TELLURIDE, Colo.  — Jeremy Allen White asked all the questions any normal human being would ask when offered the chance to play Bruce Springsteen in “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.” In theaters Oct. 24, it’s a movie that examines a slice of the rock legend’s career when he was battling depression and creating 1982’s incomparable exploration of alienation “Nebraska,” a record he didn’t know he was making when he recorded the songs on a primitive four-track tape machine in a rented New Jersey home. It turned out to be his favorite of all his albums.

Most of those questions could be boiled down to: Why me? White didn’t know how to play the guitar. He loves to sing but would never call himself a singer. And while he has a relationship with an audience, particularly those who have white-knuckled their way through his Emmy-winning work as Carmy, the talented and troubled chef on “The Bear,” he says it’s a far cry from the bond Springsteen has forged with his fan base for the past 50-plus years.

“The relationship a musician has with fans is so intimate,” White, 34, tells me the morning after the movie had its world premiere at the Telluride Film Festival. “You listen to him in the car, you go to see him live. He’s there in your ear and it’s just the two of you. You feel like you’re being spoken to. Bruce is so important to so many people. It was daunting. I didn’t want to disappoint.”

By the time we talked, though, White was well past any anxiety about disappointing, if only because he had the approval of the person who mattered the most: Springsteen himself.

“Jeremy tolerated me and I appreciated that,” Springsteen said at a festival Q&A, suggesting that his input on the movie was ongoing and significant — and also welcome. He noted that it was easy to sign off on director Scott Cooper’s vision for the movie, which, with its narrow focus on the deep dive of “Nebraska,” he called an “antibiopic.”

“And I’m old and I don’t give a f— what I do,” Springsteen added, laughing.

White and I are sitting in the sun outside his hotel, basking in the warmth the day after a steady rain. Wearing a battered Yankees cap, jeans, boots and a blue pullover, he’s sporting the casual uniform of the festival, if not the Boss himself. White asks if I mind if he lights an American Spirit. He reaches for his lighter. The premiere is over and his mood is light. We dive right in.

Was there an immediate point of connection with Springsteen?
The more I talked with him, the more I learned. And at the point in his life we show in the movie, he was feeling so fraudulent. Not in his work, but as a human. He felt like he was being caught in a lie all the time. And I don’t want to speak for all actors, but I’ve certainly dealt with that kind of feeling.

It feels like there’s a line between your Springsteen and Carmy on “The Bear,” two men carrying generational trauma and emotional baggage they have no idea how to deal with. Do you see that?
For sure, you can draw that line. They’re cousins. And they’ve both got their art, something they feel confident about. What Bruce was feeling in his relationship with his father and the environment he grew up in, is he felt incredibly unsafe. And that made it difficult for him to trust people and form real connections. For a long time, the only connection he felt was in that three hours he spent on stage.

But then what do you do the rest of the time?
Absolutely. And I’m familiar with those feelings. But my home life as a child was more loving and supportive, so I had to do some creative work to find that tether to Bruce.

You mentioning Springsteen’s dad just popped a thought into my head. Is Carmy’s dad alive?
[Long exhale] We don’t know. That’s a decision that’s up to [showrunner] Chris [Storer].

It’s above your pay grade.
Well above.

You’re really good at playing men who have trouble articulating their feelings, which puts a lot of weight on your shoulders to convey an interior life through close-ups. Do you like that kind of acting?
I do. You have to have an understanding. The camera knows. If you’re just staring at a wall and you don’t have anything going on, the camera will know. The audience will, too.

You do also get to rock out and sing “Born to Run” and “Born in the U.S.A.” How did your vocal chords feel afterward?
I spent an afternoon singing “Born in the U.S.A.” and I got a migraine and I lost my voice. I saw Bruce afterward and he asked, “What’d you do today.” And I said [affecting a hoarse voice], “Uh, I recorded ‘Born in the U.S.A.’” And he smiles and says, “Sounds about right.”

Most of your singing is the “Nebraska” songs, these delicate acoustic songs about despairing characters who have lost hope. Putting across their stories in these songs feels like its own imposing challenge.
I was so focused on just sounding like Bruce and my coach, Eric [Vetro], asks, “What are you singing about? What’s the story? Where’s Bruce coming from? Is he singing from his perspective? Is about his childhood? Is he playing a character?” All these questions that, for an actor, should be right at the front of mind. Because I was so anxious about sounding like him, I found myself blocked by the real thing, which was: How can I just sing the song as honestly as possible?

What song was the breakthrough?
“Mansion on the Hill.” Bruce listened to it and said, “You do sound like me. But it’s you singing the song.” And that gave me permission, not just in recording the music, but making a film where I could tell his story but not be afraid to bring myself to it.

Did you have a favorite song?
Probably “My Father’s House.” It seemed like a warning for me. There’s regret in it. What I heard is a song about a young man not wanting to regret that he didn’t reach out for his father, who he had a love and connection with earlier. There was an immediacy to it, which you then see with Bruce and his father in the film.

Did it make you want to call your dad?
I called him right after recording that song in Nashville. Like many fathers and sons, we have a loving relationship, but we’ve also gone through periods where things have been difficult and it was hard to communicate. Making this film and singing this song has given me another perspective. It also coincides with getting older and having children of my own.

I’m glad you made the call. You can’t have those conversations after a certain point.
That’s what I mean about the warning of that song.

You told me yesterday that you and Springsteen had a debate about “Reason to Believe.” What was the source of the disagreement?
It’s the last song on the album and Bruce says people confuse it as being hopeful. He says that’s not correct. The song is about a woman whose husband has left her and she stands at the end of the driveway every day, waiting for him to come home. And I hear that, and I think, “Oh, that’s real love. That’s romance. Someone’s gonna drive down that road at some point.”

Either that or this poor woman is just going to be walking up and down her driveway the rest of her life.
And no one’s gonna be there. It depends how your ear is on a song.

But you choose to believe.
I choose to walk to the end of the driveway. Absolutely.

Would you call yourself an optimist?
No. [Laughs] Not really.

“Nebraska” came out in 1982 and was informed by the idea that there was a growing divide between the wealthy and the poor and that what we think of as the American Dream was becoming more elusive. Where do you think the album sits more than four decades later?
People are angry. That’s what seems to define our country right now. Anger. And it doesn’t seem to be going away. The songs on “Nebraska” are still going to be speaking to us four decades from now. They’re timeless.

Jeremy Allen White in the movie “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.”

(Macall Polay / 20th Century Studios)

Did your early dance background help you with the physicality of the role, the way he carries himself on stage or even just walking around?
For sure. Finding the way he holds his gravity was important. I put little lifts in the boots and that made my posture change, my legs a little longer. Wearing the pants up to here [he points to a spot above his hips], that gets your gravity in your belly button, where I’m crouched over all the time.

There’s a lot of scenes in diners where he’s sitting with one arm over the back of the booth …
… like he’s on his way out almost all the time. One foot in, one foot out.

Musician friends turned you on to “Nebraska” in your early 20s. What music were you listening to then?
My folks are a little older so I grew up listening to a lot of music that Bruce listened to — Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, the Beatles, the Stones, Aretha Franklin.

Your parents had a strong record collection.
Still do. And I grew up in in Brooklyn in the ’90s, so I got really heavy into hip-hop in my teenage years. I discovered Nas and Jay-Z and Big L and Wu-Tang. Tribe. De La Soul. And then I was around for an exciting time in the New York scene. I was young so I couldn’t really experience it, but the Strokes were coming out and LCD Soundsystem. I felt lucky to be close that stuff as it was happening.

The way you’re talking about all this, it feels like music is a fundamental part of your life.
Absolutely. I love that it’s always with you. I’ve taken a couple of cross-country trips, and I love putting on Motown. I go through periods where I listen to the same 20 songs for a couple of weeks. But then I’ve got thousands of “liked” songs. And the nice part about a long drive is you can shuffle that and it’s like you’re traveling in time. I love getting to visit past versions of myself through music.

Springsteen takes an eventful cross-country trip in the film. What’s your most memorable one?
I did one by myself when I was about 24. I thought I was going to give myself about two weeks to go from New York to L.A. The first week was great. I was enjoying my solitude, listening to a lot of music. Then when I hit Utah, I got incredibly lonely.

Did the landscapes get to you?
Maybe. I had a certain amount of anonymity, which I enjoy on a road trip. You don’t know anybody in these towns and that allows you to be whoever you want to be, passing through. I remember getting to Utah and just being desperate to see somebody who knew who I was. And I got a flat in St. George, Utah. It was a disaster. My phone had died. I didn’t have a spare. I was out on the side of the road trying to borrow somebody’s phone. I took that as a sign. After I got it repaired, I raced to have dinner with a friend, because I felt this this crazy loneliness.

Springsteen says everyone has their “genesis moment,” an experience that charts your path. His was watching Elvis Presley perform on “The Ed Sullivan Show” in 1956. What’s your genesis moment?
I had been dancing on stage but I didn’t act until I was 14 when I got up in front of a group in middle school. I had this great teacher, John McEneny, and he was having us do this improvisational exercise — two characters, one speaking, one quiet. And my friend, Yael, was playing a mother and I was playing her child who didn’t know how to speak yet. So I wasn’t speaking, like so much of my work [Laughs].

It’s Carmy’s genesis moment too.
Yes. And I remember feeling a presence. I had a hard time focusing as a child, a hard time being present. Still do. But I remember even in silence feeling so at ease and present. And of course I remember the eyes. And even without me doing anything or speaking, I felt attention, people waiting to see what I would do next. And I went, “Whoa.” I felt at peace. I felt present and people were interested. And I thought, “Let me follow this a little bit and see where we can go.”

There’s a scene in the movie, taken from real life, where Springsteen is flipping through the channels one night and stumbles upon Terrence Malick’s “Badlands,” a movie that ultimately influences “Nebraska.” With streaming, we don’t really have those serendipitous discoveries any more. Have you ever had a moment like that?
I can’t think of one. But “Badlands” was a favorite of my parents and they showed it to me when I was 13 or 14. Martin Sheen was cool as hell in that role, and I was so impressed with his commitment to that character. And Sissy Spacek conveys so much with so few words.

And like “Nebraska,” “Badlands” was difficult to make. There was a lot of pushback against Malick and what he was trying to do.
There was a lot of confusion going on. They weren’t on the same page. Like with Bruce, it took a lot of diligence on Terrence Malick’s part to realize his vision. It’s so beautiful when you hear about the process of making a film is so difficult, and then something so beautiful and perfect comes out.

Where do you like to see movies in L.A.?
I love the New Beverly. I saw “2001: A Space Odyssey” at the Egyptian not long ago. The Aero, if I’m on the Westside. I miss the Cinerama Dome and the Arclight. New movies, probably the Sunset 5. My favorite thing is go to a movie on a Tuesday at like one in the afternoon. You’re there by yourself. I like seeing movies by myself. Some people get out of a movie and like to start talking about it. I like getting out of a movie and being quiet for awhile.

Did you see “Weapons”? That was my favorite movie theater experience this summer.
I loved “Weapons.” And obviously, it’s a great horror film and funny at times and that ending is just crazy. But also I found myself very emotionally affected. To me the horror of the movie was about, from the child’s perspective, looking at all these adults who were totally incapable, whether it was due to addiction or narcissism.

Bringing this full circle, I’m watching this movie about kids feeling unsafe and I thought of the times in Bruce’s upbringing where he felt a similar way and how that made it so difficult to grow up and be trusting. That he ultimately got to that place is so beautiful. I hope people come away from watching this movie feeling that and, if they’re in a place that’s not so good, maybe thinking that connection can still be possible.

Pop superstardom, it turns out, did absolutely nothing to improve Sabrina Carpenter’s love life.

That’s the thrust of the singer’s shrewd and tangy “Man’s Best Friend,” which dropped Thursday night, just a year after last summer’s chart-topping “Short n’ Sweet.” The earlier album, which spun off a pair of smash singles in “Espresso” and “Please Please Please,” went on to be certified triple platinum and to win two Grammy Awards — more than enough to transform Carpenter, now 26, from a former Disney kid into the latest (and horniest) member of pop’s A-list.

Yet all that success seems only to have attracted more of the losers she sang about last time. Here she’s dealing with a smooth talker doling out empty promises, a crybaby who can’t decide what he wants, even a guy so fixated on self-betterment that he’s lost interest in the bedroom.

“He’s busy, he’s working, he doesn’t have time for me,” she trills exasperatedly in “My Man on Willpower,” “My slutty pajamas not tempting him in the least.”

It’s a veritable gallery of rogues, this LP, not least the dude in the dark suit pictured on the cover of “Man’s Best Friend” with a hank of Carpenter’s blond hair in his fist as she kneels before him. The image inspired an instant controversy when she unveiled it in June, with critics accusing her of propping up dangerous ideas about the submission of women in the age of the tradwife.

Responded the singer in a CBS News interview that aired Friday: “Y’all need to get out more.”

Indeed, to take the album artwork at face value is to miss the whole point of Sabrina Carpenter, which is not just lampooning a prudish instinct — of course she’s in on the joke — but demonstrating the limits of a dating scene — of an entire social power structure — in which this is what a girl at the top has to work with.

“I like my boys playing hard to get / And I like my men all incompetent,” she sings in the LP’s opener and lead single, “Manchild.” She swears she’s not choosing them — that they keep choosing her. Then she punctuates the claim by batting her fake eyelashes and rhyming “Amen” with a flirty “Hey, men.”

As with “Short n’ Sweet,” Carpenter made “Man’s Best Friend” with a tight crew of accomplices — Jack Antonoff, John Ryan and Amy Allen, plus a bunch of tasty studio players — and once again they get a sound that combines the hooky splendor of ’70s-era AM-radio pop (think ELO, Wings and especially ABBA) with touches of country and dance music.

“Tears,” in which Carpenter lusts after a guy capable of putting together a chair from IKEA, is a pillowy disco thumper with echoes of KC and the Sunshine Band’s “That’s the Way (I Like It)”; “Nobody’s Son” puts starchy palm-court strings over a bouncy reggae groove. Carpenter’s singing plays like an actor’s sizzle reel, by turns winsome, sneering, bubbly and resigned; in the twangy “Go Go Juice” alone — it’s about a woman who’s woken up at 10 a.m. and opted to spend the day drunk-dialing exes — she runs through every emotional gradient separating determination from shame.

Song for song — line for line, really — “Man’s Best Friend” isn’t quite as sharp as “Short n’ Sweet,” which offered the rare thrill of a young artist coming into her own on her sixth studio album. Occasionally, you can sense Carpenter reaching for a memeable lyric, as in the many gags about wetness in “Tears”; “When Did You Get Hot?,” meanwhile, feels like something Ariana Grande abandoned after workshopping for a minute.

When she’s on, though, she’s on: “Goodbye” is a dazzling orchestral-pop number in which she gives the boot to a hot-and-cold lover — “Arrivederci, au revoir / Forgive my French, but f— you, ta-ta” — and “House Tour” a winking sex romp whose thwacking drums and rubbery funk bass call to mind Paula Abdul’s “Opposites Attract.” (After Doja Cat’s Antonoff-produced “Jealous Type,” might this signal a coming Abdul-aissance?)

Near the end of the album, Carpenter dials down the comedy for “Don’t Worry I’ll Make You Worry,” a sad and shimmery ballad about the thin line between love and war. “Silent treatment and humbling your ass / Well, that’s some of my best work,” she sings over strummed acoustic guitar before promising oh so sweetly to “leave you feeling like a shell of a man.”

If you can’t join ’em, beat ’em.

Frankie Muniz — the “Malcolm in the Middle” star turned NASCAR driver — is off the racetrack, for now at least.

The actor is recovering from a broken wrist he suffered after falling from a ladder at his home, he wrote on Instagram on Thursday.

“The phrase ‘FML’ (Frankie Muniz’s Life) takes on new meaning with moments like these,” he wrote.

The accident came right before a NASCAR event at Darlington Raceway in Darlington, S.C., over Labor Day weekend.

Muniz shared that the ladder mishap happened when he was trying to change batteries on a backyard security camera. While he joked about the situation, he said he’s heartbroken to miss the competition.

However, Muniz’s NASCAR career is far from over. He estimates he’ll be back behind the wheel within a few months.

Muniz began his professional driving career in 2006, after the end of “Malcolm in the Middle,” a move that stemmed from his lifelong admiration for the sport.

This isn’t the first time Muniz has found himself on the mend. In a previous interview, the 39-year-old told People that he’s simply “injury-prone,” and broke 38 bones between 2006 and 2017.

Muniz was involved in a crash at a 2024 NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series Championship at Phoenix Raceway in Arizona. According to reports from a journalist at the track, Muniz was seen limping into an ambulance after a hard hit from behind, but escaped major injury.

Neither that nor his latest fall are as harrowing as his major crash in 2009.

During a race, the then-21-year-old’s vehicle flipped and violently crashed into a wall. He described the crash as “gnarly” and said it resulted in him breaking his back, ankle, four ribs and a hand.

“My thumb was dangling by the skin,” Muniz told People.

In comparison, his recent fall from the ladder was a bump in the road. As the actor-turned-racer recovers, he plans to come back to racing full-force — and probably follow the instructions on his ladder a little more closely.

“Note to self: heed the ladder warning that says, ‘Do not sit or stand on top step,’” Muniz wrote on social media. “In hindsight, a taller ladder would’ve been smarter. While I’m gutted to miss the races, I’m grateful it wasn’t worse.”

Millions of dollars worth of political TV ads are expected to start airing Tuesday in an effort to sway Californians on a November ballot measure seeking to send more Democrats to Congress and counter President Trump and the GOP agenda, according to television airtime purchases.

The special-election ballot measure — Prop. 50 — will likely shape control of the U.S. House of Representatives and determine the fate of many of Trump’s far-right policies.

The opposition to the rare California mid-decade redistricting has booked more than $10 million of airtime for ads between Tuesday and Sept. 23 in media markets across the state, according to media buyers who are not affiliated with either campaign. Supporters of the effort have bought at least $2 million in ads starting on Tuesday, a number expected to grow exponentially as they are aggressively trying to secure time in coming weeks on broadcast and cable television.

“This early start is a bit stealthy on the part of the no side, but has been used as a ploy in past campaigns to try to show strength early and gain advantage by forcing the opposing side to play catch up,” said Sheri Sadler, a veteran Democratic political media operative who is not working for either campaign. “This promises to be an expensive campaign for a special election, especially starting so early.”

Millions of dollars have already flowed into the nascent campaigns sparring over the Nov. 4 special-election ballot measure that asks voters to set aside the congressional boundaries drawn in 2021 by California’s independent redistricting commission. The panel was created by the state’s voters in 2010 to stop gerrymandering and incumbent protection by both major political parties.

The campaign will be a sprint — glossy multi-page mailers arrived in Californians’ mailboxes before the state Legislature voted in late August to call the special election. Voters will begin receiving mail ballots in early October.

Redistricting, typically an esoteric process that takes place once a decade following the U.S. Census, is receiving an unusual level of attention because of partisan efforts to tilt control of Congress in next year’s midterm election. Republicans have a narrow edge in the U.S. House of Representatives, but the party that wins control of the White House often loses congressional seats in the following election.

Earlier this summer, Trump asked Texas Gov. Greg Abbott to redraw his state’s congressional districts to add five GOP members to the House, setting off a redistricting arms race across the nation. California Gov. Gavin Newsom launched a campaign to redraw the state’s congressional districts in an effort to boost the number of Democrats in Congress, negating the Texas gains for Republicans, but it must be approved by voters.

The coalition opposing the effort is an intriguing mix: former Republican Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, wealthy Republican donor Charles Munger Jr., former GOP House Speaker Kevin McCarthy of Bakersfield, Assemblyman Alex Lee (D-San Jose), the chair of the Legislative Progressive Caucus, and Gloria Chun Hoo, president of the League of Women Voters of California.

Many partisans — in both political parties — opposed independent redistricting when it was championed by Schwarzenegger and Munger in 2010.

Jessica Millan Patterson, the former state GOP chairwoman who is leading McCarthy’s effort to oppose new congressional boundaries, demurred when asked about the dissonance. Voters, she said, made their choice clear at the ballot box about their preference to have an independent commission draw congressional districts rather than Sacramento politicians.

“The people of California have spoken,” she said, adding that most voters agree that an independent commission is preferable to partisan politicians drawing districts.

The “Stop Sacramento’s Power Grab” committee that Patterson leads plans to focus on conservative and right-of-center voters, and will be well-funded, she said.

McCarthy was a prodigious fundraiser while in Congress and his long-time friend, major GOP fundraiser Jeff Miller, is raising money to oppose the ballot measure.

Schwarzenegger is not part of the McCarthy effort, instead backing the good-government message of the Munger team. Patterson argues that anything the former governor does only brings more attention to their shared goal, even if he isn’t part of their effort.

“Gov. Schwarzenegger is Gov. Schwarzenegger,” Patterson said, pointing to an X post of the global celebrity wearing a T-shirt that said “Terminate Gerrymandering” while working out on Aug. 15. “He is a celebrity, a box-office guy. He’s going to make sure reasonable people know that we don’t want to put this power back in Sacramento. He will bring the glitz and glamour, like he always does.”

Schwarzenegger has long championed political reform. During his final year as governor, he prioritized the ballot measure that created independent congressional redistricting. Since leaving office, he made good governance a priority at his institute at the University of Southern California and campaigned for independent redistricting across the nation.

“Here are some of the things that are more popular than Congress: hemorrhoids, Nickelback, traffic jams, cockroaches, root canals, colonoscopies, herpes,” Schwarzenegger said in a 2017 Facebook video. “Even herpes, they couldn’t beat herpes in the polls.”

The former governor is reportedly backing the effort by Munger, the son of a billionaire, who bankrolled the ballot measure that created independent congressional redistricting in 2010. Munger has donated more than $10 million to an effort opposing the November ballot measure; the organization he funded has booked more than $10 million in television spots through Sept. 23.

“These ads are the start of our campaign’s effort to communicate directly with voters about the dangers of allowing politicians to choose their voters and abandoning our gold standard citizen-led redistricting process,” said Amy Thoma, a spokesperson for the Munger-backed Voters First Coalition.

Supporters of the effort to redraw the districts argued that Republicans are trying to cement GOP control of the nation’s policies.

“Trump cronies … are spending big to defeat [Prop.] 50 and help Trump rig the 2026 election before a single person [has] voted,” said Hannah Milgrom, a spokesperson for the campaign. “They are spending big — and early — to trick California voters into allowing Trump to keep total control over the federal government for two more years.“

Only John Williams could have put me in the orbit of one of history’s most famous basketball players. Kobe Bryant, like so many others, was a huge fan of Williams’ music; he befriended and sought out the composer for career advice and, when he made his post-athletic pivot to filmmaking, hired Williams to compose a short score.

And because I cover film music for a living, I was able to interview Bryant — along with Williams and Disney animation legend Glen Keane — for The Times in the spring of 2017. I even got to meet Bryant in person, backstage at the Hollywood Bowl, when he rehearsed his narration of “Dear Basketball” at an all-Williams concert. It was an obscenely hot day, and I waited outside Bryant’s dressing room while they finished drying his sweat-soaked shirt with a hair dryer before he came out and cheerfully shook my hand.

I gave Bryant and “Dear Basketball” a fair amount of real estate in my new book, “John Williams: A Composer’s Life,” not because of his fame or athletic prowess, but because I feel that his short film inspired one of Williams’ most beautiful works of the last decade, and also because there was something poetic and moving about the whole affair, and about saying goodbye to the thing you love the most — especially as the film became a kind of eulogy for Bryant after his untimely death in 2020.

[The below excerpt is from Tim Greiving’s “John Williams: A Composer’s Life,” out Sept. 2. Greiving is a frequent contributor to The Times.]

Kobe Bryant, the 18-time NBA All-Star, was an unexpected admirer of John’s music: as a boy, Bryant would tie a towel around his neck and run around to the theme of Superman; as a player, he used the Imperial March to hype himself up before games; and as a father, he would rock his infant daughters to sleep on his chest listening to Hedwig’s Theme. The six-foot-six athlete from Philly could hardly have been less like John, but he recognized mastery when he heard it. “I asked myself a question,” Bryant said: “What makes a John Williams piece timeless? How is he using each instrument? How is he using the space between them? How is he building momentum, and then how is he taking it away to build it again?” As a basketball player, Bryant said he was “essentially conducting a game,” “so I just wanted to talk to him about how he composed music and try to find something similar that I can then use to help my game as a leader and winning championships.”

Bryant first contacted John for counsel just before the 2008 NBA season. “The first thing I told Kobe was, I’d never seen a basketball game,” John confessed. “High school, college, professional, or television. And of course he laughed.” “But once I had told him my reason for reaching out to him,” Bryant said, “he saw the connection immediately…If we look in our same industry and we just look at things from that funnel, then you wind up essentially recycling information. So sometimes you look outside of that discipline to have a new point of view, a new perspective on it. [John] was digging it.”

They continued to see each other over the years, with Bryant often visiting John backstage after shows at the Hollywood Bowl. When Bryant retired from basketball in 2016, he turned his attention to entertainment. He wrote a sentimental open letter, “Dear Basketball,” as a retirement announcement, and one of his first post-game projects was turning that text into a short film. He wanted it crafted by undisputed masters of their fields, so he commissioned Disney animation veteran Glen Keane— who designed and animated Ariel in The Little Mermaid, among other achievements— and he asked John to write the score. The first thing John said to Bryant was, “I do classical pieces, and it’s all by hand,” almost as a warning. Bryant answered: “The piece will be hand-animated by Glen Keane, who is you in the animation space. I want it to have the human touch. I don’t want it to be poppy, I don’t want it to be hip-hoppy. I want timeless, classical music.”

Somehow, these three disparate artists—with two decades between each of them—hit it off. Keane was an avid fan of Lost in Space growing up in the 1960s, and when he told John how much he loved the music, John was completely embarrassed. “But it’s wonderful, John!” Keane said. “It held the promise of wonder and excitement and fun and quirky and scary and dangerous, and it was all in this one score. And John— the roots of your entire career are in that score.” Keane asked if he could play some of the old music. John said, “No, please don’t!” “No, I really gotta play it for you,” Keane insisted. “So I did.” The unlikely trio sat around a table in Keane’s office “and we just talked,” said Bryant. “John talked about how [the letter] made him feel, Glen how it makes him feel, and we all centered on the same thing, which is why I wrote it in the first place: the beauty of finding what it is that you love to do, and then finding the beauty of knowing that you will not be able to do that forever. Once they saw the nature of the piece, there was really nothing else to discuss.”

(Oxford University Press )

Keane illustrated the five-minute film with graphite on paper, depicting the arc of Bryant’s letter— from young Kobe tossing rolled-up tube socks, to NBA glory, to retiring at 37. John was equally inspired by Bryant’s childlike enthusiasm and Keane’s artisanal process. “The drawings have great fluidity and, in the best sense of the word, great simplicity,” John said. “They really are gorgeous, not only to look at, but rhythmically they’re fabulous.” Keane always animated while listening to music, and for this story it was selections from Empire of the Sun. John used that score as a reference point, but initially he wrote something that was too big, “and he went back and he rewrote it for something that was more understated,” said Keane, “in a similar way that Kobe’s delivery, his narration, is very personal, uninflected, not trying to sell anything. More like revealing. Kobe’s got a very quiet voice, and that also had a big impact in how we animated.”

John took a short break from The Last Jedi and spent two weeks in March 2017 to write and record this short piece—a gift for Bryant. When the towering baller arrived at the Sony scoring stage, John said: “I hope that you like what I’ve written.” Bryant just looked at John and said, “I feel pretty confident that it’s going to be just fine.” When Bryant heard John’s piece for the very first time, emanating from a symphony orchestra, “Oh my God,” he said. “I almost lost my mind. As soon as his hands went up and then the music started, I almost yelled out loud— but I had to remember that the red light was on and we’re recording… It was the most unreal experience I could ever have.” Bryant looked over “and just put his head on my shoulder,” said Keane, “like, ‘I can’t believe it.’ It was so beautiful. Then when it was done, John turned to us and said, ‘I promise it’s going to get better.’”

It was one of the simplest, yet most inspired pieces John wrote during this decade: a brief journey taken by a humble, hummable tune that bottled a young boy’s guileless dreams and aspiration for greatness and glory. His hymnal theme begins as a gentle woodwind duet, which is passed to strings and then accelerates into soaring triumph to accompany Bryant’s heyday. Then it grows small again, a lonely keyboard wandering a broken chord as Bryant’s voiceover admits that his body can only play for so long. John’s knack for noble flying music closes the loop, with heraldic horns and rolling timpani connecting Bryant’s story to his music for American heroism— concluding with a bittersweet reprise of the theme on piano and an uplifting coda as the credits roll. Like the letter itself, the score is part valentine, part elegy—and John put his heart into it. He premiered it at the Hollywood Bowl in September, and Bryant surprised the audience by joining John onstage to narrate. The short film won an Oscar in March 2018—and then very shortly afterward, it became a poignant eulogy for Bryant when he died, age 41, in a helicopter crash on a foggy Sunday morning in Calabasas that also killed his 13-year-old daughter, Gianna. John’s wistful, symphonic poem suddenly took on a new shade. “It is elegiac, but it isn’t weepy,” John said of the film when he first scored it, never imagining the sudden tragic fate of his young friend.

It strikes its own manner of saluting the man and the game and the accomplishments with a lot of modesty, I think. It’s very touching, and in the end that may be its highest achievement, that it’s able to praise this man the way it does, without a lot of false vanity or hubris that could easily have spilled into it. That’s my take on it in any case.

It’s time to revisit the age-old question that’s been debated for years: Are you Team Edward or Team Jacob?

Lionsgate will celebrate the 20th anniversary of the “Twilight” novels by bringing the entire film saga back to the big screen from Oct. 29 through Nov. 2, The Times confirmed.

The love triangle tale starring Kristen Stewart, Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner — a human, a vampire and a werewolf, respectively — grossed more than $3.3 billion worldwide during its first run, according to Box Office Mojo.

The films, based on the four-part book series written by Stephenie Meyer, follow the story of Bella Swan (Stewart) and vampire Edward Cullen (Pattinson). Their relationship is tested by Edward’s instinct to harm her and by Bella’s friend Jacob Black (Lautner), who belongs to a rival werewolf clan.

There are five films in the series: “Twilight” (2008); “New Moon” (2009); “Eclipse” (2010); “Breaking Dawn — Part 1” (2011); and “Breaking Dawn — Part 2” (2012). Round-table chats with Meyer, producer Wyck Godfrey, former co-president of Lionsgate Gillian Bohrer and others will accompany each film.

As part of the festivities, Meyers is scheduled to be the honored guest at this year’s Forever Twilight in Forks Festival, an annual celebration in Forks, Wash., the setting of the book series. The fest will take place Sept. 11-14.

The films have remained in pop culture through TikTok trends where fans announce their “gay awakening” using scenes of Bella. Stewart, who came out as queer and married screenwriter Dylan Meyer in April, said the films are “gay” during an interview with Variety in January.

“It’s all about oppression, about wanting what’s going to destroy you. That’s a very Gothic, gay inclination that I love,” the actor said.

Stewart starred in last year’s romantic thriller “Love Lies Bleeding” (2024) and will next appear in her wife’s directorial debut, “The Wrong Girls,” which is written by the couple.

Pattinson played the titular character in 2022’s “The Batman.” He last appeared in Bong Joon Ho’s sci-fi comedy “Mickey 17” (2025) and will appear later this year in Lynne Ramsay’s psychological dramedy “Die, My Love.”

Lautner took a few acting jobs after the end of the saga, in films such as “Grown Ups 2” (2013) and “The Ridiculous 6” (2015), but his most recent credit was in Netflix’s “Home Team” (2022).

Audiences once adored big adult comedies. Jay Roach’s champagne-fizzy “The Roses” is a seductive attempt to lure them back into theaters.

As bright, mean and ambitious as its lead characters, Theo and Ivy Rose (Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman), this resurrection of the ’80s-style R-rated crowd-pleaser is a remake of — or really, an across-the-room nod to — the 1989 hit “The War of the Roses,” which starred Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner as divorcees who fight to the death over their fancy chandelier.

Inspired by the venomous novel by Warren Adler, both films are metaphors for building a home and then tearing it down, although the chandelier this time is merely incidental. This snarky, self-aware couple is the type to build themselves a smart house and name its system HAL.

The Roses meet-cute in a posh London restaurant when Theo asks to borrow Ivy’s knife to slash his wrists. He’s a morose architect who aspires to build risky, revolutionary designs. She’s a kooky chef whose signature seasoning is a mix of powdered anchovy and blueberry. In the cocktail of their marriage, he adds the bitterness and she adds the spice, qualities that can be either overbearing or harmonious. Their version of sweet talk is Ivy chirping, “Never leave me — but when you do, kill me on the way out.”

Brutal humor and obstinacy bind these malcontents together for almost 15 years. Then her career takes off and his flops, upending their equilibrium. Now, they’re battling over who gets custody of their California dream mansion. Twins Hattie and Roy are secondary. (Delaney Quinn and Ollie Robinson play their kids at 10; Hala Finley and Wells Rappaport at 13.)

The script by Tony McNamara (“Poor Things”) unleashes the hilarious spouses to aim insults at each other like explosive corks. (McNamara is so skilled at putting cruel words in Colman’s mouth that he’s already helped win her an Oscar for “The Favourite.”) Theo and Ivy open the film skewering each other at marriage counseling, only to be aghast when the therapist advises them to split up. For a while, they stick together mostly to stick it to her, in defiance of the fact that contempt is the No. 1 indicator of divorce. “In England, we call that repartee,” Theo insists.

You wonder if their jokes keep them from honest communication and then you wonder if Roach, who came to fame as the director of “Austin Powers” and “Meet the Parents,” has ever been afraid of that himself. (For the record, Roach has been married to the Bangles’ Susanna Hoffs since 1993 and she here sings two cover songs for the soundtrack, “Happy Together” and “Love Hurts.”)

Mostly, you just enjoy the jokes. Colman, who burst into my awareness in the 2003 TV cringe comedy “Peep Show,” is fantastic throwing jabs around in costume designer PC Williams’ nouveau hipster wardrobe of bold, baggy lines. The actor even does an Ian McKellen impression just because. Yet, the surprise here is Cumberbatch, who seizes his rare opportunity to be flat-out funny, while occasionally rolling over to show Theo’s vulnerable belly. Flirtatiously pouting his lips at Colman, he coos, “How about a three-hour circular argument that goes nowhere?” How about three more Cumberbatch comedies for every awards-baity drama he does?

The story originally satirized materialistic baby boomers stymied by shifting gender roles. Both make interesting time capsules of the traditional man and the liberated woman who revert to smashing fusty china figurines like Neanderthals, although my sticking point with the first movie is that both Roses are too despicable. It’s hard to care about either one once you see how they treat each other’s pets.

But Roach has insightfully made this about people, not societal scapegoats. He and McNamara have changed up nearly everything in this disaster except its vibrations of dread. Since we already know that Theo and Ivy are in for a world of hurt, the film spends much of its running time rewinding to the past to prove how wonderful they could be together — and, more painfully, how sincerely they’ve tried to work out their kinks. We like Cumberbatch and Colman’s Theo and Ivy, even after they’ve become tantrum-throwing twits.

The details of their dissolution — career pressures, childcare clashes, petty jealousies — and its credible tit-for-tat dynamic are discomfitingly relatable. If this version has a larger sociological statement, it’s an indictment of how today’s quest for success is so all-consuming and exhausting that even if you can fit two egos in one house, you probably can’t merge their day planners. In the modern, highly visible, online-viralized game of life, earning money is merely Stage 1. Both Roses are driven to leave their permanent mark on the world.

Meanwhile, their two sets of American friends, Amy and Barry (Kate McKinnon and Andy Samberg) and Sally and Rory (Zoë Chao and Jamie Demetriou), are equally miserable and toxic. All four are such shallow snobs that they can’t imagine why Ivy would want to own Julia Child’s old stove when it’s, well, old. McKinnon’s Amy toggles through obnoxious progressive stereotypes: She’s a self-professed empath who pretends to be in an open marriage to wheedle Theo into bed. Barry, a depressive, gives Samberg a chance to show a deeper level of comic maturity, and also eventually doubles as Theo’s personal attorney. Otherwise, the script prunes the couple’s legal battle down to one scene with Ivy’s viperous lawyer, played by Allison Janney, who brings a rottweiler to the showdown and claims it’s her service animal.

The gags can be silly. There are two vomit scenes and a pratfall where Colman lands on her face. Yet, Roach and his team have put serious effort into their lovely symbology: a shot of Theo glumly walking down an airplane aisle from first class to coach, images of the cold Pacific crashing against rocks that recall his confession of feeling “waves of hatred” toward his wife.

When the film finally gets to its Grand Guignol climax, it rushes through the barbarity, taking no delight in it. I wanted to laugh but realized I’d fallen too much in love with Theo and Ivy, who are both so pitifully certain they’re in the moral right. The schadenfreude is just sad. It stings how much we root for them to kiss and make up. Still, despite the hasty ending, this splashy comedy deserves to woo grown-ups back to the multiplex. The Roses are estranged, but they’ve reunited us with our love for a genre — and it feels so good.

More than two and a half years after she took office, Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass has fulfilled a nagging campaign promise to film industry advocates.

She is appointing Board of Public Works president Steve Kang to serve as a liaison between city bureaucracy and the film industry, she said Wednesday. The mayor made the announcement while speaking to a private Zoom meeting of her entertainment industry council Wednesday afternoon, according to three attendees.

Kang will be the chief film liaison, assisted by Dan Halden — who serves as acting director of external relations at the city’s Bureau of Street Services (StreetsLA) — and producer Amy Goldberg.

The city’s film liaison role was established under former Mayor Eric Garcetti.

In the past, the liaison has served as the point person for film and TV productions looking to shoot in L.A., helping filmmakers navigate the city’s vast bureaucracy.

“I have full confidence that President Steve Kang will deliver in his role as City Film Liaison by finding solutions that protect our signature industry and ensure that local filming of TV shows, movies and commercials can successfully continue and expand,” Bass said in a statement. “With the successful expansion of the California Film & TV Tax Credit and our ongoing efforts to improve local processes, our work continues to keep production jobs here and support small businesses who rely on the industry.”

Bass’ decision not to prioritize the appointment of a film liaison had long frustrated industry advocates. Those concerns were sharpened at a moment when L.A.’s future as a film capital is in peril.

Amid a broader slump in overall film and TV production, the city has long been bleeding production jobs to states and countries that offer generous tax incentives, cheaper labor and more filming-friendly bureaucracies.

Most of those issues are outside the mayor’s control. But some industry advocates felt that naming a film liaison would be an easy move that could make shooting in L.A. a little less of a headache.

Since Bass took office in December 2022, those advocates have pressed the mayor’s office on the issue, with no clear answers about the delay.

“There’s been a clear sense of need, and frustration that it hasn’t happened,” said one industry advocate, who had been present during the mayor’s office’s regular meetings with representatives from film studios, labor groups and other industry interests.

Garcetti had several film liaisons during his administration.

Members of the industry often point to City Hall veteran Kevin James — who held the role for several years beginning in 2015 — as an ideal model, since he had deep City Hall experience, as well as ties to the industry. James served as film liaison while president of the Board of Public Works. The board governs the city’s Department of Public Works, which is responsible for StreetsLA, as well as the street lighting, sanitation and engineering departments.

The mayor’s office has had to navigate a historically difficult 2025, beginning with a catastrophic firestorm, followed by immigration raids and an unprecedented military presence in the city — all of which have necessitated 24/7 crisis responses from her office. But the frustrations over the lack of a named point person far predate the recent crises.

While signing an executive directive to support local film and TV production in May, Bass was asked about the position and said she planned to appoint someone within the next few days.

More than three months later, she finally did.