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  • Disney’s New CEO Already Has Parks Fans Worried

    An emphasis on microtransactions and questionable cost cutting are among their concerns.
    Photo: Handout/Getty Images

    You can exhale now, Bob Iger. This week, Disney named Josh D’Amaro as its next CEO, and he will be taking the Mickey mantle in March. As we noted earlier this week, the future head of a multibillion-dollar company making TV shows and movies has “no real experience making TV shows and movies.” He has, however, worked at Disney for 28 years, most recently as chairman of Disney Experiences, so in some ways, D’Amaro is Mister Experience. Crowning the guy who runs Disney’s theme parks, cruise ships, and hotels to head the entire company telegraphs how the megacorporation envisions its future; it is one of the last major Hollywood studios, but it might see other arms of its business as bigger priorities. You would think theme-park heads would welcome the news, but on Reddit and Twitter, Disney adults are raising concerns. If D’Amaro is going to run the Studios the way he runs the Parks, then it’s worth looking into why, exactly, fans of Disney World and Disneyland might be upset.

    For decades, Disney Parks’ FastPass system was free to all theme-park guests, allowing them to nab passes (first paper, then digital) to wait in shorter lines for rides and attractions. It was a perk available to all who could get past the learning curve. In 2021, one year into D’Amaro’s tenure and following COVID shutdowns, Disney did away with FastPass and introduced a confounding and very costly series of pay-to-skip passes, which require timing advanced booking of limited slots in these formerly free-to-enter shorter lines. Lightning Lane Multi Passes, for example, can cost over $40 a day to skip the lines on certain attractions sorted into different tiers, excluding the best and busiest ones, which will require a Lightning Lane Single Pass (those range from $12 to over $20 per attraction). If the thought of staring at your phone all day at Disneyland, frantically booking ride slots like you’re using Resy, sounds horrible, you can now also buy a Lightning Lane Premiere Pass, which ranges from $129 to $449, per person, per day, plus tax, on top of your park tickets. On the busiest days, such as holidays, at the most popular parks like the Magic Kingdom and Disneyland, these baseline tickets can now cost over $200.

    Now imagine doing this for a family of four on a three-day vacation. And imagine how expensive that vacation already is, as over the past few years, Disney has stripped away additional perks like the airport bus service and extended park hours, in favor of more points of purchase and labor-cost savings. The emphasis on microtransactions makes it so that the wealthy can afford to skip lines, creates hours-long waits for everyone else, and incentivizes even more people to pay up out of desperation and to make their limited time in the parks “worth it.” Defunctland has a brilliant video about how this experience is ruining theme parks for visitors, although it’s clear to see why Disney loves this model. Could D’Amaro be planning to apply these extractive pricing strategies to more products at the company? It’s not a stretch to imagine Disney+ adding an upcharge to stream Andor during “peak hours” or something.

    Last year, Disney made the decision to tear down Jim Henson’s final completed work, a testament to the American pioneer’s humor and innovation, Muppet*Vision 3D, to replace it with a Monsters, Inc.–themed ride, despite there being so much underused space in that particular theme park, Disney’s Hollywood Studios. D’Amaro has since voiced his commitment to the Muppets, but it will be hard to overcome him overseeing this moment of betrayal to the Muppet community. The past few years have seen Imagineers’ artistic vision and thematic cohesion stripped away from parks like Epcot and Animal Kingdom in the name of making room for more profitable IP, in less thoughtfully executed attractions. Along the way, Disney’s attention to detail and historic trust in Imagineers like Joe Rhode has been decimated, and does not bode well for how much free rein Disney will or will not allow its creatives across divisions.

    Whatever kind of slump you think the Marvel Cinematic Universe is in, Marvel’s Disneyland Universe has it worse. Under D’Amaro, Disney opened Avengers Campus in Disney’s California Adventure, and it is the sorriest concrete wasteland ever seen in a theme park: It demonstrates a callous cost-cutting approach in how Disney builds new major projects from the ground up — slapping logos on architecture that resembles an industrial business park. Under D’Amaro’s tenure, it wasn’t about creating a delightful atmosphere so long as the profitable IP was represented in the most perfunctory way possible. You can see the same turn away from ambition and whimsy in the newest Disney Resort hotels and in sad, airport Holiday Inn–level renovations of their existing hotels, compared to the mad creativity and beauty of the Michael Eisner era.

    To be fair, D’Amaro is not single-handedly responsible for any of these Disney Parks’ problems. But it is hard to point to particularly amazing things that have happened in Disney Experiences under his reign: The two new coasters that have opened in Walt Disney World in the past five years are excellent additions, and they’ve vastly expanded the cruise-ship fleet, if that’s your speed. But do those wins say anything about how he will run such a vast entertainment company?

    He did get Michael Eisner’s seal of approval, as the Old Master declared D’Amaro to be a “wise pick” and cautioned him to “keep close the words of Walt Disney: ‘We love to entertain kings and queens, but the vital thing to remember is this — every guest receives the VIP treatment.’” I will take that as subtle Lightning Lane shade. Eisner also points at the promotion of Dana Walden to president and chief creative officer as great news for the company. If the new CEO and his leadership can heed this advice, maybe the future of Disney still holds a great, big, beautiful D’Amaro.

    Rebecca Alter

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  • Every Single Thing Happening at the 2026 Grammys

    It’s once again Music’s Biggest Night, where heavy hitters vie for the most esteemed qualifiers to stick onto album packaging. There’s a lot for five-time host Trevor Noah to get into after this weekend in Los Angeles saw huge ICE Out demonstrations and <a href="https://www.vulture.com/article/do… More »

    Vulture Editors

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  • Did Success Spoil Noah Baumbach?

    Photo-Illustration: Vulture; Photos: Focus Features, Netflix, Paramount, Samuel Goldwyn Films, Sony Pictures, Everett Collection

    In Noah Baumbach’s 2007 movie Margot at the Wedding, Jack Black’s character, a would-be painter, former musician, and general layabout named Malcolm, is accused by his fiancée of being competitive with everyone. “It doesn’t even matter if they do the same thing as you,” she says. “He’s competitive with Bono.” Malcolm concedes the point, explaining, “I don’t subscribe to the credo that there’s enough room for everyone to be successful. I think there are only a few spots available” — and people like Bono are taking them up. The implication is that, were it not for the tragic injustice of the limited-spots situation, Malcolm would be recognized for being as talented, if not more, than the lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the world.

    Malcolm is a typical Baumbach character: delusional and ludicrously self-important, yet not totally wrong either. (Who has not heard Bono speak and thought, Why him?) Others cut in the same mold include Walt Berkman (Jesse Eisenberg) from 2005’s The Squid and the Whale, a teenager who rationalizes his plagiarizing of a Pink Floyd song by saying, “I felt I could have written it”; Roger Greenberg (played by frequent Baumbach collaborator Ben Stiller) of 2010’s Greenberg, a middle-aged misanthrope living in the long aftermath of a ruinous decision in his youth to turn down a major record deal because it wasn’t good enough for him; Josh Srebnick (Stiller) of 2014’s While We’re Young, a struggling filmmaker who has toiled for years on a dull documentary about “how power works in America”; and Harold Meyerowitz (Dustin Hoffman) of 2017’s The Meyerowitz Stories, an elderly sculptor blaming his obscurity on the shallow philistinism of the art world: “I think I would have had greater success if I’d been more fashionable.”

    These are men at every stage of life who resent the world for not recognizing their genius. The older ones are haunted by forks in the road where the path not taken surely would have led to the success they both feel they deserve and desperately desire. Their narcissism is not tempered with a single drop of humility, but rather with oceans of self-loathing that are then channeled outward, in scalding torrents, at their friends and family. They construct elaborate justifications for their selfish and cruel behavior, while insisting that they themselves have been overlooked and misunderstood. They are in a permanent state of arrested development (“I haven’t had that thing yet where you realize you’re not the most important person in the world,” Malcolm says), their massive egotism undermined by deficiencies in the basic skills of living, like knowing how to cook or drive or swim.

    These men are also fathers and sons, the horrific dad being a mainstay of the Baumbach canon. The archetype is Jeff Daniels’s Bernard Berkman from The Squid and The Whale, a has-been writer who instills in Eisenberg’s Walt a monstrous sense of superiority through a million high-handed pronouncements and snap judgments: dismissing A Tale of Two Cities as “minor Dickens,” insinuating that Walt’s girlfriend isn’t hot enough for him. Bernard is reprised in Hoffman’s Harold Meyerowitz, who is aggressively uninterested in his children’s lives, their only purpose being to serve as minor satellites that reflect his glory back onto him. His son Matthew, also played by Stiller, makes a lot of money as a financial adviser, but unfortunately, the only sort of success that matters in Baumbach’s universe is artistic in nature. “I beat you! I beat you!” Matthew screams at his father in one scene as Harold drives away, obstinately deaf to his son’s claims, aloof to his very existence.

    I have made this taxonomy of the Baumbach male because the curious thing about his latest movie, Jay Kelly, is that this distinctive creature barely features in it. Jay Kelly is Baumbach’s most nakedly award-aspiring film to date, a starry tribute to the magic of the movies that seemed to be an Oscars contender before joining Wicked: For Good in the ignominious club of hopefuls that got zero nominations. There will be no gold statuettes to compensate for the fact that Jay Kelly is also one of Baumbach’s weakest offerings, verging on the maudlin and containing few of the ingredients that made his body of work so beloved by those who queasily saw something of themselves in his loathsome, exasperating men. The Baumbach male appears here as a mere echo, a figure of diminishing interest who serves to punctuate the director’s new concerns and obsession: becoming an artist who identifies more with the Bonos of the world than the Malcolms.

    If Baumbach, 56, is one of the preeminent chroniclers of white Generation X, from the 1980s adolescent experience of The Squid and the Whale to the midlife crises of While We’re Young and 2019’s Marriage Story, then Jay Kelly is his late-middle-age movie, preoccupied with the looming shadow of death. George Clooney plays the titular character, a Hollywood star in his 60s who, like Clooney himself, is heir to the classic leading men of old: Gene Kelly, Gary Cooper, Cary Grant. His sun-kissed existence is disturbed by a series of overlapping events: his youngest daughter, Daisy, flying the coop to college; the death of his mentor; and, most fatefully, a run-in with an old acting-school friend, Tim, who flamed out of the business long ago, while Jay’s career soared into the stratosphere.

    Jay is worried that the Jay onscreen is just a persona, a vaporous construct built from the projections of fame and the machinery of Hollywood, as thin as the sets where he spends much of his time. “Is there a person in there?” Tim asks him after they have one too many drinks at the bar. “Maybe you don’t actually exist.” Free from fame’s distorting prism, Tim definitely exists, in all his inconsequential glory, and is awfully bitter about it, especially since he holds Jay responsible for nabbing a role that would have sent him on his merry way to stardom. Tim, played with coiled resentment by Billy Crudup, is the closest thing the movie has to a quintessential Baumbachian frustrated artist, and at first, it seems like the movie is going to tantalizingly play as a duel between these opposing representatives of failure and success, the two poles of Baumbach’s world. When Jay muses about remembering the man he once was, Tim shoots back, “I don’t think you want to meet that guy again.” He holds in contempt the young Jay for stealing his shot at fame as well as the old Jay for looking back fondly at a time when he was a nobody — which, of course, is one of the privileges of being a somebody.

    This would seem to offer Baumbach fertile thematic ground, another of his forks in the road, the decisive moment that determines his characters’ future happiness and self-esteem — their entire identity, actually, according to their own pitiless scorecard for measuring a life’s worth. Instead, the confrontation with Tim sends Jay on a picturesque trip through France and Italy, chasing after some quality father-daughter time with Daisy. She and her friends are spending their last summer before college doing typical young people things — charging stuff to their parents’ credit cards, staying in cheap hostels, hooking up with European strangers — and naturally, she doesn’t want her father around. So Jay is left to hang with an entourage that includes his publicist, Liz (Laura Dern), and his manager, Ron (a criminally underutilized Adam Sandler), as Jay take selfies with starstruck travelers and makes his way to a film festival in Tuscany where he is to be presented with a tribute for his work. Along the way, he revisits scenes from his life.

    Not a lot happens on this journey. There is an aimless and ultimately aborted subplot about a past romance between Liz and Ron. Jay thwarts a robbery and reluctantly becomes a tabloid hero — more grist for the nagging feeling that his life isn’t real. He confronts his eldest daughter, Jessica, in flashback as she accuses him of choosing his career over their family. Jay’s ostentatious success confounds Baumbach’s usual parental dynamics, which revolve around megalomaniacal patriarchs unleashing their psychological traumas on their poor kids. Jay’s absence as a dad seems like a blessing compared to the ever-present shadow Baumbach’s other fathers cast on their children. (Take Bernard Berkman’s insistence on “my night” in his custody battles with his ex-wife, Joan, which are less expressions of filial affection than pathetic attempts to have people around he can easily dominate.) Jay’s time in Tuscany includes a detour in which he confronts his own neglectful father, but Kelly père exhibits little of the venom that characterizes Baumbach’s usual bad dads.

    In the end Jay is abandoned by everyone but Ron, his faithful Sancho Panza, and left to wonder whether his career and his life amount to anything at all. (Spoiler alert: He realizes that they do.) The film clearly takes inspiration from 8 ½, Federico Fellini’s masterpiece of self-reproach and self-doubt, but it perhaps more closely resembles the Love Actually plotline that sees Bill Nighy realize his dowdy manager is the love of his life. The only reason Jay Kelly is not a disaster is the presence of Clooney, who is about as interesting an icon of fame as you can get, giving it a modicum of pathos and a lot of allure. At 64, he is nearly as handsome as ever, making even Crudup seem a tad pedestrian in comparison. What Clooney can’t do, even if he had been asked to try, is convey what it is like to fail, to be stuck for your entire life with a version of yourself that is unnoticed and unadmired — what it is like, in other words, to be most people.

    Baumbach has argued that there is consistency across his films. “A lot of my movies are about people who self-identify as a failure because the lack of success, to them, has equaled failure, which is not the case,” he recently told the New York Times. “But defining yourself by your success does the same thing: It’s just another way to not look at yourself as who you might actually be. That’s definitely the case for Jay.”

    I’m not sure I buy that there’s such an equivalence. (For one, whatever illusions come with success are far less corrosive to the soul than those that accompany failure.) It’s also clear some deeper change has taken place in Baumbach’s movies, starting with Marriage Story. Baumbach’s previous avatars onscreen had been Eisenberg and Stiller, playing awkward, painfully insecure characters who seemed to be crawling out of their skin. Then he became Adam Driver: tall, handsome, exuding importance. Driver plays a theater director so acclaimed that he scores a MacArthur “genius” grant, the kind of award a classic Baumbach character would have deranged fantasies about winning. The movie opens with his soon-to-be-ex-wife enumerating, in a letter to their therapist, all the ways he’s a good father: “It’s almost annoying how much he likes it, but it’s mostly nice.” That was new.

    Although Baumbach’s movies are not strictly autobiographical, they are obviously informed by his life. The messy divorce of his parents is the inspiration for The Squid and the Whale, while his separation from Jennifer Jason Leigh forms the contextual background of Marriage Story. Baumbach’s own father, the writer Jonathan Baumbach, died in 2019, a couple of years after The Meyerowitz Stories, which showed that even adults still need their fathers — still crave their attention, approval, and respect — and still can be hurt by them. It is no great stretch of the imagination to surmise that he has more than a little in common with the disgruntled men who believe the world has unfairly passed them over; as he once told the Times, The Squid and the Whale, which followed an eight-year dry spell in his directorial career, “makes me very emotional, because it reminds me of the time I was writing it and feeling like it was my last chance after having struggled for a bit.” I’d further posit that bearing a grudge against the universe and believing you’re an unrecognized genius, the fundamental qualities of the Baumbach male, might be necessary for making valuable works of art. That a little delusion and rage are required to keep the demons of complacency away.

    Being a father himself (he has two young boys with his partner, Greta Gerwig, as well as an older child with Leigh) seems to have softened Baumbach. “I cry a lot now,” he recently told GQ. “I find a lot of life emotional in a good way.” His professional collaborations with Gerwig produced Frances Ha and Barbie, both of which are markedly more buoyant than Baumbach’s early work. Marriage Story was followed by White Noise, a $100 million adaptation of Don DeLillo’s novel that lurched in a totally different direction, a bewildering misfire that suggested Baumbach wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself and was casting about for inspiration from literature. Jay Kelly feels like Baumbach stepping through the mirror, peering back at his world through the lens of age and enviable accomplishment.

    So what happens when your ego is satisfied, when your innermost vision of yourself is validated by the outer world? Marriage Story is not one of his best movies, but it shows that Baumbach can evolve and take risks that mostly pay off. I am thinking in particular of a scene toward the end in which Driver sings “Being Alive” at a bar in front of the members of his theater company. His character is a little drunk and feeling sentimental, a common scenario for singing along to Sondheim, and it has the potential to be deeply embarrassing. But the scene works, both weird enough to be interesting and a straightforward appeal, via Sondheim’s transportive wizardry, to the biggest emotions: love, regret, the terror of being alone. At that moment, Driver resembles Baumbach’s unlovable losers, whose grandiose conceits ultimately burn away in the harsh light of reality, forcing them to “embrace the life you never planned on,” as one character puts it in Greenberg, a life that you feel is beneath you. Here’s hoping Baumbach hasn’t forgotten that feeling.

    Ryu Spaeth

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  • The Invite Is Occasionally Funny, But That’s About It

    Photo: The Invite/All photos are copyrighted and may be used by press only for the purpose of news or editorial coverage of Sundance Institute programs. Photos must be accompanied by a credit to the photographer and/or ‘Courtesy of Sundance Institute.’ Unauthorized use, alteration, reproduction or sale of logos and/or photos is strictly prohibited.

    It makes perfect sense that, as a director, Olivia Wilde would want to follow the extravagant, ambitious disaster of Don’t Worry Darling with a four-character chamber piece confined to one location. The Invite, based on the Spanish director Cesc Gay’s 2020 movie The People Upstairs (which was itself based on an earlier play by Gay), features an unhappy couple inviting their upstairs neighbors for a dinner party that quickly goes to some strange places; it’s the kind of supposedly focused character study that probably felt nourishing after all the off-camera craziness of Wilde’s previous directorial outing.

    We can sense the theatrical origins of the story right from the start, with downcast music teacher Joe (Seth Rogen) arriving home one evening only to find that his fussy, anxious wife Angela (Wilde) is in the middle of preparing for a dinner party for their upstairs neighbors. Joe is not only unprepared for this, he doesn’t even like these neighbors, who weird them out and keep them up at all hours having extremely loud sex. Joe and Angela’s incessant bickering early on — every observation prompting an objection or a counter-observation — telegraphs that their neighbors will probably turn out to be a lot better adjusted than they are. Sure enough, when Hawk (Edward Norton) and Pina (Penelope Cruz) arrive, they seem both relaxed and all-knowing: They confess that they heard Joe and Angela arguing loudly before they even rang the doorbell. He’s a retired firefighter, she’s a sexologist, and suddenly the upstairs neighbors have the upper hand, psychologically speaking.

    The Invite is primarily a comedy, and it does have some solid laughs, though the character interactions can also feel so manufactured that our bullshit detectors start going off fairly early. Angela, we’re told, is hypervigilant and neurotic — their daughter is at a sleepover and Angela tells Joe she called beforehand to ensure that there will be no men or weapons present in the friend’s house — and she’s apparently also on top of current mores and attitudes from days spent listening to podcasts. Funny, sure, but somehow, Angela also manages to organize an entire meal based on meat and cheese without ever checking to make sure her neighbors can eat such things. (It turns out, of course, that Pina can’t.) This is minor stuff, meant to add to an accumulation of interpersonal awkwardness, but such inconsistencies add up and deflate the characters’ believability. If in something like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf the characters’ inadequacies and resentments fuel their increasingly erratic behavior, here these people feel like grab bags of punchlines, their actions there primarily to get laughs.

    More worryingly, the film’s stylized, theatrical dialogue only really works onscreen if there’s a musicality to the words and a rhythm to the back and forth. Wilde manages to undermine that through aggressive, insistent music cues that flatten everything out — almost as if she doesn’t trust the script, credited to Rashida Jones and Will McCormack, to do the trick. Still, these are good actors, and each brings their unique style. As a comic performer, Wilde (who also gives a tremendous performance in another Sundance movie this year, Gregg Araki’s I Want Your Sex) excels at going big — precise in her timing, unafraid to exaggerate for comic effect — while Rogen deploys his usual goofy, improv-style cadences — stumbling over words, anxiously repeating himself, swallowing punchlines.

    When Norton and Cruz show up, they bring their own vibes: He’s soft-spoken and even keeled, she’s a bit of a flower child. This is all intentional, surely. You don’t go with a cast like this if you don’t want these actors to do their own individual things. And it does pay off, occasionally: Entering the apartment, Hawk and Pina talk a lot about the décor and the energy in the room, and Joe responds, snarkily, “We talked a lot about capturing energy, as if it’s a thing we could actually do.” But it takes seriously sharp writing and directorial control to make all these people feel like they exist in the same movie, and the truth is that the performances don’t really cohere.

    Wilde leans into the comedy as much as possible, often framing shots for maximum visual humor. At its best, The Invite uses the spaces of this apartment well, putting dead air between its alienated characters and bringing them physically closer over the course of the film. But even here, the tonal whipsawing can backfire. As I noted earlier, The Invite goes to some odd places, but with each new turn in these relationships, the picture loses steam, perhaps because they’ve never come across as real people and these emotional twists don’t feel fully earned. Meanwhile, the shticky humor of the first hour makes for a disappointing mismatch with the awkward earnestness of the finale, as the characters all get their sentimental, tedious monologues, now complete with soft music on the soundtrack. (The movie is, frankly, a clinic in how not to use a score.)

    Wilde’s directorial debut Booksmart, released in 2019 to great acclaim, worked in large part because she brought so much inventiveness to a familiar and chaotic coming-of-age tale, using technique to overcome the story’s tonal challenges. Don’t Worry Darling, by contrast, felt too stilted and controlled, too programmed and predictable, almost as if the director felt obligated to rein in her stylistic impulses against a supposedly more complicated story. The Invite feels at times like a film that could have benefited from more control. It’s too baggy to really work as a chamber piece. (It’s not a particularly long movie, but it drags considerably after a while.) But it also doesn’t really give Wilde any real opportunities to cut loose and demonstrate her strengths as a director, which once seemed so considerable.


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    Bilge Ebiri

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  • I Miss When the Golden Globes Were Deranged

    Aaron Taylor Johnson winning a Globe for Nocturnal Animals in a year when Moonlight’s Mahershala Ali was winning everywhere else.
    Photo: Paul Drinkwater/NBCUniversal via Getty Images

    If the 2026 Golden Globes had a theme, it was “Normal service restored.” After four months of Oscars season lifting up some contenders and humbling others, the Globes in many ways looped us back to where we thought we’d be in September: One Battle After Another cleaning up, Hamnet as the runner-up, Sinners as a crafts-only play.

    That message was sent early in the night with the ceremony’s first two categories, Supporting Actor and Supporting Actress. These were the two least predictable races on the film side, and they’d recently gotten more chaotic thanks to the Critics Choice Awards the weekend before. In Supporting Actress, which has been as wide-open an acting race as we’ve seen in years, Critics Choice went with Amy Madigan in Weapons — an extremely gonzo, extremely Internet-friendly pick. In Supporting Actor, the two nominees from One Battle After Another apparently split the vote at the CCAs, clearing a path for Frankenstein’s Jacob Elordi, a challenge to the conventional wisdom that 28-year-old hunks don’t win trophies. (Being a 28-year-old hunk is usually considered its own reward.)

    Neither of these wins repeated at the Globes, where the supporting prizes went to Teyana Taylor of OBAA and Stellan Skarsgård of Sentimental Value. For better and for worse, this duo feels like a much more plausible pair of Oscar winners: Taylor as an electric performer in the Best Picture front-runner, Skarsgård as a venerable European near the end of a long career. So plausible, in fact, that many pundits fingered each for the win at the beginning of the season. Taylor and Skarsgård were both worthy winners who gave memorable speeches, but taken together, their wins seemed like a sign of Globes voters preemptively aligning their tastes with the Academy’s, rather than delivering distinctive wins in their own right.

    Something similar occurred with Hamnet. Since the literary adaptation won the TIFF People’s Choice Award in September, its buzz had gotten awfully quiet. As Blank Check’s JJ Bersch wrote a few weeks ago, “it barely feels like the movie even exists at this point, weirdly.” Once Rose Byrne started taking critics’ prizes for her turn as a frazzled mother in If I Had Legs I’d Kick You, fans wondered if she could possibly upset Hamnet’s Jessie Buckley, who since Telluride had been pegged as the race’s indomitable Goliath. Byrne’s hot streak continued when she won Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy at the Globes, but while she delivered a lovely, charming speech — which ended with the news that her husband, Bobby Cannavale, couldn’t make it because he was attending a reptile convention in New Jersey — it was probably the last speech she’ll get to give this season. As expected, Buckley won the other Best Actress trophy, and Hamnet’s 11th-hour Best Drama win seemed to prove the film does indeed have enough juice for the Irish actress to sweep from here on out.

    As will be the case in a three-hour show, there were a couple small surprises. Brazil’s The Secret Agent taking Best Foreign-Language Film, alongside star Wagner Moura’s win for Best Actor in a Drama, indicates that the hierarchy of power in the Neon universe may be about to change. Is the movie the new front-runner for the International Film Oscar, and if so, what does that mean for the presumed heavyweights in that category, It Was Just an Accident and Sentimental Value, and their chances of sneaking into Best Picture? (Or is this just a case of Brazilians, the largest international contingent in the Globes’ membership, having a home-field advantage at this ceremony?)

    Now, there’s nothing wrong, exactly, with any of the Globes’ picks. If they wanted to vote for Stellan Skarsgård, let them vote for Stellan Skarsgård! (Especially since Skarsgård wasn’t nominated at SAG, giving his win Sunday night a little extra weight.) It’s just that this is the exact opposite of the way the Globes used to be. Usually, they’d be the ones injecting a little insanity into the race, like when they handed Best Supporting Actor to Aaron Taylor Johnson in Nocturnal Animals in a year when Moonlight’s Mahershala Ali was winning everywhere else. Or, that same night, awarded one of their Best Actress awards to Isabelle Huppert for Elle when everyone assumed Jackie’s Natalie Portman had it in the bag. In an alternate awards-season universe, it would have been the Globes who gave Jacob Elordi and Amy Madigan their trophies and made us all question reality. Now, after having been canceled and reborn, the show has lost its signature sense of derangement, and there’s something a little sad about that.

    Still, the old Globes live on in one respect. By snubbing Sinners in Best Drama, handing it a consolation-prize Box Office Achievement award, and punting its only other win (Best Score) to a commercial break, Sunday’s ceremony continued the proud Golden Globes tradition of disrespecting Black-led films. That’s one piece of awards-season heritage they just can’t quit.


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    Nate Jones

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  • Every Single Thing Happening at the 2026 Golden Globes

    How many awards will One Battle After Another win?
    As the season’s overwhelming Oscar favorite, Paul Thomas Anderson’s film looks likely to take Best Picture – Musical or Comedy as well as Best Director. But will it sweep categories like Screenplay and Supporting Actress, or can other contenders get a boost?

    Can Sinners hold up its end of the ballot?
    Sinners and OBAA are both Warner Bros. films, and — totally coincidentally — they’re slotted on opposite sides of the Globes’ ballot. With its biggest rival competing as a comedy, can Sinners dominate the Drama categories?

    Which international contender will pull ahead?
    The Globes went hard for global cinema, handing nearly two-dozen nominations to Neon’s international slate. Pundits tend to assume the Iranian Palme d’Or winner It Was Just an Accident is leading the pack, but watch out for the Norwegian family drama Sentimental Value or the Brazilian political thriller The Secret Agent to make a leap.

    Will the Globes shed some light on the Supporting Actress race?
    Nobody knows what’s going on over in Supporting Actress, which means the Globes can wield a ton of influence. Weapons’ Amy Madigan has the momentum right now, and another televised victory would secure her place as the season’s most unlikely front-runner. But there’s space for OBAA’s Teyana Taylor, or a dark-horse candidate like Sentimental Value’s Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas to eke out a win.

    Vulture Editors

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  • The Eyes Wide Shut Conspiracy

    Photo-Illustration: Dewey Saunders; source photos: Warner Bros. Pictures; Getty Images.

    When Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut was released in the summer of 1999, the world shrugged. Critics didn’t know what to do with it, treating it less like the final statement of a master filmmaker and more like a bootlegged work print — understandable, given that Kubrick, who typically fussed over his movies until the last possible second, had died that March, just days after delivering a semi-finished cut to Warner Bros. The studio and his estate made the remaining tweaks. Meanwhile, audiences had been primed by the marketing to expect an explicit, boundary-pushing erotic thriller featuring an extended orgy sequence that almost triggered an NC-17 rating. What they got instead was much tamer: a slow-motion marital drama about a Manhattan doctor (Tom Cruise), rattled by his wife’s (Nicole Kidman) confession of an adulterous fantasy, who drifts through a series of lustful but unconsummated encounters before crashing a masked sex party thrown by an elite secret society in a Long Island mansion. The film’s dreamlike atmosphere veered toward the surreal, with Cruise and Kidman doing the weirdest acting of their lives and the orgygoers’ portrayal — the masks, the password, the choreography — striking many viewers as more goofy than sexy or sinister.

    But Kubrick’s movies have a habit of aging into new meanings, like monoliths that take time for us apes to figure out, and Eyes Wide Shut eventually came to be seen in a different light. Beyond the orgy, there are subtler, more disturbing moments — including a scene in which a costume-shop owner appears to offer his underage daughter to Cruise’s character — that hint at a world where sex, power, and predation blur. With hindsight, those undertones seemed to foreshadow real-world horrors to come. In the 2010s, Pizzagate and QAnon dragged rumors of elite sex-trafficking rings from the fringes into the mainstream of American paranoia. Then came Jeffrey Epstein’s arrest and death, and suddenly an underappreciated film from two decades earlier started to look like an uncanny premonition.

    After a while, some began to wonder if perhaps Eyes Wide Shut hadn’t been a little too prescient. Kubrick was a notorious perfectionist who spent years on each of his films and demanded dozens, sometimes hundreds, of takes per scene. So, the thinking went, every costume, prop, and line reading is there for a reason, infinite symbolism scattered across the frame for anyone determined enough to decipher it. This was the logic that led some to believe that he’d helped NASA fake the moon landing and then confessed to it by putting Danny Torrance in an Apollo 11 sweater in The Shining. That idea, along with a handful of even farther-fetched ones, was presented without comment in Rodney Ascher’s 2012 documentary, Room 237, a film presumably meant to mock such readings that may have only encouraged them. And Kubrick didn’t exactly tamp down the mythmaking. In the final years of his life, he rarely left his estate north of London and all but stopped giving interviews, allowing his work to speak for itself — and, in the absence of explanation, to be interpreted however anyone pleased. So when Eyes Wide Shut seemed to anticipate a scandal that wouldn’t come fully into view until decades later, it raised a question: What if Kubrick knew?

    Soon, in exactly the parts of the internet you’d expect, a conspiracy theory took shape: Kubrick had made Eyes Wide Shut as a warning, an exposé of an actual pedophile cult hiding in plain sight among the global elite. The masked orgy wasn’t just a metaphor — for the sexual hypocrisies of the upper class, or the transactional nature of intimacy, or the secret compromises of monogamy, or whatever — it was a re-enactment of what really happened behind mansion doors. And once the wrong people caught wind of it, they had Kubrick killed so that the movie could be reedited to scrub the most incriminating details. Some claim an entire 24 minutes were cut. And yet, the theory goes, Kubrick had so masterfully embedded his clues in the film that some of them survived the posthumous meddling.

    There are multiple strains of this theory, each with its own twist on which real cabal Kubrick was supposedly exposing. Some point to the usual suspects — the Illuminati, Bohemian Grove, garden-variety Satanists. Others zoom in on the Rothschild family, noting that it once owned the 19th-century mansion used for some of the movie’s orgy exteriors. Others go a few steps further, claiming that Eyes Wide Shut was not just predictive of Epstein’s crimes; it was literally about him. (The evidence? Well, for starters, in a party scene near the beginning of the movie, a couple idling behind Kidman is said to look like Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell, or at least the man has gray hair.)

    Across these variants, one detail is usually cited as the smoking gun. In the movie’s last scene, Bill and Alice Harford (Cruise and Kidman) are walking through a toy store with their young daughter, Helena (Madison Eginton). Just before credits roll, Helena is shown standing near two adult male extras — who, believers claim, also appear at the party that opens the film — and then following them as they head toward another aisle. This half-second beat, according to breathless video essays and blog posts stitched together from freeze-frames, is Kubrick’s final, chilling reveal: The Harfords have handed their daughter over to the cult.

    This theory has become surprisingly popular. Versions of it circulate constantly on Reddit, YouTube, and TikTok, where today Kubrick may be remembered less as a filmmaker than as a whistleblower who died for telling the truth about high-society pedophiles. And if it once lived mainly in the sewers of social media, it broke into the daylight in December of last year, when Roger Avary, the co-writer of Pulp Fiction and the director of The Rules of Attraction, laid out his own variation of the conspiracy on The Joe Rogan Experience.

    On the podcast, Avary told Rogan that he’d recently reread his copy of the Eyes Wide Shut shooting script, and it had gotten him thinking about all the ways the movie might’ve been different if Kubrick had lived. “It’s definitely missing third-person narration,” he said, arguing that, in particular, the scene where Cruise visits a morgue seems designed for voice-over. Avary also discussed the toy-store theory: “You see those two guys walking off with the daughter. They’re taking her away. They’ve given their daughter to the pedo cult.” Then he relayed a story he’d heard — secondhand, he admitted — about an early screening of the movie for studio executives. According to Avary, “There were people who were outside of the theater who could hear inside of the theater Kubrick yelling at all the executives and saying, ‘It’s my movie! You can’t cut it! You can’t fucking cut my film!’ Big argument going on and then he dies like four days later.”

    I should probably unmask myself here as a skeptic of this alleged conspiracy, which strains credulity not just for interpretive reasons but also for extremely basic logistical ones. If someone had truly uncovered an elite sex-trafficking operation and wanted to alert the public, why on earth would he spend years of his life and a studio’s $65 million making a coded allegory about it rather than, say, telling the police or a reporter? And even if you grant that premise, why would a panicked sex cult — powerful enough to murder an internationally beloved director — then allow the film to play, even in sanitized form, on thousands of screens around the world? 

    These theories may have once been a fun way to overread a slippery movie, but lately they seem to be on the verge of overtaking it. And with a new Criterion Collection 4K remaster of the film available, the hunt for “hidden clues” seems likely to intensify as every Christmas light and billiard ball can now be scrutinized in even higher resolution.

    That would be a shame. Eyes Wide Shut is a movie I love and one I think ranks among Kubrick’s best. For all its controlled craft, it’s looser, stranger, and more dramatically flammable than anything else he ever made. It’s also unclassifiable, never bothering to explain what exactly it is. That ambiguity is part of its power, but it’s also the void into which conspiracists pour their fantasies. Before those fantasies become the movie’s legacy, I wondered if a few calls and emails to people who worked on the film might bring some clarity.

    Many were happy to help. “I can assure you that all of these speculations are total nonsense,” says Jan Harlan, a producer of five Kubrick movies as well as the director’s brother-in-law. “Stanley would’ve found these people amusing,” says Anthony Frewin, Kubrick’s longtime assistant and archivist. “This is spurious and unfounded, just another fine example of the irrelevant rubbish that followed Kubrick throughout his career,” says Nigel Galt, Eyes Wide Shut’s editor. “It’s ludicrous to think that, at that time, Kubrick would’ve been aware of Jeffrey Epstein,” says Denise Chamian, one of the film’s casting directors. “I don’t think Stanley gave a flying fuck about warning the world about anything,” says Kubrick’s co-writer, Frederic Raphael. (Cruise and Kidman declined through representatives to participate in this story.)

    It’s not just that it’s doubtful or unprovable that Kubrick made Eyes Wide Shut to disrupt a secret clan of wealthy pedophiles, say his collaborators. It’s that the theory is untethered from everything we know about the movie’s origins. Eyes Wide Shut is based on Arthur Schnitzler’s 1926 novella, Traumnovelle, which Kubrick was already discussing in 1968 as a potential follow-up to 2001: A Space Odyssey. He bought the rights in 1970 — when Jeffrey Epstein was still a teenager — and at one point considered adapting it as a comedy, possibly with Steve Martin in the lead. He returned to the material on and off over the years but focused on other projects for nearly three decades. If he was really on a mission to thwart real-world sex trafficking, he wasn’t in much of a hurry.

    Also, what many now interpret as Kubrick’s exposé of elite perverts was, in fact, mostly Schnitzler’s doing. Eyes Wide Shut is an extremely faithful adaptation of Traumnovelle. “Of course you can see where it varies,” says Raphael, who was hired to help with the screenplay in 1994, “but the basis of the movie is still the Schnitzler story, and Stanley always insisted that we preserve its beats.” The novella includes all of the film’s major characters and story elements — including the doctor, his wife’s fantasy, the sex worker whose services he declines, the piano player who sneaks him the orgy password, and the mysterious woman who sacrifices herself to save him — except it’s set in early-20th-century Vienna instead of 1990s New York and its protagonist is named Fridolin instead of Bill. It was even adapted into an Austrian TV movie in 1969, and that version’s plot is largely the same as Kubrick’s.

    The people I spoke to also say they doubt Kubrick had any special knowledge of real-world sex cults, and the one in Eyes Wide Shut was something he was still trying to conceptualize as he made the film. In Raphael’s 1999 memoir, Eyes Wide Open, he recalls that Kubrick wasn’t entirely sure what might motivate such a group. At one point, he asked Raphael to help fill in the blanks, so the writer drafted a backstory in the form of a fake FBI dossier, an imagined history of a clandestine network of powerful hedonists called “the Free” who murdered anyone who leaked their secrets. He faxed it to Kubrick, who promptly called, worried that Raphael had somehow hacked into an FBI computer. When the writer explained he’d made the whole thing up, Kubrick was relieved. “Okay. As long as we’re not,” he said, “on potentially dangerous ground here.” As Raphael tells me, “If Stanley had known about anything like that in real life, I’m sure he would’ve been much too apprehensive to get anywhere near it.”

    For help imagining Eyes Wide Shut’s orgy sequence, Kubrick sought the expertise of two unconventional scholars: Gershon Legman, an erotic folklorist who provided historical context on the sexual customs of Schnitzler-era Vienna, and Dr. C.J. Scheiner, a New York emergency-room physician with a Ph.D. in erotology, who, over a series of long phone calls, gave him a crash course in 4,000 years of group sex. As production neared, Kubrick asked Scheiner about his personal knowledge of modern orgies. “I had, as a nonparticipating observer, researched this part of the social scene since the 1960s and had extensive first- and secondhand knowledge of American and European organized group sexual activity, from home parties to elegant weekend orgies in a château outside of Paris,” Scheiner tells me. Nothing in their conversations, he says, suggested the film was inspired by any real sex cult. And, “based on the questions he asked,” Scheiner adds, “my impression is that Kubrick had no — or very little — firsthand experience with orgies himself.”

    Much of the conspiracy talk around Eyes Wide Shut centers on another of the film’s advisors: Larry Celona, a longtime New York Post reporter who’s credited as a “media consultant” — for one scene, Kubrick had him write a mock Post article about the death of Mandy, the woman who spares Cruise’s character from the cult’s punishment by offering herself in his place. In 2019, Celona happened to break the news of Epstein’s death, a coincidence some found too eerie to ignore. But, as Celona tells me, he’s a crime reporter for New York’s biggest tabloid, “so it’s not a far reach that I’d be the first to know” about a famous death in the city. (He was also the first to report JFK Jr.’s fatal plane crash, which occurred, in another uncanny coincidence, on July 16, 1999, the same day Eyes Wide Shut opened in theaters. In certain corners of the internet, this alignment of dates is treated like the Rosetta stone; in QAnon lore, JFK Jr. didn’t die at all but supposedly went into hiding to join a generations-long war against elite pedophiles.) Later, some theorists’ heads nearly exploded when they thought they saw “Celona” listed in Epstein’s private-jet logs, but it turned out to be sloppy handwriting; the name was actually “Celina,” which might have been Celina Midelfart, a known Epstein associate. “I obviously was never on Epstein’s plane — I’ve never met him,” Celona says. He did speak to Kubrick by phone a couple of times, but they never discussed Epstein. “Kubrick was born in the Bronx,” Celona says, “so he wanted to talk about the Yankees.”

    Even the fake Post story Celona wrote for Kubrick has been overscrutinized. Some viewers noticed that a line in the second paragraph is repeated twice — a “mistake” that, to them, suggests hidden meaning. Celona noticed it, too, but never found out why it was left in. He suggests I ask Frewin, Kubrick’s former assistant, about it, and when I do, Frewin sounds surprised: “I never noticed that, and I was the one who had it typeset. Oh well, it adds to the authenticity.”

    Eyes Wide Shut had a reputation for opacity even before the internet got involved. It was an unusually secretive project. Working mostly in London’s Pinewood Studios, Kubrick employed only a small crew, kept the set tightly controlled, and filmed for a long time. Production began in November 1996 and lasted for more than 15 months, a Guinness World Record for the longest continuous shoot in history. So he must have filmed much more than what ended up in the movie, right?

    There were outtakes — “snippets which did not make it into the film,” says producer Jan Harlan — but nothing that would’ve gotten Kubrick in hot water with any real sex cults, say his collaborators. By most accounts, the director spent the bulk of the shoot filming take after take of the scenes that do appear in the movie. One story that’s passed into legend has the director forcing Cruise to walk through a doorway 95 times before deeming the performance believable. (Cruise, who now regularly flings himself off cliffs for fun, reportedly developed an ulcer during production.)

    Madison Eick (née Eginton), who played Helena, the Harfords’ daughter, and turned 8 during the production, hasn’t given many interviews about Eyes Wide Shut since its original release. Only in retrospect did she realize how unique the shooting process was. “I never saw a full script,” she says. “In the majority of my scenes, the dialogue was improvised. Stanley would tell us the premise of the scene and then we would rehearse and rehearse and just talk naturally. There’s a scene where I talk about wanting a dog for Christmas, and all of that was improvised.” She recalls that Kubrick applied his obsessive precision to even small moments, including one brief scene that takes place in front of the Harfords’ bathroom mirror. “Stanley had me brush my teeth for — I’m not kidding — two weeks,” she says. “He was like, ‘Why aren’t you spitting while you’re brushing your teeth?’ And I was like, ‘I just spit at the end.’ And he wanted me to spit and then keep going back to brushing.” Eick is now 36 and retired from film acting. “My dentist just told me my gums are starting to recede, and I wonder if that’s why,” she joked.

    When I ask Eick about the talk around the toy-store scene — the cornerstone of the entire conspiracy theory, in which some viewers claim her character is being handed off to cult members — she tells me it’s news to her. “There wasn’t ever any secret meaning about that scene that was communicated to me,” she says. “There was definitely never any suggestion from Stanley that I should go and stand by or walk off with two men.” Were those men the same background actors who also appear at the party scene at the beginning of the movie? Harlan admits that “they were from the same pool of extras” — but even if they were the same performers, it was “not deliberate. There is no ‘meaning’” to it, he says.

    Some of the more baroque readings of the scene assign symbolic weight to the toys Helena picks up as she moves through the store, including a stuffed tiger (supposedly a callback to a similar toy seen earlier in the film in a sex worker’s bedroom) and a Barbie (a stand-in for sexualized innocence). Eick waves this off too. “I remember that I was improvising,” she says, “and the toys I picked up were just the ones I wanted, not because anyone told me to.”

    After the shoot wrapped, Kubrick and the editor Galt spent the next 15 months shaping Eyes Wide Shut into more or less the exact movie you now know, says the latter. According to Galt, the last version Kubrick touched was “pretty much identical” to the one released in theaters. “After we showed Warner Bros. a cut,” he says, “Stanley and I discussed the things that remained outstanding. This was mostly about changing or adding a couple of establishing shots. The main titles had been set. The orgy scene is exactly the same length now as it was at the time of Stanley’s passing, and not a frame of that has ever changed” — aside from a few strategically placed computer-generated cloaked figures, added after Kubrick’s death to obscure the most explicit action and secure an R rating. Galt says that throughout the long postproduction process, to the best of his memory, Kubrick never once hinted at any real-life cults. “I sat next to Stanley in the edit room for 15 months, and the news that held his attention at the time was the war in Kosovo and the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal.”

    The edit was nearly complete, the finishing touches underway. Then, on March 7, 1999, Kubrick died. It probably wasn’t foul play. “He had a bad heart and died in his bedroom,” says Harlan. “He was 70 years old and looked about 120,” says Raphael. “He was very stressed, and producing that movie was enough to kill him. Nobody needed to hire anyone to do it.”

    Of course, it’s always possible that everyone I spoke to was either in on a cover-up or too afraid of being murdered by a sex cult themselves to tell me the truth. Perhaps they coordinated their stories and lied. But if so, they didn’t coordinate very well. On some points, they directly contradicted each other. For example, Raphael insists that Sydney Pollack — who plays Victor Ziegler in Eyes Wide Shut and is an Oscar-winning director himself — did some editing work on the film’s billiards scene after Kubrick’s death. Galt calls this “utter nonsense.”

    But one thing nearly everyone seems to agree on is that they’re dubious of what Roger Avary told Joe Rogan. Frewin says it’s “very unlikely” that Avary ever got his hands on a real shooting script for Eyes Wide Shut. Nobody I spoke to believed the film was missing any narration, either. A couple of Raphael’s early drafts included voice-over, but that idea was abandoned before postproduction. “Stanley never discussed the possibility of using narration during the edit,” says Galt.

    And that explosive screening Avary claims to have heard about, the one where Kubrick supposedly got into a shouting match with studio execs? It never happened, according to Kubrick’s collaborators, who tell me Eyes Wide Shut had only three screenings while its director was still alive and there were no arguments at any of them. On March 2, 1999, Galt flew a print to New York and showed it first to Warner Bros. bosses Terry Semel and Bob Daly, then later that day to Cruise and Kidman, while Kubrick stayed home in England awaiting their reactions, which were reportedly positive. On March 5, two days before Kubrick’s death, Cruise’s then-publicist, Pat Kingsley, watched it alone in the director’s home. “I didn’t see Stanley that day because he had a cold and stayed upstairs,” Kingsley tells me. “But we talked afterward by phone. I told him I was mesmerized by the movie.”

    Still, maybe Avary knows something I don’t. He’s an Oscar winner and presumably knows more Illuminati than I do, so who am I to doubt him? I sent him an email. He initially agreed to talk, then disappeared for months, then finally replied to questions from a New York fact-checker.

    Avary says he heard the anecdote about the post-screening fight from “a William Morris agent who claimed to have been outside the screening room of the studio in England.” He says it “should be taken with a grain of salt” and that he mentioned it on Rogan only because the agent in question is now deceased. As for his copy of the screenplay, he says that it’s dated August 4, 1996, and that it was given to him by a key member of the filmmaking team. It does include narration, notably during the morgue scene.

    Asked about the toy-store sequence, Avary suggests Kubrick may not have shared the scene’s alleged subtext with Madison Eick. “I’ve worked with child actresses myself, and you never tell them everything,” he says. “In fact, you never tell any actor everything that’s happening. Too much information, especially for a child, creates a false artifice.” He also notes that his version of the script mentions, at several points, two anonymous men — like the ones who supposedly kidnap Helena — who seem to be trailing Cruise’s character.

    The script Avary describes appears to match the purported early draft of Eyes Wide Shut that has circulated online for years. (Avary says his “was not downloaded from the internet and looks completely different.”) Neither Frewin or Galt or Harlan say they can confirm the legitimacy of that version, though some of its elements do correspond with fragments that are apparently preserved in the Kubrick archives. In any case, in this supposed draft, there is no suggestion that Helena is kidnapped. There’s no toy-store scene at all.

    None of this, however, is likely to put a stop to any theorizing. Kubrick made movies in a time when ambiguity was better tolerated, a pact with the audience now seems outdated. Today’s viewers, trained by prestige TV, true-crime podcasts, and algorithmically optimized streaming movies—where characters routinely announce who they are, what they want, and what everything means—demand legibility. When a film refuses answers, or defies a single, authoritative meaning, it can feel less ambiguous than deliberately redacted. It’s not lost on me that, in undertaking this reporting, I was chasing a definitive answer, too.

    “Kubrick’s films are riddled with knowledge of secret societies,” Avary says. “And Eyes Wide Shut feels like his most direct shot at it. It’s explicitly about a hidden elite cult wielding sex, death, and influence as tools of control. Eyes Wide Shut ends up feeling like a final chess move against power.” But, he adds, “it’s not that I endorse these conspiracy theories. It’s just cinema speculation, which for a suspicious guy like me and as a fan of Kubrick is fun to posit.”

    Lane Brown

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  • 6 New Books You Should Read This December

    Photo-Illustration: Vulture

    Every month, Emma Alpern and Jasmine Vojdani recommend new fiction and nonfiction books. You should read as many of them as possible. See their picks from last month here.

    The Award, by Matthew Pearl

    The Award, by Matthew Pearl

    An aspiring — you might say grasping — novelist named David Trent moves into an unheated attic apartment with his fiancée. They can’t really afford it, but one of David’s heroes lives below, an important writer in the John Cheever–Philip Roth mold. It turns out the author is hostile and cruel, as far from a mentor as you could imagine — until David’s modest first novel wins a prestigious literary prize. A publishing-industry satire in the vein of Andrew Lipstein’s Last Resort, The Award takes a dim view of its characters’ ambitions. Every bad and selfish choice made by the protagonist just adds to the pleasure of it. —Emma Alpern

    $30 at Amazon

    $28 at Bookshop

    The Lord, by Soraya Antonius

    The Lord, by Soraya Antonius

    A reporter-narrator in early-’80s Lebanon meets Miss Alice, an English woman who was stationed in Mandatory Palestine in a Jaffa mission school founded by her parents. Alice reminisces about her student Tareq, an exceptionally talented boy who went on to travel the region performing miracles — and eventually to risk his life by leading the Palestinian resistance against the British. Antonius’s first novel is a rare and rich work representing pre-Nakba Palestine. —Jasmine Vojdani

    $18 at Amazon

    $17 at Bookshop

    Television, by Lauren Rothery

    Television, by Lauren Rothery

    The skies are sunnier in Los Angeles, and the sentences shorter. Rothery’s debut is generous with its style — its clipped, cynical cadence is part Dashiell Hammett, part J.D. Salinger. That’s especially true for one of its two main narrators, Verity, an aging franchise movie star who acts, thinks, and pontificates like an adolescent. He trades chapters with his old writer friend Helen, who supported them in the years before his big commercial break. When Verity isn’t with someone too young for him, the two are also occasional lovers, each aware of how their attachment flickers in and out based on neediness, resentment, and actual affection. —E.A.

    $28 at Amazon

    $26 at Bookshop

    House of Day, House of Night, by Olga Tokarczuk; translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones

    House of Day, House of Night, by Olga Tokarczuk; translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones

    From the beloved Polish writer who won both the Booker Prize and the Nobel Prize in 2018 comes a translation of House of Day, House of Night, a “constellation novel” that preceded Flights by nearly ten years. House of Day proceeds as a suite of observations and anecdotes by a narrator who has moved to a small rural community in territory once occupied by Germany, where characters seem haunted or at least in contact with the dead. In a landscape of darkness, dreams, and drink, this novel is more than the sum of its eerie parts. —J.V.

    $28 at Amazon

    $26 at Bookshop

    Galápagos, by Fátima Vélez; translated by Hannah Kauders

    Galapagos, by Fátima Vélez; translated by Hannah Kauders

    It’s 1992, and a painter named Lorenzo notices his fingernails are falling off without explanation; similar things are happening to his friends. Unsettled, he travels from Colombia to Paris to see them, where all of their illnesses escalate. Vélez’s debut is surreal from the outset, with commas standing in for periods and unexplained phenomena all around, but it crescendos with a voyage to Galápagos that might also be a trip to the underworld. It’s an AIDS novel that’s both poetic and totally physical. —E.A.

    $22 at Amazon

    $21 at Bookshop

    The Rest of Our Lives, by Ben Markovits
    Photo: Vendor

    The Rest of Our Lives, by Ben Markovits

    Tom Layward has been waiting until his daughter goes off to college to make good on his promise to himself to leave his wife, Amy, who he reveals had an affair earlier in their marriage. Things in the law professor’s academic life aren’t going great, either; Tom unwittingly gave legal advice to an un-woke basketball-team owner and is convinced his university will find out. All of which is why, after dropping his daughter off at college, Tom embarks on a solo cross-country road trip. Markovits’s Booker-nominated novel marvelously inspects love that has been tested by infidelity, child-rearing, transgression, and — perhaps most injurious of all to the whole endeavor — time. —J.V.

    $25 at Amazon

    $26 at Bookshop

    Emma Alpern,Jasmine Vojdani

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  • Whose Time Is It Anyway?

    Paul Thomas Anderson, Michael B. Jordan, and Ariana Grande might be chasing the same murky Oscars narrative.
    Photo: Merrick Morton/Warner Bros.

    Nate Jones is back from leave and will be officially taking back the reins of Gold Rush on December 5. This week, he and Movies Fantasy League commissioner Joe Reid are splitting duties — Joe is capping off his three-month stint as this newsletter’s host by leading a conversation about this year’s moment-having Oscar contenders, and Nate is launching his season’s “Oscar Futures.”

    If you’ve been around the Oscars conversation long enough, a few oft-repeated phrases and clichés get lodged into your brain. You become an expert in concepts like “category fraud” and “lone director” and how many nominations Diane Warren has accumulated (16). One superlative Oscars nerds especially like to play around with is “It’s their time” or “It’s their year.” Christopher Nolan winning for Oppenheimer? It was his time. Michelle Yeoh and Jamie Lee Curtis winning for Everything Everywhere All at Once? Finally, it was their time! The phrase sounds like self-fulfilling prophecy, or at least so vibes-based that you can’t really assign meaning to it. But we would argue that you can. And in fact, it applies to several people currently in the mix for this year’s Oscars.

    Joe Reid: Nate, I’d begin by saying that “It’s their year” isn’t something that can apply to just anyone in the Oscar race. Renate Reinsve is very much in the Best Actress Oscar race for Sentimental Value, but I’m not sure anyone can make the argument that this feels like her time. Sean Penn is on most people’s short lists of Supporting Actor contenders for One Battle After Another, but I wouldn’t say this is his year. “It’s their time” is more encompassing. It’s when everything seems to be coming together for an actor or filmmaker: They’re in a widely appreciated movie showcasing good work, popular opinion on them is cresting, and an Oscar win would feel both presently earned and reflective of where they are in their career. Would you say that’s about right?

    Nate Jones: Hi, Joe! First off, thanks for handling Gold Rush while I dealt with some roommate drama. (This new person is emotionally volatile, keeps a very odd diet, and hasn’t yet paid for her share of the rent or utilities.) When it comes to the sense of it being someone’s time, you’ve pinpointed a fascinating phenomenon. I’d add that “It’s their year” is actually two separate but related narratives. The first type is the one we saw for Will Smith with King Richard, Viola Davis with Fences, and Leonardo DiCaprio with The Revenant — an esteemed industry figure who hasn’t yet gotten their due from the Academy receives an entire career’s worth of hosannas all at once. (What separates this from a “career win” like Curtis’s is the sense that this project is genuinely considered one of the artistic high points on their résumé.) The second type is the one we saw for Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook — a performance that’s so undeniable that it doesn’t really matter what you’ve done before. You’ve made a leap, and everyone else just has to get out of your way.

    This season brings one standout example of an “It’s their time” campaign. Paul Thomas Anderson is one of the most acclaimed and influential directors of his generation. He has been nominated for 11 Oscars over the course of his career and lost them all. Now here he comes with One Battle After Another, a film that has not only earned critical raves and the best box office of his career, but seems almost preternaturally plugged into the Zeitgeist of the second Trump era. No other film in the race feels as “2025” as One Battle, which of course only bolsters the argument for this being PTA’s year. By most pundits’ estimations, Best Picture and Best Director are both his to lose.

    Apart from PTA, though, are there any other “It’s their year” picks you have your eye on, Joe?

    J.R.: I’ll stick with the Best Director category, because you’re right that PTA makes for the best “It’s his time”/“It’s his year” case. But why couldn’t it also be Ryan Coogler’s year? Sinners is a bigger box-office hit than One Battle After Another, and Coogler’s career has been far more broadly consumed than Anderson’s has. With the Black Panther and Creed films backing him up, this feels like the exact right time for Hollywood to hold him up as their standard-bearer. Though I wonder if, because Coogler has never been nominated in Best Director before, a nomination in that category might be seen as sufficient recognition of his year.

    Then there’s Josh Safdie, another director looking for his first-ever Oscar nomination. Marty Supreme hasn’t opened yet, but the buzz on the movie has it surpassing brother Benny’s The Smashing Machine. And while the brothers are insistent that there isn’t a competition between them, if there is, Josh is winning. And who doesn’t want to get onboard with a winner? That’s one of the messages of his movie!

    I think the best argument against it being Josh Safdie’s year is that it’s actually his lead actor’s year. More than any other actor in contention this year, Timothée Chalamet has the potential to own the year’s best “It’s his time” narrative. At age 29 (he turns 30 in a month), he’s rounding up on his third Best Actor nomination, and if Marty Supreme gets into the Best Picture field it will be his eighth such movie to do so. His performance in Marty Supreme is a feat of chutzpah and kinetic energy that lends itself to terms like “undeniable.” And if the movie is a box-office hit, it’ll be his third December success in as many years (after A Complete Unknown and Wonka). Is there any argument against him being the leading man of the moment?

    N.J.: The only counterargument to this being Timmy’s time is the fact that, traditionally, the Academy lags a few years behind the wider culture when it comes to acknowledging young leading men of the moment. Chalamet has had the best come-up of any young actor since DiCaprio, but recall that Leo didn’t win until his sixth acting nomination, when he was in his 40s. It might feel like Timmy’s year to us, but voters may still feel as if he hasn’t quite paid his dues. Especially as it seems like Chalamet is once again running a nontraditional campaign more focused on Gen-Z cinephiles than middle-age Academy members.

    Which is why, weirdly, I think the Original Recipe Timmy might have just as good a case for an “It’s his year” in Best Actor. DiCaprio spent the first 20 years of his career being snubbed by Oscar voters, and his trophy cabinet’s looking pretty threadbare compared to his reputation. Shouldn’t he have more than one Oscar, the argument might go, and if so, isn’t now the time to give him his second? You may say Leo was overshadowed by his castmates; I say, “How many Bob Ferguson costumes did you see at Halloween this year?” He created an instantly iconic character in what’s shaping up to be the biggest awards movie of the season — there’s a narrative to be had here if DiCaprio, never the most dedicated campaigner, wants to grab it.

    And what of the other major contender in Best Actor, Michael B. Jordan, who can claim as much credit as Coogler for making Sinners a sensation? He’s a huge star who’s never been honored by the Academy before, and there’s two of him. Couldn’t that make it “his year”? He’s halfway between Timmy and Leo — a veteran who’s also of the moment — though does that mean he’s the best of both worlds, or stuck in no-man’s-land?

    J.R.: On the subject of Leo, I want to answer two of your questions in the reverse order of which you posed them: “How many Bob Ferguson costumes did you see at Halloween this year?” Well, lots, because the Bob Ferguson costume is a bathrobe, a knit hat, some blue blockers, and a dingy T-shirt and slacks. This is like how my best idea for a group Halloween costume was to get a bunch of friends together, dress normal, and go as the newsroom from Spotlight. As for “Shouldn’t Leo have two Oscars by now?”, this is my favorite kind of Oscar argument. If Daniel Day-Lewis and Frances McDormand have three, shouldn’t Leo have two? I think the answer is yes. And the above two examples — plus more recent second wins by Adrien Brody, Emma Stone, Anthony Hopkins, and Renée Zellweger — are proof that the Academy is less reluctant to bestow second or third Oscars than they used to be.

    I like your Michael B. Jordan argument, and I’m intrigued by the possibility that he could take advantage of an even split between Timmy and Leo supporters and ride to victory. I’d feel more optimistic if Sinners were more The Michael B. Jordan Show, but he doesn’t dominate the way that, say, Ariana Grande does in Wicked: For Good. That sequel hasn’t been enjoying as pink and sparkly a reception among critics as the first one did, but most reviews point to Grande’s Glinda as the film’s highlight. And after two years’ worth of viral press appearances and the near-universal agreement that she’s even more talented than we may have thought, it feels like it’s been her time for a minute now. Certainly there will be quibbles about whether a second nomination in two years is overkill, or whether For Good is just plain not good enough of a movie to produce an Oscar winner. But you can already feel the exception being carved out for Grande. And with the rest of the Supporting Actress field crammed with pairs of actresses from the same movie cannibalizing each other’s votes (Hailee Steinfeld and Wunmi Mosaku from Sinners; Elle Fanning and Inga Ibsdotter Lilleas from Sentimental Value; Teyana Taylor and Regina Hall from One Battle After Another), it’s a lot less complicated to just surrender to the girl in the bubble.

    Speaking of surrender, does the fact that the Oscar-observant community is forming a consensus around Hamnet’s Jessie Buckley as Best Actress make this her moment by default? Or should we be talking about how this year feels like the result of several years of steadily breaking through?

    N.J.: I think it can be both! Jessie Buckley in Hamnet feels to me like the closest thing we’ve seen recently to a J.Law moment. She’s not exactly an unknown — like Lawrence at the time of Silver Linings Playbook, she’s already a previous nominee — but her performance in Chloé Zhao’s film marks her transformation over a few short years from admired indie actress to everyone’s favorite new star. At the same time, her situation illustrates how much context matters when we declare it someone’s “year.” Ahead of the season, insiders were already whispering that this was a weak Best Actress field, so once Buckley wowed the crowds at Telluride, it was easier for pundits to simply call it early and move on to more interesting races. And without casting any aspersions on her performance, she’s also benefitting from the way the category has shaken out. The same way Brad Pitt’s path to an Oscar for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood was made easier once he was nominated against four previous winners, Buckley is going up against performances that are superficially similar — traumatized moms like Rose Byrne in If I Had Legs I’d Kick You and Jennifer Lawrence in Die, My Love, plus another grief-stricken Olde Englander in The Testament of Ann Lee’s Amanda Seyfried — from films that are way less audience-friendly than Hamnet.

    But talking about an actor who’s seen everything align for her this year also brings to mind a few awards hopefuls who haven’t been so lucky. There are two guys who, if you’d have asked me in August, I would have said were looking forward to it being “their year”: Jesse Plemons in Bugonia and Adam Sandler in Jay Kelly. Plemons seemed like he was on track to be the male Jessie Buckley, an actor who was highly regarded within the industry, previously nominated for a supporting performance, getting a plumb role in a two-hander acting showcase. Was he finally making the leap? Sandler, meanwhile, had preheated his Supporting Actor campaign with a charming appearance at March’s Oscar ceremony and was reuniting with Noah Baumbach, who directed one of his career-best performances in The Meyerowitz Stories. The stage was set for a “We never appreciated him enough” campaign, which is of course a subvariation of “It’s his year.” Bugonia and Jay Kelly both premiered in Venice, and while each received some positive reviews, neither was met with effusive acclaim. Plemons and Sandler could still both get nominated, but any sense that it is “their time” has dissipated.

    Sandler’s Supporting Actor bid in particular had the bad luck to go up against two different types of “It’s his year” campaigns: Stellan Skarsgård in Sentimental Value and Benicio del Toro in One Battle After Another. Joe, who ya got?

    J.R.: Stellan Skarsgård is an interesting case for an “It’s his time” Oscar. We’ve seen character actors pull off that narrative before — I’m thinking specifically of J.K. Simmons in Whiplash. In that case, Simmons played such a forceful, dynamic character that it was hard to deny his impact. Skarsgård feels a bit more like an Alan Arkin type: endearing older actor making his mark within an ensemble in a Best Picture nominee. That being said, I don’t think Alan Arkin ever laid claim to an “It’s his time” narrative when he won for Little Miss Sunshine, so maybe that tells me everything about Skarsgård’s chances to do the same. Maybe his first-ever Oscar nomination will be enough.

    Benicio del Toro, on the other hand … It might be his year. Despite being surrounded by actors giving bigger, more bombastic performances in One Battle After Another, the word of mouth was immediately strong for del Toro’s disarmingly quiet, funny, “a few small beers”–enjoying performance. The more you think about One Battle, it’s del Toro’s sensei, Sergio, who carries off the film’s themes of resistance on a community level. His Oscar win for Traffic came 25 years ago, and he’s certainly attained the level of respect in the industry to warrant a second, especially if One Battle ends up as the Best Picture winner. Getting two actors from the same movie to win second Oscars would be an exceedingly rare feat, so maybe we’re talking either-or for Leo or Benicio.

    What’s fun about the Oscar race is that the “It’s their year” picture becomes clearer as the season rolls on. In the next few weeks, the critics will have their say, with the New York Film Critics Circle, Los Angeles Film Critics Association, and National Board of Review announcing their winners. Theirs won’t be the final word on the subject — it can be your year even if the critics don’t agree — but I think they can push a few narratives forward. Anyone you’re keeping an eye on for critics awards?

    N.J.: You mentioned that Grande has become the Supporting Actress front-runner almost by default. But what if I told you there was another well-respected veteran, a previous nominee in fact, hiding in plain sight and ready to stake a claim that, actually, it’s her time? I’m talking about Amy Madigan of Weapons, who feels primed for a left-field critics-group win that vaults her into Oscar contention. Madigan feels so perfect a New York Film Critics Circle pick that, in the event the NYFCC goes elsewhere, the only reason would be a fear of being obvious.

    Every week between now and January 22, when the nominations for the Academy Awards are announced, Vulture will consult its crystal ball to determine the changing fortunes in this year’s Oscar race. In our “Oscar Futures” column, we’ll let you in on insider gossip, parse brand-new developments, and track industry buzz to figure out who’s up, who’s down, and who’s currently leading the race for a coveted Oscar nomination.

    Photo: Agata Grzybowska/Focus Features

    The TIFF People’s Choice Award winner hit theaters this week under the cloud of becoming, if not yet the season’s official Oscar villain, then at least the official Oscar punchline. None of that looks likely to dent Hamnet’s awards fortunes at the moment: The Tudor tearjerker has plenty of fans among industry types I talk to, and even viewers allergic to its woo-woo nonsense (ahem) may ultimately find themselves a little misty by the end. If Chloé Zhao’s film winds up one of the year’s major Oscar players — it should, since it’s being put out by Focus, and not Tubi — that’ll be worth suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous Twitter jokes.

    Photo: Giles Keyte/Universal Pictures

    A $147 million opening — 30 percent higher than its predecessor — is just what the musical needed to maintain its Best Picture bona fides, especially since so many other awards hopefuls crashed and burned at the fall box office. But those boffo receipts came alongside mixed reviews, which all but kills For Good’s already-slim chances of pulling a Return of the King–style win for the series as a whole. The sequel’s best chance at an above-the-line trophy will come in another category.

    Frankenstein, Hamnet, Is This Thing On?, It Was Just an Accident, Jay Kelly, Marty Supreme, One Battle After Another, Sentimental Value, Sinners, Train Dreams

    Photo: Tim P. Whitby/Tim P. Whitby/Getty Images

    Skim the generally positive Hamnet reviews, like Justin Chang’s, and note critics’ side-eyes regarding Zhao’s “forceful, sometimes pushy emotionalism.” Says Chang: “The movie whispers poetic sublimities in your ear one minute and tosses its prestige ambitions in your face the next.” (He also quips, “What is Hamnet, or Hamlet, without a little ham?” Get thee to a punnery!) The lady doth impress too much? Maybe so, but if there’s one thing you can say about a director who leads breathing exercises before screenings, she is certainly to her own self being true.

    Photo: Rodin Eckenroth/Getty Images

    Chu has cemented his reputation as one of Hollywood’s most reliable IP guys, which is not exactly an honor the directors’ branch holds in high regard. If a nom didn’t happen last year, it’s not gonna happen this year.

    Paul Thomas Anderson, One Battle After Another; Ryan Coogler, Sinners; Jafar Panahi, It Was Just an Accident; Joachim Trier, Sentimental Value; Chloé Zhao, Hamnet

    Photo: Neon/Everett Collection

    With the Rock and Jeremy Allen White dropping down the ranks, could there be space for an international contender like Moura, who won Best Actor at Cannes for his turn in this Brazilian political thriller? Neon certainly thinks so, bringing Moura out to schmooze with critics groups last week. It helps that the actor, who lives in L.A., is a familiar face from Narcos — he even has his own meme — and that reviews have been strong in limited release. (Melissa Anderson calls him “so spellbinding that he constitutes his own magnetic field.”) Neon is juggling a lot of foreign-language entries, but Moura is its No. 1 priority in this race.

    For the first two hours or so of Marty Supreme, I was skeptical of all the headlines proclaiming this Timmy’s year. A charismatic, live-wire performance? Sure. But wasn’t this reptilian oddball simply too unsympathetic a part to catapult young Chalamet to Oscar glory? I won’t spoil what happened next, but let’s just say that, by the movie’s final shot, I no longer had those concerns.

    Timothée Chalamet, Marty Supreme; Leonardo DiCaprio, One Battle After Another; Ethan Hawke, Blue Moon; Michael B. Jordan, Sinners; Wagner Moura, The Secret Agent

    Photo: Agata Grzybowska/FOCUS FEATURES

    “The usual adjectives barely seem adequate when discussing Buckley’s extraordinary performance,” says Keith Phipps, who echoes his fellow critics in declaring this Buckley’s film: “Shakespeare’s wife may remain forever a mystery, but Hamnet makes Agnes a creation of yearning, aching humanity who’s impossible to forget.” We’ll see how the sense of inevitability holds up over the course of the season, but for now, even rival campaigns are operating under the assumption that this is Buckley’s year.

    Erivo has been pencilled in for a follow-up nod for the past 12 months, but I’m joining Joe in holding space for the possibility that she could miss out. Her character takes a backseat in the sequel, and while Part One ended with Erivo’s thunderous “Defying Gravity,” For Good’s titular number turns into a showcase for Ariana Grande. At least she’ll always have the sex cardigan.

    Jessie Buckley, Hamnet; Rose Byrne, If I Had Legs I’d Kick You; Cynthia Erivo, Wicked: For Good; Renate Reinsve, Sentimental Value; Amanda Seyfried, The Testament of Ann Lee

    Photo-Illustration: Vulture; Photos: Agata Grzybowska/Focus Features, James Lisle/Searchlight Pictures

    Alas, poor Mescal! I knew him, Vulture reader; a fellow that Dana Stevens thinks was miscast. (She feels his character’s “rough edges are largely sanded off” by the actor’s “heart-on-his-sleeve expressiveness.”) Still, Alyssa Wilkinson declares he “knocked me flat.” Hamnet is strong enough — and the role emotive enough — that Mescal and Buckley will probably be considered a package deal. Recall, though, that Joseph Fiennes was not nominated for Shakespeare in Love. Will Shakespeare in Grief fare better?

    Photo: Netflix

    Who did Stevens wish would have played Shakespeare instead? None other than Mescal’s History of Sound co-star, who also pops up this week for the Knives Out threequel’s limited run in theaters. Despite sending increasingly frantic emails to Netflix, I’m still waiting to see it, but critics like John Nugent say his turn as a priest “brilliantly” walks a “tonal tightrope between unprocessed inner darkness, youthful befuddlement and gentle decency.” It didn’t happen for Ana de Armas, and it didn’t happen for Janelle Monáe, so anyone predicting O’Connor must do so on faith.

    Benicio del Toro, One Battle After Another; Delroy Lindo, Sinners; Paul Mescal, Hamnet; Sean Penn, One Battle After Another; Stellan Skarsgård, Sentimental Value

    Photo: YouTube

    Is she gonna be pop-uUu-lar? (Sorry, wrong installment.) As Joe mentioned above, this category is so unsettled, and so rife with internal competition, that Grande feels like the front-runner almost by default. Think of it this way: By rewarding her, it’s almost like they’d be awarding two press tours for the price of one.

    Photo: A24

    Credit to Josh Safdie and casting director Jennifer Venditti for filling this ’50s period piece with the most never-seen-a-cell-phone faces put onscreen this year. The only exception is Gwyneth, who never quite un-Goop-ifies herself as an aging silver-screen star. It works for the character, though.

    Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas, Sentimental Value; Amy Madigan, Weapons; Wunmi Mosaku, Sinners; Ariana Grande, Wicked: For Good; Teyana Taylor, One Battle After Another


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    Joe Reid

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  • What Mikey Day Watches (and Reads) With His Son

    Photo-Illustration: Vulture; Photos: Getty Images (Sean Zanni/Patrick McMullan, Will Heath/NBC), Everett Collection (Geffen Pictures, Paramount, Universal Pictures, Warner Bros.), Toei Animation, Supercell, Roblox, MrBeast via YouTube

    Ask a kid who Mikey Day is and they won’t rattle off his SNL bona fides or call out his recent guest spot on Abbott Elementary. They won’t cite his work as the Dollar Rental Car spokesperson or the fact that he penned 2021’s Home Sweet Home Alone alongside longtime writing partner Streeter Seidell. Instead, they’ll point to just one thing: his role as the host of Netflix’s hit baking series Is It Cake?

    “If I meet a kid and they’re between the ages of 4 and 9,” Day says, “I know they’ll have watched Is It Cake? A lot of SNL hosts with kids that age have even come to me and said, ‘I’ve got to get a picture with you at some point, because my kids love your show.’ It’s crazy.”

    And it’s because of kids, Day thinks, that Is It Cake? has been able to soldier on. “I think that after season one, adults would have been like, I get the concept, I’m ready to move on. But when kids like something, they’re all in, so that’s great,” he says. “That means we get to keep doing it.”

    With new holiday-themed Is It Cake? episodes hitting Netflix today — just in time for family movie nights and Thanksgiving baking marathons — we asked Day what he’s watching, playing, and reading with his 13-year-old son, Abbott.

    Photo: Warner Bros./Everett Collection

    Everything’s so different now with the internet and streaming. I don’t know if my son has ever watched a regular TV show like how I used to. His mother and I have made a point of showing him classic movies. We’ll announce them, though, like “It’s movie night on Sunday and we’re all going to sit down for two hours and watch something,” because kids are so used to the internet and YouTube that the idea of committing to something for two hours can seem astronomical to them.

    We’ve shown Back to the Future, Gremlins, The Princess Bride, and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. Back to the Future went over the best and we ended up showing him the entire trilogy. It’s my favorite movie so I think he was a little biased going into the first one, but he really liked it. Weirdly, though, he did say the third one was the best — I think because he liked the flying train.

    I’ve also shown him clips from movies like Spaceballs, just because I mentioned it, and then he wanted to watch that.

    Photo: Universal Pictures/Everett Collection

    My son is really into the Jurassic Park franchise now, too, mostly because he saw Rebirth after getting into the commercials this past summer. He wants to watch all of them, but I’m trying to show them to him in the order of how good I think they are, so we started with the original after we saw the most recent one, then we went over to Jurassic World. But slowly, I think we’re going to watch them all.

    Photo: Toei Animation

    My son really likes this anime called One Piece, which he found independent of me. I try to sit with him to watch stuff like that, but it’s intense. It’s just very loud. Like all the people he watches playing video games online, they just scream all the time.

    I kind of missed the whole anime thing as a kid. I’m sure if I’d done it, I’d be more into it now, but he loves it.

    He’s been One Piece characters for Halloween a few years in a row, too, which I love because that’s how I was with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I did try to show him the ’90s TMNT movie, which changed my life as a kid because I was so enraptured by it, but I think I tried to do it a little too young because he was pretty unimpressed. Maybe if we came back to it now he’d like it.

    Photo: MrBeast via YouTube

    My son is super into YouTube. So much so that he’ll ask, like, “When is Josh Plays Minecraft X1 or whatever going to host SNL?” One time, MrBeast was backstage at SNL and so I briefly introduced myself to him when I walked by. When I came home, I was like, “You know who I met? MrBeast.” On SNL you meet a lot of famous people, but for my son, when I said I met and talked to MrBeast for 30 seconds, that’s what he thought was super exciting.

    Photo: Supercell

    We play games together sometimes, but I play a lot of console games and he’s more into mobile games. I’ve played some Roblox with him and there are certain games that I like more on there than others, but I try. We used to play Lego Ninjago together, but now he plays mobile stuff like Brawl Stars, and I’m not as into that. I feel like I’m constantly like, “Want to play this game I found?” Like there’s this one called Split Fiction, and he’ll be nice about it, but he’s also like, “I’m good.” Like, “Yeah, maybe this weekend!” He just politely puts me off.

    I guess it’s understandable. He’s 13. I don’t know if I was watching a lot of stuff with my dad when I was in eighth grade.

    Photo: Golden Books

    There’s this Sesame Street book called There’s a Monster at the End of this Book that I loved as a kid that we’d read to my son all the time when he was little. I loved that.

    We also had a storybook version of Back to the Future that I read him long before he saw the movie.

    I tried to get him into Harry Potter, even though I never really read that as a kid, but I think we did it too early because it was just too dense. It was like “Dad, I’m 4. I’m checking out.” Maybe if we’d done it when he was a little older we might have captured his imagination, but we missed the sweet spot.

    He does love to read, though. He just finished all the Hunger Games books, so that’s cool.

    Photo: Paramount/Everett Collection

    I used to show my son clips from Airplane! all the time, so eventually I got to the point where it was like, “All right, I’ve got to just show him the whole movie,” which he loved. He thinks it’s so funny.

    There’s this other Albert Brooks movie, Defending Your Life, which I think is criminally underrated. We showed him that, which was fun, because he really liked it and it’s one of my favorite films of all time.

    I think when he gets old enough, I’ll show him the British Office, which is my favorite piece of media of all time, but I don’t want to hit it too early. Maybe when he’s in high school.

    Photo: Will Heath/NBC via Getty Images

    Because of where I work, he’s been exposed to some sketches from SNL, but he doesn’t actively seek it out. Sometimes he’ll sit down and watch stuff, but it’s not appointment viewing. I’ll make a point of showing him stuff sometimes, like years ago we did a Mario Kart sketch with Pedro Pascal that he thought was pretty funny, and during election years he’ll watch a little more because his mom gets really into it and talks about the election a lot so he’ll know all the players involved, but I think it just hits different for him.

    I used to tape Saturday Night Live off Comedy Central as a kid, when they’d show the episodes edited down to an hour and I’d be confused because at good nights people would be dressed as things that I hadn’t seen in the episodes. My son has been to the studio and everything, but I think for him, the show is just Dad’s job, and that’s fine with me.


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    Mikey Day,Marah Eakin

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  • Initiative Has 18 Charisma, 19 Dexterity, 20 Strength

    The windows are down, the sun is a kaleidoscope through the reddening leaves, and I’m listening to Saves the Day’s Stay What You Are on the car CD-player, on the way to play Soul Caliber and hold hands with my boyfriend after school … It’s cold, and you can still hear the dull thud of the music from the goth club in the basement under the sushi bar, and I’m wearing a cheap polyester corset, and I think I’m about to be kissed in this parking lot under a full moon … It’s Homecoming, and I’m talking with the friend I’ve known since we were three, because we both came with guys who are in fact a couple, but one of them has parents who can’t find out he’s gay, so we’re their covers so they can meet up at the dance …

    I don’t know what it is about adolescence—maybe it’s something to do with those underbaked prefrontal cortexes—but I doubt I’m alone in retaining memories from my teenage life that still feel as vivid, twenty-plus years on, as last week’s. It’s another world, in almost every sense another person, and at the same time its tiniest details, ecstatic or embarrassing, are still definitive, ephemeral and yet indelible.

    It’s this sensation—a feeling of swimming through waters that long ago flowed on and out into the ocean—that the playwright Else Went captures so potently in Initiative. Developed over the last ten years with the collaboration of their wife, the director Emma Rosa Went, as well as many of the actors who are now on stage in its premiere at the Public, the show has both the patience and the pain of maturity. It feels slow-cooked, basted in rich juices and allowed to simmer. That the production is five hours long—three 90-minute acts unfolding over the course of the central characters’ four years in high school, plus intermissions—is certainly crucial to this quality, but it’s the pace and texture, rather than the length per se, that really distinguish Initiative. A play can run a marathon (see Gatz) or it can brew like tea, building a somatic experience that concentrates and darkens over time. This steeped and tannic quality is what keeps the Wents’ project—notwithstanding the Jimmy Eat World and Sugarcult blasting during the preshow, the dramatized AIM chats of its characters, and the Dungeons & Dragons sessions that become central to its story—distinct from nostalgia. Nostalgia is about consuming a version of the past as comfort food. Initiative is—to steal a “good 50-cent word” from one of its characters—elegiac. It’s about loss and survival and the way in which imagination can become as tangible and critical as a climbing rope on a cliff face.

    If, unlike the play’s characters, you weren’t experiencing your own high-school odyssey over a fistful of D20s, here’s a brief nerd primer: Most role-playing games are a mash-up of make-believe and chance. You play a character with “ability stats,” number scores that represent things like Charisma, Strength, and Intelligence, which in turn determine how successful you might be at performing certain actions during the game (like seducing an innkeeper or smashing a skull). But to generate those stats and perform those actions, you’ve always got to roll a die. “Initiative” is rolled for when your party of characters enters combat: In the face of a threat, who gets to make the first move? Who will attack and who will defend? Who’s got the agility to maneuver or the constitution to endure, and whose fate comes down to luck alone?

    The whole endeavor—the danger, the thrill, the arcane rules and the fun of breaking them, the conscious, experimental creating of self—presents a meaty metaphor for coming of age, and, like all seasoned D&D players, the Wents and their actors take its stakes entirely seriously. Initiative is no parody, nor is it rarefied content meant solely for former Wizards of the Coast aficionados. Its characters don’t even begin “the game,” as they call it, until almost a third of the way through. Before, during, and after, they’re fighting the comparatively banal yet infinitely more harrowing battle of their own young lives, weathering high school while facing down the new millennium and, soon enough, a new war, from their home in “Coastal Podunk” California.

    “Nothing happens here,” says the aspiring writer Riley (the fantastically malleable Greg Cuellar, reminiscent of a young Alan Rickman) to his English teacher, Mr. Stone (played in live voiceover by Brandon Burk; adults have no physical presence in this world). Riley dreams of escape, and, in their own ways, so do all the characters of Initiative — the driven, pure-hearted former homeschooler, Clara (Olivia Rose Barresi), who’s aiming for Yale by way of perfect SATs; the brothers Lo (Carson Higgins) and Em (a heartbreaking Christopher Dylan White), who take opposite tacks as they cope with an absent father and opioid-addicted mother; the free spirit Kendall (Andrea Lopez Alvarez) and the shy, sweet misfit transfer student Ty (Harrison Densmore). Even Em’s big lug of a buddy Tony (Jamie Sanders), who casually throws slurs around (like a true early-2000s gamer bro) and groans over how long it takes to download porn on dial-up, is desperately looking for a way out. Like the others, he needs a path toward a solid sense of self, a place where wounds aren’t simply being triaged but can begin to heal.

    It’s this desire for some control over their own destinies—especially in what, says Clara, panicking in the face of post-9/11 American aggression, feels like its own “really horrible time to be alive in America”—that draws the wandering young souls of Initiative toward D&D. Getting to be a brilliant spell-caster or a divinely inspired paladin doesn’t hurt either. Confronted with a real world that hardly makes the case for the existence of love or kindness, let alone magic or God, who wouldn’t choose fantasy? (The show’s creative team, especially projection designer S. Katy Tucker, does rich conjuring work where this fantasy is concerned, and my only regret is that they and their director are confined to the LuEsther, a theater that clearly partitions action and audience in a way that saps some of the energetic potential of Initiative’s emotionally immersive story.)

    As if in refutation of the puritanical outcry over D&D in its early days, Went’s characters use the game to attempt to construct a more just moral universe. In this sense, the play’s location in time is crucial, not simply for the facts of that moment—George W. Bush, Lil John and Avril Lavigne, shouting at your mom who wants to use the phone that you’ll be done with the internet in “LITERALLY ONE MINUTE”—but for its ethos. Millennials are, at least for now, the last generation of believers. We grew up wanting to “fix the world” and thinking it could be done. We didn’t know the word “problematic.” Clara and Riley—with their big hearts and weak armor, untempered by irony, vulnerable to the catastrophes of disillusionment—might as well be our patron saints.

    These smart, soulful best friends are at the heart of Initiative, and their conversations, whether casual or charged with heartbreak, showcase some of Went’s most sensitive writing. (Though, the play is full of gems, like this one from Kendall to Em: “How come every time we hang out I feel sad? … Like… it’s comforting kinda. Like I can be myself with you, and myself is actually kinda sad, and that’s okay.”) Barresi and Cuellar hold each other up with palpable tenderness, each one crafting a long, poignant arc from innocence through the fogs and thorns of experience. A scene in which Riley (who naturally becomes the Dungeon Master in the game) narrates a solo campaign for the suffering Clara—literally taking her out of herself by leading her through an adventure as the paladin Andromeda—is profoundly moving in its generosity. Likewise the care that Lo, an increasingly aggressive jock and in plenty of outward ways a “bad kid,” shows as he shields his recessive younger brother from the brunt of their mother’s violent illness. Or the gentleness with which Kendall applies makeup to Ty’s face to hide a bruise. Initiative is stitched through with moments like these, like colorful patches on a heavy pall, little saving throws against the dark. Depending on when you were born and how much time you’ve spent rolling dice in basements, it might take you back, but its real achievement, bracing and compassionate, lies in its encouragement to keep walking forward.

    Initiative is at the Public Theater through December 7.

    Sara Holdren

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  • Death to the Penultimate Flashback Episode

    Even when done well, the penultimate flashback episode has become such an endemic storytelling strategy in TV dramas that it should be abandoned on principle.
    Photo-Illustration: Vulture; Photos: Netflix, Sarah Enticknap/PEACOCK

    There’s a pattern in TV storytelling that’s been hanging around for a long time, but it’s recently proliferated into a full-blown scourge. If you’ve watched almost any streaming dramas in the past several years, you’ve likely seen at least one or two examples. It goes like this: Just as the story finally gets fun, with all the action careening toward the end of a season so all the mysteries can get solved and all the tension can explode, the second-to-last episode halts all that electric forward momentum. The episode probably follows a cliffhanger at the end of episode six — a secret identity gets unveiled, a dead body is discovered, or a person we all thought was dead is revealed as alive. And then, instead of giving the viewer the next scene in the story — the thing everyone desperately wants — episode seven says, “No. You don’t get to know who the murderer is yet. You don’t get the fun of everyone reacting to the secret identity. You don’t get to see what happens now that the dead character is back among the living. Before you get to the good part, you have to watch a stupid, homeworklike flashback about how everyone got here in the first place.”

    Even when done well, the penultimate flashback episode has become such an endemic storytelling strategy in TV dramas that it should be abandoned on principle. It’s happened too many times, and whatever sense of surprise and curiosity this trope may have once engendered has been long since lost. But more than for overuse, the penultimate flashback episode should get thrown into TV-writing jail because it’s a condensed expression of a particularly infuriating hang-up in so much television from the past few years, one in which a character is not just a character but a question with a straightforward answer that requires solving. Why is this woman so mean? She is grieving her child. What caused this man to snap and kill his wife? Daddy issues.

    Plots, similarly, are treated not like longer series of events, but crises developing because something terrible happened in the past: death, abuse, abandonment, bullying. The plot itself is the aftermath — it’s all a revenge plot to get back at his wife’s killer — but the energy of the show all goes toward locating the original source of the damage. That structure turns plot into an unconscious patient brought in with a bullet wound. No one cares what happens when the patient heals and goes home and has to go back to work. No one cares who the patient is, really, or what else may be going on with them. The whole point is to find and remove the bullet that entered before our part of the story even began. When the second-to-last episode flashes back to an origin story, the message is “Look, we found the source of the pain! Wrap it up. Time to go home.”

    If this were the second-to-last episode of a streaming series, I would now flash back to the first time I noticed this structure. Maybe it was in the last season of Glee, where the penultimate episode was a revisitation of the show’s pilot episode, telling the story of how everyone joined the glee club. Or it could have been season two of The Crown, when the gathering tension in Philip and Elizabeth’s marriage is halted to provide a whole backstory episode about Philip’s childhood in a dismal boarding school. That episode on its own is a striking hour of TV, but in the context of a full season of television, it also leans into everything that’s now most exasperating about this structure. Sometimes the pattern gets shifted slightly and the flashback happens near the end but not quite in the penultimate episode. So maybe my flashback-episode frustration origin story is Ozark season one, where episode eight jumps to a decade in the past to explain that the show’s villain is not just bad, she also has depression. Or maybe it was even earlier than all of those, watching the end-of-season episodes of The West Wing that rewind to Bartlet’s childhood, or how the gang all got jobs at the White House. They aren’t penultimate episodes, and the structure isn’t quite the same in a long network season as it is in the current short-season streaming model, but the same impulse is there.

    Whatever the source of this initial wound may have been, it’s now become a widespread model for how to shape a season of TV across genres and styles. Agatha All Along and WandaVision both use penultimate flashbacks before arriving at a grand finale of superhero trauma-therapy derring-do. It happens in serious prestige-style dramas like Escape at Dannemora and Fleishman Is in Trouble. It happens in HBO shows like The Leftovers, Apple shows like The Morning Show, and big sci-fi adaptations like Prime’s Fallout. In 2025 alone, Paradise, The Last of Us, The Hunting Wives, All Her Fault, and The Beast in Me all get to the final couple episodes of the season and decide that it’s time to go backward. (And I’m not even counting Alien: Earth, because that flashback episode arrives at No. 5 out of eight, rather than six or seven.)

    It’s not that the flashback episodes themselves are bad. Like all stand-alone episodes, some are abysmal, some mediocre, and some, like in The Last of Us and The Crown, are the best parts of a whole series. But when the entire season is built around a late-stage reveal that transforms one-dimensional characters into nuanced people or clarifies which specific trauma kicked off all the action, the whole show is made worse because of it. Characters can be three-dimensional from the start. Traumas, buried or otherwise, can be meaningful backstories without getting put up high on a pedestal of narrative significance. If the story in the flashback is exciting enough to be in the show, why is that the flashback? Why is that not just what the show is about?

    All Her Fault and The Beast in Me are the most egregious current offenders, in part because that choice makes two different shows doing two very different things feel like boring retreads of each other, highlighting their cookie-cutter similarities rather than allowing them to feel like distinct stories. Peacock’s All Her Fault is, as Roxana Hadadi has argued, a cautionary misandrist parable about women with idiot husbands who are so burdened by the expectations of career femininity that they can’t see the rot creeping in their own homes. The Beast in Me on Netflix, by comparison, is a fully deranged serial-killer thriller closer to You than it is to All Her Fault. Matthew Rhys rips into a chicken carcass with his bare hands, and someone gets thrown in a secret torture bunker, and in the end a lingering frame suggests the whole thing is playing on The Bad Seed.

    Both of those shows, which premiered within a week of each other, shape their stories around that same old boring framework. In the second-to-last episode, they halt the fun cliffhanger left dangling in episode six to rewind the clock and introduce a new set of characters the audience has no interest in or attachment to in order to give a beat-by-beat rundown of all the emotional devastation that led up to the concluding arc of the season. Even worse, because both shows actually rest on the same traumatic inciting incident (child died in a car crash), those penultimate episodes mean that these shows look even more like an awkward copy-paste job.

    Penultimate flashbacks have become so ho-hum typical that it’s easy to forget that, believe it or not, plotting does not have to work this way. Adolescence is captivating precisely because its one-shot conceit prevents it from skipping around through time and space. A flashback would feel like relief, which would collapse all of that show’s thoughtful uncertainty into easy, obvious clarity. The Lowdown manages to solve an elaborate noir mystery without ever wallowing in lengthy “But why did Lee Raybon want to be a detective?” hindsight. The Gilded Age didn’t deign to go all the way back to why Bertha and George got married in the first place, because current-day exposition makes that plenty clear without over-burdened explanatory backstory. They were hot for each other, and they are ambitious monsters!

    Flashbacks aren’t entirely bad, either. The Pitt, constrained by its hour-by-hour design, is forced to march resolutely forward but still peppers the tiniest hints of flashback here and there as in-text PTSD episodes. But the origin story is not the sole thrust of the season because the flashbacks aren’t providing some mysterious clues to a hidden backstory. It’s obvious from the beginning that Dr. Robby has COVID-related trauma. The show’s conflict isn’t what’s in the flashbacks; the conflict is that he’s having flashbacks. Flashbacks can exist without becoming load-bearing forms of character development. When they arrive right before the end of the season, and when that structure happens over and over again, all the power of the flashback gets drained away. Any thrill it once carried has deteriorated into a lazy delay tactic, a mathematical equation that promises all complexity in human behavior can be explained with one neat backward-looking trick.

    Kathryn VanArendonk

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  • Dawn of a Dull Day: Tom Hanks in This World of Tomorrow

    Tom Hanks in This World of Tomorrow at the Shed.
    Photo: Marc J. Franklin/Courtesy The Shed

    Whatever is happening at the Shed right now, it’s not really a play. It’s play-shaped, and actors put on costumes and wander around onstage for a couple of hours, repeating words they’ve memorized. But I’d be more comfortable calling the staging of This World of Tomorrow — starring Tom Hanks, written by Hanks and his collaborator James Glossman, directed by Kenny Leon, and based off elements of Hanks’s short-story collection, Uncommon Type — something more along the lines of “a flight of fancy,” “a doodle on a napkin,” or “a college-drama-club project with the express purpose of making one person happy.” There are plenty of talented folks around Hanks who have been roped into making this, and plenty of people in the audience who might be paying a lot to see him, but they don’t factor into the equation. This thing is entirely about admiring its star. Hey, at least there are some fun hats.

    This World of Tomorrow is not malicious in its intent. Tom Hanks, the moral nice-guy mayor of Hollywood, is the closest thing the film industry has to a Jimmy Stewart, and I’m happy to believe that his forays into writing have developed out of genuine artistic interest in good-hearted Americana. (Inevitably, a character speaks admiringly about a typewriter.) Whether a theater company should spend its time and resources developing and staging what he has written is another question. (No.) This World of Tomorrow, largely based on the Hanks story “The Past Is Important to Us,” has him playing Bert Allenberry, a rich tech titan from around the year 2100 who keeps taking expensive daylong trips to the 1939 New York World’s Fair via a company called Chronometric Adventures. He justifies the cost by telling his colleagues that he’s enthralled by the way the past imagined a better future than the one we got, but it becomes clear very quickly that he’s really doing it because he’s infatuated with a winsome divorcée named Carmen Perry (Kelli O’Hara, at home in any role where she wears gloves). Carmen is visiting the fair with her spunky niece, Virginia (Kayli Carter, fumbling for any texture to play and landing on “loud”), and Hanks runs into her by accident, then comes back again and again. In each time loop, Carmen doesn’t remember Bert, he so keeps reseducing her, using a little more information each time, an unsettling dynamic that’s a blend between Groundhog Day, Midnight in Paris, and maybe even the deranged sci-fi drama Passengers, all films that aren’t known for their sensitivity toward women’s agency.

    There’s where you might expect a play to develop some dramatic friction, perhaps as a commentary on the dangers of nostalgia or on one extremely rich man’s sense of entitlement. Any such turn might be a current, if obvious, direction for a play like this. But one thing you can say about This World of Tomorrow is that it doesn’t do much of what you might expect. There’s little tension anywhere or really any significant attempt to undercut Bert’s rosy gaze on the past. Hanks and Glossman have written a few throwaway lines that acknowledge the racism of the 1930s — Black members of the ensemble are often called upon to roll their eyes at Bert’s cheeriness about 1939 — and in the play’s announcement, Alex Poots, the Shed’s artistic director, told the New York Times that “there is reference to the rise in authoritarianism,” which I can translate as “there is a line about how Bert should have used time travel to kill Hitler.”

    I wouldn’t say that This World of Tomorrow embraces Bert’s nostalgia, either, so much as it just lets his quest for Carmen happen. The script is too rudderless to navigate toward any specific theme, and Leon, who has become the go-to director for soggy celebrity-driven drama, hasn’t pushed his cast toward any specific idea. (According to a conversation in your program, Leon said the play is about “time and love”; one is a concept an actor can’t play, and the other is something no one is convincingly playing.) Somehow, despite what must have been a substantial budget, the set looks cheap. Derek McLane’s design resembles a cybernetic wilderness, a spare set of moving columns that indicate new locations and settings through screens and projections. If Bert’s so enamored with the innovations of the World’s Fair, couldn’t we see re-creations of a few of them onstage? Why not show us the famous robot or the celebrity cow?

    Instead, in the space of where it could allow for wonder and enthusiasm, This World of Tomorrow tends toward overexplanation. The script is remarkably heavy on the technobabble and the scenes in which Hanks’s colleagues from the future throw nonsense time-travel-related nouns around while wearing Star Trek outfits. I couldn’t care less about the acids that supposedly accumulate when you go back and forth in time. The script’s most engaging indulgence is a series of scenes that occur in the second act as Bert and Carmen meet in the 1950s at a Greek diner, which is run by a grumbly Jay O. Sanders. Sanders almost convinces you that you’re watching a real play about a real man, commanding the stage with a gruff bark and mining humor from his character’s insistence on teaching everyone Greek vocabulary as he picks up some English. I’m not sure how his presence is supposed to relate to the rest of the story or why Hanks felt it was necessary to include it — perhaps his wife, the Greek American actress and producer Rita Wilson, had his ear — but at least it’s an interestingly idiosyncratic gesture.

    Yet the audience isn’t at the Shed for idiosyncrasies. Hanks is the be-all and end-all of This World of Tomorrow, and, sure, when you’re sitting in the audience a few dozen yards away from him, it’s hard to deny his loping movie-star magnetism. He has something of the energy of a beloved and aging family dog, padding up to you to lay his paws on your lap. It’s hard to judge Hanks’s strengths as a stage actor given that this script gives him so few challenges, but when he delivers several jokes about Bert’s discovery that they have real milk at the World’s Fair — presumably, an unspoken environmental collapse has eliminated dairy — he is deeply charming. In those moments, the audience lets out a sigh of relief, as if to say, Ah, yes, the celebrity we’re here to see is giving us the performance we wanted. It’s his own persona he’s performing, not a character. We come to see plenty of stage actors for a taste of their familiar forms, from Kristin Chenoweth to Laurie Metcalf, but perhaps putting a movie star onstage and asking them to actually perform in a play is an extra hurdle we needn’t ask them to clear. Why not just revert to something more direct, more medieval and churchy? Do away with the scripts, with the directors, with the rest of the ensemble, with the pretense. Have them stand there, in pristine and golden-lit silence for two hours at the center of the stage, and bask in the awe and admiration. Audiences could think of it as a pilgrimage to visit a holy relic — or its own act of sacramental theater. He’s not performing, after all. You are.

    This World of Tomorrow is at the Shed through December 21.

    Jackson McHenry

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  • How Stupid Was This Year?

    Photo-Illustration: New York Magazine

    I can remember my life before and after I saw the interview. In one of several promo radio chats for The Life of a Showgirl, Taylor Swift revealed her favorite lyric from the new album: “There’s a song called ‘Father Figure,’ where the first line of the second verse says, ‘I pay the check / Before it kisses the mahogany grain.’” She pauses and grins as if waiting for a gasp. It never arrives. She continues, undeterred: “I’m like, That’s my favorite type of writing, right? Where you have to think about, What do those words mean? Oh, somebody got the bill before it hit the table.

    Watching her explain the word mahogany, I knew I was doomed, both personally and as part of a larger species. I saw God himself signing the check for our obliteration (before it hit the table). It’s not just that Taylor Swift — one of our greatest aughts-era songwriters, who used to effortlessly shed lines like “You call me up again just to break me like a promise / So casually cruel in the name of being honest” — thought these lyrics constituted good descriptive writing. It’s not just that she smiles so proudly while providing an explicit description of paying a restaurant bill very quickly. It’s not just that the album also features the line “Did you girlboss too close to the sun?” and a startling, detailed account of how she plans to start a neighborhood full of children with inherited CTE with the help of her fiancé’s gigantic football dick (“Have a couple kids / Got the whole block looking like you”). It’s that Swift wrote that mahogany line thinking, This is going to require a level of semiotic thinking that my audience is perhaps no longer capable of. And the thing is, she was absolutely correct. —Rachel Handler

    Within the first three minutes of Untamed, a 2025 Netflix drama about crime in the wilderness, two climbers scaling a mountain realize they’re in a tough spot. One of their anchors wobbles. A foot slips. Things already look iffy and then, from far above them, a dead body comes hurtling over the edge of the cliff, gets tangled in their ropes, and sends them careening off the rock face. Another Netflix show, Wayward, opens with a young man sprinting frantically out of what looks like a prison facility, covering his ears so he can’t hear the cultish mind-control texts being blasted at him from somewhere in the darkness. And in the first scene of Pulse (you guessed it — also Netflix), a school bus full of teens plunges off a bridge into a stormy ocean.

    From a distance, it looks like a good strategy. Grab the audience instantly. Leave no space for viewers to feel bored or unengaged. Front-load the first 90 seconds of any new drama with peril, death, catastrophe, and contextless clues. Netflix is the worst but not the only offender here. This whack-you-with-a-plot mentality has proliferated on Prime this year, too. Take Ballard, which begins with Maggie Q holding an enormous gun while chasing someone through darkened streets and shattering a glass window before the guy sprawls on the floor in front of her. We Were Liars drops us into underwater footage of an unconscious woman with a head wound as the voice-over says, “Something terrible happened last summer, and I have no memory of what, or who, hurt me.” Each opening gambit becomes an advertisement for the thing you’re already watching, a blast of spoon-fed emotional stakes that treat viewers as mindless, tasteless sacks of nerve endings sensitive only to the highest-grade stimuli.

    It all comes off as a cynical bid for attention based on an understanding that audiences do not react to insight or nuance or thoughtful tone-setting. No need to question, no need to wait for gratification. Even the shows aiming for prestige have to play along, at least in those first few minutes. The Beast in Me, a Claire Danes thriller, will show Danes, streaked with blood and wailing, scant seconds after we first hit “play.” For series that want to dodge the obvious choices of “person running through woods,” “person drowning,” or “instant discovery of corpse,” House of Guinness provides a model that’s somehow even more ridiculous than those. The show, about a somber, political Succession-style struggle over the future of the family business, doesn’t lend itself well to bodies falling off a cliff, so it cuts straight to big, flashing, wall-décor-style onscreen text that articulates exactly what this thing is about: Water. Malted Barley. Hops. Yeast. Copper. Oak. Fire. Family. Money. Rebellion. Power. —Kathryn VanArendonk

    If the essential quality of good theater (as my colleague Sara Holdren has written) is that it should be something that can happen only in a theater — that it’s alive in the room with you, capable of literally leaping into the audience should the participants decide to do so — the relentless creep of giant glittering screens is its opposite. Now a staple of set design, the device does often serve some purpose: Jamie Lloyd’s production of Sunset Blvd. and George Clooney’s turn in Good Night, and Good Luck earlier this year, or Network and 1984 a few seasons back, deploy them to talk about issues of image and reality and surveillance​. But in the actual room, the eye almost inevitably goes to the moving jumbotron image instead of the person, whether it’s a tracking shot of Nicole Scherzinger or merely projected clouds drifting behind the cast. When it’s a live feed, an extra problem can come into view: Because stage performance calls for bigger gestures and expressions than acting for the camera does, a real Broadway belter’s face can show up onscreen as a lot of straining neck cords and visible tonsils. The theatrical stage is the one place where — over 2,500 years or so — practitioners have figured out how to convey storytelling directly from one person to a roomful of viewers, fusing music and drama and comedy and dancing in three full dimensions. Now, somehow, we’ve pushed it back to two. —Christopher Bonanos

    Earlier this year, I signed up to teach a course at the same prestigious university I’d attended more than a decade ago. The syllabus I prepared required students to read a short book for several of our sessions, which seemed reasonable. When I was in college, professors routinely assigned an entire novel or biography for a single class session.

    A few months before the semester began, my proposed syllabus was reviewed by an academic committee. I was excited for feedback from experienced instructors, anticipating strong opinions on thematic consistency with pedagogical objectives and general rigor. But the only feedback I received was to make the readings shorter. The suggested limit was fewer than 100 pages per class, ostensibly to encourage accountability. I revised the syllabus. Narratives with movement and arc became excerpts and snapshots, curated to relay the essence and little else.

    Is this really so bad? The truth is that when I was assigned a full book to read in college, I failed to finish it more often than not. But there was something in being told to try anyway, in the implication that a book worth assigning is worth experiencing in its entirety, and that the truth is best when distilled from the whole story. Students, meanwhile, are the same as ever. The ratio might have changed, but there is still a core who read and participate diligently, and I wish they could have reaped more benefit from my assignments. The rest have not done the truncated readings any more than they would have read a full book, but now they feel less guilty about it. —Anonymous

    Watching debates is not a good way to learn things and form opinions about those things — change my mind! Over the past few years, debate as an activity has broken out of high-school extracurriculars, political elections, and cable news and has come to infect media and discourse at all levels. And now, it has escaped the manosphere containment zone. Debate content was once the limited domain of “Debate me, coward” dweebs like Ben Shapiro and Jordan Peterson, but in 2025, debate clips took over the internet, their snippets edited to reinforce the biases of the poster: Sam Seder “owning” Ethan Klein on leftist news feeds, the reverse on Zionist ones; Mehdi Hasan arguing with, essentially, Nazi youth. Outside the Twitch streams of individual debate-content creators like Destiny, much of this stuff comes from Jubilee, a digital-media company with 10.5 million YouTube subscribers that professes a corporate mission to “provoke understanding & create human connection.” Jubilee structures these oratorical face-offs like dystopian MrBeast challenges: “1 Conservative vs 20 Feminists,” starring Candace Owens. “1 Conservative vs 25 LGBTQ+,” starring Michael Knowles. The guest debater sits at a table with a chess timer in the middle of a circle of challengers, who enter the ring one after another to get TKO’d in a sort of battle royal for dorks.

    The thing about debate as a rhetorical format is that it’s generally a dumb way to consume information. Winning strategies are often not intellectually curious or even honest: spreading, an overreliance on hounding an opponent about logical fallacies, overwhelming with a rapid-fire litany of (possibly incorrect) data, dodging, and needling. They’re more about persuasion than communication, more about building a case backward from a preordained point than building up toward something. When Charlie Kirk argues that trans women aren’t women (against 25 liberal college students), or when Mehdi Hasan faces off against 20 far-right conservatives, at least two of which turned out to be self-avowed fascists, a series of hateful, harmful lies gets repackaged into “points,” like neat little coins in a video game, toward settling a larger score. It’s brain rot with a veneer of serious infotainment. —Rebecca Alter

    ​Rebecca Yarros occupies a rarefied spot on the best-seller list​. Twelve million copies of her horny dragon books have sold in the U.S. in less than two years. The Empyrean series, which follows a young woman surviving military school with the help of a mind-body connection to a pair of dragons, was initially planned for three volumes, then stretched to five. When the third, Onyx Storm, appeared in January, it became the fastest-selling adult novel in 20 years — a curious fact given that the book is borderline incomprehensible. Of course, few readers flock to this series for its prose​, but the first volume’s war-college setting, where students gather in the quad every morning to honor their peers who died the day before, scratched a dystopian-fantasy itch I hadn’t felt since completing the original Hunger Games trilogy. Onyx Storm, however, is packed with so many new characters, locations, and magical abilities that I had to use a fan-made guide to keep track of it all. A quarter of the way through, I lost track of why exactly the main characters abandon the war to end all wars brewing in their homeland to travel halfway around the world, and I eventually stopped trying to understand it altogether. —Julie Kosin

    When the first Jurassic Park premiered in 1993, reviewers found plenty to admire — its originality, the cinematography, Laura Dern. But a more consistent point of praise was how the movie, in many ways taking its cues from the novel it was based on, committed to accurate, or at least plausible, science. “It was the most scientific and realistic vision of dinosaurs we’d ever had,” paleoartist John Gurche told Le Monde earlier this year. One historian wrote that the film “did actually drive and develop the science and technology of ancient DNA research.” That has changed somewhat — we now know manymost dinosaurs had feathers and velociraptors were built like poodles — but even now, Dern and an ascot-adorned Sam Neill manage to deliver lines that are conceivable to the average fan with a museum-placard level of paleontology knowledge.

    This is part of the reason why, when Jurassic World: Rebirth came out earlier this year, fans were disappointed not only with its meandering plot but also by the way the film’s principal paleontologist, Dr. Loomis (a distractingly hot Jonathan Bailey), occasionally felt, let’s say, unconvincing. “The greatest scientific knowledge that he demonstrates at any point in the film is high-school level biology,” wrote an aggrieved redditor. One paleontologist speculated that, “as opposed to the first film — no paleontologist had been seriously consulted.” (The movie does credit a scientific consultant.) Of course, all six Jurassic sequels have had their scientific follies (hello, mutant locusts of Jurassic World: Dominion). But the plot of Rebirth was science-fudging less in the name of spectacle than convenience. I will spare you the entire plot, but know that it relies in part on the idea that dinosaurs can live only near the equator — a detail repeated three times in the film’s first 30 minutes — because of the warm climate and “oxygen-rich” atmosphere, which, Loomis says, is similar to what the climate was like 60 million years ago. If that sounds overly simplistic, don’t worry — it’s also just wrong. Oxygen levels today are fairly uniform worldwide and roughly the same as those in the age of the dinosaurs, and dinosaurs themselves lived in a wide range of climates. Other grievances include the fact that mosasaurs, the movie’s main species, aren’t actually dinosaurs and that, no, dinosaurs didn’t live to be centuries old because of their big hearts. Fortunately, Loomis offers another kernel of wisdom: “Intelligence is massively overrated as an adaptive trait.” —Paula Aceves

    A 2024 Pew survey revealed that the group of U.S. adults most likely to consult astrology at least yearly is LGBTQ+ women, at 63 percent. Pew must not have surveyed anyone in Brooklyn: Based on my own observations, I would put the number at something closer to 102 percent. Belief in superstition and magic has peaked among my friends. They no longer just consult the planets and stars and tarot decks and Chani Nicholas; now they believe in moon phases exerting their control, bringing good and bad auspices and explaining why a Hinge date went a certain way or why everyone at work has the sniffles. I could abide tarot and astrology as tools for people to talk about their lives, but the moon stuff, to me, comes across as a symptom of some widely adopted serf mind-set, a response to the economic realities of widening wealth gaps and billionaires acting like sun gods. Throw in the rise in stories about AI-enabled religious psychosis, and the transformation of Etsy into Taskrabbit for witches, and 2025 was the year of people literally believing in ghosts in the machine. —R.A.

    Typically, the Supreme Court has decided the weightiest matters through its “merits docket”: a multistep, sometimes yearslong process that involves the parties to a suit, plus interested experts and organizations, taking their best shot at making their case in writing. The justices grill advocates during oral argument and, when they’re ready, can write hundreds of pages to explain their reasoning and provide evidence and case law to back it up. It’s not that this process cannot yield outrageous or specious results, but at least the majority has to give the public an explanation.

    This year, a more expedient track has been found. First, the Trump administration openly breaks the law as it has long been understood, then a lower-court judge rules against it, and then the administration appeals on the “shadow docket” — which avoids the normal briefing-and-hearing process by claiming an emergency. Since January, according to the Brennan Center for Justice, the Supreme Court has ruled at least partly for the Trump administration in 20 of an unprecedented 23 emergency appeals. In these late-night orders, the public is lucky to get a few sentences of justification. Seven had no written rationale at all. In one dissent on terminating federal grants, Justice Elena Kagan called the majority opinion’s reasoning “at the least underdeveloped, and very possibly wrong.” —Irin Carmon 

    The word interview used to mean something. At the very least, it implied a conversation aimed at extracting real information. That idea feels quaint in today’s  video-driven media environment, in which the balance of power has flipped: Famous guests hold the power because they now have a million friendly alternatives, and hosts are just grateful to be there. The modern “interview” is thus fluffy by default, oriented more toward gimmicks, get-to-know-me games, and general sycophancy. Intentional dumbness is now virtue-signaling relatability. Beneath it all is a dynamic in which the aesthetic of the interview (people in chairs with microphones between them recalling a history of more serious images) carries more weight than the interview’s substance. That dynamic reached a peak this year when Benjamin Netanyahu appeared on the bro-y, sports-and-bullshit-heavy Full Send Podcast with the Nelk Boys in July. The segment, criticized for offering a soft platform to a world leader amid a devastating humanitarian crisis, included the following exchange:

    Interviewer: “You ever tried Chick-fil-A?”
    Netanyahu: “Chick-fil-A is good, actually.”

    —Nicholas Quah

    All around me this year, I’ve observed more and more people succumbing to the ease and inaccuracy of Google’s automated summary. I first noticed the tendency to rely on AI for answers a few years ago on a family trip when an early-adopting relative told me it would be simpler to ask ChatGPT why Union soldiers won the Battle of Gettysburg than to look into a dreary, more detailed article. Ever since Google dropped the option to AI search into everyone’s hand, it’s felt as if we’ve entered a new era: one in which people know they’re consuming misinformation and just don’t care. I talked to a friend who told me she spent her time in a historic castle while on vacation in Portugal asking AI to explain what was in front of her. “It was probably wrong,” she told me, “but it captured enough of the vibe.” I knew we’d crossed the Rubicon when I noticed people using AI to ask subjective artistic questions. This past summer, I sat next to a woman at a performance of Evita who opened her phone at intermission, typed in “Why does Che narrate Evita,” and then stared at the box as if it would help her understand Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s decision-making process. It did not. —Jackson McHenry

    It’s not just that Andrew Cuomo seems to hate New York City. Nor is it that everyone knows he sexually harassed former staffers. It’s not even that he was spanked in the primary and insisted on running anyway. The stupidest thing about Cuomo’s mayoral campaign, besides the fact of its existence, was his team’s wholehearted embrace of AI slop. In the spring, the campaign released a housing plan that turned out to have been put together using ChatGPT, then blamed this decision, and the plan’s typos, on an aide who has only one arm. That humiliation did not stop them. Cuomo’s people followed it up with a parade of AI-generated ads. The first featured an AI Cuomo incompetently driving a subway train and melting down on the NYSE trading floor paired with footage of the real Cuomo saying woodenly, “I know what I know, and I know what I don’t know.” How was emphasizing his inabilities supposed to help? No one explained, but this ad was nothing compared with those that followed: One blatantly racist, soon-deleted video featured an over-the-top AI-generated parade of “criminals” — including, incredibly, a Black shoplifter in a keffiyeh and a Black pimp with a van full of battered white women — cheerfully boosting Zohran Mamdani. On Halloween, Cuomo’s campaign released an ad showing an AI-generated Mamdani trick-or-treating and scooping big handfuls of candy out of a bowl offered by an appalled couple while crowing, “I’m a socialist! Some people need to get tricked so others get a treat!” These videos are so bad that, even while we watch them, it’s hard to believe they exist — that actual people were paid actual money to release them. It’s even harder to believe they thought the ads would make this loser win. —Madeline Leung Coleman

    The Editors

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  • All Her Fault Is a Misandrist Masterpiece

    The rich white mommy drama sets its sights on the patriarchy in Sarah Snook’s first live-action TV series since Succession.
    Photo: PEACOCK

    The men in All Her Fault never utter the titular three words. But you know they’re thinking them when a young boy goes missing from a playdate his mother set up (all her fault), when a husband has to rearrange his work schedule because his wife has a meeting (all her fault), and when a teen’s overspending sends her boyfriend into a life of crime (all her fault). These women exist to their partners primarily as an inconvenience, and the Peacock adaptation of Andrea Mara’s novel of the same name hammers home the inequity in their relationships, family dynamics, and workplace over and over again. And yet it doesn’t get monotonous. Rather, All Her Fault gathers fury as it goes, particularly for anyone who would dare dismiss women as the fairer sex. And that “anyone” — well, it’s mostly the guys, because beneath the motherthriller shenanigans, All Her Fault reveals itself to be a misandrist masterpiece.

    Created by Megan Gallagher and starring and executive-produced by Sarah Snook in her first live-action TV role since Succession, All Her Fault is compulsively watchable, worthy of the type of binge that carves a dent into your couch cushions. With sprinting momentum, it introduces and amplifies an overlapping series of mysteries that begins with the disappearance of the young son of a very wealthy couple, Marissa (Snook) and Peter Irvine (Jake Lacy). The inciting action is a bit convoluted: Marissa goes to pick up Milo (Duke McCloud) from a playdate, but the woman who answers the door has no idea who Milo is. She is not Jenny, mom of Jacob, who texted Marissa to set up the playdate, nor is she Jenny’s nanny. The phone number that texted Marissa claiming to be Jenny is now out of service, and the real Jenny (Dakota Fanning) says she never sent the text. She’s only hung out with Marissa once. Why would someone use her name to kidnap Milo?

    All Her Fault lays out this information at a rapid clip in the premiere, using detectives Alcaras (Michael Peña) and Greco (Johnny Carr) to sort through the details and bring other characters into the mix: Peter’s younger sister, Lia (Abby Elliott), a recovering drug addict with a persecution complex; Peter’s younger brother, Brian (Daniel Monks), who uses a cane and lives in Peter and Marissa’s guest house; and Marissa’s business partner, Colin (Jay Ellis), who steps up to run their wealth-management firm after Marissa’s family life explodes. Each has their own secrets, of course. But All Her Fault’s visceral entertainment value is driven less by the reveals of these characters’ hidden motivations than the unexpected friendship that grows between Marissa and Jenny, who are discouraged by their husbands from communicating after Milo disappears but find in each other not just confidantes but allies.

    Marissa and Jenny are very different women with very similar problems. Fanning is in the clipped-and-icy mode she recently perfected in Ripley and The Perfect Couple, all placid smiles and unbroken eye contact, while Snook keeps inventing new ways to manipulate her face into expressions of adrift, devastated distress. (Snook’s eyebrows are so raised at each new revelation they sometimes seem as if they’ll levitate off her face.) The two actresses’ contrasting energies gel when they find common ground in the increasingly curtailed nature of their lives. Even as they meet their professional goals and find joy in raising children, something’s missing. A husband who acts like an adult, perhaps? A scene in which Marissa and Jenny drink wine while hiding in the bathroom during a school fundraiser has that chummy feminine quality that makes their friendship so familiar and this genre such a comfort, even as its ultrarich, ultrawhite characters navigate unrelatable scenarios, like tending to an Olympic-size pool or realizing the nanny’s been lying to you for months. Although Marissa Irvine is a far more conventionally likable character than Succession’s Shiv Roy, it’s fun to see Snook allude to her work as Waystar Royco’s most complicit woman, peppering little “yeah”s and “hey”s at the end of her sentences that transform innocuous lines into conversational challenges. Snook’s talent is playing women who seem like the only thing preventing them from falling apart is their gritted teeth, and Marissa is another well-rounded entry in that canon.

    Zoom out on the past year’s mountain of TV, and All Her Fault is one pebble in a cairn of series positioning their female characters against abusive lovers or uniting them against a common enemy. (Bad Sisters, Sirens, The Better Sister, and The Hunting Wives qualify here.) All Her Fault puts its own twist on that formula by dissecting Marissa and Jenny’s comparably frustrating marriages: how both husbands call their wives “amazing” whenever the women make sacrifices the men would never consider making, or how their domestic labor never ends, despite the means to pay for assistance, thanks to their husbands’ talent for removing themselves from things like dinner planning and schedule coordination. All Her Fault allows the two women to lament this normalized condescension and consider whether they’ve shrunk themselves in order to please their small men, then renders their husbands so selfish and negligent viewers can’t help but root for their riotous downfalls. (Jenny’s husband sabotages her meeting with an important client because he can’t figure out how to put their son to bed. Jail.) Once Marissa and Jenny finally confront them, All Her Fault revels in the husbands’ evisceration and their wives’ lack of guilt. “All her fault,” then, takes on another meaning: Marissa and Jenny’s payback is their responsibility, but the surprise of the series is their complete lack of remorse, how brusquely they wash their hands and move on, eyes open and resolve set.

    Not all the men in All Her Fault are terrible. Peña does well playing against type as Alcaras, who intuits that Marissa and Jenny’s bond is based on more than just the shock of Milo’s disappearance. Of the men who are terrible, Lacy is exceptionally hatable as Peter, a less bro-y spin on his character from The White Lotus. An early scene when Peter asks Marissa why she didn’t double-check any of the details of Milo’s playdate, and Alcaras turns the question around on Peter as Milo’s other parent, has a delicious let-them-fight charge. But really, the men in All Her Fault are ancillary, little more than obstructions yelling for attention, figures whose fall from grace delivers operatic melodrama before the show settles into a story about the dignity women can find through determining their own identities as individuals, rather than through the magnanimous terms like team or partners used in modern marriage. All Her Fault’s short-term gratification is in those big tell-off scenes, the moments Marissa and Jenny get to rip apart men who refuse to take any ownership over their actions. Its larger contribution to this specific subgenre, though, is the way it elevates and celebrates women who choose to reject the expectations of house-baby-mommy heternormative society. Who could blame them?


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    Roxana Hadadi

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  • I Love LA Is Young, Dumb, and Full of Fun

    I Love LA doesn’t do a particularly good job announcing itself with its pilot, so to give you a better sense, I’ll spoil a joke. (If you’d prefer not to know this spoiler, feel free to skip to the next paragraph, but I assure you: This is not the show’s best or most interesting punch line.) In the second episode, Rachel Sennott’s Maia and Odessa A’zion’s Tallulah meet with the latter’s rival from New York, a polished blonde influencer who claims Tallulah stole her Balenciaga bag. The visit is meant to mend fences; naturally, it devolves into a cocaine-fueled nightmare caught on video. The footage leaks online, and Maia’s gentle teacher boyfriend, Dylan (Josh Hutcherson), learns his coke-snorting face has become a meme, “Coke Larry,” while chaperoning the school carnival. (“Because I’m doing coke and they say I look like my name would be Larry,” he tells Maia desperately.) As his dowdy principal approaches, Dylan braces for the inevitable: getting fired, fighting with his girlfriend — the classic spiral. “Are you Coke Larry?” the principal asks and Dylan sheepishly confirms. “I’ve got a … golf trip next weekend?” his boss stammers. “A couple of high-school buddies of mine. I don’t want to let them down …” The beat stretches, the principal is eventually pulled away (“Great job on those snickerdoodles!”), and Dylan realizes he has to procure coke for his boss. That shouldn’t be a problem, though; Maia’s buddy will hook him up. The show moves on, as if to say, This is L.A. after all.

    The heart of a series like I Love LA lies in its ability to capture what it feels like to be young — when your heart still sings with possibility and ambition, a vital defense in a world all too ready to pelt you with disappointments. When you’re starting your career, you have not yet learned how to be properly cynical (another excellent half-hour debut from this year, FX’s Adults, vibrates at the same frequency), and Maia and Tallulah’s relationship gives the show a buoyant us-against-the-world energy, a sense of shared delusion and drive that powers both its comedy and its ache. This type of striving 20-something comedy draws the unavoidable comparisons — Insecure for the influencer age, Girls for zillennials, Broad City out west — but I Love LA ultimately adds up to far more than the sum of its lineage.

    As Maia, Sennott plays into and against the flopping-sexpot persona she honed in filmwork like Shiva Baby, Bottoms, and Bodies Bodies Bodies. Maia’s eager and ambitious in the way you have to be to break through in Los Angeles, and her boss at the creative agency Alyssa 180 doesn’t quite take her seriously. (The titular Alyssa is played by a scene-stealing Leighton Meester, on quite the run right after setting the house on fire in Nobody Wants This.) Maia is supported by an inner circle including stylist Charlie (Jordan Firstman), kind but clueless nepo baby Alani (True Whitaker), and Dylan, whose interests skew more toward board games and World War II than TikTok and brand deals. Their status quo shatters when Maia’s former bestie, buzzy “It” girl Tallulah, blows into town, and by the end of the pilot, an estrangement born of distance and perceived success gives way to a renewed connection: Maia sees an opportunity to work with Tallulah, reigniting both her career and their friendship. That first episode suffers from the need to do so much heavy lifting and feels both overstuffed and overly conventional, but once all the pieces are in place, the show relaxes into itself and its actual voice emerges.

    I Love LA is a showcase for Sennott, who also created and writes on it, and Maia’s funniest moments spring from cringe humor, including a standout jealous outburst taken to sublime extremes. What makes Maia so compelling is how the character seems to be a mystery to herself. She hustles without knowing why or what it’ll cost her, and that ambition leads to clashes with Alyssa. Whenever their conflict comes to a head, Sennott’s face betrays a fascinating tension: committed yet confused, a deer in the headlights gripping a knife. Her performance syncs with an ensemble teetering at the edge of cartoonishness but never tumbling over, a balance owed to a writing team attuned to the cast’s chemistry and aware of the lines it shouldn’t cross.

    It’s tough to pinpoint a standout in a group of killers this sharp, but Whitaker’s Alani, a kindhearted airhead, consistently delivers some of the show’s best asides and strangest beats. Hutcherson, meanwhile, is a straight-man revelation, his earnest, odd-man-out presence grounding the show’s otherwise manic energy. Jury’s still out on whether I Love LA effectively bottles the sensibility of its generation, but at the very least, its visual palette will stand as a time capsule for this peculiar moment in culture when Los Angeles teems with influencers chasing clout. The gang’s costuming is a running progression of world-building and sight gags: Tallulah’s loud, barely-there outfits mirror the hyperperformative ambition of the influencer world she inhabits, while Charlie’s elaborate, layered wardrobe underscores how each character plugs into a different version of the L.A. professional aspiration.

    These dynamics animate the show’s set pieces: the scramble for brand deals, encounters with the bizarre fauna of L.A. celebrity, flirtations with the next echelon of fame and wealth. The energy of each episode stems from these pursuits, but at its core, I Love LA believes the fantasy that ambition and friendship might be enough to build a life in a city and professional world designed to break you. The series has a deep bench of accomplished EPs, including Lorene Scafaria, Max Silvestri, Emma Barrie, and Aida Rodgers; Barrie and Rodgers are Barry alums, and their influence seeps into the show’s deadpan Hollywood surreality, though I Love LA swaps Barry’s existential darkness for something more sparkly and hopeful. The result is a comedy that’s both precise and unhinged, absurdly funny yet emotionally true — a portrait of youthful ambition and friendship that makes someone slightly older both grateful to not be that young anymore and just a little envious of those who are.


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    Nicholas Quah

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  • ‘MTV Was a Lot Like Kabul’

    Cyndi Lauper leading the crowd at the first MTV New Year’s Eve party at Times Square.
    Photo: Allan Tannenbaum/Getty Images

    The news that MTV is shutting down its music channels does not come as a surprise to me. Starting in 1986, I ran MTV, VH1, Nickelodeon, Comedy Central, and other cable TV networks for 17 years as the CEO of MTV Networks, the sun in Viacom’s solar system. It hasn’t been that for a while. MTV has been losing credibility for years, and it’s devolved into a dumping ground for B-grade reality shows. No new music energy has been pumped into it for ages. 

    Only the U.K. music channels are affected for now, but the United States can’t be far behind. The business case for running music videos on a linear TV cable network in this increasingly digital, on-demand world is terrible and only getting worse. Why sit around and wait for Beyoncé when you can summon her video with a simple click?

    David Ellison, who recently acquired Paramount Global from Viacom, has an opportunity to step back and try to reimagine MTV as a new destination outside the confines of a linear TV network. The music space is now dominated with increasingly predictive and boring algorithms. Maybe there is a way to shake up at least a corner of the huge music market like we did back in 1981, when I was just the marketing guy arriving at the start-up that would become MTV. 

    After we busted through the cable-operator gates with “I Want My MTV,” we became the new gatekeepers. Everyone wanted to be on MTV. Labels and artists lobbied to get their videos in heavy rotation. We could catapult nobodies to stardom in weeks. There was a lot of power to wield, and power doesn’t always bring out the best in people.

    We were in the Zeitgeist business, so we took a lot of chances with new things, not always successfully. If something didn’t work, it died a quick death, and we moved on. We decided we weren’t going to grow old with our audience the way Rolling Stone magazine had — they were still writing about Bob Dylan and Eric Clapton. We would refresh and reinvent MTV every four to five years as one group aged out and a new one replaced it.

    Advertisers pay a higher premium to reach young people. The thinking is: Hook them on Crest or Pepsi or Ford early on and you’ve got a customer for life. When MTV said, “We have a direct line to them,” Madison Avenue lined up at our door.

    One by one, record labels agreed to give us clips for free, and they set up whole departments dedicated to servicing MTV. But they never stopped grumbling. They complained about the money they had to spend to increase the quantity and quality of their music videos. So we agreed to pay them millions of dollars through new, multiyear “output deals.” Buried in those deals was a clause granting us exclusivity for six months over any other 24-hour channel on 20 percent of their music videos. The 20 percent of the videos we picked were all the big hits. No potential competitor could take a run at us without access to the hits.

    I was against using hard-nosed tactics with the record companies and artists. Gatekeepers with a heart seemed the best way to prolong our prominence. As “the biggest radio station in the nation,” I argued, we should be fair, humble, and walk softly; the labels were predisposed to resent us. My opinion didn’t always carry the day. I watched some of our talent-relations people blossom into megalomaniacs. I guess it’s human nature that if you are hanging out on boats with Billy Idol and partying with Van Halen and strolling into every dressing room while giving thumbs-up or down to anxious managers, it will eventually turn you into an asshole. I saw it happen again and again.

    A recruit to the Music & Talent department with good ears and a deep knowledge of pop and rock might last three years. To fire them, we might have to find a concierge to kick down a door in an L.A. hotel and revive them after a three-day cocaine binge. We needed a strong human-resources department.

    Tom Freston at a promotional event in 1987.
    Photo: Alan Gilbert/Fairfax Media via Getty Images

    We were witnesses and eager participants in the last display of the legendary excesses of the music business. The party really kicked into gear when Bob Pittman made former radio DJ and label executive Les Garland the head of programming. Les was the one who had gotten Mick Jagger to scream, “I want my MTV.” He referred to himself in the third person as “the Gar Man,” which tells you a lot. Les Garland wasn’t his real name. Like many former radio people on our staff, he created a radio name. “Les Garland” was really Lester Schweikert.

    He looked about my age, but to this day I don’t think his date of birth has ever been revealed. He was an effervescent, good-looking guy with stylish curly brown hair, confident that he was the king of cool. In many ways he was. MTV’s fingers were in every pie of the music-industry machinery and for a while, most things came through or went out from Les. He arrived with deep music-business relationships, full of war stories from the rock-and-roll trenches of the ’70s, which he recounted to entertain his younger minions. It was like David Lee Roth had arrived in an Armani suit and taken over the floor.

    Amid towering speakers, gold records, stacks of videotapes, Sony Trinitrons, overflowing ashtrays, and a bar stocked with tequila and a lineup of squat green Dom Pérignon bottles sent over by the labels, the Les Garland Show streamed. Every time a big ad sale landed, he rang a huge bell. Grizzled label-promotion men in satin jackets and facial hair would slink in and out, usually laughing. Rod Stewart would drop by to play his newest tracks. When female artists came calling, his staff would vacate, and according to office lore, the Gar Man would fornicate with a lucky few. At least, that’s the legend. With Les, it was hard to tell what was true, what was myth, and what was scandal.

    When he wasn’t there, others would sneak in to have sex in his office. At one Christmas party, a staffer full of holiday bravado cozied up to Garland and said, “Les, I just want you to know that I fucked one of your assistants last night on your desk.” Les clinked his glass, said, “Congratulations, Bud,” and walked away.

    Big blowout parties became part of company mythology. “Tequila girls” in short shorts and cowboy hats, decked out in bandolier sashes packed with shot glasses, always circulated. Tequila bottles were nestled in holsters strapped across their hips. Bands like the Fabulous Thunderbirds would play. These parties could go on to three or four in the morning, sometimes devolving into after-parties. You could never get away with this kind of office party nowadays. Nonetheless, the next day, a line would form outside the human-resources offices.

    The Gar Man undeniably upped our game, our profile, our whole tempo. I had spent nearly a decade in the 1970s running a clothing export company out of India and Afghanistan and to me, MTV was a lot like Kabul. An exotic new place with a crazy cast of wild characters and few rules.

    A superfan myself, I had the privilege of attending any concert I wanted. Every day we dealt with the biggest stars in the world, along with all the black sheep and characters who handled them. Even though music drove the culture, the business of music was still considered the lowest rung of the entertainment ladder. To people in film and television, it was a lowbrow world of payola, shysters, and semi-gangsters in sharkskin suits. But these were the folks I liked the most. They had hustle, were clever, and loved music. They were also the most fun. Some label heads, like Gil Friesen, who ran A&M, Jeff Ayeroff, who ran Virgin, and Jimmy Iovine, who ran Interscope, became good friends. Many in the MTV crowd had not been to or finished college. I went undercover with my academic credentials. It sounded a lot better to be “the man from Afghanistan” than the M.B.A. from NYU.

    People worked in flip-flops and bathing suits; some slept in their offices. In 1988, at 2 a.m., an overnighter flipped a lit cigarette into his garbage can and burned down a whole floor at 1775 Broadway. Nineteen firefighters were hospitalized. The local radio stations would play Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire” and dedicate it to us.

    “Exotic dancers” would be sent over by the music labels. Bands passed through all the time. Lemmy from Motörhead might wander by with a bottle of tequila. We had one receptionist who sold cocaine. Many of the staff found that convenient. Cocaine was rampant in the ’80s, especially in the music industry. Even your dry cleaner was doing it then. People thought coke was the new No-Doz, a harmless pick-me-up powder.

    One of the programming guys, a jovial, former radio hotshot whom Howard Stern had crowned “Pig Virus,” kept his stash in a little plastic receptacle in his desk drawer, the place where you’d put paper clips. In a meeting, he’d nonchalantly open the drawer and take a hit off a collar stay, then politely look around. “Anyone need their beak packed?”

    MTV wasn’t a job; MTV was a life. We were a second family. People would duck out all the time to the bar around the corner. At night, there was always a smorgasbord of things to choose from … concerts, dinners, listening parties, movie screenings. We were in the middle of everything, so we were invited to everything. Not everybody made it out the other side; there were casualties with all the late nights, alcohol, and drugs. No one except me had a family. Margaret and I had a young son, Andrew, at home, which kept me pretty much on the straight and narrow. Once he went to sleep, I could head back out on the town.

    To try to prop up the business side and bring order to the chaos, Pittman installed a series of general managers. They didn’t take. One, David Hilton, undermined his predecessor and then went down in flames. Hilton had zero music chops, which earned him zero respect. I’ve never seen anyone do a worse job at anything. He sent around a note to announce that if anyone was even one minute late to a meeting, they’d be locked out. He locked his door and put a chair under the doorknob. Sometimes we’d all be purposely late so he’d have to have his meeting by himself.

    Robert Downey Jr. and Slash at the 1988 MTV Video Music Awards.
    Photo: Barry King/WireImage

    In 1984, MTV held the first Video Music Awards at Radio City Music Hall. We were positioning ourselves as the irreverent alternative to the self-serious Grammy Awards. Bette Midler and Dan Aykroyd hosted. The Cars’ “You Might Think” won Best Video, and Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit” won pretty much everything else. Madonna rolled around on the stage in a wedding dress while singing “Like a Virgin,” and a star was born.

    When MTV began, we played almost any video we could get our hands on. As we proved our ability to sell records, the bigger stars with bigger budgets pushed aside the punkier stuff. The record companies began to crank up music-video production. Instead of four or five new clips a week, we began to get 50 or 60. Big star holdouts like Bruce Springsteen joined in. Older acts like ZZ Top reengineered their image. Lionel Richie spent $1 million on his “Dancing on the Ceiling” video.

    As MTV became more influential, we also got more scrutiny, and not just from the Christian right. The criticism that stung was that we were not playing Black artists. In a very awkward interview with VJ Mark Goodman, David Bowie challenged him about the channel’s color line. Rick James went on a public crusade about us rejecting his “Super Freak.” He was right.

    Rock radio went backward after the 1960s, when the Beatles and Stones shared airtime and formats with the Supremes and Aretha. The early MTV music programmers came from the world of ’70s FM rock radio, which relied on a format called “album-oriented rock,” or AOR. It was a very researched system but predicated on an underlying racism. “Our audience wants to hear a guitar,” was the refrain from the programming guys. AOR resegregated rock and roll.

    In the 1980s, the record companies all had “Black Music” departments. The trade magazines, Billboard, Cash Box, and Radio & Records, all had separate Black Music charts. It wasn’t just MTV. But we were the only music channel on television. Early MTV did play some Black artists who fit the AOR format — Joan Armatrading, Grace Jones, Eddy Grant’s “Electric Avenue.” We gave heavy play to Prince’s “Little Red Corvette” and “1999.” But that doesn’t excuse the sad fact that the music department would put Hall & Oates doing R&B in heavy rotation, while ignoring Luther Vandross and the Brothers Johnson.

    The wall was finally knocked down by Michael Jackson’s Thriller. CBS Records chief Walter Yetnikoff always claimed that he forced MTV to play Michael Jackson by saying that if we did not, he would pull all Columbia and Epic videos from the channel. It’s a good story, but I have never found anyone who worked at MTV who had any idea what Walter was talking about. “Billie Jean” was a smash from day one. We wanted that video on our channel. “Beat It” was even better. By the time MJ released the video for “Thriller” toward the end of 1983, he and MTV were in a mutually beneficial relationship. We played his 13-minute mini-movie on the hour, every hour. I ran ads in People magazine with start times. Our ratings went through the roof, and so did Jackson’s album sales.

    In the late ’80s, we opened the aperture further. We were the biggest music outlet in the world; there was no need to follow anyone. MTV would be the first to mainline hip-hop into Middle America’s living rooms with Yo! MTV Raps, hosted by downtown Renaissance man Fab 5 Freddy. Aerosmith and Run-DMC sanctified the rock-rap connection with the clever video “Walk This Way,” and we were off into a whole new world.

    But before that came our next powerhouse: the July 1985 16-hour Live Aid extravaganza held simultaneously in London and Philadelphia. At the time, it was the biggest satellite linkup and television broadcast ever. It raised almost $200 million for African famine relief and would set a template for the many all-star fundraising concerts to follow.

    Paul McCartney, Elton John, and David Bowie were on the bill in London. Fans saw a career-making performance by U2 and a showstopper by Queen. Phil Collins performed at Wembley, then jumped on the Concorde to play another set at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, where Mick Jagger tore off Tina Turner’s skirt.

    I rented a car and drove from New York with Bob Friedman, my eager marketing foot soldier, known internally as “the V” for reasons no one remembers. When we got there, we realized our credentials were in the hands of a producer who had disappeared. This was the pre-cell-phone era. There was no one to call. We finally found our way to the artists’ enclosure and jumped the fence. I landed in the dirt right in front of Bob Dylan’s trailer, dusted myself off, and then calmly strolled down lanes of trailers, striking the pose of someone who belonged.

    It was like wandering through the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame trailer park. Signs read: Tom Petty, Santana, Madonna, the Beach Boys, the Four Tops, Neil Young. We finally made it to the stage, and I spent the entire show at our news desk, 20 feet from the action. Live Aid was the final step in the legitimization of MTV. We were now like “Kleenex” and “Coke.” That year, we made the covers of Time and Newsweek. As for David Hilton, Pittman finally showed him the door and crowned me general manager. It was my 40th birthday. I had finished my apprenticeship and was ready to run the beast. I got a very warm welcome. Always follow an unpopular person into a job if you can.

    Copyright © 2025 by Tom Freston. From the forthcoming book UNPLUGGED: Adventures from MTV to Timbuktu by Tom Freston, to be published by Gallery Books, an Imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC. Printed by permission.

    ‘Unplugged: Adventures From MTV to Timbuktu’ by Tom Freston









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    Tom Freston

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  • Naked and Unafraid

    Betsy Aidem, Adina Verson, Irene Sofia Lucio, Audrey Corsa, and Susannah Flood rehearsing the opening scene of Act Two.
    Photo: Sara Messinger for New York Magazine

    Causes for hope can feel perilously scarce these days. In such a dire season of the spirit, it matters to hear from characters like the ones in Liberation, the extraordinary play by Bess Wohl transferring to Broadway in late October. Set in the 1970s at the meetings of a feminist consciousness-raising group — as well as in the present day, when a narrator (Susannah Flood) is telling the story of the group her mother founded — the show goes down like a bracing tonic, an antidote for the dark. It’s powered not by celebrities but by a company of superb New York theater regulars (the cast took home the Drama Desk Award for Best Ensemble) and engages in both exquisite character study and fervent political conversation — a thrilling dose of which occurs at the start of the second act during a pivotal 15-minute scene in which six cast members are entirely naked.

    Like all of Liberation, the scene is funny, contemplative, and paper-cut sharp, a coup de théâtre for reasons beyond its state of undress. The show’s website discloses the nudity, and audience members are asked to put their phones in pouches during the performance, but even so, the actors tell me they’ve experienced a whole gamut of responses. “I remember this middle-aged woman was so scandalized,” says Audrey Corsa. “Guys,” says her castmate Irene Sofia Lucio, raising a practiced eyebrow, “we once heard the word titties!” Everyone groans. But, adds Flood, “the majority of people are swept up in the magic of what the scene accomplishes.” “Yes,” say several voices, one of them Betsy Aidem’s: “They don’t want someone to break the spell.”

    What kind of work goes into building such a bold, prolonged, quite literally exposed sequence? To find out more, I’m sitting in on a rehearsal, and I’m not alone. My mother helped me wrestle the stroller off the subway — in it, my 4-month-old daughter is, for the moment, beatifically passed out.

    Wohl had wanted to write a play about the feminist movement of the 1970s for what she calls “an embarrassingly long time, maybe 15 years.” Her mother, Lisa Cronin Wohl, worked at Ms. Magazine, and Wohl remembers going to the office with her and playing in “the tot lot.” Later, she’d go on marches with her mom and her mom’s friends. These women had been living in her head for years, but it wasn’t until she realized that she was trying to write more than a straightforward “historical play” that the project cracked open. “I didn’t even know I was writing a mother-daughter play for a while,” says Wohl. “It became a quest to understand my mom.”

    Wohl’s drive as a playwright is to “put something onstage that I haven’t seen before.” For her, the image of multiple women “talking about their bodies and being naked but not being sexualized” — not “titillating or gratuitous” but compassionate and curious and rigorous — “felt a little bit radical.” It’s also historically accurate: Some feminist CR groups did indeed hold naked meetings, and Wohl — who interviewed around a dozen members of such groups while researching for the play — quickly discovered how meaningful the practice was. “It was something that the women talked about a lot and were very proud of,” she says. “This felt like a way that I could represent what they actually did — their bravery.”

    Photo: Sara Messinger for New York Magazine

    Susannah Flood, top and above, in rehearsal.
    Photo: Sara Messinger for New York Magazine

    The show’s director, Whitney White (who earned a Tony nomination for Jaja’s African Hair Braiding, her Broadway debut), was aware that its nude scene would require real forethought. “I knew it would be something we’d have to dig deep for and get comfortable with and do the right way,” she says before adding wryly, “And full disclosure: I was an actor who had a horrible experience being nude onstage several times. So I often let that guide me. Like, Can you just do better than what you had?” When the show moved into rehearsal for its original Off Broadway run at Roundabout Theatre Company earlier this year, White and her team filled the room with research material. She turned to Adam Curtis’s documentaries and Angela Davis’s writing as well as news clips from the era. “What is the average American digesting?” White asks. “You could look at high art and cinema all you want, but what’s the everyday? What was on ABC at the time?”

    Such sensitive, granular world-building allowed the actors, says White, “to build real women that could be different” from themselves. “We really tried to make Venn diagrams: What is similar between the character of Susie and the actor playing her, and what’s radically different? From gender presentation to all kinds of things. That made the intimacy work feel depressurized.”

    A caring — not to mention playful and deeply feminist — ethos suffuses Liberation’s rehearsal room. As the actors get underway with the big scene, you can feel it. They stretch and shake out their limbs and start to recite the dialogue while White asks questions and drops in reminders from the sidelines. Gradually, they move into more full-fledged scenework. “It is insane to me that my mother ever did this,” says Flood, as the narrator, breaking the scene’s fourth wall to address the audience. “I never even saw her naked.”

    No one, however, is naked right now. That’s not the point of this rehearsal and, according to the show’s team, very seldom was. “We work the text like hell, over and over, because that’s really more important,” White says. “I feel like the great challenge of the scene is to get the audience to remember that there is so much more going on, that the nudity is this tiny fraction.” I’m witnessing this rigor on its feet as White leans forward at certain moments while the actors work: “Clean that up,” she says. “Stay alive … Project it less; mean it more.”

    Wohl’s characters are doing an exercise recommended by Ms. “The idea,” says Corsa’s Dora, who has brought in the magazine, “is we all go around and say one thing we love and one thing we hate about our bodies.” Kristolyn Lloyd’s Celeste, an uncompromising intellectual and the only Black woman in the group, is skeptical: “Frankly, I don’t exactly think we should be focusing on appearance at all.” But Lucio’s Isidora — an irresistibly uninhibited Sicilian filmmaker — is exuberant. “I love … my tits,” she says unapologetically. (“More Hamlet!” calls out White, and Lucio repeats the line with all the gravity of “To be, or not to be.” It kills.) Aidem’s Margie, the oldest in the group in her late 60s, cuts deep as she confesses that she hates her C-section scar, and Adina Verson’s Susie — a motorcycle-riding butch who writes brilliant punk manifestos on the backs of napkins — wins a big laugh every time she delivers the character’s laconic self-assessment: “Ass, good; tits, feh.”

    To get to the moment of removing clothes on the stage during the original production, the actors worked with intimacy director Kelsey Rainwater. As Corsa describes it, Rainwater acted “as a conduit to bring us all to a place where we felt comfortable knowing that we were all going to be at different levels of comfort.”

    “She also set rules and boundaries,” says Lloyd. “ We don’t talk about our bodies. You don’t say anything you like or anything you don’t like.” “My character’s relationship to their body and my relationship to my body are quite different,” says Lucio. “Finding a way to bridge that, and to almost have Isidora’s body be a costume, has been really, really helpful.” She pauses, then grins slyly: “Some of us wear merkins in the show as well, which for me added another layer of This is a flesh costume for me.” There are a few hoots and hollers as the others agree or protest. “I did not want a merkin,” says Lloyd, drawing herself up with Miss Jean Brodie rectitude as her fellow actors cackle. “I’m perfectly capable of growing my own.”

    Audrey Corsa, left, in rehearsal.
    Photo: Sara Messinger for New York Magazine

    Once the scene had been thoroughly rehearsed, the actors switched from doing it fully clothed to attempting it in underwear or camisoles provided by the show’s designers. Team members put up curtains around the room and dimmed the lights, and, says Aidem, “they had anybody male leave the room when we did it the first time in our underwear.” Then, says Verson, “a few times later, we wondered, ‘Are we ready to do it topless?’” For Verson, the tempo eventually started to chafe a little: “It was like, Let’s just fucking do it! ” But Lloyd pushes back: “Being an other in this group and having the only chocolate nipples onstage, I needed the slowness.”

    Still, the actors are passionately united when it comes to the scene’s importance. “We might be providing the audience an opportunity to overcome their discomfort with naked bodies, period — but especially naked female bodies,” says Flood. “And the fact that we’re on Broadway now, we’re saying that this kind of a discussion is commercially viable.” Verson nods in excitement: “I wish when I was a teenager, I could have seen regular bodies onstage. Like, look at all the different labia! Seriously, look at all the different mons pubises! They’re all normal.”

    There’s another world where this cast takes the Broadway stage, at whatever level of dress, under America’s first woman president — another timeline in which Liberation might have felt, says Wohl ruefully, like “a celebratory play about how far we’ve come.” Instead, the show has become a vessel for both deep pain and lasting, unkillable hope. “Back in March when we did it,” Wohl remembers, “people were really coming into the theater with a need to be together in this moment and collectively understand what was happening. Which was also the protagonist’s search: How did this happen? How did we get here? What went wrong?” She takes a breath. “It’s funny. I didn’t know, when we went back into rehearsals this time, how it would feel. Are the questions going to feel as urgent? Are they going to feel different? Are we more weary now? Are we more angry now? Where are we as a society? And I feel, actually, that so far the questions are still the same. They’ve just deepened in certain ways, and there’s a rawness to them. I guess we’re both more weary and it feels more urgent at the same time. It all turned out to be true.”

    As my mother and I return home, I look at my daughter’s face. She’s sleeping again. “You know,” my mom says, “in college, my friend Beth was incensed that only the men had a sauna in the gym locker rooms. So one day we all just took off our clothes and marched through the men’s locker room in our towels to liberate the sauna. We were  naked and all these big naked football players kept opening the door and — !” She makes a horrified face and laughs. I laugh too, and also I’m in awe. I never knew this till now.

    Sara Holdren

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  • Mr. Scorsese Could Be Twice as Long and It Still Wouldn’t Be Enough

    Rebecca Miller has a clear thesis in Mr. Scorsese: There will never be another Martin Scorsese. Over five episodes of the Apple TV+ docuseries, Miller augments this argument through interviews with Scorsese and people from his life — childhood friends, recurring collaborators like editor Thelma Schoonmaker and actor Robert De Niro, relatives including his three daughters — and select clips from his decades of work. Every time Miller whips out a split screen to trace common themes between Scorsese’s various films and influences (like a comparison between the fights in Raging Bull and the shower-stabbing scene in Psycho), she proves her own deep understanding of Scorsese as an artist. Mr. Scorsese is an eye-opening and deeply moving viewing experience, one that had me crying within the first three minutes of the premiere episode. It is also, at a run time of 287 minutes, not nearly enough. Not! Nearly! Enough!

    Mr. Scorsese is convincing in its suggestion that Scorsese is perhaps the defining American filmmaker of his time, someone whose persistent interest in masculinity and money and the corrupting influence of both on our morality is a mirror held up to our national identity. The docuseries is so successful in hitting these points that I wanted to see more of the connections Miller was making; Scorsese’s career is rich and varied enough that Mr. Scorsese could have been, I don’t know, five more episodes? Ten more episodes? An episode released weekly until the end of time? I am being conservative and reasonable, I think! Here are 12 elements of Mr. Scorsese just begging for more screen time.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Mr. Scorsese is chronological, so premiere “Stranger in a Strange Land” spends time with the guys he grew up with in the Bowery. Scorsese bickering with Joe Morale and Robert Uricola about how they met is lovely and warm, which counters the discussion about the prevalent violence in their neighborhood. These men provide real color to Scorsese’s biographical details, like how his asthma led his father to take him to movie theaters for the air-conditioning, helping spark the filmmaker’s early love of cinema. Two men are particularly engaging: childhood neighbor Dominick Ferraro, who talks about a fight they were in at the West Side Club, and Uricola’s cousin Sally, who inspired De Niro’s character in Mean Streets. Ferraro’s description of Scorsese’s reaction after the fight is gold (“Scorsese turns around and says, ‘I wish I had a camera.’ I said, ‘This fucking guy wants a camera, I want a gun’”), and Sally deserves a memoir of his own. When Miller asks if he really blew up a mailbox, as depicted in Mean Streets, his casual admission and shrugging, “Let them arrest me now,” is hilarious.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Real ones know that Scorsese’s longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker, is a major reason why his films look so good and move so well. Mr. Scorsese pieces together how Scorsese and Schoonmaker met, separated for nearly a decade after he was taken off the 1970 documentary Woodstock, then reunited for 1980’s Raging Bull and have stayed together since. Schoonmaker is an unparalleled figure in America’s cinematic history, and while I relished the behind-the-scenes information Miller got about how she cut Raging Bull and popularized the use of jump cuts with 1990’s GoodFellas, it would have been wonderful to see a joint interview with her and Scorsese sharing memories of prior projects.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Scorsese’s career has long been fixated on the different layers of the American myth and why they allure and trap us. Mr. Scorsese tackles this through-line from a couple different directions. First is the story of Louis Frezza, Scorsese’s friend who died at 18 from cancer and was buried in a Queens cemetery, above which loomed a gigantic sign for the Continental Can Company. The omnipresence of capitalism in what should have been a place of faith disgusted Scorsese: “I was thinking, What is life? Screw you. I’m not gonna work for the Continental Can Company. … I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it,” he says now. Criticism of capitalism and imperialism undermining individual dignity drives a ton of his work, from the 1967 anti–Vietnam War short film The Big Shave to his 2002 NYC origin story Gangs of New York, and Scorsese comparing that film’s Natives gang to the Proud Boys is thought provoking as hell. I wish Mr. Scorsese had let him cook a little longer about the political angles to his work.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Mr. Scorsese doesn’t feel especially compromised by the filmmaker’s involvement, but there are moments throughout the series when it feels like certain things are only being alluded to. Did Scorsese have an affair with Liza Minnelli in 1977’s New York, New York? Did he and Harvey Keitel fall out, and that’s why they didn’t work together for 30 years? What about Steven Prince, the subject of Scorsese’s 1978 documentary American Boy? Prince was an actor who served as Scorsese’s assistant during his cocaine era and partially inspired Eric Stoltz’s character in Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction. Five years ago, he was the subject of a lengthy New Yorker profile for which Scorsese declined to be interviewed; it would be fascinating to get his perspective on that time in Scorsese’s life. Mr. Scorsese didn’t have to be messy, necessarily, but this man has lived a life. May we please have some gossip?

    Photo: Apple TV+

    This is how you talk about an ex: with warm affection and a sly read.

    She’s right: Sometimes it is just easier to think about lunch! Please, more of Isabella lightly teasing Marty about his tendency to flagellate himself while considering the agony of the human condition.

    It is simply hilarious to watch Scorsese and screenwriter Jay Cocks talk shit about Harvey Weinstein, who produced Gangs of New York and was constantly butting heads with Scorsese. I have many times watched this scene in which Scorsese in an exasperated tone and with pinched fingers complains about how Weinstein wanted to cut the movie’s wardrobe budget because he didn’t understand why so many characters were wearing hats. I would hear a million more of his complaints about Weinstein.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Scorsese’s films have been nominated for more than 100 Oscars, but he only has one personal win for directing 2006’s The Departed. A clip from The Aviator press tour in 2004 shows Scorsese’s gracious answer to an interviewer’s question about whether he wants an Oscar (“Me, personally? The time has gone, I think”), but I refuse to accept that one Oscar is enough for this man. Billie Eilish is 23 years old, and she has two! I don’t care that the categories are different; it’s the principle of the thing. Rebecca Miller, please call every person you know in the Oscars’ Directors Branch and grill them on why Scorsese has been so overlooked. I will happily wait for that companion docuseries in which every one of Scorsese’s peers is interrogated for their lack of respect.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Taxi Driver was a shot in the arm to American cinema: a wildly dark movie about a man lost in his own fantasies and obsessions with access to guns and a strict moral code that he’s willing to die to defend. The MPAA originally gave it an X rating, and the film’s studio told Scorsese to cut it to an R rating, or they would. A classic story of artist versus overlords — which took a turn, well, fitting of Taxi Driver when Scorsese threatened to kill the head of the studio. Steven Spielberg and Brian De Palma describe Scorsese telling them that he was going to get a gun, and the contrast between their bemused recounting of this story and Scorsese’s aggressive eye roll and laughter about the threat is highly entertaining. He now seems to be underplaying the sincerity of his outsize reaction, but it’s illuminating when Scorsese says, “Violence is scary, in yourself,” because he admits he was willing to get wild to defend his art. Hearing more about whether Scorsese felt pushed into violence to defend his other movies would have been compelling, too.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    Scorsese’s cocaine addiction in the 1970s was clearly not a good time — Rossellini talking about how he woke up once to find himself black and blue all over, then learned at the hospital that he was bleeding internally from his heavy drug use, is harrowing. More details about that would feel perhaps voyeuristic. There’s an interesting connection, though, between Scorsese’s near-death experience and his relationship with De Niro, who asked him in the hospital if he really wanted to “die like this” and urged him to get better and direct Raging Bull. I cried when Scorsese quietly said of De Niro’s offer, “I looked at him, and I said, ‘Okay,’” but how much did Scorsese then feel grateful (or indebted) to De Niro? When they worked on movies together that Scorsese says he didn’t particularly enjoy (The King of Comedy) or isn’t sure entirely worked (Cape Fear), did Scorsese agree to the gigs because De Niro was there for him in his worst moment? A little more discussion of how hitting rock bottom affected his working relationships could have helped round out this section.

    Scorsese’s been famous for a long time. He’s been protected by the FBI twice, after John Hinckley Jr.’s Taxi Driver–inspired attempt to assassinate President Ronald Reagan and after the release of The Last Temptation of Christ. You’ve probably seen at least one of his daughter Francesca’s viral TikTok videos or Instagram photos of her dad. We probably think we know Scorsese, or at least the version of him that comedians like Kyle Mooney have played on Saturday Night Live — which makes his discomfort with fame worth hearing more about. His daughters talk most about this, with Francesca mentioning a time when he didn’t leave their apartment except to go to his office. But how does Scorsese feel about this? He doesn’t speak much about how the ebbs and flows of celebrity have affected him, but I would like to know how he deals with not being able to experience New York City as casually as he once did.

    Photo: Apple TV+

    You probably know that people were very angry about The Last Temptation of Christ, in which Willem Dafoe plays a Jesus Christ who fucks, and Mr. Scorsese traces how the outcry against the movie was led by the increasingly powerful religious right in the U.S. But what about Kundun? Scorsese’s film about the Dalai Lama is only briefly discussed in terms of its amateur cast and its reception as “beautiful but dull.” The missing context is that Disney severely curtailed the release of the film because of the Chinese government’s pushback. Disney’s then-CEO Michael Eisner publicly apologized for the movie, saying, “The bad news is that the film was made; the good news is that nobody watched it.” Kundun has remained incredibly difficult to find — the physical-media release was limited, it’s not streaming in the U.S., and repertory screenings are rare. Why not dig into any of this?

    Photo: Apple TV+

    1991’s Cape Fear, 1999’s Bringing Out the Dead, and 2011’s Hugo all get only a line or so of commentary and a brief little montage clip, so if one of those is your Scorsese favorite you’re not getting much. And if one of your favorites is Killers of the Flower Moon, as it is mine, well, we’re out of luck, too. Despite KOTFM also being an Apple TV production, Mr. Scorsese relegates it solely to a few minutes at the end of “Method Director.” There’s footage of Scorsese prepping a couple of gigantic cork boards and directing scenes, but no real discussion of his motivations for tackling the film. Perhaps Mr. Scorsese wrapped sometime before the film’s release, but the series could have done a way better job encouraging people who already pay for Apple TV+ to fire up KOTFM. Eliding Scorsese’s most recent film makes for a really abrupt ending, and leaves Mr. Scorsese feeling undeservedly incomplete. Where art thou, Lily Gladstone?


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    Roxana Hadadi

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  • The Chair Company Series-Premiere Recap: Not All That Serious

    The Chair Company

    Life Goes By Too F**king Fast, It Really Does

    Season 1

    Episode 1

    Editor’s Rating

    4 stars

    Leave it to a Tim Robinson character to turn a benign public humiliation into a full-blown conspiracy.
    Photo: Virginia Sherwood/HBO

    I think of Tim Robinson’s characters as existing on a spectrum. Yes, they’re all prone to loud, sudden explosions of cartoonish rage or pain, and they’re almost all anxious, insecure weirdos obsessed with proving they’re in on the joke. But there’s a big difference between the affable “chaotic good” Tim Cramblin from Detroiters and the procession of freaks Robinson plays on his sketch show, I Think You Should Leave. And Craig Waterman, the marketing executive from the 2024 film Friendship, took Robinson into new territory with a darker and more pathetic take on the same neurotic type.

    If Friendship was Robinson’s first real character study, his mysterious new HBO comedy The Chair Company is the logical next step. Like Craig Waterman, Ron Trosper is a hard worker and a family man, doing his best to project confidence and competence at the office and at home. But unlike Craig, he’s not actually that bad at it at first. For the most part, people seem to respect Ron. He has the adoration of his wife, Barb (Lake Bell), daughter, Natalie (Sophia Lillis), and son, Seth (Will Price). He’s a project lead at Fisher Robay, overseeing an ambitious new mall development in Canton, Ohio, and seems to have the office’s support. After a surprisingly successful speech at the kickoff meeting for Canton Marketplace, though, the other shoe drops. When Ron takes a seat, the chair falls out from under him and breaks, leaving him dazed and sprawled on the floor. That public humiliation is The Chair Company’s inciting incident.

    Friendship is the obvious comparison point for the show, especially with Andrew DeYoung directing this premiere and Keegan DeWitt once again contributing a cool, slightly eerie score. But it’s also the third series co-created by Robinson and Zach Kanin, who collaborated on both Detroiters and I Think You Should Leave. There’s a common comic sensibility running through all these projects, an understanding of what people come to a Tim Robinson show to see. Take that argument between Ron and the young server in the opening scene. A celebratory family dinner turns into an embarrassing dispute when Ron bristles at the server insisting she hasn’t been to a mall since she was 14. He takes it as a personal offense, and that’s a common impulse for Ron — he’s also not a fan of his cheerful elderly coworker Douglas (Jim Downey) blowing bubbles everywhere because “life’s just really not all that serious.”

    Like most Robinson characters, Ron really cares about fitting in, fearing attention as much as he courts it. The day after the chair incident, he defuses tension at the office by making fun of himself, only to feel uncomfortable as his coworkers revel in the hilarity of the moment. So he travels down the Tecca rabbit hole, desperate to take action against the titular chair company.

    Here’s where “Life Goes By Too F**king Fast, It Really Does” settles into surreal conspiracy thriller mode, a feeling I expect to stick around. The Tecca website’s phone number only gets him to National Business Solutions, which refuses to transfer him to the manufacturer. Messaging with a customer service agent doesn’t accomplish anything, and the obscure support email address bounces back. “What the fuck!?” Ron says, comically dumbfounded.

    Most of this premiere is about kicking off Ron’s investigation into Tecca, but it’s already interesting to note what the show is and isn’t interested in showing. We really don’t see much of the Trosper family, all things considered; at this juncture, his wife and kids are all (intentionally) archetypes, blandly supportive projections of the traditional fantasy of a loving, stable nuclear family. We know that Seth is looking into colleges, and Ron is continually adding photos and songs to Natalie’s rehearsal dinner slideshow, but that’s about it. The episode prioritizes strange narrative detours over conventional character-building, and I don’t mind that choice for the time being.

    Take the hilarious, unnamed janitor character, who shows up twice: first vehemently denying that his “inside wheelbarrow” goes outside, then appearing outside with the wheelbarrow after all. There’s also Ron’s coworker Amanda, who fully understands that he didn’t intentionally look up her skirt while collapsed on the floor, but still feels the need to report it to HR. Everything at work suddenly seems to be unraveling, especially with annoying Douglas blowing bubbles everywhere and distracting Doris when Ron’s trying to get footage to document her hip problem and the risk of an unsafe chair. (Someone on the phone told him Tecca Legal would contact him directly if there’s proof someone could get hurt.)

    The premiere does get pretty harrowing toward the end, beginning with Ron’s visit to the fenced-off building at the old Tecca address in Newark, Ohio. He finds some weird nudes in a printer and what looks like … a giant inflated red ball? And then, right when an old deviled egg sends him on a panicked run to the restroom, he hears footsteps and a long scream. It feels like something from Beau Is Afraid. He’s forced to flee before he can even wipe properly.

    Back at work, Ron meets with an exec named Brenda and the head of legal for the Canton development. Apparently, teenagers were drinking at the site last night and one of them almost died. Also, a teacher was there, and he was shirtless.

    It’s a weird and underexplained scenario, but the issue is enough to get Ron to lock back into his job and set Tecca aside … for a few minutes. When he leaves for the night, a man swiftly follows him across the parking lot and tells him to stop looking into the chair company, beating him with a baton briefly before walking away. The scene doesn’t stop there, though. When Ron gets his bearings, he stands up and runs after his attacker, the chased becoming the chaser. It’s notable that Ron doesn’t pick up the dropped baton to protect himself, nor does he continue the chase after the guy escapes his reach by leaving his unbuttoned shirt behind. He just stops.

    At this stage, it’s impossible to tell what all of this will add up to in the long run. (It reminds me of Nathan Fielder’s underrated series The Curse a lot in that way, and in others.) But so far, The Chair Company is as funny and strange and watchable as I hoped — different from anything else Tim Robinson has done, but also recognizably a Tim Robinson project. I don’t know what any of this shit is, and I’m fucking scared.

    • “Why the hell are they trying to take that damn thing? They fucking love taking that thing.”

    • “I guess I shouldn’t have had that last Cheez-It this morning.”

    • Three-way tie for funniest physical comedy moment of the episode: Ron’s panicked spasming in the cramped space beneath his desk; his loud dinner prep; and Douglas patting down Doris’s hair with printer paper to wipe the bubbles off.

    • Good background line: While Ron is on the phone eyeing Doris, you can hear her saying, “Oh, fuck! You gave me that paper too hard.”

    • “I just think HR should know that you saw up my skirt. On my birthday.”

    • Ron leaves an earnest comment on the YouTube video for “I Got a Name” by Jim Croce about thinking you’ll do something with your life, but not. Curious how those deeper fears will play into his Tecca mania.

    Ben Rosenstock

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