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For a long time, the lifestyles and foibles of the modest bourgeoisie were a mainstay of art-house cinema, with urbane, upscale audiences happy to turn out to see versions of their own lives depicted on the screen. But more recently, as ideas about what middle age looks like have shifted, along with the changing demographics of viewers, these films have largely disappeared. Which is what makes the seriocomic “The Invite” feel both fresh and something of a throwback — a movie for those who worry about losing their edge.

Directed by Olivia Wilde, “The Invite” was a clear standout when it premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January and now arrives in theaters as one of the best dramas of the year so far. It feels daring for how it wants to actually examine the emotional costs of contemporary grown-up life, bringing wincing laughs of recognition.

The film begins with married couple Angela and Joe, played by Wilde and Seth Rogen, checking back in at their home in San Francisco at the end of the day. He has been at the teaching job he resents and she has been frantically preparing for the dinner party she may not have told him about. Their daughter is away at a sleepover for the evening and it seems they no longer fully know how to relate to each other. As they bicker and jab, their quiet dissatisfaction with their lives stops being so quiet.

Angela has invited over their neighbors from the apartment upstairs, who they do not know well and who often have loud sex. That couple, Piña and Hawk, played by Penélope Cruz and Edward Norton, seems more assured, self-possessed and adventurous, the kind of people you can absent-mindedly invent stories about, assuming their lives are much cooler than your own.

Things go in ways both expected and unexpected, the two couples warily feeling each other out as they wait to spring their own private agendas. Over the course of the evening, things will be alternately tense, flirty, vulnerable and revelatory as surprisingly little food is eaten. (Other substances get ingested instead.)

An adaptation of Cesc Gay’s 2020 Spanish film “Sentimental,” the screenplay is credited to Rashida Jones and Will McCormack. In an unusual step, the script was further workshopped and developed with the cast during rehearsals. Rogen came up with some of the biggest laugh lines and Norton wrote the deeply earnest monologue he delivers late in the film. (The popular Belgian psychotherapist Esther Perel is also credited as a consultant.)

This American version expands upon the characters more than Gay’s original film while consistently returning to the disappointment of Angela and Joe’s lives in terms both big and small. Neither of them are the people they once thought they might become. Whether two people who are each unhappy can make it as a couple becomes the overriding theme of the film.

This is Wilde’s third movie as a director and it is, by far, her most cohesive and accomplished, both contained and expansive. Her debut, 2019’s charming end-of-high-school tale “Booksmart,” had a throw-everything-at-the-wall quality, as if she wanted to get out every idea and try every trick in case she never got another chance to direct. Wilde’s follow-up, the 2022 psychodrama “Don’t Worry Darling,” became mired in behind-the-scenes gossip and tabloid speculation that overshadowed what was intended as a stylized portrait of female rage and discontent.

Her latest fulfills and exceeds the promise of those earlier movies. Shot on 35mm film by cinematographer Adam Newport-Berra, the action of “The Invite” is almost entirely confined to Angela and Joe’s apartment, which thanks to a recent renovation has plenty of rooms to explore. All four players are exceptional in their roles, playing smartly off their screen personas while exploring the nuances of the characters and their intersecting dynamics.

Wilde’s Angela is expressive and antic; Rogen’s Joe is sullen and snarky. Cruz is alluring and watchful, while Norton turns out to be the film’s secret weapon. He has a low-key comic energy and helps guide the story through a few of its trickier emotional turns. At one point he simply rises from behind a couch and it plays like a punchline.

Skip the next two paragraphs if you want to hold onto the film’s purest pleasures. Those noises from upstairs have been Piña and Hawk hosting group sex parties and they are now cruising Angela and Joe for some extramarital couples’ fun. Here, the movie pivots from passive-aggressive party conversation into farce, as Angela and Joe try to process the idea anyone else might find them desirable, as they have long since given up on seeing themselves in that way.

Wilde in particular lights up during this section, Angela’s mind racing at possibilities she never considered for herself while fumbling over the practicalities of protocols and just how this would work. Before pushing the film into its final forlorn section, the excitement that something sexy might happen charges the actors. It is very likely that streams of Sade’s seductive “By Your Side” will skyrocket.

But the focus stays very much on the struggles of married life. One of the biggest strengths of “The Invite” is the way it keeps evolving as the night progresses so it never feels claustrophobic or repetitive. There is a sense of visual invention and imagination to the film that continues all the way through, such as a moment when Wilde crouches down to check on a doomed soufflé in the oven and addresses the camera directly, looking up as if talking to Rogen. The viewer is frequently placed in an adjacent POV to the different characters, as if you are there in the room too.

The film has a propulsive rhythm to it, a relentlessness, even as Wilde and editors Yorgos Mavropsaridis and Anthony Boys know when to ease off the throttle and take it easy for a bit. The film breathes in a dynamic way, the last few beats taking a startling turn toward a somber wistfulness. The ending is just enigmatic enough to have audiences talking it through as they make their way out of the theater.

The end credits include a handwritten dedication, “For Diane,” a nod to Diane Keaton. The live-wire wit and idiosyncratic verve that she embodied in “Reds” and “Something’s Gotta Give” are very much on display here. Early in the story, Norton dryly notes, “We love a contentious environment.” Thanks to Wilde’s confident direction and the ensemble’s unpredictable performances, audiences will too.

I was explaining the location of my broken-down car in Angeles National Forest to the tow truck dispatcher when I suddenly found myself shouting.

“Bear!” I yelled.

A black bear ambled across the road and into Red Box Picnic Area. I hollered at the bear, as did another person in the lot.

The bear ignored us both, focused on where it would find its dinner that night: a bear-proof trash can.

In this edition of The Wild, our weekly outdoors newsletter, I will share the three bear encounters I had last week with black bears in Angeles National Forest. They were my first, second and third times to experience bruins in the San Gabriels. The third time, when a bear slapped my backpacking tent, was the most memorable moment. We’ll get to that later.

For anyone feeling rusty on the best course of action when you see a black bear in our local mountains, here’s a quick refresher on the tips I got previously from a conservation biologist.

• 🙅🏃Don’t run. You will look like prey.
• 🗣️ Let bears know you’re there. Say something loudly and calmly — don’t shriek! — like “Hey, bear!” in a deep voice.
• 💪 Make yourself big. Put your hands up and out — don’t shake them around — and try to get the bear’s attention without indicating that you’re scared or that you’re a threat to that bear.
• 👀👀👀 Keep your eye on the bear. But don’t look it in the eye. That can be perceived as threatening or like you’re trying to be dominant.
• 🤔 Observe its behavior and react accordingly. To learn more about this portion of my tips, check out No. 4 on my list.
• 🏔️ Carry bear spray. Bear spray is legal to carry in Angeles National Forest and generally on national forest land unless otherwise posted. It is prohibited in Yosemite National Park and other California national parks.

A black bear wanders along Canyon Road in March 2020 in Arcadia.

(Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

Anyone who hikes in Angeles National Forest is likely familiar with Red Box Picnic Area. It’s where adventurers park to hike up to Strawberry Peak or other nearby trails, like the Gabrielino Trail, which I wrote about last week. That’s how I found myself briefly stranded in the forest.

I had spent the day hiking past gorgeous wildflowers and splashing around in the Arroyo Seco. I got back to my car around 7:30 p.m., discovered my car’s battery was dead and, after realizing I had cellphone reception, called for help.

As I waited, I chatted with a good Samaritan, an outdoors woman reading a book in her car who decided she’d wait with me until a service technician arrived.

The bear arrived in the lot around 8:30 p.m. As the sun dipped lower into the horizon, we watched the hungry fluffball knock over the brown metal trash can that was specifically designed to keep its species out.

A bear with its head inside a bear-proof trash can.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

After knocking the trash can down, the bear easily shoved its arms inside. Over the next several minutes, it repeatedly shook the can toward its (adorable) face. It was kind of like watching a human shake a potato chip bag toward their mouth to get the very last bits of delicious fried starch.

My new friend and I agreed, in all our travels throughout California, we hadn’t seen anything like this. I contacted the California Department of Fish and Wildlife to ask them: How normal is it for a bear to deftly navigate the mechanisms of a trash can built to resist it?

“It’s pretty uncommon that the bears actually break in,” agency spokesman Cort Klopping said. “When I was talking to our biologist about it yesterday and a couple people in the office, the reactions were all kind of like, ‘Wow.’ Either somebody didn’t secure that thing or that bear was an absolute hulk of a bear to get into a bear-proof or bear-resistant trash can. … I was joking with the biologist that I think I’ve actually had trouble opening those.

“You were witness to what I would refer to as a pretty rare sight,” Klopping added.

I’d known there was a bear in the area when I started my hike earlier that day. At Switzer Picnic Area, I read signs posted around the picnic tables warning visitors, “Active Bear Area: Do not feed bears or leave food unattended.” The flier featured an image of a bear standing on a picnic table, eating through some family’s meal.

A sign posted at the Switzer Picnic Area in Angeles National Forest.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Angeles National Forest spokesperson Keila Vizcarra said in an email that since last August, forest officials have received at least four reports from the public and staff about two bears active in the Switzer area.

Earlier this month, recreation staff spotted two bears at the Switzer Picnic Area eating food left unattended at a picnic table. They notified state wildlife officials.

“The animals may be the same bears seen last year, but it is difficult to confirm because tag numbers are not always visible or provided; in this case, one of the bears did not appear to be tagged,” Vizcarra said.

Forest staff use various hazing methods to discourage bears and other wildlife from eating human food, like making loud noises, securing or repairing trash cans and educating visitors about how to keep their food safe from animals, she said.

“A major contributing factor continues to be unsecured or unattended food, which attracts bears from long distances,” Vizcarra said.

The bear at Red Box finished its trash-inspired tasting menu and then walked past our cars. We both honked, but it was so unfazed, I wondered aloud whether it was deaf. (It wasn’t.)

It then headed south from the parking lot, and we didn’t see it again. I had already planned to write this week’s newsletter about that experience.

Then I went backpacking as a little treat to myself.

On Friday afternoon, my dog, Maggie May, and I headed out from near Pasadena down the Gabrielino Trail with a plan to camp overnight at the Gould Mesa Trail Camp. Despite loving the outdoors, I’d never been backpacking, but after my parents bought me a tent and sleep pad for my birthday in late May, I was itching to go. Gould Mesa is close to a city. It’s next to the Arroyo Seco with water to filter and reachable by a short two-mile mostly flat hike. It felt like the perfect first trip.

About a mile in, a mountain biker warned us of a “big bear, really big bear” at the campground before he sped off. A female hiker told me the bear was average, probably 5 feet on its haunches. Others hadn’t seen it.

I was talking to another mountain biker, who was telling me the bear had been active in the area for about a month, when a man came racing down the trail, shouting about how the bear was aggressive and dangerous. The man said he’d lunged at the bear, trying to protect his food, and proceeded to make several choices that would likely be found on a “What not to do when you encounter a bear” list. Maggie and I continued onward.

We arrived at the campground around 4:30 p.m. and didn’t see anything. I asked a mother and son set up at the site next to mine about the bear, and they pointed to a large coast live oak where a small, young bear laid over a thick branch, its small feet dangling down, right above the trail. One reason hikers hadn’t seen the bear was that they’d walked right under it.

A young bear lies on the branch of a large coast live oak above the Gabrielino Trail near Pasadena.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

The bear had entered the campground from near the river, and without the mother-son duo realizing that the bear was approaching them, it grabbed their food right off their picnic table. The mom told me that she considered trying to pull the food back, but the bear made noises suggesting that it preferred she didn’t. It then left the campground, and presumably after eating the meal that her son told me had “a lot of protein” in it, the bear climbed into the tree and took a nap.

I’d camped in areas with bears before, including in Kings Canyon National Park where bears came into the campground every night. This bear wasn’t being aggressive. Instead, it seemed young and like it was testing out how easy it was to get food from these weird animals — we humans — in its backyard.

I decided to stay, especially after the bear left around 7:30 p.m., and none of us saw it again. The campground was full, and two of us, myself included, had bear spray.

Maggie and I got into the tent around 9 p.m. and soon fell asleep to the sweet serenade of frogs and toads singing their nightly songs.

Then, at 2:39 a.m., I woke up to the sound of something slapping the corner of my tent next to my head.

“What the f—?” I screamed.

I lay there, heart racing, listening.

I had put my tent’s rain fly on, so I couldn’t see outside, but I could hear the bear as it left. A large whoosh-whoosh sound headed away from my tent.

For the next 20 minutes, I listened intently to every single sound the forest made. Then, after checking that my bear spray and satellite communicator were close by, I fell back asleep. In the morning, I found a small cut in my rain fly that the bear’s paw had left. My dad later suggested that I date the hole with a marker.

A small cut left after a bear swiped the rain fly of Wild writer Jaclyn Cosgrove’s backpacking tent.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Maggie and I left around 10:30 a.m. to beat the day’s heat. Once at my car and with strong cellphone reception, I must admit that I opened ChatGPT. I don’t have a bear biologist on speed dial — yet! — and I wanted to talk to someone about why the bear hit my tent.

I explained that there wasn’t any food or toiletries in my tent. I had packed everything inside a bear canister that I then placed inside the bear vault in the campground. The chatbot and I soon agreed: This bear was likely making its rounds for a late-night snack, hoping someone had dropped a marshmallow or hot dog, when it encountered my tent. Maybe my tent was in its way. Maybe it looked weird.

Later, I called Klopping with the California Department of Fish and Wildlife again.

When we’d spoke earlier in the week about the trash-can bear, I’d asked him whether that bruin was at risk of euthanasia.

I told him that Goldie, a mama bear euthanized by the state earlier this year after swiping at and injuring two people, was top of mind for me, along with Victor, a beloved bear in Mammoth who was euthanized in 2024.

Goldie was the first California black bear to be euthanized in 2026, Times staff writer Clara Harter reported. “There were two bears euthanized in 2025, three bears in 2024 and five  bears in 2023, according to Fish and Wildlife,” Harter wrote.

Klopping said the trash-can bear was just out for an easy meal and would be classified as a “no harm, no foul bear,” defined by the agency as “a bear that has strayed into an area where an incident could occur, has not engaged in nuisance activity or caused property damage, and may require assistance to return to nearby suitable habitat.”

He said it was unlikely, based on what I reported, that the bear would be moved since it was already in a forest far from any neighborhood. Instead, the only action would probably be that someone secure the bear-proof trash can so it actually functions properly. (Sorry, bear.)

“As much as I don’t want to say it, this bear is doing bear things,” Klopping said. “This is a natural thing for a bear to do. It’s searching out calories to sustain itself — they’re there, readily available. This bear knows how to get to them.”

When I called Klopping back to talk about the bear (or bears) at the campground, I was more worried. I reported the incident through the agency’s website because I know its biologists use the data for several reasons, including discerning when to implement bear-resistant measures in an area or relocate a bear. But again, I worried about what would happen to the bear or bears.

A black bear peeks its head around the vault toilets in the Red Box Picnic Area in Angeles National Forest.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Klopping had told me it was rare for the agency to euthanize a bear: California Department of Fish and Wildlife received 2,735 calls and reports regarding black bears in 2025, including some duplicates where multiple people were reporting the same incident, compared with the two bear euthanizations that same year.

During our second call, he told me that a biologist would review the report I made and might call me to get additional information, but again, this wasn’t “aggressive” behavior, he said.

When bear yearlings separate from their mothers at around 18 months old — which often happens in June — Klopping said the agency will get reports of these adolescent bears wandering closer to populated areas.

“You would use the term ‘testing boundaries’ — that may have been exactly what happened here,” he said. “Odds are pretty good you probably scared it just as much as it scared you.”

I hope the bears I encountered soon return to foraging for forest delicacies that don’t come in fast-food wrappers.

As interesting as last week was, I really hope the only bears I see the rest of the summer are at the pride festivals I attend. They’re absolutely welcome to go camping with me!

3 things to do

Cyclists ride down an open street at a previous CicLAvia event.

(CicLAvia Los Angeles)

1. Frolic through the streets in South L.A.
CicLAvia will host a free car-free open streets event from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. Sunday through the Leimert and Exposition Park neighborhoods. The 3.6-mile pop-up park includes a short segment of Crenshaw Boulevard and mostly stretches along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard from Crenshaw to Figueroa Street. Visitors are welcome to walk, skate, bike, play and explore along the route. For more details, visit ciclavia.org.

2. Celebrate Pride along the river in Long Beach
Friends of the L.A. River will co-host an LGBTQ Pride nature walk from 10 a.m. to noon Saturday through the Dominguez Gap Wetlands with the California Native Plant Society South Coast Chapter. Plant enthusiast Tory Jaimez will guide the walk, teaching participants about local ecology. Register at support.folar.org.

3. Listen to the birds in Huntington Beach
We Explore Earth, a local outdoors community group, will co-host with Save Orange Hills and Friends of Shipley Nature Center a peaceful bird walk from 8:30 a.m. to 11:30 a.m. Saturday at Shipley Nature Center in Huntington Beach. Guides will help participants learn about local bird species and ecosystems. Register at eventbrite.com.

The must-read

Perched atop a tall pine tree, resident bald eagles Jackie, left, and Shadow protect their latest offspring in their 5-foot-wide nest. The nest is viewable via a live feed from the nest cam.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

Friends of Big Bear Valley, the nonprofit behind a popular eagle nest camera, is rushing to raise $10 million by July 31 to buy land that could become a lakeside gated community, leading to the destruction of crucial habitat that celebrity birds Jackie and Shadow use for foraging, along with other wildlife who call it home. Times staff writer Lila Seidman wrote that if the nonprofit can raise the money, then the San Bernardino Mountains Land Trust would conserve the roughly 63 acres and might transfer it to the U.S. Forest Service (a common practice of land conservancies). That’s if they meet the July deadline. “Failure is not an option,” said Jenny Voisard, media and website manager for Friends of Big Bear Valley. “We’re not going to let them build on it.”

Happy adventuring,

P.S.

After Goldie the bear was euthanized, lawmakers listened to the public’s demand for a more transparent process of when the California Department of Fish and Wildlife plans to kill a bear that the agency has deemed a threat to public safety. That includes Senate Bill 1135 by state Sen. Catherine Blakespear (D-Encinitas) that would “create the Wildlife Coexistence Program, which would provide public education, offer technical assistance and maintain a statewide incident reporting system. It would help communities deploy nonlethal devices to deter predators, like barriers or noise and light machines,” former Times staff writer Katie King wrote. The bill is set to have a hearing before the state Assembly’s Committee on Water, Parks and Wildlife on Tuesday at the state Capitol. Although the deadline to submit a letter to the committee has passed, residents can still attend the hearing, where they’re allowed to give their name, organization (if with one) and their position on the bill. You can still also contact your Assembly member or the committee.

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 giveaway that Lima should be on every food lover’s wish list is not just that it is home to the reigning No. 1 restaurant in the world according to the most recent World’s 50 Best Restaurants ranking. Maido in Lima’s famed Miraflores neighborhood, a longtime magnet for fine dining, is where chef Mitsuharu “Micha” Tsumura is transforming Peru’s traditional Nikkei cuisine, integrating the flavors of the Amazon in his own blockbuster style.

But it’s what’s happening one neighborhood over, just about three miles away in Lima’s Barranco district that make Peru’s capital more than a stopover for a single splurge meal on your way to Machu Picchu. The epicenter of the food lover’s Barranco is the garden-lush culinary complex, Casa Túpac, home to Virgilio Martinez’s Central, named to the World’s 50 Best Restaurants’ “Best of the Best” list after its No. 1 ranking in 2023, and to Pía León’s Kjolle, the current 50 Best’s No. 9 restaurant in the world.

Use these handy dining guides for all of your summer travel, near and far.

Beyond those walls, several other food hubs have emerged. There is the growing constellation of Barranco restaurants that chef Juan Luis Martínez runs with his wife, designer Michelle Sikic. Their Mérito is currently No. 26. on the World’s 50 Best list; Demo is a morning-to-night cafe with beautiful breakfast dishes; and more recently they opened Clon, with accessibly priced a la carte expressions of Martínez’s Venuezulan-Peruvian cuisine.

A few short blocks away are Ricardo Martins’ pair of restaurants, Siete, a romantic spot with beautiful food and cocktails, and La Perlita, devoted to the chef’s nostalgic take on criolla cuisine. Then there is the venerable Canta Rana, run by an Argentine devoted to soccer and ceviche, and, more recently, the Chilean and American partners who created a mecca for coffee and chocolate lovers.

This is just a hint of the culinary activity happening in one of the world’s great food cities.

It’s puzzling, then, why the Michelin guide doesn’t waive its requirement that tourist boards or local governments pay a fee to have its inspectors visit the city. On the other hand, Lima is doing just fine without Michelin stars.

See for yourself with your own visit to Lima. The suggestions that follow are a delicious way to begin your adventure.

Walk into the Grammy Museum in downtown L.A., and you’ll see Clive Davis’ legacy everywhere.

The museum’s intimate performance space is named for the late record executive, and his visage greets guests at the front door. (Davis was the first million-dollar donor to the nascent Recording Academy archive and exhibition space.) His sprawling roster of acts — Bruce Springsteen, Miles Davis, Whitney Houston, Alicia Keys, Earth, Wind & Fire — defined an entire art form and business model as preserved in the Grammy Museum. Davis’ pre-Grammy gala was the most coveted invitation in music every awards season.

Davis’ death at 94 is “devastating,” said Michael Sticka, chief executive and president of the Grammy Museum. “Clive was always a north star of music and talent and artistry. We’re all lucky to have his legacy to look up to.”

Davis’ death marks the end of perhaps the most important and enduring career in the record industry. Sticka spoke to The Times about Davis’ remarkable longevity, creative vision and how a career like his will likely never be possible again.

Clive was a giant of the record business. How did his career shape the modern record industry?

His career was iconic. He really had a unique ability to not just bring an artist to their fullest potential artistically, but commercially. From attending Monterey Pop and first seeing Janis Joplin to Whitney Houston and Alicia Keys, I don’t think anybody had that ear in them the way that he did.

With Clive, what you got was not just hearing commercial viability, but an understanding of what was going on in the zeitgeist. That’s what propelled his career and legacy beyond most record executives.

His name’s on the building at Grammy Museum’s theater. What did he mean to the institution — not just for fundraising but as a living connection to music history?

He didn’t just donate to the museum. He donated his time, his historical knowledge of music, his firsthand perspective. He always kept tabs on what was happening in music. I always say the Clive Davis Theater is the toughest ticket in town for its intimacy and the level of programming we do. But he did an annual program at the museum where people could come hear stories directly from him. Once he decided he was in, he was all in.

His gala was the place to be every Grammy season too.

I don’t think anybody could gather a roomful of luminaries like that from entertainment, tech and politics in the way that Clive did. We were lucky to be a part of that. Even with the stature he had, he was still a physical presence there, he was approachable. He was always looked at as this living legend, but his legacy was continuously being built.

That’s true over the arc of his career, which saw him lead Columbia, Arista, J Records and more. He had a lot of resurrections as well as successes.

He had this ability to resurrect. Look at Santana and “Supernatural,” he was a producer on that album that was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame just last year. So many of us would just give up, but he just had this resolve to continue, and thank God he did.

The record industry is so different now than when he began his career. Artists find audiences on social media rather than being discovered by label executives. Is a career like his — a famous executive driven by their own taste and individual savvy — even possible today?

That’s true, artists break on social media before they’re even on record executives’ radars now. I don’t know if we’ll see that kind of career arc again. Clive had a rare combination of gravitas and being recognized so publicly. The man and his legacy are not going to be replicated.

Beyond the name on the theater, how do you hope the Grammy Museum will honor him with its programming in time to come?

I don’t know yet. We weren’t really prepared for this. We’re gonna have to sit down and think how to pay tribute to such a legacy. I think that the impact the Clive Davis Theater has, bringing in 120 artists a year — I couldn’t think of a more apropos name on the door.

There are few things a Los Angeles local is less likely to do than take a Hollywood sightseeing tour on a big, garish bus. Only rush-hour traffic and $20 tacos inspire the same level of dread.

Yet nearly everyone aboard the open-air bus for a Tuesday night production of “California Gothic: A Bus Tour” was an L.A. resident. The show, which is produced by the aggressively hip New Theater Hollywood, recently wrapped its third “season” after debuting in February and returning for an April encore. Set on a moving bus, the 1.5-hour-long experience is part esoteric Tinseltown history lesson, part immersive theater. The narrative conjures meaning from the Los Angeles cityscape by fusing a hodgepodge of textbook theories about the sprawling metropolis onto the gritty reality of daily life.

“We originally organized this thinking there would be more people coming who aren’t from here,” said Oliver Misraje, the show’s writer and primary tour guide, as the bus pulled away from the curb at Santa Monica and Wilcox. “But this just goes to show how much people love the city and are from here, contrary to popular belief.”

In lieu of celebrity-hungry tourists, “California Gothic” has been packing its bus twice a night with rowdy young scenesters and in-the-know locals eager to absorb its heady mix of California history, public intellectualism and performance artistry.

While the show wrapped its latest run in mid-June, it will reopen its automated doors during the last week of October for a special “ghost tour” edition co-written by Misraje and New York it girl Ruby McCollister.

The bus arrives for New Theater Hollywood’s “California Gothic: A Bus Tour.”

My tour was far less steeped in irony than I feared. As the bus wound its way through the streets of Hollywood, starting at the New Theater’s doorstep before eventually circling the Hollywood Walk of Fame, Misraje led the audience through his take on the death of the “California dream” and the rotting carcasses of empty buildings and broken promises left in its wake. Along the way, we encountered a haunted-eyed Marilyn Monroe impersonator (Brooks Ginnan), a masked Hollywood legend known as the Duchess of Argyle (Shauna Frente) and a singing, swaggering “Rat Czar” with a lot to say about real estate developers (Loren Kramar).

Yes, it’s whimsical, and yes, it references Mike Davis’ “City of Quartz” more than any of the TMZ-type excursions it gently parodies, but it’s still, at its heart, a bus tour.

In a nod to classic Hollywood tour advertisements, the show’s winkingly all-caps poster declares, “You Will See: The Hollywood Sign, Marilyn Monroe, the Schizo City State.” There is also a stash of BuzzBallz ready-to-drink cocktails for trivia winners, but Misraje and his cast do not deliver their performances with smirks or smarm. They commit full-throatedly to playing out Misraje’s vision of a Hollywood haunted by the dreamers it’s wronged and the secrets it’s plastered over.

“Ultimately, we are trying to pay homage to the bus tour format, which is intrinsically ‘carny,’” Misraje said, likening himself to a carnival barker espousing aesthetic philosophy aboard an ever-changing “Ship of Theseus.”

Before the performers infiltrate the ship, “I’m trying to intentionally set up audience expectations to think they’re going to get this run-of-the-mill Hollywood death tour,” he explained. “I consider myself a kind of impish person, but still fundamentally sincere.”

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1. Tour guide Oliver Misraje begins the show. 2. Rat Czar, portrayed by Loren Kramar, performs during the bus tour. 3. Guests board the bus.

Given the show’s monologue-heavy format and bevy of literary references, it’s no surprise that the concept began as an essay. Misraje, a 27-year-old writer and self-described “Hollywood hustler” raised primarily in the Inland Empire, was inspired after the 2025 Palisades and Eaton fires to stage a piece he had written bridging his love of Gothic literature with his “welfare class” upbringing in a family of seven raised by a single mother, which he considered gothic in its own right.

“We were in the Inland Empire and it was the 2008 financial crisis,” he said. “There was all this imagery of things famously California-coded, like the suburban house, the pool, the strip mall, and when we were there, it was just, like, destroyed. There were abandoned housing subdivisions rotting in the sun.”

The perfect setting, he explained, for the kind of “literature that emerges after the failure of a historical project.”

After reaching out to New Theater co-owner Calla Henkel and conceiving the project, Misraje and his producers elected to turn the funhouse mirror onto Hollywood, framing the neighborhood with historical context and Freudian theory but ultimately letting it speak for itself.

The bus passes the TCL Chinese Theatre.

The highly mutable nature of street life and the participatory character of the show means its tone can shift drastically from tour to tour, even within the same night. Sometimes, the streets appear glittering; other times, seedy and dangerous. Once, there was a showdown with another tour bus — one presumably not carrying theatergoers. At a different show, a drunk pedestrian tried to board the bus during faux-Monroe’s speech. One particularly harrowing night, someone circled the bus on an electric scooter, shouting homophobic slurs at the all-queer cast.

“It’s almost like surfing,” Misraje said. “There’s so much chaos you’re confronting, and you have to find a way to ride it and let it be a part of the show.”

The show’s high production costs make bringing in a profit difficult, but Misraje said he and the New Theater Hollywood team plan to revive it periodically, with an evolving story and cast of characters.

On my tour, no performer better represented the blurred line between theater and street life than the Duchess of Argyle, a.k.a. the Mysterious Masked Lady of Hollywoodland, a.k.a. Shauna Frente, a busty Blanche DuBois figure in an eyeless flapper mask and gartered stockings. Just three days before, she had been evicted from a home on Argyle Avenue that once allegedly belonged to Cecil B. DeMille. This happened after a lengthy legal battle, during which the show helped raise money for temporary housing.

As the Duchess spilled neighborhood secrets, our bus repeatedly passed an Extra Space Storage facility painted with images of old Hollywood behemoths: Lucille Ball, Groucho Marx and the like. The intermingling smells of sizzling hot dogs, urine and marijuana wafted through the open windows.

Hollywood may be ghostly, the Duchess told us, but it was hers to haunt.

Duchess of Argyle (Shauna Frente) tells Hollywood stories during the tour.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

Just past noon, a young man appeared on the north side of San Vicente Boulevard, a block west of Hauser, and eyeballed the flow of westbound traffic.

When he saw an opening, he slid across to the median strip, where he waited for eastbound traffic to let up before crossing over to the south side of San Vicente to pick up some takeout food. And then he retraced his steps across the 150-foot wide thoroughfare that knifes through the heart of the city along what once was the Red Car line of the Pacific Electric Railway.

He should have used the nearby crosswalk, but there aren’t enough of those on the boulevard, so pedestrians routinely skitter and scoot across the street like they’re in a game of Frogger.

I watched this drama the other day from Dam Good Coffee, where I met with two guys who live in the neighborhood and, in their spare time, have been doing a lot of thinking. They’re fine-tuning a pitch to reengineer the boulevard, reduce traffic, improve access to two new transit lines and transform the Mid-City portion of San Vicente Boulevard — from the Beverly Center on the west to just past La Brea on the east — into a 3-mile, 30-acre linear park.

Ambitious. Outlandish. Insane.

From left, Catherine Geanacouras, Oren Hadar and Michael Wacht of the San Vicente Park Foundation have a plan to turn a stretch of San Vicente Boulevard into a greenway.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

It’s all of that and a longshot undertaking, given the countless obstacles that can derail their dream. But Oren Hadar, a sound engineer, and Michael Wacht, an architect, are serious, along with a small coalition of neighborhood believers.

“One of the things I always say is L.A. needs to get back into the business of taking big swings,” Hadar said. He is motivated in part by the fact that his two young kids don’t have a nearby park to play in.

The big swing comes at a time when Los Angeles has just fallen from 90th to 93rd in terms of park acreage, investment and accessibility in the annual Trust for Public Lands ranking of the 100 largest cities in the U.S. You’d think a city with great weather and thousands of apartment dwellers with little or no outdoor space would fight its way into the top 10 rather than settle for sinking to the bottom of the heap.

“What if L.A.’s next great park was already here, hiding in plain sight?” a narrator asks in a video that appears on the group’s San Vicente Park website.

Local resident Jo and her dog Elle carefully cross San Vicente Boulevard in Los Angeles on Wednesday, June 17, 2026.

(Christina House/Los Angeles Times)

Sun-baked asphalt would give way to turf. Pedestrians and cyclists would have more breathing room. There’d be far less traffic.

“You can put in micro forests,” Wacht said. “You can do farmers markets. You can do growing areas. You can do fountains. Playgrounds.”

Catherine Geanuracos, a CicLAvia board member who was an advocate for turning the Silver Lake Reservoir into an aquatic park, joined our conversation and called the idea “eminently feasible.”

“I think this is what makes L.A. great,” Geanuracos said. She’s lived in New York City and San Francisco and thinks there’s greater opportunity here for engaged residents to advance their civic improvement ideas.

The advocates said they’d gotten some encouragement from Councilmembers Heather Hutt and Katy Yaroslavsky, whose districts include the area of the proposed park. Hutt’s office sent me a statement saying she supports “effrorts to create more walkable, green communities.” She said she has encouraged the group to keep exploring the vision, and she looks forward to hearing input from various other neighborhood groups.

Hadar writes a blog called The Future Is L.A., which is part love letter to Los Angeles and part lament on unmet potential.

“Just about every other major American city has a policy and research think tank dedicated to pursuing ideas that could make the city better,” Hadar recently wrote, calling for L.A. to have its own.

I don’t want to say the park idea’s chances are slim, but let’s look at a few hurdles.

Traffic passes through the intersection of San Vicente Boulevard and La Brea in Los Angeles on.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

L.A. city government has trouble managing existing parks and even the open spaces around City Hall, so how can it build and care for another 30 acres of greenery?

The cost would be in the millions, and the cup does not runneth over.

And then there’s the biggest pothole of all on the road to pastoral wonder:

Creating the park would mean squeezing off one or two lanes of traffic in each direction of San Vicente. That would dump more cars onto surrounding streets and set up another road diet clash that pits car culture against growing demand for a city that is safer and more inviting for those who walk, bike and use transit.

All of this would be examined in a feasibility study the advocates are raising money for. But the supporters claim San Vicente is lightly traveled compared to Wilshire, Pico and Olympic, so stealing traffic lanes wouldn’t be catastrophic.

I mentioned that I’d think twice about sending kids to play in a median strip park. But the supporters said San Vicente would become more of a neighborhood service street than a thruway, with safer crossings into the new park, which by the way already has plenty of full-grown trees.

When I took a walk and polled people on the park idea, I got mixed reactions.

“That’s a bad idea,” said a man who was walking along the median strip. He said he thought that after the addition of bike lanes a few years ago squeezed vehicular traffic, San Vicente became more dangerous, and the idea of a park between lanes of traffic sounded disastrous to him.

Miguel Lopez looked like he was trying to bring the park vision to life. He sat on the median strip reading a book and smiled when he was shown a rendering of San Vicente Park.

Blanca Vanburian practices tai chi in her yard along San Vicente Boulevard on Wednesday.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Blanca Vanburian, who was doing a variation of Tai Chi on the lawn outside her apartment building, had several good questions, including one about whether the city could be trusted to maintain a new park. She said a lot of residents would be concerned about new traffic flows through side streets, and she wondered if the park would attract more homeless people.

Hadar told her the feasibility study would probe all of that, and the more she heard, the more Vanburian came around to the idea of the park.

“It’s up to us how we use public space,” Wacht said, looking out on a particularly unattractive stretch of roadway that generates so much exhaust and serves as a barrier, dividing two neighborhoods. “I get disappointed when I see so much of it devoted to this, and it’s keeping us from being more of a cohesive neighborhood.”

Margaret Free walks three basset hounds, named Bob, Doris and Ruth, along San Vicente Boulevard in Los Angeles on Wednesday.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Margaret Free was walking three Basset hounds — Bob, Doris and Ruth. She said she and the dogs could be counted as four votes in favor of the park.

A woman named Jo safely managed a Frogger crossing with her dog, Elle. Jo said she was absolutely in favor of a park and doesn’t think losing lanes of vehicle traffic is a bad thing, but she feared backlash from drivers who disagree and asked me to withhold her last name.

Joshua Mock, owner of Dam Good Coffee, said everyone would benefit from the park, especially neighborhood children. “It’d be dope,” he said, “and good for business.”

For all the doubters, the advocates point to several projects around the country where public spaces were repurposed, including the New York City High Line. And they note that several local projects are in the design or construction phase, including the L.A. River master plan, the Broadway-Manchester streetscape project and the park under the Sixth Street bridge.

If you have ideas for remaking your neighborhood, send them my way.

And take big swings.

steve.lopez@latimes.com

What is the angriest acting performance you’ve ever seen?

Maybe it’s Joe Pesci in “Goodfellas.” (“Funny how? Do I amuse you?”) Perhaps it’s James Caan kicking the stuffing out of his ne’er-do-well brother-in-law Carlo in “The Godfather.” John Goodman enforcing the rules of bowling in “The Big Lebowski”? It’s in the conversation.

Did Ben Kingsley in “Gandhi” cross your mind? Probably not.

The 82-year-old Oscar winner thinks it should.

I’m Glenn Whipp, columnist for the Los Angeles Times and host of The Envelope newsletter. Don Logan or Mahatma Gandhi? The answer isn’t as plain as you might think.

Not long ago, I spoke with Kingsley just before an Emmy FYC event for “Wonder Man,” the enjoyable new Marvel TV series that finds him revisiting Trevor Slattery, the washed-up, drug-addled actor he first played in 2013’s “Iron Man 3.”

“Wonder Man” follows struggling actor Simon Williams (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II), trying to land a big break in Hollywood while keeping his superpowers hidden. Trevor befriends Simon. Initially he has ulterior motives, but soon becomes Simon’s mentor, turning the series into a look at the indignities that actors face while pursuing their profession.

Taking notes while watching the show’s eight episodes, I wrote, “Ben Kingsley’s seething anger is everything.”

You may remember Kingsley’s bullying and badgering and swaggering menace playing the underworld sociopath in Jonathan Glazer’s 2000 crime-thriller “Sexy Beast,” still my favorite Kingsley performance, one that earned him a supporting actor Oscar nomination. (He lost to Jim Broadbent in “Iris.”)

Is that kind of boiling rage as fun to play as it is to watch?

“If the expression of rage or indignation is completely dramatically justified and that expression of indignation is of enormous benefit to the tribe, yes,” Kingsley answers.

(Larsen&Talbert / For The Times)

Kingsley says Itzhak Stern, Oskar Schindler’s loyal aide and factory manager in “Schindler’s List,” was, “bless him,” all about “contained rage.”

“And a colleague of mine who saw ‘Gandhi’ said, ‘That’s the angriest performance I’ve ever seen on screen,’” Kingsley continues. “That righteous indignation propelled him, and it can be expressed in many ways. Sometimes the safety valve is efficient enough to allow it to come through language and gesture, and sometimes the safety valve can’t hold it.

“That was Don Logan in ‘Sexy Beast.’ No safety valve.”

Let’s circle back to that thought of how rage can help the “tribe.” In “Wonder Man,” Trevor proclaims that “acting is not a job. It’s a calling, the single most consequential thing anyone could ever do with their life.”

“I would broaden the definition and refine it back to its origins,” Kingsley says when I ask if he shares Trevor’s view on acting. “There are images, thoughts and threads that I find nourishing and sustaining, and I treasure them. The tribal storyteller is a very consequential figure in the tribe, and if the mantle of the tribal storyteller falls upon that person’s shoulders, that is the single most consequential thing that person can do in their lives.”

“Trevor expresses it quite differently, and that’s fine,” Kingsley says. “That’s in the script. I honor the lines. But for me personally, as a rather convoluted answer, the tribal storyteller is the hand I hold and the baton I want passed on to me. Maybe it has. I hope I’m worthy, but it’s …” Kingsley widens his eyes and whispers, “Wow.”

“It is the single most consequential thing I can do with my life.”

I was only about 30 minutes from my home, but there I was in the solitude of the San Gabriel Mountains without another soul on the trail.

Dozens of butterflies, likely variable checkerspots with hints of yellow and red on their wings, fluttered all around. A territorial hummingbird repeatedly buzzed past my head, resembling the sound of either the world’s largest bumblebee or a tiny angry drone zipping past my face. Western whiptails flitted across the trail and onto rocks. A cacophony of birdsong and calls filled my ears, including, per my birding app, spotted towhee, Western wood-pewee, wrentit, bushtit and a purple finch I looked long and hard to try to identify in the treetops. Later, a gray squirrel expressed its displeasure at an interloper disrupting its peace.

These are special and common experiences that I frequently find hiking along the Gabrielino Trail, a 28(ish)-mile route through the San Gabriel Mountains that runs from Chantry Flat north of Arcadia to a lush riparian area along the Arroyo Seco east of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab near Pasadena. Although it offers hikers an epic close-to-home backpacking experience, you do not need to complete the entire trail to enjoy it.

Because of its length and proximity to other trails, it is replete with epic day-hike opportunities and, because of that, it’s a great place to spend the summer solstice, both the mark of the beginning of summer and the longest day of the year.

This weekend, we will see just over 14 hours of sunlight on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The sun will rise around 5:40 a.m. and set just after 8 p.m. It offers hikers the opportunity to not only travel longer distances, but also take rests along the way to really savor their surroundings.

In this edition of The Wild, our weekly outdoors newsletter, I will suggest a few routes along the Gabrielino Trail. I encourage you, though, to take a look at a paper map of Angeles National Forest (available at most local outdoors gear stores) or use a mapping service such as CalTopo or onX Backcountry to discern what would be the most fun for you and your hiking party.

Before we discuss the hikes, a few safety reminders:

• 🙅 Don’t drink water straight from the creek (unless in a serious emergency). Always use a filter or pack your own water.
• 🫗 Pack more water in summer than you would in other seasons. Dehydration can evolve into a serious and life-threatening situation.
• 🤮 Never relieve yourself in or next to a river, as it’s a major contributor to pollution; never leave toilet paper in the woods.
• 🥾 Wear water-resistant or waterproof footwear with good traction, and pack extra wool socks to better ensure you won’t get blisters.
• 📡 Bring a cellphone with satellite messaging capabilities or a satellite communicator to ensure you can call for help; you likely won’t have cellphone reception in the San Gabriel Mountains.
• 🤔 Freshen up on Leave No Trace principles and how to best pack your bag for the safest best day.

Additionally, please note that the segment of the Gabrielino Trail in and around the West Fork and Devore Trail camps was damaged in recent storms. The Lowelifes Respectable Citizens’ Club, a trail maintenance crew, is repairing it and hopes to have it online soon.

OK, here’s what I recommend along the Gabrielino Trail. Have fun out there!

A hiker meditates near the Brown Mountain Dam just off the Gabrielino Trail in Angeles National Forest.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

1. Gabrielino Trail near JPL to Brown Mountain Dam (or beyond)

Distance: 7.6 miles
Elevation gained: About 650 feet
Difficulty: On the easier end of moderate
Dogs allowed? Yes
Accessible alternative: Paved segment of Gabrielino Trail from Windsor Avenue

This 7.6-mile out-and-back trek takes hikers along the Arroyo Seco, under the canopy of massive coast live oaks and past aromatic native plants such as California bay laurel.

You will park in the large dirt parking lot and take the steep paved road a very short jaunt to join the trail. If hiking with a wheelchair or if you’re a hiker who prefers pavement, it’s better to park in the lot south of the dirt lot.

Once on the Gabrielino Trail, you can hike as far as you’d like. Short on time? Hike two miles to Gould Mesa campground, have a little snack (and maybe a swim) and head back.

To reach the dam, follow the trail in the northwesterly direction for about 3.4 miles from the starting point. You’ll come to an intersection where the Gabrielino Trail continues northwest, leading you away from the river. Instead, you’ll want to follow the footpath along the river to reach the man-made-but-still-lovely waterfall.

1a. Want a longer day?

If you want a longer day, you could continue on the Gabrielino Trail after your side quest to the Brown Mountain Dam waterfall and ask a friend to pick you up at this gate off Angeles Crest Highway at a specific time. This point-to-point journey will be about 7.6 miles. The extension is also much more challenging than the first 3.7 miles, as it gains about 1,500 feet over 3.9 miles. This trail through Dark Canyon can be overgrown, so please plan accordingly, including downloading a map and bringing a paper map with you. (See map)

Switzer Falls in Angeles National Forest.

(Raul Roa / Los Angeles Times)

1b. Big adventure day

For an even longer point-to-point journey, leave the Brown Mountain Dam waterfall and take the Gabrielino Trail all the way to Switzer Falls, asking a friend to pick you up at the Switzer Picnic Area at a specific time. This point-to-point route will be about 11 miles, and you will gain about 2,350 feet in elevation. This is the most rugged option, and this trail can be overgrown in places. Plan accordingly! (See map)

The Gabrielino Trail, a 28-mile trek through Angeles National Forest, passes through various plant communities and canyons, providing pockets of shade along the way.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

2. Red Box to Valley Forge Trail Camp via Gabrielino Trail

Distance: 4.8 to 6.6 miles, depending on your route
Elevation gained: About 1,200 feet
Difficulty: Moderate
Dogs allowed? Yes
Accessible alternative: Mt. Wilson Observatory paved walking path

This 4.8- to 6.6-mile out-and-back trek will take you along a delightful path that always feels a little bit like a fairy wonderland to me. You’ll pass under shady oak canopies and past moss-covered rock walls. You end at the Valley Forge Trail Camp, which has lovely tall conifers and a vault toilet (that’s usually clean).

To begin, you’ll park in the Red Box Picnic Area parking lot, which can fill up on the weekends and does require you to display an Adventure Pass or other federal public lands pass. You’ll find the trail’s start down some rock steps in the southern area of the lot.

Valley Forge Trail Camp, left, and mossy rocks.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Just over two miles in, you’ll near the trail camp. Take good care to ensure you’re on the right trail. Instead of following the Gabrielino Trail, keep your eyes peeled for the trail that descends toward the riverbed. After a nice rest at the trail camp, you can take the trail or fire road back. (See map)

As of mid-June, the Red Box Picnic Area is experiencing active bear activity, so be mindful if returning to your car around dusk.

2a. For those feeling hardcore

From near Valley Forge Trail Camp, you could consider taking the very steep Valley Forge Trail, a 2.6-mile trek that gains about 1,550 feet, to the Eaton Saddle. From here, you could take the Mt. Lowe Motorway to the San Gabriel Peak Trail, head north briefly using the Mt. Disappointment Road to take the Bill Riley Trail down to Mt. Wilson Red Box Road. The downside is that you’ll have to then take the road about a third of a mile down to Red Box, and drivers zoom through here like they suddenly learned burgers at In-N-Out are free for only the next hour. That’s to say: Proceed with caution.

City lights glow after sunset in a view along the road to Mt. Disappointment in Angeles National Forest.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Additionally, parts of this trip extension might be overgrown. It is about 5.5 miles and gains 2,300 feet in elevation. It will be through a beautiful area of the forest though! (See map)

Regardless of which route you take, please make sure to check the weather, pack smart and be OK with turning around if the conditions on the trail aren’t passable. Additionally, please be mindful of trails that remain closed under the Eaton fire area closure order.

The stretch of the Gabrielino Trail between Red Box and Switzer picnic areas offers great views of nearby peaks in the San Gabriel Mountains.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

3. Red Box Picnic Area to Switzer Picnic Area

Distance: About 8.6 miles
Elevation gained: About 1,450 feet
Difficulty: Moderate
Dogs allowed? Yes
Accessible alternative: West Fork National Scenic Bikeway

Earlier this week, I took this 8.6-mile moderate route, parking at the Red Box Picnic Area before heading down into the canyon on the segment of the Gabrielino Trail that runs parallel to Angeles Crest Highway. (See map)

This trail is both beautiful — lush with native plants and the last blooms of wildflower season with great views of nearby peaks — and exposed. There will be shady patches as you hike under healthy oak and maple tree canopy, but wear ample sun protection.

One of many deep pools along the rivers that run next to the Gabrielino Trail.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

Although the trail runs parallel to the Arroyo Seco for a stretch, you cannot easily access the river because of a steep drop-off from the trail to the river. I didn’t cross the river until 3 miles in, and by then, I was feeling hot and ready for a quick dip.

That said, when I arrived at the Switzer Picnic Area, I felt like I’d won the lottery. I had skipped the nightmare that it has become to park here, but I still got to swim around in one of the river’s deep pools. It was 1.8 miles farther to Switzer Falls, one of the best cascades in Angeles National Forest.

Great views from the Gabrielino Trail.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

***

If you have any questions or feedback about the suggested routes, you can simply reply to this email if you’re a Wild subscriber. It will go directly to me. I love hearing from you. Have fun out there and happy summer!

3 things to do

Volunteers work at a Channel Islands Restoration event.

(Channel Islands Restoration)

1. Serve the river in Santa Paula
Channel Islands Restoration, a Santa Barbara-based habitat restoration nonprofit, needs volunteers from 9 a.m. to noon Sunday at Santa Clara River Preserve (1368 Mission Rock Road in Santa Paula). The preserve spans almost two miles and is about 1,000 acres. All ages and skill sets welcome. The site is ADA-friendly, and restrooms are on-site. Register at cirweb.networkforgood.com.

2. Eradicate invasive plants in Irwindale
The California Native Plant Society San Gabriel Mountains Chapter needs volunteers from 8 to 10:30 a.m. Saturday to yank weeds from the Santa Fe Dam natural area. Volunteers will also learn from plant society members about the local flora and fauna. Learn more at chapters.cnps.org.

3. Investigate the invertebrates in Rowland Heights
The Invertebrate Club of Southern California will host a 1.5- to 3-mile hike from 6:30 p.m. to 9 p.m. June 26 through Big Dalton Canyon. Participants will learn about scorpions, beetles and other interesting creatures. Learn more at the group’s Instagram page.

The must-read

The Malibu coastline just south of Point Dume.

(Jackie Snow)

Freelance writer Jackie Snow was feeling inspired to get outdoors. After reading my 2024 piece about walking the entire 27.4 miles of Washington Boulevard, she came up with an idea: Walking the entire L.A. County shoreline. Snow took 10 trips from November through mid-January to accomplish her goal, walking 70(ish) miles in total. She maps out in her piece how you can do that too! “I have seen whale-watch perches, burned-out Malibu lots, crowded boardwalks and magnificent waves. The coastline is both fragile and welcoming — and walkable — if you’re willing to chase the tides,” Snow wrote in her article for The Times.

Happy adventuring,

P.S.

It’s ladybug season in Los Padres National Forest. Volunteers with the Los Padres Forest Assn. recently discovered thousands of the insects while they were working on the Piedra Blanca Trail. “If you know where to look, you can find them hibernating on rocks, leaf litter, and trees in masses called ‘lovelinesses,’” the association wrote on Instagram. “But, have you ever seen the next generation hatch and fly away in the springtime?” No, but I hope to someday.

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 Trump Department of Justice going after people who make the president mad or even sad is nothing new, in this dangerous age when the presidency is increasingly about placating the desires of the old man in the Oval Office.

Leticia James, James Comey, Adam Schiff. Most recently, E. Jean Carroll, who sued President Trump personally and won a huge settlement on her claim that he sexually assaulted her. Now, the Department of Justice is investigating her for potential perjury.

It would be easy to think of Gov. Gavin Newsom’s announcement Monday that the U.S. Department of Justice is now targeting his wife, Jennifer Siebel Newsom, as just another addition to that list.

But this attack on Siebel Newsom (alleged attack, anyway — the Department of Justice has not confirmed she is a target) is something much darker in our slide into authoritarianism. While the details of what is being investigated are murky and the president hasn’t chimed in yet, it has all the appearances of the Trump administration seeking to stop a political rival who has a real shot at knocking MAGA out of the top office.

“It’s not just random or accidental that the wife of a major presidential candidate is being investigated,” Steven Levitsky, a professor of politics at Harvard University, told me Monday. “That’s the nature of selective prosecution and that is a pillar of authoritarian rule.”

Levitsky is an expert on authoritarian regimes, and how they take and keep power. His point that Newsom is a viable challenger may seem obvious — Newsom himself is already fundraising off of it. But this particular alleged investigation bears a moment of pause because it is not the regular decline of justice we have been witnessing to this moment.

“This is different,” he said. “This is forward-looking persecution.”

Until now, Levistky points out, Trump has screamed and hollered for the prosecution of those who have wronged him in the past, sometimes even the distant past. Yes, he’s disgraced the Department of Justice with the demand it function as his own personal hammer of retribution, even putting his own personal attorney, Todd Blanche, in charge when Pam Bondi wasn’t accommodating or successful enough at stomping perceived enemies and quashing the Epstein files.

But those prosecutions have largely been grievance-based, not aimed at keeping power.

Going after Siebel Newsom seems more like a forward-looking, preemptive strike targeting Newsom ahead of the 2028 election through every decent man’s Achilles’ heel, his family.

In fact, the right-wing media — which is closely tied to the whims of the White House — has been targeting Siebel Newsom for months.

In particular, Siebel Newsom has been attacked for her work as a documentary filmmaker who focuses on female empowerment and parsing how and why we have the gender norms that we do when it comes to masculinity and femininity. I’ll let you figure out how popular that is in MAGA world, where real women make sandwiches.

Conservative commentator Sean Hannity has gone after Siebel Newsom for saying she sometimes changes the gender of a book’s character from “he” to “she” when she’s reading to her children. Fox News has attacked her for daring to give her boys dolls to play with, leading some MAGA influencers to label her “psychotic” or “abusive.” Right-wing icon Megyn Kelly called her a “nutcase” for sharing the tragic story of her sister’s death when Siebel Newsom was 6.

And other media have focused on the fact that some of the films she has been involved with have been approved for use in California schools, leading to conspiracies that Newsom used his influence to force his wife’s “woke” agenda on kids, by which we are apparently talking about the liberal plagues of decency and inclusion.

Newsom’s office said that in recent weeks, relatives, friends and business associates of the family have been contacted by investigators from the FBI and IRS. Siebel Newsom also does work around online safety for children, but it seems likely that any attention would focus on these films, and related nonprofits, and the perennially popular MAGA boogeyman of schools forcing ideologies on kids. Throw in Siebel Newsom’s company making even a dollar, and the way the IRS can find problems with any tax return, and you’ve got about 10,000 hours of right-wing propaganda.

So whether the pressure to target Siebel Newsom came from the White House or not, Newsom’s announcement raises the troubling specter that this administration is getting more serious about remaining in control by kneecapping potential replacements before they grow too strong.

In his Monday video, Newsom urged Trump with mano a mano bravado to come after him as much as he wanted, but to leave his wife and family out of it. But I would not underestimate Siebel Newsom, who showed her strength when she testified against disgraced Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein, laying out publicly a private, painful tale.

Siebel Newsom’s office told me she’s fine being part of any fight against Trump.

“There are clearly no boundaries to what Donald Trump will do to get his way or to challenge those who get in his way,” Siebel Newsom said in a statement.

The “governor and I will continue to speak truth to power because the American people deserve so much more.”

By coming out in advance of any official announcement of an investigation by the Department of Justice, Siebel Newsom and her husband may be able to take control of the narrative, something Trump detests.

That pushback, Levitsky said, is critical, not just for them, but more importantly for all of us. After last year, when so many institutions and individuals crumbled in the face of Trump’s power, the strength of our democracy increasingly depends on those with political capital standing up to him.

Coming out punching first does just that.

Well, that just happened.

The president held a cage fight on the White House South Lawn, complete with flyovers, fireworks, mini-skirted “octagon girls” and the surrealistic sight of mixed martial arts fighters striding through historic White House rooms flanked by National Medal of Honor winners.

Despite wide public disapproval for Sunday’s event and much scathing commentary about the political and psychological messaging of Donald Trump’s choice of a Vegas-like spectacle to celebrate his 80th birthday, and the country’s 250th, the sky did not fall, the original Constitution in the nearby National Archives did not tear in two and none of the fighters passed out from the heat or bug bites.

Things didn’t even get bloody until the final match in the fifth hour, when Justin Gaethje kicked and punched the crap out of widely favored Ilia Topuria.

Even so, it was impossible to emerge from watching UFC Freedom 250 without feeling punch-drunk.

Not because of the fighting; because of almost everything that was not the fighting.

Beginning with Paramount+, owned by the Trump-friendly Ellison family’s Paramount Skydance, which recently received Justice Department clearance for its highly controversial acquisition of Warner Bros. Discovery.

The jarring sight of past UFC matches being seemingly projected onto the Jefferson Memorial and the Capitol gave way to a series of poorly produced “historical” moments in which UFC fighters were cast as inheriting the same “fighting spirit” that motivated this nation’s Founding Fathers, past presidents and war veterans. Down to the inevitable strains of the Village People’s “Y.M.C.A.” (the baffling anthem of MAGA), the event projected a macho-man view of patriotism that was just as ghastly as many feared it would be.

UFC fighters are indeed dedicated and talented athletes who have overcome all manner of personal obstacles. But to compare them with Thomas Jefferson or American soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy is absurd and more than a little insulting.

The tens of thousands of UFC and Trump fans who gathered on the South Lawn and the Ellipse, however, were clearly having a very good time. Proceedings were delayed an hour by the threat of storms, but the weather cooperated in the end. “The President’s Own” United States Marine Band, and in particular, soloist Staff Sgt. Hannah Davis, gave masterful performances throughout. And while the Claw, the 600-ton steel structure arching above the Octagon, certainly looked like the first stage of an alien attack during the day, it put on a pretty terrific (if more than a little Vegasy) light show at night.

For those watching from home, however, these bright spots were glimpsed and heard infrequently, drowned out by the endless hyperbolic intonations of commentators (including Joe Rogan, who initially criticized the event), the long and invariably self-aggrandizing introductions of the various participants and the onslaught of frequently militaristic commercials, more than a few of which, included ads for Ram, featured UFC President and Chief Executive Dana White.

Which isn’t surprising when you think about it. White’s longtime support for the president culminated in his organization covering the event’s $60 million in production costs, and from the moment a smiling White joined Trump as he made his way through the White House to the front row, the event served as an almost-six-hour ad for the UFC.

Though I am not a UFC fan, I realize that showmanship is key to the sport’s wild and increasingly broad popularity. Championship matches, which rarely last longer than 30 minutes and sometimes much less, are inevitably preceded by hours of participants making all manner of florid claims and trash-talking their opponents. (Which may explain Trump’s fondness for the UFC.)

But when all of this strutting, preening and wild-eyed reaction revolves around what was, for better and worse, a series of rules-free brawls being force-fed into a narrative about this country’s enduring strength, what emerges is not so much a sporting event as it is a piece of naked and nationalistic propaganda.

Which came to a head in the final fight. After the six previous matches concluded rather quickly with bloodless knockouts (a UFC record), the fight between American Gaethje and the German-born, Georgia and Spain-representing Topuria lasted much longer. Gaethje, introduced as “the most violent man in the most violent sport,” left the lightweight champion’s face such a mess that even Rogan was shocked.

By all metrics, including Topuria’s refusal to go down, it was the best fight of the night. But hearing the crowd chant “USA, USA” as the bloody blows fell … well, let’s just say it was not everyone’s notion of a presidential birthday celebration.

Some have suggested that Trump staged the event in the hope of regaining the support of young men who helped him win the last election. Even if that was not the case, it was difficult to view UFC Freedom 250 in any way nonpartisan (especially after British former heavyweight champion Tyson Fury strode out of the White House wearing a “Trump for Prime Minister” hat).

Yes, several of the six non-American participants entered to Spanish or Portuguese songs (why so much fuss then about Bad Bunny at the Super Bowl?) but some of the winners are longtime MAGA supporters and made that very clear — Bo Nickal thanked Trump for being the only one “to have the balls” to stage such an event while Josh Hokit followed up his thanks to “my lord and savior Jesus Christ” with “Michelle Obama is a man. Am I right, America?”

Because it was Trump’s birthday after all.

There are more than 100 Emmy categories, and if you scroll through each and every one of them on the Television Academy’s website, you’re probably one of those people who read the terms and conditions on a document before signing your name.

This hasn’t been the greatest year for television, which has had the converse effect of prompting me to sample more shows than ever in a quest to unearth that one hidden gem that merits a place on my mock Emmy ballot. Truth be told, I’m still looking. I’m sure I’ve missed something. And I’m sure you’ll let me know.

In the meantime, here are my picks for the top 15 categories — five each for comedy, drama and limited series — along with a brief line of reasoning for each. And if it’s predictions you’re after, you can find our full BuzzMeter panel’s choices here. Emmy nominations will be announced July 8.

Comedy series

“Abbott Elementary”
“The Bear”
“The Comeback”
“Hacks”
“The Lowdown”
“Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
“The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins”
“Shrinking”

Sterlin Harjo’s “The Lowdown” feels like it’s on the same trajectory as his last series, “Reservation Dogs,” an under-the-radar charmer that grows in estimation as its audience builds. Noir crime stories don’t come more delightful.

Comedy actress

Quinta Brunson, “Abbott Elementary”
Rose Byrne, “Platonic”
Ayo Edebiri, “The Bear”
Elle Fanning, “Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
Lisa Kudrow, “The Comeback”
Jean Smart, “Hacks”

“Platonic” heightened the chaos and conflict in its second season, affording the gifted Byrne additional room to flex her comic chops. How do you sleep on a show starring a newly minted Oscar nominee?

Comedy actor

Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, “Wonder Man”
Ethan Hawke, “The Lowdown”
Tracy Morgan, “The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins”
Jason Segel, “Shrinking”
Martin Short, “Only Murders in the Building”
Jeremy Allen White, “The Bear”

Morgan acting oblivious is one of the funniest things ever.

Comedy supporting actress

Hannah Einbinder, “Hacks”
Janelle James, “Abbott Elementary”
Ashley Padilla, “Saturday Night Live”
Michelle Pfeiffer, “Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
Sheryl Lee Ralph, “Abbott Elementary”
Jeanne Tripplehorn, “The Lowdown”
Jessica Williams, “Shrinking”

The Padilla Pause is one reason I’m watching “Saturday Night Live” again.

Comedy supporting actor

Harrison Ford, “Shrinking”
Marcello Hernández, “Saturday Night Live”
Ben Kingsley, “Wonder Man”
Ebon Moss-Bachrach, “The Bear”
Nick Offerman, “Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
Stephen Root, “Widow’s Bay”
Tyler James Williams, “Abbott Elementary”

Hernández’s charisma and physical comedy is another.

Drama series

“Industry”
“A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms”
“The Night Manager”
“Paradise”
“The Pitt”
“Pluribus”
“Slow Horses”
“Task”

How many Emmy voters finally caught up on “Industry,” the fast-paced drama about a group of cutthroat Gen Zers? Four seasons in, it’s more addictive than ever.

Drama actress

Caitriona Balfe, “Outlander”
Myha’la, “Industry”
Chase Infiniti, “The Testaments”
Michelle Pfeiffer, “The Madison”
Rhea Seehorn, “Pluribus”
Zendaya, “Euphoria”

Now that “Outlander” is over, it’s time to pour one out for Balfe. Over the course of eight seasons, she hopscotched through time, enduring and overcoming numerous assaults and kidnappings, dealing with grief and trauma and enjoying lots of emotionally grounded sex. Balfe has earned a final reward.

Drama actor

Sterling K. Brown, “Paradise”
Peter Claffey, “A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms”
Tom Hiddleston, “The Night Manager”
Gary Oldman, “Slow Horses”
Mark Ruffalo, “Task”
Noah Wyle, “The Pitt”

Claffey turned bumbling into art.

Drama supporting actress

Isa Briones, “The Pitt”
Taylor Dearden, “The Pitt”
Fiona Dourif, “The Pitt”
Supriya Ganesh, “The Pitt”
Katherine LaNasa, “The Pitt”
Sepideh Moafi, “The Pitt”
Karolina Wydra, “Pluribus”

LaNasa should have bumped herself up to lead. As Whitaker explains to Langdon in Season 2’s penultimate episode, Robby’s the Professor of the ER and LaNasa’s Dana is the Skipper. And the Skipper should be lead.

Drama supporting actor

Patrick Ball, “The Pitt”
Diego Calva, “The Night Manager”
Shawn Hatosy, “The Pitt”
Gerran Howell, “The Pitt”
Ken Leung, “Industry”
Tom Pelphrey, “Task”
Carlos-Manuel Vesga, “Pluribus”

Pelphrey has called his desperate single dad on “Task” the role of a lifetime. No argument here.

Limited series

“Bait”
“Beef”
“DTF St. Louis”
“Death by Lightning”
“Half Man”

I put off watching the finale of the punishing “Half Man” for weeks. Does that mean the show worked?

Limited series/TV movie actress

Sally Field, “Remarkably Bright Creatures”
Camila Morrone, “Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen”
Carey Mulligan, “Beef”
Sarah Pidgeon, “Love Story”
Robin Wright, “The Girlfriend”

I like her! Right now (and always), I like her!

Limited series/TV movie actor

Riz Ahmed, “Bait”
Charlie Hunnam, “Monster: The Ed Gein Story”
Matthew Macfadyen, “Death by Lightning”
Mitchell Robertson, “Half Man”
Michael Shannon, “Death by Lightning”

The young actors on “Half Man” — Robertson and Stuart Campbell — outshone their well-known counterparts.

Limited series/TV movie supporting actress

Linda Cardellini, “DTF St. Louis”
Grace Gummer, “Love Story”
Laurie Metcalf, “Monster: The Ed Gein Story”
Cailee Spaeny, “Beef”
Joy Sunday, “DTF St. Louis”
Constance Zimmer, “Love Story”

Both Cardellini and Sunday for “DTF St. Louis”? No way, José, you say? Yes way, I say. All the way!

Limited series/TV movie supporting actor

(Larry Horricks / Netflix)

Jason Bateman, “DTF St. Louis”
Stuart Campbell, “Half Man”
Richard Gadd, “Half Man”
David Harbour, “DTF St. Louis”
Charles Melton, “Beef”
Nick Offerman, “Death by Lightning”

The mutton-chopped Chester A. Arthur joins Ron Swanson’s ’stache in television’s facial hair hall of fame.

We took Atlantic all the way to the Pacific, traveling from the San Gabriel Valley to Long Beach on foot. On the last morning of May, a group of us set out at 7:45 a.m. from a barren In-N-Out parking lot in Alhambra, where Atlantic Boulevard begins. We kept walking until we reached the water, 12 hours and more than 55,000 steps later.

In all, our group passed eight freeways, two highways, and one river, twice. We walked through a dozen cities: Alhambra, Monterey Park, Commerce, Vernon, Maywood, Bell, Cudahy, South Gate, Lynwood, Compton, Long Beach and, of course, Los Angeles.

We spent only about 1.5 miles, a half-hour, in the city of Los Angeles itself, all in East L.A. We spent more time in Lynwood than Los Angeles. We spent far more time — more than a third of our day — in Long Beach.

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To walk Atlantic was to connect the dots about how our region functions economically, from the port to the factories to the suburbs. It was also to realize just how expansive and multifaceted Long Beach is.

This is the sixth such walk of one lengthy street that, ending at the ocean, we’ve completed across Los Angeles. Our pursuit began in 2022 with Wilshire’s 16 miles, continued in 2023 with Sunset’s 25, maxed out in 2024 with Western’s 28-plus miles, and stepped back in 2025 with Pico’s 15.5 miles. Earlier this year, roughly 30 of us strolled all of Santa Monica’s 14.5 miles.

This time, we started with a group of 16, ranging in age from 20-something to sexagenarian, and finished with 12. Some walkers left and joined us along the way. Ten, including one Long Beach local, completed the street.

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1. Pedro Moura, center, gives a pep talk before leading a group on a 25-mile walk the length of Atlantic Boulevard. (Scott Strazzante/For The Times) 2. In so-L.A. fashion, a Tesla Cybertruck rolls past a pile of possessions flooding the sidewalk in front of an apartment building. 3. Josiah Fields, 15, earns money by cleaning car windshields at the intersection of Atlantic and Alondra Boulevards. 4. During the final mile of the their 25 mile walk, Chloe Stepney and Trevor O’Brien lead the way past Louis Burgers III on Atlantic Avenue. (Scott Strazzante/For The Times)

We’ve been playfully calling our annual jaunts the Big Walk. This one, we called the Bigger Walk. I suppose that makes Western the Biggest. We’ve come to believe the ideal distance for an all-day effort is about 20 miles. That seems long enough for it to feel like a real feat and short enough to include more interested folks and ample break time.

After a tranquil time on Santa Monica, I wrote that we expected Atlantic to be the opposite experience — “unwieldy, at times unwelcoming, and excessively industrial.” That was an overstatement at best and factually wrong at worst.

We did visit Vernon, the city that proudly promotes itself as “exclusively industrial.” But by one measure, Atlantic was literally the most welcoming street we’ve done yet. Many more people greeted us. The actual street was at least as pedestrian-friendly as Western or Sunset. At no point did we have to walk on the road or in a minuscule median.

We did, though, have to cross five crosswalks just to continue on Atlantic at one point, at an absurd intersection with Ferguson Drive, Goodrich Boulevard, Telegraph Road and Triggs Street. Railroad tracks and the famed old East L.A. Union Pacific Station stood to our left, and the 5 freeway to our right. Clearly, pedestrian convenience had not been front of mind during the area’s planning.

Oil might be the simplest way to illustrate how Atlantic differs from more famous L.A. streets. On Pico Boulevard, there are oil derricks hidden behind elaborate, towering facades. Along Atlantic, the derricks are just everywhere in plain sight for a while. We did walk atop both the Long Beach Oil Field, a mega giant field, and the Wilmington Oil Field, the third-largest oil field in the contiguous United States.

That’s Atlantic, lacking in pretense, not hiding anything, but exceeding our expectations. We saw more plants native to our region, including Cleveland sage and Sacred datura, than along Santa Monica. And we kept encountering vibrant pockets where we did not know they would be. Monterey Park was the first to impress us, with gorgeous Cascades Park tucked into a lush little valley.

A rose peeks through a fence at St. Rose of Lima Church on Atlantic Boulevard.

Lykayla Melendez poses in her quinceañera dress at Cascades Park along Atlantic Boulevard.

In East L.A., chilaquiles, tamales, tejuino and ribs were all available street-side, and one of our members noticed the newer location of the famed La Azteca Tortilleria in a strip mall near the Metro station. Azteca has been the No. 1 seed in Times columnist Gustavo Arellano’s tortilla tasting tournaments with KCRW; we picked up a couple dozen to go.

Farther south, Bell is best known locally as the home of brazenly corrupt city officials earlier this century. When we passed through, the shade provided by a pocket park in the city center became a crucial respite for our lunch break. Across the street, a community market was just starting up for the afternoon. We caught a couple songs from a talented mariachi band.

Once we crossed the 105 overpass, we quickly encountered four sizable parks, each no more than two miles from the last. We saw one pump track, two tennis courts and skate parks, several sports fields, and an impressive number of food trucks, including Instagram-famous Kitchen’s Corner BBQ. At least another dozen food vendors seemed to be setting up for evening service as we marched by in the late afternoon.

By the third park we passed, we were in Long Beach, specifically North Long Beach. The fourth, Scherer Park, is a sprawling, 26-acre gem. Soon enough we were in Bixby Knolls, where, for more than a decade now, Long Beach officials have been investing in improving bicycle and pedestrian access. It shows. We had a delightful happy hour on Ambitious Ales’ front patio overlooking Atlantic.

August Fagerstrom and Pedro Moura fist bump a well-wisher on Atlantic Avenue.

Official lists of the longest L.A.-area streets are almost impossible to find. Often, such lists are kept by cities. The longer the street, the less likely that all of it is within one city’s limits.

We can say this: There are not many stretches of a single street with the same name longer than Atlantic in the L.A. Basin. Western Avenue, definitely. Imperial Highway, depending on your perspective on what constitutes a street. Sunset is about the same length. And that’s about it.

Unless you want to be particularly persnickety and disqualify Atlantic on the grounds that it technically has two names. For its northern 10 miles, Atlantic is a boulevard. For its southern 15, it’s an avenue. Where Maywood becomes Bell, it switches. But it’s Atlantic all the same, and that was good enough for us.

Surely you’ve been wondering about the origin of the name. Atlantic has been named for the distant ocean since the 19th century, when a Brit tried to christen a city after himself and named its three major streets Pacific, American and Atlantic avenues, from west to east. American is now Long Beach Boulevard, so it no longer makes much sense.

At the end of their 25-mile walk, Chris Kirkham celebrates with fellow walkers at Atlantic Avenue and Ocean Boulevard.

Speaking of names: Our Alhambra is named after a Washington Irving book inspired by his visit to the 13th-century Islamic fortress of the same name in what is now Spain. You can walk to the actual Atlantic from that Alhambra in about 150 miles.

This was easier than that, at least. If you’re eager to explore the backbone of Los Angeles, curious for a challenge, you could do worse than attacking Atlantic. I promise you’ll see something new. We saw a street juggler. We saw a live chicken and a dead turkey. We saw a discarded box of Pacifico beer that had been cooking in the sun so long it turned from yellow to white.

Pedro Moura points out Chloe Stepney’s sock tan line as they celebrate the end of their 25-mile walk down Atlantic with a dip in the Pacific Ocean at Alamitos Beach.

After we rinsed our weary feet in the Pacific, some of us waddled back up to Downtown Long Beach and scarfed down Sonoratown burritos and chivichangas before heading home. It was a Sunday well spent.

David Baerwald holds up his most precious possession so that it’s visible on our video conference: a very old violin in a very old, battered case.

Baerwald, an award-winning musician, film composer and songwriter who called Los Angeles home for nearly four decades, doesn’t play the violin. During his years with the Tuesday Music Club (immortalized in the Sheryl Crow album “Tuesday Night Music Club”), he played guitar. But the violin belonged to his grandfather Ernst Baerwald — and it plays an important role in his recently published debut novel, “The Fire Agent.”

Not every successful artist turns to a new medium at age 65 or moves to the opposite coast (Baerwald now lives in Kingston, N.Y.). Then again, not every artist has a family history quite like Baerwald’s, one that includes Germany and Japan, two world wars, a 1920s throuple and Beethoven’s Ninth.

The violin in Baerwald’s hands was the one his German-Jewish grandfather played as a Japanese prisoner of war in the Bandō camp at Tokushima during World War I. “It’s a very serviceable violin,” Baerwald notes. “A friend of mine played it for some years in the Long Beach Symphony. When my grandfather was older and wealthy, he bought a better violin, which was lost in a fire. But this is the one that matters.”

It matters because Ernst Baerwald was a founding member of a German POW orchestra that chose Beethoven’s great symphony as their premiere work — a performance so moving that it began a Japanese tradition marking the December holidays that persist to this day. Baerwald’s grandfather not only kept his violin throughout the war in which he fought; when he defected from the Third Reich in 1941, he placed it in an oiled bag and brought it with him via an oceanic escape.

Ernst Baerwald’s odyssey from a cushy childhood in Frankfurt to his final days in a beautiful Berkeley mansion, with a long sojourn in Tokyo along the way, reads like, well, a novel. Sent to an elite boys’ prep school in Germany, then on to a seriously disciplined Milanese dojo where he was trained by a Japanese sensei, Ernst was a prisoner in Japan for four years during World War I.

Those details might have been easy to find, but it wasn’t until David Baerwald went to clear out his parents’ house in Brentwood that he discovered papers showing that his grandfather had not only been the head of the Tokyo office of I.G. Farben, but that he had given a major speech to the nascent Office of Strategic Services (precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency) in 1943 that laid out the plan for the firebombing of Japan.

He also urged them not to allow partnerships between large corporations and the military, the way the German scientific community and government did with I.G. Farben and Krupp Armaments and Steel. “Any business that makes peace with Fascism will become Fascist,” he said. “And once Fascism captures economic control, then a Fascist coup will inevitably follow to seize political power. Germany, Italy, Rumania, Japan, Spain the story is the same. We cannot allow it to become the story of America.”

When Baerwald read that, “I was really alarmed, in the moment,” he says, realizing how closely tied his grandfather had been to the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. “But it gave me a plan.” He wanted to show how deeply his grandfather had become integrated into Japanese culture.

“One of my characters tells Ernst that he has ‘yuyo,’ which might best be described as grace,” says Baerwald. “Its Japanese meaning is closer to the state of a river rock that has been washed over and tumbled thousands of times, so that it’s both distinct, and a meaningful part of its environment.” To some extent, the author understands “yuyo” personally, having lived in Japan and been educated at its International School until age 12, when his family moved back to California, “although I wouldn’t claim it for myself,” he says.

That move, in the early 1970s, may have led to his career in music. “When we got back to the States, I was extremely troubled. Call me a fish out of water, I guess. I went through a period of voluntary mutism — I think they call it selective communication. I didn’t talk to anyone, especially not to my family. My hearing would sort of come and go at will, too.” His mother understood he seemed to like his sister’s acoustic guitar, so she suggested he take some lessons. “At the time, it wasn’t at all a career path, it was a way of reassembling my brain so that I could cope with the reality I was experiencing, finding a way to communicate again.”

Part of what he was experiencing, which he knows a great deal more about now, was feeling “the secrets that were the engine propelling my family.” After Ernst’s long career of service and deception, David Baerwald’s father, Kurt, entered the U.S. Army during WWII and later became a professor of Japanese studies at both in Japan and at UCLA. The effects on their family of five still reverberate. Baerwald’s mother eventually became a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma. “I had to separate myself completely from my family in order to survive,” he says.

However, what stalled the writing of this first novel were the two decades he initially left out, which included Ernst, Lina and their lover Chizuko being a ménage à trois in a 1923 Tokyo dealing with the aftermath of an earthquake and wildfires.

Although “The Fire Agent” is based on Ernst’s history, not all of the facts are congruent. The wrestling coach at the American school in Tokyo, Ernst’s glamorous courtesan Chizuko, and many of the characters are composites. Speaking of that courtesan, Baerwald says it’s true that his grandfather and grandmother cohabited with a Japanese woman for many years, even after Lina and Ernst had a child together. “I found so many letters between my grandfather and my grandmother and I think they truly loved each other, and I think they truly loved that woman, too.”

That didn’t make it easy for Baerwald to write about that love. “My German grandmother, on whom Lina is partly based, was terrifying,” he says. “It was easier to write about her sex life with my grandfather and their Japanese lover by creating composite characters.”

He didn’t want to leave out their sex life, though, or that of others.

“Every generation of young people thinks they invented sex, right? But nothing is new — and it never gets old. Here’s an example. One of my godfathers, Sam Jameson, was the L.A. Times bureau chief in Tokyo for decades. He was also the doyenne, if you will, of the cross-dressing community in that city. It was this rich world he was a part of that nobody knew anything about. I based the character I call Bünheimer on him.”

Some of the worlds Baerwald has uncovered through his family’s papers are rich and sensual; others, like the POW camp where Ernst was held and the speech he gave to the OSS analysts at the Presidio in the 1940s, are stark and terrible. While he renders all appropriately, he’s aware that his perspective remains that of a white Western man. How did he gain the courage to write about people of other races, cultures and genders? He says it comes from something he did when he was on a swim team in high school. “The psychological trick I would play on myself at each meet was to imagine the water I’d dive into was freezing cold,” he says. “And of course it wasn’t. Which was such a relief and kept me going.”

Like his grandfather’s beloved violin, Baerwald has taken a deep dive into previously unknown waters — and survived. As he works on his second novel, he’s better prepared for airing family secrets and the publishing world. Ever the musician, he likens his first round with it to a Shepard tone, the auditory illusion that can make listeners feel like two notes one octave apart are constantly ascending or descending in pitch (Baerwald has worked with famed composer Hans Zimmer, who used the tone in, for example, “The Dark Knight”).

“A Shepard tone can make you feel like you’re flying. Or sinking,” he says. “At this point in my life and art, I prefer to have my feet firmly on the ground.”

“The Listeners,” which premieres Friday on Starz, began unusually as a story written by Jordan Tannahill as the basis of Missy Mazzoli‘s 2022 opera, also called “The Listeners” (libretto by Royce Vavrek), which he turned into a 2021 novel, which became a 2024 BBC television series, also written by Tannahill. Starz has cut its original four episodes into five, which means that they end in odd places, but given its controlled, glacial pace, shorter might be better.

Tannahill’s inspiration is an unexplained phenomenon reported in the real world — though exactly how real it is is open to interpretation — generally called “the hum,” where people experience a low but persistent background noise inaudible to others. (It isn’t tinnitus, or any diagnosable medical condition.) One such sufferer is Claire (Rebecca Hall), a high school literature teacher with a husband, Paul (Prasanna Puwanarajah) and a teenage daughter, Ashley (Mia Tharia), with whom she gets along well. We begin on an up note, Claire and Ashley singing along to Richard and Linda Thompson’s “I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight” as they drive to school (she also has Nick Drake on her phone). And then the 1970s British folk rock gives way to a less pleasant auditory landscape, as the hum appears, bringing on headaches and nosebleeds and affecting her concentration and mood, her work and family.

Any condition can be isolating from those who don’t share it, and Claire gets some relief when she’s approached by a student, Kyle (Ollie West), who also hears it. They go investigating possible sources of the sound — wind turbines, a radio telescope — and wind up eventually at something like a support group for hum-hearers run by Omar (Amr Waked) and Jo (Gayle Rankin). There is some sketchiness in their past, including a changed identity, and they like to keep the group on a tight rein, but the breathing exercises and visualizations seem pretty standard, and more benign than, say Scientology, and the suggestion that one may tame an affliction by embracing it is pretty reasonable. Claire’s mistake here is not to get a signed parental permission slip, as it were, or enlist a chaperone, and her growing closeness with Kyle (not romantic, not sexual we are assured) will cause them trouble, cost Claire her job and mess up her marriage. She makes some insufficiently careful decisions, but those around her tend to overreact. This is very much a story about listening and not listening.

Directed by Janicza Bravo and photographed with great intention by Jody Lee Lipes, it has the studied look and tempo of a 20th-century art film. (It is always great to look at.) I was reminded of Antonioni’s “Red Desert” and Bergman’s “Persona,” psychological studies of women going to pieces, but also, thematically, of Spielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” with its characters driven to what looks like madness by private bulletins from the ether, pushing them away from family and toward others who are getting the same message. No aliens here — not a spoiler — though I might have liked that ending more than this, which in its own way seems to drop from space.

You can look for metaphors and social comment here — there are references to conspiracy theories and industrial noise pollution and such — but it seems to me to operate most effectively as a beautifully rendered mood piece and character study, and, certainly in the case of Hall, whose story this is, a platform for some exquisitely subtle acting.

Glenn Close is not going to be ignored this time around, as the eight-time Oscar nominee will finally receive recognition from the academy this fall.

I’m Glenn Whipp, columnist for the Los Angeles Times and host of The Envelope newsletter, working up a healthy World Cup fever even if it’s just an excuse to head to Lucky Baldwin’s for a pint or two and watch Cristiano Ronaldo one last time.

But let’s circle back to American football and my digital cover story with “Beef” stars Cailee Spaeny and Charles Melton, who watched a Super Bowl together, though they were cheering for different teams.

That Super Bowl in question was Super Bowl LIX, pitting the Philadelphia Eagles against the Kansas City Chiefs. Melton hosted a watch party, and since he considers Kansas home and played football for Kansas State University, you might think he’d be rooting for the Chiefs.

Nope.

“When I was living in Germany, I fell in love with Donovan McNabb,” Melton, an army brat, tells me, name-checking the longtime Eagles quarterback.

Spaeny, it turns out, was the only Chiefs fan at the party. To enter Melton’s home, she had to step on a doormat that was fitted with a red-and-white Chiefs jersey. (“It got real dirty,” Melton says with pride.)

Melton and Spaeny enjoy a relaxed and playful give-and-take, borne from the months they spent preparing to play Austin and Ashley, a Gen-Z couple working at a Montecito country club, dreaming and scheming toward upward mobility in “Beef.”

(Erik Carter / For The Times)

The most memorable episode they shared found the couple in an overcrowded, ninth-circle-of-hell emergency room with Ashley, uninsured, experiencing severe ovarian torsion. Her concerns are dismissed and she begs for someone to save her.

“Unfortunately, it’s an all-too-common experience,” Spaeny says. “I probably have a conversation once a month with female friends who go to the doctor’s office and are gaslit by the system, just being made to feel like what they’re experiencing isn’t really happening or they’re making it up. It’s scary.”

Still, being “Beef,” the episode has its share of mordant humor, like the scene where a nurse asks Ashley to rate her pain, zero being pain-free and 10 being excruciating.

“Oh, I thought it was like Letterboxd,” Ashley replies, referring to the movie review social platform. “Two-and-a-half stars out of five is average.”

“My whole life I’ve been a six or seven,” Melton says, noting his own personal pain scale. “I’ll have a cold and I’ll be like, ‘Six or seven.’”

“That sounds like you,” Spaeny says.

“I can get pretty dramatic,” Melton says. “It’s really like the end of the world when I’m sick.”

Spaeny deleted her Letterboxd account because she gets anxious about anything online containing reviews.

“It takes two buttons to click on a movie that I’ve been in and see what people say about me,” Spaeny says. “So I forgot my password and left it that way.”

Melton is an enthusiastic adopter and says he has twice shared his four favorite films, a feature where actors, usually on the red carpet, list a quartet of beloved movies. (Here’s one at the “May December” premiere where Melton enthuses over “The Matrix,” “In the Mood for Love,” “Brokeback Mountain” and “Persona.”)

“I saw them at another event and they were like, ‘Charles, so good to see you.’ And I was like, ‘Do you want my four favorite films?’ And they said, ‘No, you’ve already done it enough,’” Melton laughs. “What can I say? I love movies!”

In “Rheology,” Shayok Misha Chowdhury, an experimental theater artist, and his mother, Bulbul Chakraborty, a theoretical physicist, bridge the language of their different disciplines to explore a subject dear to both of them: loss.

Chowdhury, author of the play “Public Obscenities,” a 2024 finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, and the director of the sensational off-Broadway production of Jordan Tannahill’s “Prince Faggot,” is as tenderly devoted to his mother as the young Marcel was to his own in Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.” The idea of his mother dying is insupportable to Chowdhury, but given that she’s in her 70s and he’s in his 40s, certain terrifying realities must be faced.

“Rheology,” which is receiving its West Coast premiere at REDCAT (in a brief run ending Saturday), is the piece they’ve created to prepare Chowdhury for that fateful day. This strikingly staged Bushwick Starr, HERE Arts Center and Ma-Yi Theater Company production is an interdisciplinary experiment that is as playful in its methodology as it is serious in its research aims.

Chakraborty, a professor at Brandeis University, starts off with a physics lesson. Her subject is sand, and she poses a simple question: Is the sand pouring through the hourglass sitting on the counter before her a liquid or a solid?

A charismatic teacher, she knows how to Socratically engage a room. Her welcoming manner draws out from the audience the different ways sand behaves both like a solid and like a liquid.

Shayok Misha Chowdhury, in rear, and Bulbul Chakraborty in “Rheology” at REDCAT.

(Roy and Edna Disney CalArts Theater [REDCAT])

Rheology, or the science of how a substance responds to external stress, is her chief interest. Her research, focused on soft condensed matter, has been seeking a comprehensive theory to explain the curious elasticity of such material. A photo of a sand dune, in which she’s seated alongside Chowdhury as a toddler, helps illustrate her point that sand can flow like a liquid yet retain its shape like a solid.

An onstage sandbox is more than just another visual accompaniment to her talk. It’s a source of both elemental mystery and childlike wonder. But elucidation is her motive. She enters the box with her bare feet, noting the way the sand flows around her toes yet supports her weight in observation of the rule that “every grain has to be in force balance.”

She writes equations on the board to explain these findings, equations that begin to glow as the production moves from the realm of pure science to the more slippery domain of art. The transition, like all aspects of this piece, is frolicsomely conducted.

While pouring sand from one container to another, Chakraborty appears to be overcome with dust. For a moment, it’s not clear if this is part of the show or a medical incident until Chowdhury, discreetly occupying a seat in the audience, asserts himself as the director. He asks his mother to run through the death scene with a different sequence of movements and introduces the accompaniment of George Crotty on cello to liberate her performance.

They are rehearsing not so much Chakraborty’s end but Chowdhury’s reaction. He assumes he will fall apart and vows to die himself out of heartbreak. Chakraborty wants him to carry on his work, just as she carried on her research as a mother with a young son who would wail uncontrollably when she would drop him off at daycare.

She recounts that his emotional outbursts were so extreme that it was painful leaving him behind. But she was assured that he was handling the separation. For proof, she was taken into a private teacher’s room, where through a one-way mirror she saw him compose himself shortly after her departure and start to play with the other children.

Mother and son enact a similar situation where, after a more permanent leave-taking, she can catch a glimpse of her son recovering himself sufficiently to survive her loss. Chowdhury, a queer artist who enjoys sampling performance modes, adopts the figure of the grieving Bollywood widow. The effect isn’t to lampoon but to confront his raw emotion and to test his capacity for resilience.

The experiment might sound sentimental, but Chakraborty, the production’s secret weapon, maintains a scientific restraint, albeit one suffused with maternal anguish. The way she listens to her son, takes in his feelings, gently suggests other possibilities of response and treats his experimental theater piece with the same dignity as her own research is incredibly moving to witness. Her performance won an Obie Award, and though she insists that she’s not an actor she demonstrates a sincerity and collaborative grace that many veteran performers would envy.

As it unfolds, “Rheology” can seem piecemeal, even haphazard. There’s an informality built into the production, but it’s somewhat deceptive because the mercurial staging is extremely precise. Chowdhury’s direction has visual panache. Kameron Neal’s video design transforms Krit Robinson’s part lab, part lecture hall set into something kaleidoscopic.

When mother and son sing songs from the famous cycle by Bengali writer-composer and Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore or hold a deathbed conversation in Bangla, the piece spins further across time and space. Empiricism gives way to surrealism. But the world, as any scientist probing into the atomic level can attest, contains more secrets than meets the eye.

Fragile matter is Chakraborty’s specialty, and her expertise is put to novel use in shoring up her son’s tender heart.

I wanted to know more the moment I read “Sister Elsie Peak” on an old map.

I discovered the name while researching trails around Mt. Lukens, the highest peak in Los Angeles proper. Looking at the peak’s location on a historical map of L.A. County’s mountains, I noticed that it was previously named for a woman I’d never heard of.

Few of Southern California’s mountain peaks are named after women, so Sister Elsie Peak stuck with me. Who was she? And why was her mountain renamed to instead honor local leader Theodore Lukens?

In this edition of The Wild, our weekly outdoors newsletter, I will take you with me on my arduous journey to find the origins of the first known name for Mt. Lukens. Over the past week, I enlisted help from multiple librarians, map experts and one gracious historian (who you’ll meet later). We all scoured newspaper archives and history books, catching the fever of curiosity that seems to consume anyone who tries to find out who Sister Elsie was.

What we collectively found was this: Sister Elsie was most likely not a real person, and her legend was most widely shared in the early 20th century by a local landowner who was known to embellish, including claiming that Josephine Peak near Mt. Lukens was named after his daughter. (It wasn’t.)

There appears to be no record anywhere — in newspapers, in history books, in Catholic Church records — as to the existence of a Sister Elsie or, as you’ll learn more about below, an alleged orphanage, ranch or school that she ran in the Tujunga area for Indigenous children or the broader Indigenous community.

In that same vein, I want to call something out before we begin: Stories about the relationships between colonizers and Indigenous peoples often get romanticized (see: Thanksgiving), with storytellers and early historians intentionally leaving out any details of forced assimilation or the American genocide. I cannot report anything concrete about how Sister Elsie actually treated Indigenous people in large part because I don’t believe she was real.

The sunset as viewed from a trail near Mt. Lukens in the San Gabriel Mountains.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

OK, I’ve held you in suspense long enough. Let’s jump into everything under the actual sun that I could find about Sister Elsie Peak.

To begin my reporting, I contacted Times editorial library director Cary Schneider, who is always eager to help me with prospective stories (i.e. highly specific internet rabbit holes I’ve fallen down).

Cary found what might be the earliest mention in a local newspaper: A story in the Monrovia Daily News on April 23, 1910, in which a writer mentions a new trail leading to Sister Elsie Peak, but tragically gives no details of its namesake.

Next, we jump 20 years into the future when The Times and the Pasadena Star-News covered the dedication of Sister Elsie’s Well in Tujunga. Both publications described the well in their stories on April 28, 1930, as named after “the Catholic nun” who ran a school for Indigenous children “in the days of the Spanish missions.” The Times called her a “pioneer nun and teacher.”

Multiple radio towers and other infrastructure sit at the top of Mt. Lukens, as seen on a 2022 hike there.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

The dedication occurred on the land of Philip Begue, a crucial character to understand in the Sister Elsie legend, as he’s believed to have either spread or made up the story, according to a local historian. Begue’s family bought land around Tujunga and La Crescenta in 1882, and later, Begue was an early pioneer and one of the first forest rangers in what would later become Angeles National Forest.

Throughout the late 1920s and 1930s, Begue seemed set on sharing the story of Sister Elsie. In 1934, he told the Pasadena Star-News that the sister “ministered to the sick and needy” Indigenous people.

A Times story on Sept. 29, 1935, announced a barbecue fundraiser for a local Catholic institution at the “old Basque rancho” owned by Begue. “The ranch on Honolulu avenue was famous in early days when Los Angeles was a pueblo and Sister Elsie had a children’s home where the ranch now stands.” The Begue family planned to cook “hundreds of pounds of meat for the affair.”

Times columnist Harry Carr offered in his column, the Lancer, a completely different take. Carr wrote on April 3, 1935, that Sister Elsie Peak was named “for a nun who lost her life trying to walk from San Fernando to San Gabriel.” No, he doesn’t provide a source for where he learned that information. Trust me: I too shook my fist at the sky.

The last rays of sun blanket across Mt. Lukens, as seen from Dunsmore Canyon in Deukmejian Wilderness Park near Glendale.

(Jaclyn Cosgrove / Los Angeles Times)

I would be remiss to mention that the oldest reference to a “Sister Elsie” in The Times’ archives appears to be an 1889 story about — buckle up — a psychic medium in Azusa. For a brief and beautiful moment, Cary and I hoped Sister Elsie Peak would turn out to be named after Elsie Wheeler, a spiritualist medium whose own story relates to an astrological tool. Alas, the peak was named before she was born (which doesn’t work unless she was a really good psychic). That said, a peak named after a mythical nun and a clairvoyant feels arguably appropriate for the highest point in L.A.

Cary also discovered one of my favorite facts about the Sister Elsie legend — that it was turned into a play titled “Sister Elsie in Tujunga.” It was written by Frances Muir Pomeroy, superintendent of summer school at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church. It was said to be about “the experiences of Sister Elsie when she conducted an orphanage here many years ago,” according to a 1938 Times story.

There are other references to Sister Elsie in The Times’ archives over the next several decades, but nothing that gives concrete evidence that she actually existed.

Cary advised me to contact the Los Angeles Public Library. Librarian Kelly C. Wallace, who specializes in California history, quickly got back to me.

Knowing that Cary had already scoured The Times’ archives, Wallace sifted through the agency’s Los Angeles Area Historical Newspapers database, which contains the Los Angeles Daily Star (1870-1879), the Los Angeles Evening Post-Record (1896-1936) and the Los Angeles Star (1851-1871), along with community newspapers such as the Eagle Rock Sentinel and the Highland Park Herald. She found little there.

The trail through Stone Canyon to reach Mt. Lukens.

(Mary Forgione / Los Angeles Times)

This is especially puzzling if Sister Elsie did exist because, before the advent of television, newspapers reported seemingly everything that we now post on social media — detailed trip reports, the attendees of parties, birth announcements, and even basic road repairs.

Wallace did discover a few interesting tidbits in books, but curiously nothing before 1930.

The earliest reference that Wallace found was in the 1938 book “History of La Crescenta-La Canada Valleys” by Grace J. Oberbeck. She spoke to Begue, who spun quite the yarn:

“On El Rancho de las Hermanas, the ranch of the sisters, a group of nuns who had an orphanage not far distant, kept a herd of cows which was looked after by” local Indigenous people “who supplied milk to the school whenever needed. Sister Elsie was the much loved nun in charge of” the Indigenous dairy workers, “and her name was given to the well. Almost directly north from here towers a high peak of the Sierra Madre range and this bears the name of Sister Elsie Peak.”

Legendary outdoors writer and historian John W. Robinson, Wallace found, told the Sister Elsie story in his 1977 book “The San Gabriels,” but followed it up with a correction in his 1983 tome, “The San Gabriels II”: “The derivation of Mt. Lukens’ original name, Sister Elsie Peak, is clouded in uncertainty. Exhaustive research into Catholic Church records fails to find any evidence of a nun named Sister Elsie nor an orphanage named El Rancho de Dos Hermanas.”

You’re telling me, John!

Wallace also found an entirely different story about Sister Elsie on page 47 of “The San Fernando Valley” by Jackson Mayers, published in 1976.

“Sister Elsie, a Sister of Charity, came to Tujunga from Los Angeles between 1850 and 1875 to work with” Indigenous people “at a school and orphanage. Near Haines Canyon was Sister Elsie’s well; Sister Elsie’s Peak was named, it is said, because when troubled she would gain strength by raising her eyes to that eminence, one whose top she was to be buried. Others held that two nuns on their way from Mission San Fernando to Mission San Gabriel lost their way in Tujunga and died atop the peak.”

There is tragically no footnote on the page, so I have no idea who Mayers’ source was.

I hoped that finding out when Sister Elsie Peak was named would help, but that also proved to be a dead end.

Local historian Mike Lawler, former president of the Historical Society of the Crescenta Valley, told Realtor Sharon Hales in a 2016 interview that cartographer George M. Wheeler and his team named the mountaintop Sister Elsie Peak during their survey of California in the late 1800s.

“We don’t know why he named it Sister Elsie Peak,” Lawler said. “The reasons why he named everything are lost to history. They were destroyed in the 1906 San Francisco earthquake.”

This led me to contact the staff at the David Rumsey Map Center at Stanford University Library, as its collections are vast, and I hoped maybe they’d somehow find half a charred page of notes with Sister Elsie’s biography scrawled in quill pen.

Instead, Kristina Larsen, the center’s associate curator, came up short, finding only that a misspelling, “Sister Else Pk” was on the 1881 land classification map from Wheeler.

Evan Thornberry, the center’s head and curator, unearthed “Vignettes of California Catholicism,” a 1988 book by Monsignor Francis J. Weber, longtime archivist for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles at the San Fernando Mission.

Weber conducted an exhaustive search for the existence of Sister Elsie and found no proof of any existence of Sister Elsie or a Catholic orphanage in the Tujunga area at the time.

Weber offered my favorite suggestion for why no one can find any hint of Sister Elsie’s existence: “Maybe the good Sister was kidnapped by Martians!”

If so, I hope someone there takes better care to protect knowledge regarding the names of that planet’s mountains.

You’d think I’d give up here, right?

Instead, I contacted historian Kristine Gunnell, who wrote “Daughters of Charity: Women, Religious Mission and Hospital Care in Los Angeles, 1856-1927” (Vincentian Studies Institute).

I hoped Gunnell would have an answer, as Sister Elsie was said to be in the Sisters of Charity, an American version of the Daughters of Charity, a group that was founded in France in the 1600s with an aim of serving low-income and sick people.

The Daughters group eventually inspired American Catholic women to serve in a similar way, first forming the Sisters of Charity until the groups essentially merged. In the 1850s, as more people moved to the American West, a bishop in the L.A. area requested that Daughters of Charity come to L.A., Gunnell said.

But, there’s no Sister Elsie referenced in Gunnell’s book.

Gunnell said after hearing from me, she contacted a history professor from DePaul University who is compiling a database about all the Daughters of Charity who served in California. He found no one referred to as “Sister Elsie” between 1850 and 1900.

A 1931 news story references that Sister Elsie treated Indigenous children diagnosed with typhoid fever.

Tujunga “was only a day’s wagon ride from Los Angeles, and if these Tongva were Catholic or had Catholic connections, the sisters may have considered their request,” Gunnell wrote to me. “I was hoping that I’d be able to find a record of the typhoid outbreak in Tujunga in the 1860s or 1870s and cross reference it with the Daughters’ records. It’s a good story, and the sisters likely would’ve reported it if it’s true. However, I can’t isolate a specific outbreak.”

Later, Gunnell and I hopped on a Zoom call to commiserate.

With all of our research before us, we reached the same conclusion: A Catholic sister could have feasibly traveled to Tujunga at the request of a bishop to help Indigenous people, but currently there is no record of a woman known as Sister Elsie who did so. There’s no record of much of anything told in the Sister Elsie story. It seems, instead, to have been an urban legend of its time.

At least for now.

Hikers in Elysian Park.

(Dania Maxwell / Los Angeles Times)

3 things to do

1. Reach for the rainbow in L.A.
One Down Dog, an L.A. yoga and fitness studio, will host a Pride hike from 10:30 a.m. to noon Saturday in Elysian Park. Guests will hike a loop trail through the park. For more details, register at eventbrite.com.

2. Marvel at mollusks in Malibu
The Wishtoyo Chumash Foundation will host a tidepooling event from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. June 19 near the Wishtoyo Chumash Village (33904 Pacific Coast Highway) in Malibu. Guests will learn about Wishtoyo Village, which is typically not open to the public. All experience levels welcome. Learn more at the foundation’s Instagram page.

3. Learn along the L.A. River in Downey
The California Native Plant Society and Friends of the L.A. River will host a guided bike ride along the L.A. River. Naturalist Cris Sarabia will teach participants about local ecology during the ride. Binoculars will be provided. Guests should bring safety gear and water. Learn more at the group’s Instagram page. Register at folar.org.

The must-read

Burn damage to the Torrey pine grove at Santa Rosa Island.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

The length of time that it will take for Santa Rosa Island to recover after a blaze scorched about one-third of the island remains unclear, Times staff writer Grace Toohey wrote after a recent visit to the island. The fire, which grew to 18,379 acres, is now fully contained. Firefighters faced vicious winds and, at times, 30-foot flames. “They held the line, and we have them to thank for saving housing, saving the island, saving the history of the Santa Rosa Island,” said Ethan McKinley, superintendent of Channel Islands National Park. The island has long been a respite for hikers and backpackers, including Times staff writer Lila Seidman, who shared her experiences on the island and her grief that came in the wake of the blaze. “Now fear clouds the memories: Does the rugged, magical place of my mind’s eye still exist?” Seidman wrote.

Happy adventuring,

P.S.

I have a flurry of good California animal news to share. First, three mule deer were the first animals to walk over California’s first wildlife crossing over State Route 97 in Siskiyou County. Second, scientists have feared that the population of endangered steelhead trout in the Santa Monica Mountains were killed in massive debris flows after the Palisades fire. However, researchers recently spotted the fish — and their babies — in Topanga Creek. And finally, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife shared earlier this week that five orphaned black bear cubs that were rehabilitated and released into northern California in November successfully hibernated through the winter and returned to the landscape this spring healthy and active, according to recent data reviewed by the agency’s scientists.

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.

Obsession is maybe too hard-edged; interest too soft. But from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and “E.T” to his new sci-fi thriller “Disclosure Day,” Steven Spielberg has spent nearly the entire length of his career returning to the possibility that we are not alone in the universe. Even “Firelight,” the amateur movie he made as an Arizona teenager in 1964, revolved around extraterrestrial visitors.

That recurring fascination stands out partly because Spielberg has never been a filmmaker who stays in one lane. Across 36 features as a director, he has pivoted between science fiction, war films, historical dramas, adventure movies, thrillers, comedies and even a musical while somehow retaining the same famed Spielbergian sense of emotional wonder that defined his earliest work.

Which makes “Disclosure Day” — opening Friday and built around mysterious transmissions, buried government secrets and the possibility of alien contact — feel less like a detour than a return to one of Spielberg’s oldest creative preoccupations. Speaking about the film in March at SXSW, Spielberg admitted that while he has no special knowledge about extraterrestrial life, he nevertheless has “a very strong, sneaking suspicion that we are not alone here on Earth right now. And I made a movie about that.”

So with Spielberg once again looking skyward, we decided to revisit the director’s long cinematic relationship with aliens, as figures of astonishment, terror, transcendence and, occasionally, giant crystal skulls from another dimension.

Melinda Dillon and Cary Guffey in 1977’s “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”

(Columbia Pictures)

Josh Rottenberg: I don’t really remember a world without Spielberg’s aliens. I was 6 when “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” arrived in 1977, not much older than the little boy played by Cary Guffey who is carried off by visitors from another world after his toys mysteriously come to life. Five years later, I was exactly Elliott’s age when “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial” landed in theaters in 1982.

“Close Encounters” made aliens feel weirdly plausible, not just creatures in a “Star Wars” cantina or rubber-suited monsters from old sci-fi movies but something that might turn up in ordinary American life through blinking kitchen appliances, strange lights in the sky and suburban middle-class dads who can’t explain why they suddenly need to drive to Wyoming.

What surprises me now is how hopeful the movie feels. It came out of the post-Watergate ’70s, when distrust of institutions was running high, but Spielberg directed most of that suspicion toward the government, not the alien visitors. Richard Dreyfuss sculpting Devils Tower out of mashed potatoes should seem completely insane — and it kind of is. But Spielberg somehow makes you understand why Dreyfuss’ Roy Neary is willing to walk away from his entire life and family over something he can’t explain.

With “E.T.,” Spielberg scaled that cosmic yearning down to a California cul-de-sac. I recently watched the movie again at Hollywood Forever Cemetery with my wife and younger daughter, who’s in college now. I’d seen it several times since 1982 but not on a big screen, and I was startled by how much of it I still knew by heart: E.T. shuffling through the kitchen drinking cans of Coors, Elliott freeing the frogs in science class, Drew Barrymore introducing the alien to her dolls like he’s a new kid who just moved in next door. Somewhere along the way, “E.T.” became less a movie to me than part of the background texture of childhood itself.

Spielberg turned one of science fiction’s grandest ideas — first contact with alien life — into the story of a boy and his weird little space-faring goblin best friend. Mark, we’re of the same Gen X vintage. Did Spielberg permanently convince you that aliens were basically on our side?

A scene from the 1982 movie “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.”

(Universal Pictures / Photofest)

Mark Olsen: I didn’t see “Close Encounters” when it was first in theaters, but I remember any kid with a piano learning those five notes of John Williams’ alien theme music and then the movie becoming a staple rental of the early VHS era.

When I revisited the film for its 2017 re-release — an overwhelming experience in the sorely missed Cinerama Dome, where the movie also played when it first opened — I was struck by how homespun and handmade it felt, grounded in a naturalistic sense of realism. For as much as Spielberg may be fascinated by aliens and whatever could be out there, he always uses them as a way to reconsider what is going on down here: to reconnect with the elemental aspects of humanity and our common bonds.

I’ll be honest and say that “E.T.” is a movie I have always struggled with. I clearly remember seeing the movie when I was young and being very disturbed by the scene when the government arrives and drapes the family’s house in plastic sheets and tubing. I distinctly recall recognizing that the film itself wanted me to feel bad — I didn’t like that. (Perhaps thus was a young critic born.) Spielberg is often so proud of his mechanics, he lets them show, which is why even then I was resistant to moments when he wants the relationship between Elliott and his new friend to truly take flight.

Tom Cruise in Steven Spielberg’s 2005 sci-fi thriller “War of the Worlds.”

(Paramount Pictures)

Rottenberg: By 2005 and “War of the Worlds,” the wonderment was gone. Spielberg took H.G. Wells’ downbeat vision of extraterrestrials as exterminators and updated it for post-9/11 America: nightmarish scenes of alien tripods clawing their way up through the pavement, blaring air-raid horns, entire crowds vaporized into clouds of dust.

This time, nobody is trying to communicate through music or empathy. Tom Cruise spends the movie running through New Jersey with two terrified kids while ash drifts through the streets and giant alien war machines scoop humans into dangling metal cages. “E.T.” had turned aliens into plush toys and breakfast cereal. “War of the Worlds” turned them back into the menacing aggressors of 1950s sci-fi films like “Earth vs. the Flying Saucers” and “Invaders From Mars.”

Which made it all the more jarring when, three years later, Spielberg suddenly swerved back toward old-school flying-saucer mythology with 2008’s “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull,” shoehorning an extraterrestrial plot into one of his most beloved series. Seeing Cate Blanchett march into a glowing alien chamber to commune with giant crystal skeletons from another dimension, I could understand why some fans reacted like they’d just watched someone spray-paint a UFO on the Ark of the Covenant.

But looking back, the inclusion seems almost inevitable. Spielberg keeps circling back to aliens no matter what genre or franchise he’s working in. Even 2001’s “A.I. Artificial Intelligence” eventually reveals itself as a kind of inverted first-contact story, with humanity becoming the vanished civilization studied by synthetic descendants of the machines.

Mark, were you able to roll with Indy suddenly colliding with Area 51 mythology, or did Spielberg lose you at that point?

Harrison Ford and Shia LaBeouf in the 2008 movie “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.”

(David James / Paramount Pictures / Lucasfilm)

Olsen: There was something so eye-rollingly whatever about the finale of “Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” that you couldn’t even really be mad about it. On a storytelling scale of Spielbergian preposterousness, the moment lands somewhere between the Wrath of God sequence in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” (totally legit) and the time traveling of “Dial of Destiny” (throws hands in the air).

“War of the Worlds” remains a fascinating film within the director’s space alien canon because it has an anxiety and uncertainty that isn’t often found elsewhere. Even his core interest in creatures, so often a well of amazement and positivity, couldn’t pull him up. Much has been made of the film as a response to the aftermath of 9/11 and Spielberg followed it up with the existential thriller “Munich,” a further exploration of the darker aspects of the national mood, before the year was even up.

This seemed to be a moment of malaise for Spielberg, one he worked his way out of with an unpredictably wide-ranging series of films including “Lincoln,” “Bridge of Spies” and “The Post.” It was as if he were left reeling from cynicism and was trying to reclaim some youthful confidence that he would eventually rediscover with the autobiographical “The Fabelmans.” Josh, do you feel that “Disclosure Day” serves as the final word on Spielberg’s alien interests?

Emily Blunt and Josh O’Connor in the movie “Disclosure Day.”

(Niko Tavernise / Universal Pictures)

Rottenberg: What makes “Disclosure Day” interesting to me — even though I wasn’t fully sold on it — is that Spielberg is returning to these ideas at a moment when UFO culture has already evolved far beyond him.

Screenwriter David Koepp has cited “Three Days of the Condor” as a touchstone, and for long and often gripping stretches, the movie really does play like a paranoid 1970s conspiracy thriller: cryptic transmissions, shadowy government programs, Josh O’Connor racing to expose buried secrets, Colin Firth strapped into a chair using alien technology to manipulate people from afar.

But while “Close Encounters” arrived at a time when UFOs still occupied this hazy space between science fiction, Cold War anxiety and New Age mysticism, “Disclosure Day” lands in a world where self-described UFO abductees have their own support groups and Congress has held multiple hearings about “unidentified anomalous phenomena.” Meanwhile, earlier this spring, the U.S. government declassified another batch of UFO files and the response was roughly equivalent to a collective shrug.

In recent interviews, Spielberg has said he now considers the circumstantial evidence for UFOs “overwhelming” and no longer views “Disclosure Day” as science fiction at all. In his earlier alien films, extraterrestrials represented mystery and escape. Here they feel more like vaguely benevolent interstellar therapists trying to help humanity get its act together. The film’s climax reaches for the same sense of civilizational awe as the mothership landing in “Close Encounters.” For me it didn’t quite get there.

But maybe that’s partly because it’s harder now to experience these ideas with the same innocence they carried in 1977 or 1982. Rewatching “E.T.” at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, I still wanted to believe that an encounter with an alien intelligence could elevate us. But we’re a long way from Reese’s Pieces and flying bicycles. Mark, did “Disclosure Day” manage to pull you back into Spielberg’s orbit this time?

Olsen: I have to just get it out of the way that as someone from Kansas City, I will be eternally annoyed that Emily Blunt plays a TV weatherperson in KC and Spielberg did not actually shoot there. Having said that, for me the movie is at its best as a chase thriller — a sequence in which O’Connor escapes a remote farmhouse is particularly well-executed.

“Disclosure Day” is first and foremost just a lot of fun, a showcase for Spielberg’s gifts as a filmmaker and his longstanding collaborations with cinematographer Janusz Kaminski and composer John Williams. The film is deeply interested in who knows what. There are longtime tightly held secrets being kept from the rest of us for whatever reason. Though the film is framed as a conspiracy thriller, Spielberg’s essential goodheartedness continually peeks out, as if he can only play at being hard-bitten for so long.

Where the film becomes less sure-footed is when it grabs for its bigger meaning, attempting to render something deeper from Spielberg’s longstanding fascination with aliens and what they might have to teach us.

The real disclosure of “Disclosure Day” turns out to be our own inability to listen: how everyone gets so wrapped up in themselves they often miss the larger picture. But the idea that the entire world could latch onto something together feels too far-fetched in our own current fractured news environment. That is likely less the fault of Spielberg and more one of ourselves. His career-spanning interest in aliens always brings him back to trying to better understand us.

With the Wayans brothers firmly back in the driver’s seat, horror parody “Scary Movie” muscled its way past He-Man for the top spot at the box office this weekend.

The reboot of the 2000s-era franchise — or “rebootiquel,” as the movie calls itself — brought in $55 million in the U.S. and Canada for a worldwide total of $105.5 million, according to studio estimates. The movie, which had a production budget of $30 million, beat studio expectations and marks the return of the Wayans brothers to “Scary Movie.”

The franchise was developed by Marlon Wayans, Shawn Wayans and Keenen Ivory Wayans. But after 2001’s “Scary Movie 2,” the Wayans got in a pay dispute with former Miramax executives Bob and Harvey Weinstein. The Wayans have said the Weinsteins did not tell them that 2003’s “Scary Movie 3” would be made without them. The franchise then continued with fourth and fifth installments.

After former MGM film executive Jonathan Glickman was named chief executive of Miramax in 2024, he reached out to Marlon Wayans to see if he’d be interested in reviving “Scary Movie.”

“Always dreamt of having this moment again,” Wayans said, while thanking Glickman and executive producer Marc Weinstock during a short speech at the movie’s premiere. “I thank you guys for having the vision to go, there’s only one way to do the next ‘Scary Movie,’ and that’s to bring the Wayans family back.”

Miramax led the production and financing of the film, while Paramount Pictures was the distributor.

Amazon MGM Studios’ “Masters of the Universe” came in second at the domestic box office with $29.3 million, in Mattel Studios’ first film in theaters since the 2023 smash hit “Barbie.” Globally, the movie made $54 million.

The action adventure movie had a production budget of about $170 million and aimed to reintroduce the ‘80s-era action hero “He-Man” to a new audience, while also driving the nostalgia of adults who played with the franchise toys or watched the original film and series. The movie is part of Mattel Inc.’s strategy to continue extending its toy brands into the entertainment arena.

Mattel Chief Executive Ynon Kreiz said last week that “Masters of the Universe” didn’t need to match the success of “Barbie” “to have a meaningful economic impact on the company.”

A24’s runaway hit “Backrooms” came in third at the box office this weekend, continuing its strong performance with a haul of $25.9 million. Focus Features’ “Obsession” ($25.6 million) and another YouTube-native property, “The Amazing Digital Circus: The Last Act,” ($12.7 million) rounded out the top five at the box office, according to Comscore data.

The votes are still being tallied but the result of Tuesday’s top-two primary election in California seems pretty clear.

Despite an uptick in his performance, hopes for third-place finisher Tom Steyer are fading along with the number of uncounted ballots, suggesting Democrat Xavier Becerra and Republican Steve Hilton will face off in November.

Given the overwhelming Democratic advantage — both attitudinally and in registration — the outcome of the governor’s race might seem preordained. But it’s voters who decide elections, not know-it-all columnists.

Two of that breed, Mark Z. Barabak and Anita Chabria, can’t see into the future. But they can try to make sense of what just passed, starting with a primary season that was a strange mix of ennui and white knuckles.

Barabak: So Anita, now that the election is over how are you feeling? Relieved? Giddy? Depressed?

Chabria: Tired, with five months to go. And while it’s true neither of us can see into the future, it’s not too much of a long shot to predict that in a state where registered Democrats vastly outnumber Republicans, the next governor will likely be blue.

So while the primary was bruising and confusing, the general election will be much more predictable — it’s Becerra’s to lose, and he’d have to try really hard to do that.

But here’s what I’ll be looking for in the lead up to November: How far will Hilton go to capitalize on this moment for personal gain? There are plenty of real issues to be discussed where the Republican-Democrat divide could offer worthy debate. What should we do about gas prices? What is the right balance between environmental regulation and building housing?

But my fear is, with little chance of winning, Hilton will instead focus on boosting his MAGA credentials.

In the past week, we’ve seen him dive headfirst into voter-fraud conspiracies, following the lead of President Trump. Hilton’s campaign is providing Trump with the biggest platform for this false propaganda of rigged elections that California has ever endured.

That is bad for our state and bad for democracy, and it’s troubling that we will likely be subjected to these lies — and that California could be used to further erode voting rights nationally — for the entire summer leading up to the midterms.

What will you be keeping an eye on?

Barabak: How Becerra spends the next five months.

One presumes he’s smart enough not to take anything for granted. Meaning he won’t spend the time between now and Nov. 3 at some swank beach resort, sipping one of those colorful cocktails with a little paper parasol while musing over his inaugural address.

So it will be interesting to see how Becerra campaigns and whether he uses the next several months to build a mandate and also to prepare California voters for the rough road ahead.

Becerra is smart enough, one would think, not to run as Mr. Sky Is Falling and tell voters, “Boy, oh, boy things are really gonna suck going forward.” But the next governor is going to face some really tough challenges, including a structural budget deficit that’s probably going to require both painful cuts and unpopular tax hikes.

On top of that, there are the inevitable disasters, be they earthquake, fire or flood, the latter quite possibly exacerbated this winter by what may be an epic El Niño. There’s also the continued challenge of dealing with a president who treats California the way a dog regards a fire hydrant.

Finally, there’s the unknowable but certain catastrophes the next governor will face.

All of it makes you wonder why anyone would want the job — though Steyer panted after it enough to burn through more than $215 million of his fortune in a bonfire of vanity.

Chabria: Steyer was bashed for being a self-funded billionaire, but what his support showed is that there is a significant contingent of voters who are tired of the status quo and want a governor with bold ideas.

California definitely faces many problems, but we are also historically a state that pushes forward on hard issues.

Universal healthcare and standing our climate ground in the face of federal rollbacks were two of Steyer’s big talking points, along with standing up to corporate influence. Becerra now inherits those thorny problems if he wants to form a more cohesive Democratic base.

Becerra hasn’t yet offered up his vision of the Golden State, as you point out. As much as it may benefit Hilton to focus on Trump in coming months, the same could be true for Becerra.

Why get into messy policy when you can run on opposing MAGA in a very blue state? I fear the next few months will be more about Trump than California.

Barabak: That’s a charitable way to look at $teyer’s campaign.

Sure, he had plenty of ideas, though I think the promise of delivering universal healthcare — a political nonstarter — was cheap pandering, not visionary leadership.

There’s no shortage of people with good ideas. The only reason anyone paid attention to Steyer, who’s never served in any elected office, was the obscene amount of money he spent on his luxury-class ego trip. So it pleases me voters didn’t reward his arrogance or buy his billionaire-turned-populist, “Amazing Grace” spiel. (“I once was blind, but now I see.”)

And I’m be gladder still that voters showed — once again — the governor’s office is not for sale.

I do agree, however, that Becerra should to more than just cry MAGA! MAGA! MAGA! for the next five months, as if that incantation is magic and will solve all our problems. That applies, by the way, to Democratic candidates everywhere.

All of that said, we should note the governor’s race has yet to be officially decided and Steyer still has at least a theoretical possibility of slipping into the top two.

What do you think about California’s prolonged, much-derided long ballot count? Is the criticism warranted?

Chabria: First, we’ll have to agree to disagree. California is on a healthcare cliff and even middle-class Americans (not just Californians) can’t afford either insurance or care.

Single-payer may be a dream, but it’s my dream — for my kids, for my community and for my state, because healthcare shouldn’t be just for the rich and that is increasingly the direction we are going. So any politician, Steyer included, who fights for inclusion rather than accepting exclusion will get my consideration.

And let’s be real — self-funded or corporate-funded — our elections are, to their detriment, too much about money. My outrage is for the 2010 Citizens United Supreme Court decision, which unleashed the current no-limits mess and created a system in which it requires hundreds of millions from somewhere, anywhere to run for our highest offices.

But back to ballots: Slow is not fraud. Slow is not bad if it’s accurate. Slow allows for greater voter participation by allowing mail-in ballots, and carefully checking all ballots for problems. Slow takes into account the federal mangling of the post office that has, yes, slowed down our mail.

And, slow happens because most of our county elections offices are understaffed and budget-starved. If you want fast, you’ve got to pay for it.

So keep your britches on people and don’t buy Trump’s (or Hilton’s) manufactured hype. Every system can be improved, but there’s far worse problems than slow.

What’s your take on the ballot controversy?

Barabak: Here’s one where we agree.

California goes out of its way to make it easy to vote, which, I believe, is a very good thing. Kim Alexander of the non-partisan California Voter Foundation, who’s spent decades on the matter, has suggested ways we can have both wide access and a faster count, starting with better funding of the state’s over-extended county election offices.

This prolonged count is something Gov. Gavin Newsom and the Democratic-run Legislature could have anticipated. Shame on them for not doing more to address it.

Chabria: Any final thoughts?

Barabak: Just this. I’ve read the many plaintive pieces written about this boring, wholly-unworthy-of-the-Great-Golden-State field of gubernatorial candidates.

I, too, yearn for that perfect candidate who is firm but flexible, old but youthful in his or her thinking, masculine but also feminine, brilliant but not too smart and larger than life but also totally relatable.

Maybe in 2030.

What was the moment from the season finale of “The Pitt” that finally broke you?

Was it the shot of the day-shift staff watching the Fourth of July fireworks from the hospital roof, the sound of “America the Beautiful” playing in the distance? Maybe it was Dr. Al-Hashimi (Sepideh Moafi) crying in her car, realizing she can’t work around the seizure disorder that makes her a liability in the ER. Or perhaps it came when Noah Wyle’s Dr. Robinavitch (a.k.a. Dr. Robby) swaddled Baby Jane Doe, telling her that “everything’s gonna be just fine,” because she has “so many wonderful things to see and so many people to love.”

But what opened the floodgates for me, after the last half-hour of the episode left me completely dazed and dumbfounded, was Drs. Santos (Isa Briones) and King (Taylor Dearden) exorcising the day’s demons by belting out Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know” at a karaoke bar and demonstrating that primal scream therapy is alive and well three decades into the 21st century.

Which is all to say: “The Pitt” is the only television show I’ve watched that gives me the same feeling I have when I read a great, immersive novel. When the end is near, I’m bereft. I’m Al-Hashimi in her car, wanting to pound the dashboard. I do not want to let these characters go. They’ve given me 15 hours and I still crave more. I would devour a series of short films about odd couple Santos and Whitaker (Gerran Howell) sharing an apartment or a summer spinoff showing Dr. Abbot (Shawn Hatosy) working off-hours as a SWAT medic. Anything to fill the long, “Pitt”-less weeks between seasons.

Instead, I’ll just have to content myself with scrolling through social media, watching fan-made videos of Dr. King self-soothing her way through the day, (this one, set to Vince Guaraldi’s score from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” is the absolute best) and taking in the compilation of the show’s cast asking, “What’s the status on Baby Jane Doe?” in their best Katherine LaNasa Pittsburgh accent.

“The Pitt” won five Emmys from 13 nominations, including best drama series, for its celebrated first season, a 15-episode run that began with Dr. Robby up on the hospital roof talking down Dr. Abbot after an intense shift. The season ended with Dr. Abbot returning the favor after Robby and his staff ground their way through a day that included a mass shooting, a child drowning and a patient assaulting LaNasa’s no-nonsense charge nurse.

How do you follow that?

For a few episodes this new season, it looked like “The Pitt” wasn’t up to the task. We watched the ER staff dealing with a series of bloody, messy (the disimpaction!) medical maladies, an avert-your-eyes spectacle that felt like the writers were trying to one-up themselves and find the worst possible affliction to make viewers double over. Worse, the thrill of discovery that kept us invested throughout the first season, the slow drip of information about the characters, wasn’t quite there. Something was missing, and it wasn’t just Dr. Robby’s motorcycle helmet.

But the luxury of having 15 episodes is that the writers can take their time laying the groundwork for the story they want to tell.

And what a story it was.

Over the course of the season, we watched Dr. Robby disintegrate, his mental health more precarious than ever because he has done nothing to address his apparent PTSD. “You need help,” Dr. Langdon (Patrick Ball) tells Robby, confronting him in the finale. “Be honest with yourself.”

Robby isn’t the only one struggling, as Dr. Abbot puts it, to “dance through the darkness.” Langdon is back, managing his sobriety. Dr. Mohan (Supriya Ganesh) is having panic attacks. Santos is still dealing with self-harm. Dana remains haunted by that Season 1 patient assault and now carries a syringe containing a heavy sedative just in case somebody emerging from that overcrowded waiting room crosses the line again.

“I’ve seen so many people die that I feel like it’s leaching something from my soul,” Robby says. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.”

And there you have it, the subject of Season 2 of “The Pitt.” Medical professionals are gasping for air, and the American healthcare system, with its focus on profit above all else, is failing them and the patients they treat.

Remember Orlando, the patient with severe diabetic ketoacidosis who arrives at the ER after fainting? Orlando had to ration his insulin because he lacked insurance and felt he had to cut corners. He ends up leaving the hospital early, fearing the cost of treatment. Later he returns, having fallen (jumped) from a catwalk at his construction job, fracturing his skull. But good news: He now qualifies for Medicare and Medicaid due to long-term disability.

It’s a tragedy, one of many reasons the season finale shot of the ER staff holding back tears as they watched the Fourth of July fireworks felt like a body blow. “America the Beautiful”? How can that be true when the current administration is seeking $1.5 trillion for defense spending — nearly 50% more than this year — while cutting healthcare and social safety nets? How can that be true when an act known as the “Big, Beautiful Bill” removed funding from an already frayed healthcare system and exacerbated the shortage of care in rural areas of the country?

That one scene, the culmination of hours of careful, patient storytelling, said more about the disconnect between American ideals and America’s reality than anything else I’ve read or watched this year.

Give “The Pitt” all the Emmys. It has more than earned them.