hit the 44-year-old Mexican immigrant — and another ricocheted into the hand of a deputy U.S. marshal.
Neither suffered life-threatening injuries, but it’s easy to imagine that things could have easily turned out worse. Such is the chaos that Trump has caused by unleashing shock troops into U.S. cities.
Rather than take responsibility and apologize for an incident that could’ve easily been lethal, Team Trump went into their default spin mode of blaming everyone but themselves.
Homeland Security assistant secretary Tricia McLaughlin said in a statement that the shooting was “the consequences of conduct and rhetoric by sanctuary politicians and activists who urge illegal aliens to resist arrest.”
Acting U.S. Atty. Bill Essayli chimed in on social media soon after: “I urge California public officials to moderate their rhetoric toward federal law enforcement. Encouraging resistance to federal agents can lead to deadly consequences.” Hours later, he called Times reporter James Queally “an absolute joke, not a journalist” because my colleague noted it’s standard practice by most American law enforcement agencies to not shoot at moving vehicles. One reason is that it increases the chance of so-called friendly fire.
Federal authorities accuse Parias of ramming his car into agents’ vehicles after they boxed him in. He is being charged with assault on a federal officer.
Time, and hopefully, evidence, will show what happened — and very important, what led to what happened.
The Trump administration keeps claiming that the public anger against its immigration actions is making the job more dangerous for la migra and their sister agencies. McLaughlin and her boss, Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem, keep saying there’s been a 1,000% increase in assaults on immigration agents this year like an incantation. Instead of offering concrete figures, they use the supposed stat as a shield against allegations ICE tactics are going too far and as a weapon to excuse the very brutality ICE claims it doesn’t practice.
Well, even if what they say is true, there’s only one side that’s making the job more dangerous for la migra and others during raids:
La migra.
It turns out that if you send in phalanxes of largely masked federal agents to bully and intimidate people in American cities, Americans tend not to take kindly to it.
Who knew?
Gregory Bovino, center, of U.S. Border Patrol, marches with federal agents to the Edward R. Roybal Federal Building in Los Angeles on Aug. 14.
(Carlin Stiehl / Los Angeles Times)
We’re about to enter the sixth month of Trump’s plan to rid the country of undocumented immigrants. Sycophants are bragging that he’s doing the job, but they’re not caring to look at the mess left in its wake that’s becoming more and more perilous for everyone involved. They insist that those who are executing and planning raids are professionals, but professionals don’t make constant pendejos out of themselves.
Professionals don’t bring squadrons to chase after tamale ladies or day laborers, or stage flashy raids of apartments and parks that accomplish little else than footage for propaganda videos. They don’t go into neighborhoods with intimidation on their mind and ready to rough up anyone who gets in their way.
A ProPublica investigation showed that ICE has detained at least 170 U.S. citizens this year, many whom offered proof that they were in this country legally as la migra cuffed them and hauled them off to detention centers.
Professionals don’t lie like there’s a bonus attached to it — but that’s what Trump’s deportation Leviathan keeps doing. In September, McLaughlin put out a news release arguing that the shooting death of 38-year-old Silverio Villegas González in Chicago by an ICE agent was justified because he was dragged a “significant distance” and suffered serious injuries. Yet body cam footage of local police who showed up to the scene captured the two ICE agents involved in the incident describing their injuries as “nothing major.”
Closer to home, a federal jury in Los Angeles last month acquitted an activist of striking a Border Patrol agent after federal public defender Cuauhtémoc Ortega screened footage that contradicted the government’s case and poked holes in the testimony of Border Patrol staff and supervisors. Last week, ICE agents detained Oxnard activist Leonardo Martinez after a collision between their Jeep and his truck. McLaughlin initially blamed the incident on an “agitator group … engaged in recording and verbal harassment,” but footage first published by L.A. Taco showed that la migra trailed Martinez and then crashed into him twice — not the other way around.
Professionals don’t host social media accounts that regularly spew memes that paint the picture of an American homeland where white makes right and everyone else must be eliminated, like the Department of Homeland Security does. A recent post featured medieval knights wearing chain mail and helmets and wielding longswords as they encircle the slogan “The Enemies are at the Gates” above ICE’s job listing website.
The Trump administration has normalized racism and has turned cruelty into a virtue — then its mouthpieces gasp in mock horror when people resist its officially sanctioned jackbootery.
This evil buffoonery comes straight from a president who reacted to the millions of Americans who protested this weekend at No Kings rallies by posting on social media an AI-generated video of him wearing a crown and dropping feces on his critics from a jet fighter. And yet McLaughlin, Noem and other Trump bobbleheads have the gall to question why politicians decry la migra while regular people follow and film them during raids when not shouting obscenities and taunts at them?
Meanwhile, ICE is currently on a hiring spree thanks to Trump’s Bloated Beastly Bill and and has cut its training program from six months to 48 days, according to The Atlantic. It’s a desperate and potentially reckless recruitment drive.
And if you think rapidly piling more people into a clown car is going to produce less clown-like behavior by ICE on the streets of American cities, boy do I have news for you.
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.”
If you want to see a player whose impact is growing, go watch South Gate junior quarterback Michael Gonzalez. He’s listed as 5 feet 9 on the Rams’ roster, but what an arm he has and he can run, too.
He passed for 273 yards last week in a loss to Garfield. He has passed for 1,999 yards and 22 touchdowns in eight games. He’s also scored six touchdowns.
Receiver Nicholas Fonseca, another junior, has 52 receptions for 1,027 yards and 10 touchdowns. He was the City Section Division II player of the year last season.
South Gate is 5-3, with the duo leading the way. The Rams’ passing attack could set them apart for the Division I playoffs.
This is a daily look at the positive happenings in high school sports. To submit any news, please email [email protected].
WASHINGTON — President Trump and Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese signed a critical-minerals deal at the White House on Monday as the U.S. eyes the continent’s rich rare-earth resources at a time when China is imposing tougher rules on exporting its own critical minerals.
The two leaders described the agreement as an $8.5 billion deal between the allies. Trump said it had been negotiated over several months.
“Today’s agreement on critical minerals and rare earths is just taking” the U.S. and Australia’s relationship “to the next level,” Albanese added.
This month, Beijing announced that it will require foreign companies to get approval from the Chinese government to export magnets containing even trace amounts of rare-earth materials that originated from China or were produced with Chinese technology. Trump’s Republican administration says this gives China broad power over the global economy by controlling the tech supply chain.
“Australia is really, really going to be helpful in the effort to take the global economy and make it less risky, less exposed to the kind of rare-earth extortion that we’re seeing from the Chinese,” Kevin Hassett, the director of the White House’s National Economic Council, told reporters Monday morning before Trump’s meeting with Albanese.
Hassett noted that Australia has one of the best mining economies in the world, while praising its refiners and its abundance of rare-earth resources. Among the Australian officials accompanying Albanese are ministers overseeing resources and industry and science, and the continent has dozens of critical minerals sought by the U.S.
The prime minister’s visit comes just before Trump is planning to meet with Chinese President Xi Jinping in South Korea later this month.
The prime minister said ahead of his visit that the two leaders will have a chance to deepen their countries’ ties on trade and defense. Another expected topic of discussion is AUKUS, a security pact with Australia, the U.S. and the United Kingdom that was signed during President Biden’s administration.
Trump has not indicated publicly whether he would want to keep AUKUS intact, and the Pentagon is reviewing the agreement.
“Australia and the United States have stood shoulder-to-shoulder in every major conflict for over a century,” Albanese said before the meeting. “I look forward to a positive and constructive meeting with President Trump at the White House.”
The center-left Albanese was reelected in May and suggested shortly after his win that his party increased its majority by not modeling itself on Trumpism.
“Australians have chosen to face global challenges the Australian way, looking after each other while building for the future,” Albanese told supporters during his victory speech.
Matt Groening knows what a real theremin sounds like.
As a kid who grew up on the celluloid junk food of the 1950s and ’60s, “The Simpsons” creator heard the ghostly wail of that early electronic instrument in sci-fi film scores and in albums by his beloved Frank Zappa. Its cousin, the ondes martenot, was featured in one of Groening’s favorite classical pieces — the “Turangalîla-symphonie” by Olivier Messiaen — which would inspire the name for a lead character in “Futurama,” Turanga Leela.
So, when composer Alf Clausen was recruited in the sophomore season of Groening’s popular new show about a yellow nuclear family and answered a request to use theremin — a small lectern with two metal antennae sticking out, which a musician plays by moving their hand in the space between — in the inaugural “Treehouse of Horror” episode in October 1990, Groening immediately recognized it was a fake; it was bouncing around the scale in a way a real theremin can’t do.
“And [Clausen] admitted, yeah, it wasn’t a theremin; it was a keyboard,” Groening recalls. “And it took many years for us to get a real theremin. The downside of the theremin is that it can’t play all the notes — but it’s got a feel to it that is so great.”
Clausen quickly became a fixture of “The Simpsons,” scoring every episode from that first “Treehouse of Horror,” now an annual Halloween tradition, all the way through the end of the 28th season, which wrapped in 2017, as well as composing many unforgettably funny songs with the show’s writers. Groening often referred to Clausen as the show’s “secret weapon.”
A scene from “Treehouse of Horror XXXVI,” this year’s Halloween episode of “The Simpsons.”
(“The Simpsons” & 20th Television)
The show’s producers were always pushing to save money, Groening says, and to have the show scored with synthesizers and a drum machine — par for the course for TV music in the 1990s. But Groening felt differently. “I always thought that the music really helped the show in a way, because I thought the animation was kind of … primitive,” Groening punctuates the word with a laugh, “and I thought, man, though, if we have great orchestral music backing up these goofy drawings, it’ll mean: ‘Hey, we really meant it!’ And Alf got that right away.”
Groening was none too happy, then, when Clausen was fired by Fox in 2017. The official reason stated was the high cost of recording every episode with a live orchestra; but the veteran composer, who had previously scored TV series like “Moonlighting” and “ALF” (no relation), was 76 when he got the boot, later suing Disney and Fox over age discrimination. (Clausen died earlier this year at age 84.)
Enter Bleeding Fingers Music, a composer collective founded in 2014 by Hans Zimmer, Russell Emanuel and Steven Kofsky that has grown from its original six composers to a stable of 26. Zimmer had been a longtime go-to for “Simpsons” executive producer James L. Brooks, and he won over a skeptical Groening with his zany score for “The Simpsons Movie” in 2007.
With a composer void, Brooks approached Zimmer about taking over the series, and Zimmer proposed Bleeding Fingers — whose credits at that point included several entries in the “Planet Earth” series and various History Channel documentaries and reality shows.
Russell Emanuel of Bleeding Fingers.
(Kevin Shelburne)
“It took a long time for the decision to be made,” says Emanuel, a cheeky Brit who got his start making soundalike rock albums in the 1980s and co-formed Extreme Music in 1997, a music library company that produced EDM tracks for shows like “Top Gear.” Zimmer was an early contributor to Extreme Music, and in 2001 the company moved into his vast Remote Control Productions campus in Santa Monica.
“It was taken very seriously,” Emanuel adds. “The first I knew about it was Hans calling me into his room and going, ‘We’ve got “Simpsons.” Don’t f— it up.’”
It was an awkward arranged marriage for Groening — and a “baptism by fire” for Emanuel and his cohort. They had an ample three weeks to tackle their very first episode, a “Game of Thrones” parody titled “The Serfsons,” which featured some theremin solos. Groening asked if it was a live theremin. It was not, the new composers sheepishly replied.
“He could hear it immediately, and completely called us out on it,” says Emanuel. “We had to go back and redo that whole thing. There were two or three big issues for him — but, you know, that was part of us learning the language.”
On a recent Friday morning on the Fox scoring stage, just around the corner from Groening’s office of nearly four decades, the “Simpsons” creator was smiling as a live orchestra recorded the score for Sunday’s new “Treehouse of Horror” episode (streaming next day on Hulu). There was a woodwind virtuoso, Pedro Eustache, making wild and beautiful sounds in an isolated booth with his arsenal of flutes — and out on the stage there was a real, live theremin.
Running the session was Kara Talve, a young but dominant digit of Bleeding Fingers who has been the principal composer on “The Simpsons” since Season 30; this is her sixth “Treehouse of Horror” episode. After graduating from Berklee College of Music, she took an assistant job at Bleeding Fingers — mostly, she says, because she wanted to work on “The Simpsons.”
Kara Talve of Bleeding Fingers, who has been the principal composer of “The Simpsons” since Season 30.
(Sage Etters)
“But I had to convince Russell that I could do it,” Talve says, sitting in her studio next to her boss. “I don’t think he trusted me yet. But also: Why would he, because I was like 5 years old.”
It’s quickly apparent how self-deprecating and silly they both are — Emanuel recently got a tattoo of a Spotify code that, when scanned, triggers Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” — but also how seriously they take this job.
“The responsibility of working on a show like this, we don’t take it lightly,” Talve says. “And because I was so intrigued by the show, and I really, really wanted to work with Russell on ‘The Simpsons,’ I went back and I listened to those old episodes — because I want to honor the musical language that Alf left, and that Danny Elfman left.” (Elfman composed the iconic theme song, which Emanuel and Talve consider “the heart of the show.”)
“And it’s a very specific palette,” she adds. “Like, not to get too nerdy about it, but there really is this harmonic language that’s only in Springfield.”
There are other, subtle ingredients to a good “Simpsons” score: For instance, the music should (usually) duck out of the way for the verbal or visual punchline. And the show has always overflowed with pop culture references and spoofs, which requires an almost bottomless well of musical knowledge. That’s one area where having two dozen other composers working in the same building comes in handy.
“There’s this adaptability that you have to have on this show,” says Talve, “and it’s every genre under the sun, and you kind of just have to figure out how to do that. And Russ was a big part in teaching me, because he’s the king of production music.” She adds that the composers in the collective also play a variety of instruments, so “I can just ask them to come in and play this line, because we can’t sell it to the showrunners if it sounds too fake.”
The average “Simpsons” episode has between five and 10 minutes of score — which might sound like easy street.
“The amount of starts is very challenging,” Talve says. “And it is deceiving. People go, ‘Five minutes? Oh, you’re just doing a bunch of stings’ or whatever. But I want to debunk this because it’s actually way harder, for me personally, to do 30 short cues for one episode than to have one long cue that’s five minutes because the amount of emotional turns that the music has to have, and that you have to hit all this stuff within 10 seconds — it’s actually really frickin’ hard.”
(In 2014, Clausen told me he always joked that “I can make you feel five ways in 13 seconds.”)
The Simpson family in a segment from this year’s “Treehouse of Horror.”
(“The Simpsons” & 20th Television)
Most episodes are recorded with small ensembles at the Bleeding Fingers facility, but the “Treehouse of Horror” chapters are special; they tend to have wall-to-wall music, and the producers splurge on a full orchestral session at Fox — just like the old days.
This year’s anthology spoofs “Jaws,” “Late Night With the Devil” and “Furiosa.” Talve’s score bobs and weaves accordingly, from big brassy horror to eerie synths to world percussion and a custom-made plastic flute.
Groening, who was full of praise for Talve’s “Treehouse” score, has gradually warmed to the Bleeding Fingers team approach — viewing it less like a factory churning out product and more like the way animators work.
“The nature of animation, with maybe two or three exceptions in the history of the medium — it’s all a collaboration,” Groening says. “We’ve got a lot of ‘Simpsons’ writers, we have a lot of voice actors, a lot of animators, a lot of musicians. I mean, one of the great things about that particular session was that these are some of the greatest musicians in Los Angeles, playing amazing music.”
He even wishes people could witness it in person.
“There should be live concerts of this music because it is so much fun to listen to,” he says.” And it gets a little constrained, you know, when it’s supporting goofy animation — but as music, it’s really fantastic.”
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Trigger warning for any daughter who has ever had a fraught relationship with their mother: Gish Jen’s remarkable and heartbreaking latest book, “Bad Bad Girl,” may prompt a flood of feelings not felt since adolescence. This marvel of a mash-up — part novel, part memoir, part effort to reconnect with a dead parent who never uttered an “I love you” — has as many pain points as life lessons. Quite a few of the latter — mostly delivered in the form of Chinese proverbs — are dropped by the author’s parents, Chinese immigrants who met in New York as graduate students. Among the pearls of wisdom that stick with Jen, their eldest girl and a keen observer of her parents: “When you drink the water, remember the spring.”
In this, Jen’s 10th book, she wistfully, unsparingly commemorates that “spring” — a punishing mother she nevertheless credits for “biting my heel.” A master of the art of withholding when it came to praise or affection, her mother had no compunctions about delivering ego-shattering put-downs and physical punishments to Jen for being “too smart for her own good.” And yet, Jen writes: “I have thrived.”
Gish Jen has brilliantly structured “Bad Bad Girl” so that invented exchanges with her mother keep returning us not only to the relationship between mother and daughter, but to the present.
(Basso Cannarsa)
Still, she is not at peace. Even after her mother’s death in 2020 at 96, that censorious voice remained “embedded in my most primitive responses, in my very limbic system.” “You were a mystery Ma,” Jen writes. “Why, why, why were you the way you were?” The writer’s instinct kicks in: “If I write about you, if I write to you, will I understand you better?”
“Bad Bad Girl” constitutes a heroic effort to do just that. But soon after Jen embarks on that quest, she realizes that while many mothers want their daughters to show interest in them and listen to their stories, “they were not my mother.” Without much to go on in the way of shared memories or documentary evidence, Jen decides to recalibrate. Instead of writing a straight memoir, she’ll chronicle what she can and construct a fictional narrative around the rest. The result is a heart-piercingly personal work that also imparts universal truths about the immigrant experience — and what it is to be a daughter, a mother and a woman in a world where men are the more valued of the sexes. If there is such a thing as an intimate epic, this is it.
Jen’s mother Agnes — Loo Shu-hsin, as she was originally named — was born in 1925 Shanghai to a wealthy and prominent banker and his much younger wife. In Part I, we are introduced to the lush beauty and extraordinary privilege Agnes was born into, sequestered in a mansion situated in the “international” section of Shanghai, staffed by maids, cooks, nursemaids, chauffeurs and bodyguards. “Proper though she may have been,” Agnes’ mother “did smoke opium.” Apparently, it was good for cramps.
Agnes was the firstborn child, a disappointment in her gender. As tradition dictated, her placenta was hurled into the Huangpu River; when it floated away, it was deemed that she too “would be raised and fed, only to drift away.” Agnes’ mother never bonded with her daughter and showed her little attention except to object to her daughter’s clear intelligence and closeness with her nursemaid. (By age 6 and beginning to read, Agnes still hadn’t been weaned.) By contrast, her father delighted in his daughter’s zeal for learning. The prevailing view was that “to educate a girl was like washing coal; it made no sense.” Still, her father enrolled her in an elite Catholic school where she was nurtured by Mother Greenough, a nun with a doctorate. She praised Agnes for her intellect and encouraged her to be ambitious. After completing her undergraduate studies amid the Japanese invasion and World War II, in the fall of 1947, after peace had finally descended, Agnes declared her intention to leave for the United States to pursue a PhD. Her father embraced that decision, in part because the communist takeover loomed and he hoped at least his eldest child could escape what was to come. “My favorite daughter, so smart and brave,” he pronounces, as the ship she boards sets sail for San Francisco.
Jen has brilliantly structured “Bad Bad Girl” so that invented exchanges with her mother — post-death, printed in bold type and interspersed throughout — keep returning us not only to the relationship between mother and daughter, but to the present. That dialogue is conversational and often funny, in contrast to the unfolding chronicle of Agnes’ journey as a stranger in a strange land. She finds her new countrymen puzzling in nearly every way. For example, “That was how lonely Americans were,” she observes, “that they should not only feed their dogs but walk them every day, rain or shine.”
Initially, Agnes’ spirits are bolstered by her privilege and her parents’ checks. Soon after arriving in New York City to begin graduate school, though, the money stops coming. The communist takeover is complete and, as she gradually discovers through their letters, now they seek financial support from her. Agnes, who’s never boiled an egg, sets to work typing and translating for her still-rich Chinese classmates. She meets and marries fellow student Jen Chao-Pe, and together they move into a dilapidated walk-up in Washington Heights, where Agnes learns to scrimp and save and paint her own walls. Her husband teaches her to cook. When she gets pregnant with her son, Reuben, she is laid low and takes a temporary leave of absence from school. Soon she is pregnant with Lillian, later nicknamed “Gish” for the silent film actor, and motherhood overwhelms her. Three more children come. Of the five, Gish is her least favorite, a girl every bit as clever as she was — a reminder of what she’s permanently put on the back burner. Whatever maternal feelings she has for her other children are missing when it comes to Gish, who becomes her mother’s scapegoat and punching bag.
Miraculously, Gish appears to have been mostly a happy child who excels socially and academically. After being accepted to every university she applies to, she chooses Harvard. She attends graduate school at Stanford and begins to pursue a writing career. She meets her husband, David, to whom she’s been married ever since — for 42 years. They have a son, Luke, and a daughter, Paloma. Jen’s children know how difficult their grandmother has been, and Paloma offers this to her mother by way of consolation: “The effects of trauma can’t be washed away in a generation,” something she’s read in a book. “You can’t get rid of it all, but you did a good job,” she adds.
How rich this book is, and how humane. Unlike, for example, Molly Jong-Fast’s merciless “How to Lose Your Mother,” “Bad Bad Girl” doesn’t read like a hit job. It’s suffused with love and a desire to finally understand. “You shut me out the way you shut your mother out. … What was my crime?” Jen challenges her mother in one of their imagined exchanges. “You were a pain in the neck,” Agnes observes, in another.
“She does not say ‘I love you’ back; she never has,” Jen writes. She doesn’t put those words in Agnes’ mouth here, even when she has the chance. But Jen does venture this about her mother: “I like to think (she) would finally agree both that this book is a novel and that there might be some truth to it.” And then in their final imagined exchange: “Bad, bad girl! Who says you can write a book like that?” Jen laughs. “That’s more like it.”
Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.
Shohei Ohtani has done next to nothing in the National League Championship Series. The Dodgers could sweep their way into the World Series on Friday, with Ohtani as a footnote in the NLCS story, but baseball’s best player has a flair for the dramatic.
Baseball’s contemporary two-way superstar can do something Friday that baseball’s original two-way superstar never did.
Ruth started three postseason games as a pitcher, never hitting a home run in those games. Ohtani starts his second postseason game as a pitcher Friday, looking for his first postseason home run as a pitcher.
He could hit a home run and be the winning pitcher Friday, because why not?
“I feel like Shohei is a superhero character,” Dodgers infielder Miguel Rojas said.
In the division series, Ohtani had one hit in 18 at-bats, with nine strikeouts. After the Dodgers clinched, this was catcher Will Smith: “He didn’t do much this series. I expect next series for him to come out and hit like five homers. That’s just who he is.”
In this series, Ohtani has two hits in 11 at-bats, with five strikeouts. Over the NLDS and NLCS, he is batting .103 with no home runs, and he has struck out in 48% of his at-bats.
He has not hit five home runs in this series, as Smith had optimistically anticipated.
“I’m hoping he will tomorrow,” Smith said Thursday.
If a player has a rough week or two in June and changes up his routine, you might hear about it for a couple of minutes on the pregame show. Ohtani had a rough week or two in October and decided to take batting practice on the field instead of in the indoor cages Wednesday, and it became MAJOR BREAKING INTERNATIONAL NEWS.
Not just for fans, the ones that have made his jersey baseball’s best seller, and the ones set to flock to the grand opening of a Tokyo pop-up gallery Friday, featuring vinyl albums that pay homage to the walk-up songs and anthems of Ohtani and other major league stars.
Ohtani’s teammates came out to watch that rare outdoor batting practice. The sound guys cranked up an extra dose of Michael Bublé. And, because it was Ohtani, he hit a ball off the roof of the right-field pavilion.
So, no, the Dodgers aren’t worried. And, no, Dodgers manager Dave Roberts isn’t about to move Ohtani down in the lineup.
“Obviously, Shohei’s not performing the way he would like or we expect,” Roberts said. “But I just know how big of a part he is to this thing.
“We’ve got a long way to go. But I just like the work he’s putting in. And I’ll bet on him all day long.”
Dodgers star Shohei Ohtani runs the bases on a leadoff triple against the Brewers in the first inning of Game 3 of the NLCS on Thursday.
(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
For Ohtani’s hitting, pitching has been his kryptonite this season. In his 15 starts, including the one in the NLDS, he is batting .207, and he has struck out in 43% of his at-bats.
“I don’t necessarily think that the pitching has affected my hitting performance,” Ohtani said Wednesday. “Just on the pitching side, as long as I control what I can control, I feel pretty good about putting up results. On the hitting side, just the stance, the mechanics, that’s something that I do. It’s a constant work in progress.”
There was some progress Thursday, when Ohtani tripled to lead off the first inning. On the next pitch, Mookie Betts doubled him home.
“It’s kind of like the Bulls playing without Michael Jordan sometimes,” Betts told TBS after the game. “So we get him going and then it’s really going to be hard to beat. You see what happens immediately. As soon as he gets a hit, good things happen. But he’s going to be there.
“He’s going to be there when the time is right. We all trust and believe in Shohei.”
Before the NLCS, Roberts was blunt about Ohtani’s offensive struggles.
“We’re not gonna win the World Series with that sort of performance,” Roberts said.
That sort of performance has continued, and the Dodgers are undefeated since then. That makes it easier to believe in Ohtani, and in what he might deliver on Friday.
“I’m expecting nothing short of incredible,” infielder Max Muncy said.
“All in all, I’m expecting Shohei to pitch a great game, and whatever he does offensively is just kind of icing on the cake at that point. It’s a tough thing to pitch and hit in the same game, especially in a postseason game. He’s going to be fine.”
The Ruth comparison only goes so far. When he pitched in the postseason, he was primarily a pitcher, twice batting ninth. He made 145 pitches in his first postseason start, a 14-inning complete-game victory.
That is about all we can say Ohtani will not do. The Dodgers are so deep that, Roberts’ fear notwithstanding, they could win the World Series with a slumping Ohtani. They did that last year, in fact.
However, with one mighty swing, Friday’s storyline could be less about what he did not do and more about what Ruth could not do. Champagne showers are in the forecast.
