Wizard

“The Wizard of Oz” is certainly the right movie to face the great and powerful ambitions of Sphere, the most expensive entertainment venue in Las Vegas history. Since 1939, the treasured classic has hailed the awe of gazing into a glowing globe, whether it’s glinting atop a fortune teller’s table, transporting the meddlesome Glinda the Good Witch or spying on a teenage girl and her companions like a sinister security camera.

Special effects are central both to “Oz’s” appeal and its plot: The big reveal is that technicians, not wizards, pull the levers that make an audience gasp. For Sphere — officially, there’s no “the” — those tools include three football fields of bright 16K LED screens that curve around its domed interior, with another 10 on the outside that light up Vegas day and night with rotating animations. (I saw blue gingham, scarlet sequins and thatches of burlap and straw.) Sphere cost an estimated $2.3 billion to build and must have an electricity bill scarier than the Wicked Witch. You can make out Dorothy’s slippers from an airplane.

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With no heel clicks needed, I was whisked to “The Wizard of Oz’s” Sphere premiere in a red sedan by a Lyft driver named — no fooling — Ruby, who said she was grateful that the Backstreet Boys’ recent stint at the arena “made Vegas busy for a minute.” There’s a lot of financial pressure on “Oz’s” girl from Kansas. Adapting the film to Sphere’s stunning dimensions took about $100 million. Although the arena seats 17,600 when full, “Oz” showings only offer a slice of the middle section, roughly a third of its capacity. A trimmed 70-minute edit of the movie is playing two to three times a day, nearly every day, through the end of March 2026, with a ticket price that currently starts at $114.

Eighty-six years ago, when a kiddie fare cost 15 cents, my then-6-year-old grandmother watched the theater blink from sepia to vivid color splendor. That innovation gets credited to Hollywood, but the idea of contrasting lush and luminous Oz against soul-drainingly monochrome Kansas is actually right there on Page 1 of L. Frank Baum’s book, published in May 1900, a self-proclaimed effort to write a “modernized” fairy tale that swaps Old World elves for American scarecrows. “When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side,” Baum wrote, adding that her house and her weary aunt and uncle and everything else were gray too, “to the edge of the sky in all directions.”

That’s exactly what Sphere was designed to do: stretch to the edge in all dimensions. It exists neither to save film nor supplant it, but to augment a rectangular screen with new digital and (controversially) generative-AI-supplied imagery, timed props and seats that vibrate whenever the Wicked Witch cackles.

Despite my queasiness about cutting “Oz” by half an hour, the experiment is a romp. I was immersed in — or, more accurately, surrounded by — scenes from one of my favorite movies, a pivotal blockbuster whose artistic influence extends from David Lynch to Elton John to Salman Rushdie. Even more giggle-inducing, I was pelted with scented foam apples and dive-bombed by half a dozen drone-piloted flying monkeys.

“The Wizard of Oz” has always braved new technology. An early adopter of Technicolor, it boasted a lighting budget nearly double that of its rival, “Gone With the Wind,” yet the latter gobbled nearly every Academy Award and poached “Oz’s” director, Victor Fleming, who swapped projects halfway through and won an Oscar for his vision of Sherman’s March instead of the Yellow Brick Road. In the 1950s, when the rest of Hollywood was terrified of television, “Oz” agreed to be the first theatrical movie to screen in full on a prime-time network. TV transformed the prestige money-loser into a hit. Sphere has turned “Oz” into a flash point in the industry’s fundamental fight over the use of AI. Artists and audiences alike fear a future in which, behind the curtain, there might not be a man at all.

I like my art made by human beings. But I’m no nostalgist. “Oz” was a book, a musical, a silent short and a cartoon before MGM made the variant we adore. It should be a playground for invention.

Entering Sphere, the escalators are tinted sepia and the soundscape hums with birdsong and lowing cattle. The implication is that we’ve not yet been whirled over the rainbow. Preshow, the view from one’s seat is of being in a massive old opera house with dusky green drapes flanked by rows of orchestra seats. None of the proscenium is actually there, nor are the musicians heard running scales and rehearsing “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

The simulation of human handicraft — of stagehands and horn players hiding in the wings — is unnerving. But it gets you thinking about the actual, contemporary people who are behind that curtain. Visual artists who labored on the Sphere project have justly grumbled that their sweat has gotten publicly dismissed as AI. An actual symphony orchestra rerecorded “Oz’s” mono score on the very same MGM stage used in 1939, allegedly with some of the same instruments. It sounds fantastic, and it’s so loyal to every jaunty warble that audiences might not notice.

A few scenes have been lopped off entirely. The Cowardly Lion no longer trills about becoming king of the forest. The majority of the shots have been micro-trimmed to be snappier, a pace that wouldn’t suit stoners’ penchant for synchronizing the movie to Pink Floyd’s dreamy, woozy “The Dark Side of the Moon.” Occasionally, the camera’s placement appears to have been adjusted to allow the visuals to expand to fill the space. Inside Dorothy’s Kansan house, a once-shadowed frying pan on the wall now dangles front and center, as does a digitally added “Home Sweet Home” needlepoint nailed to the threshold. (The plotting has become so brisk that we might otherwise miss the message that there’s no place like it.)

The tweaks can be subtle and lovely. Dorothy belts “Over the Rainbow” underneath newly actualized bluebirds and an impressively ominous sky. When the tornado happens, the tech changes hit us like a cyclone. We’re pulled through the window and into the eye of the storm, where a cow spirals around like it wants to outdo the scene-stealing bovine from “Twister.” A great, giddy blast of air from the 750-horsepower fans blew my bangs straight off my forehead. I kept one eye on the screen while trying to catch a flurry of tissue-paper leaves. The wow factor is so staggering that you might not spot that Sphere’s founder and chief executive, James Dolan, and Warner Bros. president and CEO David Zaslav have superimposed their faces on the two sailors twirling past in a rowboat — an apropos in-joke for people concerned the moguls have been swept away by their own bluster.

“Anyone can blow wind into your face,” Dolan said to the premiere audience before the film began. “Not everyone can make you feel like you’re in a tornado.” Wearing the Wizard’s green top hat and suit and with his microphone dropping out inauspiciously, Dolan never introduced himself, but he did compliment the other creators of the event, who also wore costumes. (I overheard that some of them thought Dolan was kidding about dressing in character until they found themselves spending four hours getting groomed to look lionesque.)

Just a week earlier, in trial runs, perfumes were piped into the air so people could get a whiff of the Emerald City. (Gauging by the souvenir candles in Sphere’s gift shop, it is chocolate mint.) They’ve currently been scaled back out of concerns that it all might get too overwhelming. Having figured out how to do sight, sound, feel and smell, Dolan conceded that only one sense remains: “We still haven’t figured out taste.”

Taste is definitely still a concern. Oddly, Sphere’s “Oz” loses a dram of its spellcraft once audiences touch down in Munchkinland. Seeing the newly added tops of Oz’s trees makes the fantastical place look smaller.

The margins of “The Wizard of Oz” have been expanded by generative AI to fit the enormous venue.

(Rich Fury / Sphere Entertainment)

You feel for the design teams. They’ve been challenged to magnify a 4-foot matte painting of the arched hallway into the Wizard’s throne room — initially done in pastels on black cardboard — into a 240-foot-tall tableau. One of the 1939 film’s production designers, Jack Martin Smith, said that his instructions were to make Oz “ethereal” and “subdued.” Descriptions of the cornfield’s hand-painted muslin background make it sound like a proto-Rothko. Now, you can see every kernel. The razor-sharp mountains on the horizon don’t inspire your imagination — they make you think of Machu Picchu.

More troublesome are the Munchkins and the citizens of Emerald City. Tidied into high definition, they often appear restless. As Dorothy pleads for the Wizard not to fly away without her, we’re distracted by hundreds of waving extras who visibly don’t give a hoot what happens to the girl. Worse, they occasionally seem to glitch. If that’s the best AI can do in 2025, then Sphere isn’t a resounding endorsement.

By contrast, Judy Garland’s performance, delivered at just age 16, feels monumental. Her big brown eyes dominate the screen. When the heartbroken girl sobs that the Wicked Witch has chased away her beloved Toto, I found myself annoyed by a flying monkey on the left side of the frame who simply looked bored.

The field of poppies is dazzling; the additional deer, ants and rodents skittering across the golden sidewalk are simply strange. Overall, you’re so caught up observing the experience itself that the emotions of the story don’t register as anything more than theme-ride hydraulics. Still, it’s nice to have a sweeping view of the first film’s prosthetic makeup: the Cowardly Lion’s upturned nostrils, the Scarecrow’s baggy jowls, the real horses painted purple and red with Jell-O. (Due to pace tightening, we only see two ponies, not all six).

I recoiled when the Wizard’s disembodied head loomed above. Who decided to make him look like a cheesy martian? Flipping through sketches from 1939 afterward, I realized that he always looked that bad. His gaunt cheekbones just weren’t as obvious before. Nevertheless, be sure to look to the right when Toto reveals Oz’s control booth. In a clever touch, Sphere lets us continue to see the monstrous green face, now neutered and ridiculous, mouth along as the panicked geek apologizes for being a humbug.

Can Sphere win big on its risky gamble that there’s no place like dome? It’s not the first Las Vegas attraction to bet on our love for the MGM extravaganza. “The Wizard of Oz” has been tangled up with Las Vegas’ fortunes for more than half a century, ever since real estate investor Kirk Kerkorian purchased MGM Studios in 1969 and, one year later, auctioned Dorothy’s slippers to help fund the construction of the first MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. The second MGM Grand, the one that opened in 1993, was branded for “The Wizard of Oz” — that’s why it’s green like Emerald City — and during the first year, visitors could walk through an animatronic forest of lions, tigers and gamblers.

The Strip was once a magical place where innocents like Dorothy flocked to get into trouble, often in encounters with sleight-of-hand hucksters like Professor Marvel. Hopes are high that tourists will come back to be transported to Oz, even at a ticket price that costs a chunk of the family farm. The hurdle is that although audiences have become begrudgingly accustomed to spending more than $100 to see their favorite bands, they’re still seeing an actual band and not a shortened version of a movie that’s popular in part because everyone grew up watching it on TV for free.

But on opening night at least, the crowd was treating the cinema like a concert. Many folks were in some sort of costume, including me. (I couldn’t resist wearing a pair of red shoes.) When I complimented a man’s blue gingham suit, he handed me a handmade beaded, Taylor Swift-style bracelet that read: Toto Too.

If fans like him turn this techno-incarnation of “Oz” into a hit, Sphere has said it would consider following it up with a similar presentation of “Gone With the Wind.” Imagine the smell of the burning of Atlanta. Much better than the air of burning money.

SACRAMENTO — There are “Wizard of Oz” echoes in the retaliatory redistricting fight being waged by California Democrats against President Trump and Texas Republicans.

That’s mainly because of the script being followed by Republican opponents. But Democrats seem to be parroting some Oz lines, too.

That was evident last week during several tense debates by California lawmakers on legislation setting a special state election for Nov. 4 to counteract Texas’ attempts to flip five congressional seats from Democrats to Republicans.

The California measures would temporarily suspend the state Constitution to allow legislators — rather than an independent citizens commission — to redraw U.S. House districts. The Democrats’ aim is to flip five Republican seats in California and neutralize the Texas GOP’s action. Democrats already have drawn the new lines, but voters must approve them.

At stake is control of the U.S. House of Representatives after next year’s midterm elections.

California’s Legislature, after much emotional rhetoric, easily passed the Democrats’ proposed constitutional amendment and supporting legislation on party-line, supermajority votes. The bills were immediately signed by Gov. Gavin Newsom, their instigator and chief promoter. They’ll be Proposition 50 on the November ballot.

All the while, script lines from “The Wizard of Oz” movie classic kept ringing in my ears.

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” the Wizard implores Dorothy and her pals after her little dog, Toto, pulls back the curtain to reveal him as a fraud.

In Sacramento, it’s as if Republicans — and progressive do-gooders — are being admonished to pay no attention to Texas Gov. Greg Abbott, who has committed the same sins of partisan redistricting that they’re attacking Newsom for. The Texan isn’t even mentioned by California assailants of Newsom’s gerrymandering. It smacks of hypocrisy.

What Abbott’s doing is even worse by good government standards. Unlike Newsom, he isn’t seeking voter approval.

Abbott doesn’t have to, of course. In Texas, it’s perfectly legal for the legislature to rig congressional districts for partisan advantage. In California, voters banned gerrymandering of congressional districts in 2010 and turned over their drawing to the bipartisan citizens commission. Newsom needs voter permission to suspend that law.

Nationally, Democrats need to gain only a handful of seats to capture control of the House and end the GOP’s one-party rule of Washington. Trump fears that likelihood. So he pressured Abbott into engineering a legislative gerrymandering of Texas’ House districts in mid-decade, rather than wait for the normal redrawing after the 2030 census. And he’s browbeating other red state governors to likewise rig their congressional lines.

“California will not be a bystander to Trump’s power grab,” Assembly Speaker Robert Rivas (D-Salinas) said as Newsom signed the legislation. “We will not stand by while the House is hijacked by authoritarianism.”

But back to the Emerald City.

The Wizard introduces himself to Dorothy by bellowing behind the curtain: “I am Oz, the great and powerful.” Later, he breaks his word to the girl, she sees through his bullying and stands up to him, scolding: “If you were really great and powerful, you’d keep your promises.”

Trump is a great big bully whose word can’t be taken at face value because he consistently changes his mind to fit the moment. He’s clearly anti-California, holding back federal funds, assessing fines and reducing environmental protections. Newsom and Democratic leaders will repeatedly remind voters of that as the election approaches.

Unlike Dorothy, it’s a rare Republican elected official who has the courage to stand up to this power-obsessed bully. But one surprisingly surfaced during the Assembly redistricting debate.

Referring to Trump’s urging Abbott and other GOP governors to gerrymander districts, Assembly Minority Leader James Gallagher of Yuba City asserted: “He is wrong to do so.” And he added for emphasis: “Let me repeat. He is wrong…. Where does it end?”

Later, Gallagher reiterated, “My president is wrong on this point. What I don’t hear from the other side is, ‘My governor is wrong.’ ”

Gallagher and several Republicans insist — as Newsom and Democrats do — that gerrymandering should be outlawed in every state and district lines drawn by citizens’ commissions rather than self-interested legislators. But that won’t happen in the foreseeable future.

Gallagher also contended that Democrats are hyping Trump’s threat to democracy. He said they’re arguing that “in order to save democracy, we must undermine it” by committing sleazy gerrymandering.

He has a point about the Democrats’ excessive warning of democracy’s peril under Trump.

“Californians won’t stand by while Donald Trump destroys democracy,” Sen. Sabrina Cervantes (D-Riverside) declared during an oft-uncivil hearing of the Assembly Elections Committee. “If we let Trump get away with this rigging of elections, then we may not have free and fair elections in the future.”

That seems a stretch.

This and other hyperbole by several legislators of both parties reminded me of frightened Dorothy, Tin Man and Scarecrow chanting in the dark forest: “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”

I suspect the best pitch for Proposition 50 in this heavily Democratic state is a straight-forward anti-Trump message focused on his inhuman policies and the urgent need to restore checks and balances in Washington.

“We are going to punch this bully in the mouth,” Newsom vowed during a press conference hosted by the Democratic National Committee.

OK, but the governor should cool the Trump-like rhetoric. It probably wouldn’t impress Dorothy or — more important — her Uncle Henry and Aunt Em.

What else you should be reading

The must-read: Most California voters disapprove of Trump’s immigration enforcement policies, poll shows
The TK: The Supreme Court could give immigration agents broad power to stop and question Latinos
The L.A. Times Special: This red state fears Californians bringing ‘radical, leftist ideology.’ It’s targeting teachers

Until next week,
George Skelton

—
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Need a model for how to thrive in the stranglehold of the modern music economy? How about a band of Australian garage-rockers who cut albums at the pace of an Atlanta rap crew, tour like peak-era Grateful Dead and who just told the biggest company in streaming to go to hell.

King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard are a fascinating phenomenon in rock. Over 15 years, their LPs have flitted between genres with insouciant musicianship, pulling from punky scuzz, regal soul, krautrock, electro-funk and psychedelia. These LPs come at an insane clip — sometimes up to five in a year, 27 so far. Their freewheeling live shows made them a coveted arena act, when few new rock bands can aspire to that.

Two weeks ago, they became probably the most high-profile band to take their music off Spotify in the wake of Chief Executive Daniel Ek’s investments in an AI-driven weapons firm. The band self-releases on its own labels — they needed no one’s permission.

King Gizzard returns to the Hollywood Bowl on Sunday, this time backed by the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra for a live read of its new album “Phantom Island,” a standout LP that adds deft orchestration to its toolkit. The band’s frontman, Stu Mackenzie, spoke to The Times about giving Spotify the boot, how the L.A. Phil inspired the new record’s arrangements and what they’ve figured out about staying afloat while artists get squeezed from all sides today.

What was your initial reaction to Daniel Ek’s investments in an AI arms company?

A bit of shock, and then feeling that I shouldn’t be shocked. We’ve been saying f— Spotify for years. In our circle of musician friends, that’s what people say all the time, for all of these other reasons which are well documented. We saw a couple of other bands who we admire, and thought “I don’t really want our music to be here, at least right now.” I don’t really consider myself an activist, and I don’t feel comfortable soapboxing. But this feels like a decision staying true to ourselves, and doing what we think is is right for our music, having our music in places that we feel all right about.

Was choosing to leave a complicated decision for the band?

The thing that made it hard was I do want to have our music be accessible to people. I don’t really care about making money from streaming. I know it’s unfair, and I know they are banking so much. But for me personally, I just want to make music, and I want people to be able to listen to it. The hard part was to take that away from so many people. But sometimes you’ve just got to say, “Well, sorry, we’re not going to be here right now.” In the end, it actually was just one quick phone call with the other guys to get off the ship.

As the sizes of everything gets larger, all of the stakes start to feel higher. I grapple with that, because that’s not the kind of band that I like to be in, where it feels like everything is high stakes. I do miss the time where we could just do anything without any consequences, but I still try really hard to operate like that. In the past, I have felt tied to it, that we have to be there. But with this band, we have been happy to take a lot of risks, and for the most part, I’m just happy to see what happens if we just choose the path that feels right for us.

Do you think Spotify noticed or cares that you left?

I don’t expect Daniel Ek to pay attention to this. We have made a lot of experimental moves with the way we’ve released records — bootlegging stuff for free. We have allowed ourselves a license to break conventions, and the people who listen to our music have a trust and a faith to go along on this ride together. I feel grateful to have the sort of fan base you’ll just trust, even when you do something a little counterintuitive. It feels like an experiment to me, like, “Let’s just go away from Spotify, and let’s see what happens.” Why does this have to be a big deal? It actually feels like we’re just trying to find our own positivity in a dark situation.

“Phantom Island” is a really distinct record in your catalog for using so much orchestration. I heard some conversations with the L.A. Phil planted the seed for it?

We played this Hollywood Bowl show a little over two years ago, and being the home stadium of the L.A. Phil, we naturally chatted with them at the show. It did plant a seed of doing a show there backed by the orchestra. We happened to be halfway through making a record at that exact time that we weren’t really sure how to finish. When we started talking about doing a show backed by an orchestra, we thought, “Let’s just make an album with an orchestra.” We rearranged and rewrote these songs with a composer, Chad Kelly. We knew the songs needed something, and we ended up rewriting the songs to work for a rock band in a symphonic medium.

Were there any records you looked to for how to make that approach work? I hear a lot of ELO in there, Isaac Hayes, maybe the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.”

To be completely honest, I just don’t think there was a model for it. I think we landed on something that we only could have made because we wrote the songs not knowing there were going to be orchestral parts. When you ask me what were the touchstones, well, there weren’t any. I was probably thinking of a lot of music from the early ’60s, a lot of soul and R&B music at that time, which had often had orchestral arrangements. Etta James, for instance, was in the tone and the feel. This isn’t the perfect way to do it, but it was a really serendipitous process.

Your live shows are pretty raucous to say the least; how did you adapt to keep that feeling with orchestras behind you on this tour?

I was pretty anxious, to be honest. We only had one rehearsal the day before the first show. We had to go in and cross our fingers, like, “Okay, I think that’s going to work. I’m just going to hope that it translates.” Our rehearsal was the most intense two and a half hours, but for the show, you’re just like, “All right, this is it.” You’ve just got to commit to what’s on the page.

We’ve had some really awesome people collaborating with us — Sean O’Laughlin did the arrangements for the live shows, and Sarah Hicks is an amazing conductor. We’re just a garage rock band from Australia; we’re very lucky to get to honestly work with the best of the best.

On the other end of the venue spectrum, what was it like playing a residency in a Lithuanian prison?

It was a real prison until really recently [Lukiškės Prison 2.0 in Vilnius, Lithuania]. The history is very dark — like, very, very dark. But there are artist spaces there now, and it’s quite a culturally positive force. They’re the things that make you restore your faith in humanity. You spend so much of your life losing faith in it, and then you go to places like that, and you’re like, “Yeah, humans are okay.”

Speaking of threats to humanity, I think your band contests the idea that artists need to use AI to make enough music to be successful on streaming. You’re proof you can make a ton of music quickly, with real people.

Making music is fun as f—, especially making music with other people. That’s a deeply motivating factor, and we just have a ton of fun making music together. It feels human, it feels spiritual, it feels social. It’s deeply central to who we all are as human beings. And it doesn’t feel hard. It doesn’t feel like we’re fighting against some AI trend or anything. We just make music because it feels good.

You’re an arena act with your own label, and pretty autonomous as a band. Do you think you’ve figured out something important about how to be successful in the modern music economy?

I think we’ve been good at asking internal questions, and questioning what everybody else does and whether we need to do that or not. Sometimes we do the same thing that everybody else does. Sometimes we do something completely different because it makes sense to us. I think we’ve been quite good at being true to ourselves and being confident, or maybe reckless enough to do that.

I do think there’s some serendipity and fate in the personalities of the other guys in the band, and the people that we work with, who have have also been on a pretty unconventional journey and have faith that — in the least pretentious way possible — that other people will dig it, and not worry too much about the other other stuff.

Do you hope to see more and bigger bands striking out on their own, since the big institutions of the music business have yet again proven to not really reflect their values?

I just know what has worked for us, and I’m not sure that means that it’ll work for other people. I don’t know if there’s a model in it. If there is a model, it’s that you don’t have to follow a path if you don’t want to. The well-treaded path is going to work for some people, but you don’t have to stay on that.

I think one thing about this band is that we’ve all been at peace with failing. That if this all fell apart and we went back home and we got regular jobs, I think we would say, “Well, we’re proud of ourselves. We had a good time.” We did what we wanted to do and just suffered the consequences along the way. We’re probably being reckless enough to make potentially selfish decisions over and over again. But people, for some reason, want to come out and see us do that, and we’re super grateful.