Mind and Iron: Gavin Newsom may have just jeopardized the future of journalism
A California legislative saga turns disastrous. Also, fictional adventures on Hollywood soundstages.
Hi and welcome back to another sparkling episode of Mind and Iron. I'm Steven Zeitchik, veteran of The Washington Post and Los Angeles Times and lead mixologist at this flavored-seltzer bottling plant.
Every Thursday we tell you how industries, cultures, worlds and lives are shifting thanks to tech and related trends. We leave the corporate spin behind — by relying on independent support from readers like yourself.
This is our last issue of the summer — we've been working away this week, but won't be putting out an issue next week after Labor Day. But don't worry — we've saved some juicy stuff for this August finale.
First, the past week has been a downright wild one for anyone who cares about the future of our democracy and the information that powers it. Because for a minute it looked like the country's biggest state was going to take a major step to ensure a strong and free media. And then in a haze of smoke it all went away. We'll tell you about this troubling wave of the wand.
Also, we've got an interview with the man who was leading the fight on behalf of said journalism — the decorated journalist and president of the Media Guild of the West Matt Pearce, who some of you might know from social media. Hear him explain what went down — and what journalism for the rest of the decade and beyond could look like as a result.
Finally, with some nice response to our fiction entry two weeks ago, we're going to dip our hand back in the bag for another treat. This week, some well-known actors show up to a set — but all is not what it appears to be.
First, the future-world quote of the week.
“This was a really tough vote and there were lawmakers willing to do what needed to be done. But all that gets undermined when they know they have a governor who might shoot them in the back."
— Journalist advocate Matt Pearce on what Gavin Newsom did to imperil the health of journalism in the face of Google aggression
Let's get to the messy business of building the future.
IronSupplement
Everything you do — and don’t — need to know in future-world this week
How the future of journalism was just George McFlyed; One of the men trying to save it fills us in; when Hollywood actors are not Hollywood actors
1. I REALIZE THAT THE FUTURE OF JOURNALISM CAN BE A TOPIC that feels redundant to some; hasn't the death of media been predicted for a long time? And yet Web sites churn on, stories are shared, segments are viewed. Sure, the platforms shift and the forms change. But the fundamental idea of some people gathering information and then spreading it to a lot more people seems eternal.
Except two factors now put that fact at risk — serious risk. More on the latter factor in a minute. But the first and most pressing is that industry's engine seems to have stalled out. And nothing appears capable of revving it up again.
Some background: For many decades, of course, print subscriptions powered the text-based journalism industry. Then in the late 2000's and early 2010's, with the Web's dominance established, traffic and the ads they brought in carried the day. That shifted yet again later in the 2010's, when, in part fueled by activist and anger during the Trump administration, subscription fees and the paywalls they lifted became the answer.
All of those now have gone for a great majority of news outlets, and like the 18-point Garamond headline, it ain't ever coming back.
The obvious culprit here is a global culture (wiping out dedicated local audiences) and the Internet of the free (wiping out a dedicated paying audience).
But there's another suspect, and it's been on a ski-mask rampage for some time now: search-engine links. Google (and Facebook and others, back when they still cared about news) yields massive amounts of news-site traffic. But the ad money they generate often goes to the tech platform, not the outlet; Google regularly makes $150 billion annually by placing ads next to relevant results, pocketed a third (!) of all digital advertising money spent anywhere (!!) worldwide (!!!).
Needless to say, these ad buys come out of another pot, since marketing budgets aren't unlimited. In many cases, money that previously would have gone to advertise directly on a news outlet now goes to Google instead. Now, Google is only able to deliver those audiences because it has something to link to — ie, because the news outlet generated all that content in the first place. Yet Google has somehow become an ad monopoly at the news sites’ expense.
Google cynically flips up its palms and say it’s helping get eyeballs to web sites, but that's like saying the car thief is helping keep your engine running: Yes, but it would have happened anyway, and you would have gotten the benefit of driving your car.
The reality here is that Big Tech is doing what Big Tech does (and very much did with social media): deputized an entire population to create content for its own monetization...then convinced creators it's doing them a favor by giving them a place to put it. (Or, if you're Elon Musk, charging them for the privilege.)
Into this depressing abyss comes the efforts of California to restore some sense of fairness for these exploited news outlets (and journalism and the journalists who create it). And for a long time it looked like those efforts would bear fruit. Then Gavin Newsom happened.
For the past 18 months, a bill in the California assembly and senate looked aimed to build a fairer system than all this Big Tech bucks-boosting. The bill, which as sponsored by the Oakland assembly member Buffy Wicks would have imposed a so-called "link tax,” had major bipartisan support in both houses of the legislature.
The tax (basically, Big Tech paying a negotiated amount every year to news publishers for drafting off their content) looked likely to be passed. The exact total had been unclear, but Canada successfully passed a link-tax bill that had Google paying $74 million U.S. dollars per year — spare change for them, serious cash for cash-strapped news orgs and the journalist salaries they fund. California has about the same number of people as Canada but double the GDP, which would make that $74 million an easy floor to reach.
All seemed to be going smoothly, even after Astroturf and pressure campaigns by Google to thwart the bill. Then, at the 11th-hour last week, legislators announced they had scrapped the bill and instead negotiated a new backroom deal in which Google would fund news outlets/journalism with an average of only about $21 million per year, and only for five years, with an additional average of $14 million annually coming from state coffers.
(Separately, private money to the tune of as much as $14 million per year will also be steered to Google to help fund an amorphous AI project, and if you're asking why that has anything to do with saving newsrooms you ask well, grasshopper.)
The backroom deal was the result of California governor Gavin Newsom indicating he wouldn't sign the bill as drafted, prompting the legislators to reverse course (more on this from Pearce in the next item).
Even with a UC Berkeley board overseeing the distribution, this agreement is still problematic, and it quickly drew a major backlash from journalists and people who care about news.
Most prominently, the amounts fall way short of the $74 million outlets got in the Canada link tax. Also problematic is that the $14 million to newsrooms from the state would come from other needed public programs, which shouldn't be taking a hit because of Google’s cannibalizations — Google should.
But most troubling is that the deal sets up a conceptual framework and possibly even a factual precedent in which journalism is now a sponge on public money — sets it up as a battered industry that needs a handout instead of what it really is, an industry that could do just fine if only government would regulate the companies battering it. Google was the one causing the revenue drop. And somehow it just got the STATE to clean up its larceny.
Where all this leaves journalism is unclear. While it's in a slightly better place than had the legislature done nothing, it's a lot worse than had they just done what they were supposed to — what they were trying to do before Newsom made his intentions clear.
Where this leaves future link taxes is unclear too. New York and Illinois will soon begin offering tax credits to companies hiring journalists, but anything that demands Google start paying up is now a lot less certain. Because any state contemplating a link tax can expect a similar pushback from Google, with the company now having the confidence and the playbook to stop them. In essence, California has just set a template for how tech companies can avoid regulation and keep swiping bread from pockets — and then throw a few pennies at the now foodless entity to look like a hero.
But here's the irony, and it goes to the second media risk factor: AI is about to crush large parts of link traffic anyway. As we and others have noted, Google is in the process of AI Overview-ing the Internet— drafting off others’ content in another way by using its model to scan news sites and generate results without linking or even naming any of those sites (for older material; the model can’t keep up with news from this morning). At least with the old way a media business could still get some leftover ad money when readers clicked on a link to its site. Now people are not going to that site or even aware of where that information came from. Now the thief is stealing the car without even needing to drive it away.
As the WGA West said not long after the California deal, echoing so many writers and labor groups, “California government should not be making backroom deals with tech monopolies — much less ones that fund AI's plagiarism machines — over the protests of labor and journalists.”
All of this is incredibly depressing. An industry beset by challenges just found no respite from its money-swiping tormentor, leaving outlets — and journalism — even more bloodied than before. The events in California, which briefly seemed like a ray of light, have now become a slammed door.
The financial state of journalism continues to worsen, with layoffs and shutterings happening at such a dizzying rate over the past few months it can be hard to keep track. As WCBS New York 880 anchor Wayne Cabot said this week when the long-beloved station turned out the lights, “With each closing newspaper, radio newsroom, TV newsroom, magazine, now even digital news operation, the country we love is diminished. So as we leave the news ecosystem after 57 years of all news and 100 years of service on New York radio, we implore you to find that next trusted source. Use it. Support it. In word and in deed. It is the most patriotic thing you can do."
More legitimate helpful solutions and more legislators with backbone are needed, and fast. The future of democracy literally hangs in the balance.
2. WITH ALL THAT CONTEXT YOU DON’T NEED ME TO SET UP A Q&A WITH MATT PEARCE.
Pearce is a highly respected California journalist who was a longtime star at the Los Angeles Times. In recent years he’s been waging a fight on behalf of journalists and journalism, currently as president of Media Guild of the West. He cares deeply about journalism, and is willing to use all reasonable tools to ensure a fair news marketplace, without tech or any other barons rigging the game. He stood at the fore of the fight for the Wicks bill.
He also has a fine Substack on journalism, technology and other forms of meaning. We talked to Pearce Tuesday about everything that just went down in Sacramento. The conversation has been edited for brevity and clarity.
Mind and Iron: Let’s get right to it. This money that Google will be kicking in here feels paltry compared to what they should be paying for profiting off journalists’ work — big fig-leaf vibes. Is that how you see it?
Matt Pearce: I think these numbers are a fig leaf. And the more you look into it the more obvious that becomes. To pay $20 million a year when Canada is getting $75 million, and California has twice the GDP of Canada, it’s pretty clear what’s happening.
M&I: And then you have the added public money coming in, which sort of suggests that reporting should be some kind of charity case?
MP: We don’t want to be wards of the state. And the problem here is all this money is mingled together. In fact it’s done that way intentionally to cover up for this antitrust failure against Google.
M&I: Who do you blame for the failure of the bill?
MP: Assembly Member Wicks lobbied very hard for two years for this legislation. Google ran a classic campaign. They hired a lot of people to fight it, they blasted out ads, there was a very big campaign to kill this legislation. And it didn’t work. There were bipartisan supermajorities in each chamber that still supported it.
M&I: But the problem —
MP: The real problem was Gavin Newsom. He wasn’t down for this; he obviously didn’t want to stand up to Google. He just wanted his press release. It was apparent from the start that Assembly Member Wicks had no leverage whatsoever and Gavin Newsom had all the leverage. This was a really tough vote and there were lawmakers willing to do what needed to be done. But all that gets undermined when they know they have a governor who might shoot them in the back when the bill gets sent to his desk.
M&I: Journalists’ reaction kind of tells you everything you need to know, doesn’t it?
MP: There’s not a single journalist organization that supports this. We know who the big loser is in this deal.
M&I: How concerned does this make you for other states that want Big Tech to pay up for what they’re taking?
MP: It sends a message that states are happy to take crumbs when they’re offered crumbs in a backroom deal. Look, this is a complicated problem with no silver bullet. But we know it’s a market problem. And government needs to take action to regulate that market. They didn’t do that here.
M&I: You’ve also raised concerns about where some of the money is going.
MP: Yes, especially with the state part of the funding. Public dollars are now going to large newsrooms. And look who owns many of those newsrooms. Alden Global Capital owns Tribune. McClatchy is owned by a hedge fund. LA Times is owned by a billionaire. Sending public dollars to these companies is not what we signed up for, and if they’re doing that then there need to be a lot of mechanisms in place that it’s going to journalists, which are not in place now.
M&I: Are there in fact any safeguards built in?
MP: There are two protections — 70 percent of the money will be spent on payrolls. And there are also some transparency requirements. Now, we don’t know what the 70 percent means exactly because a lot of cash is fungible. It’s very easy to do shenanigans where the money goes somewhere other than journalism. That’s why transparency is important. So at least we’ll know — theoretically — where they’re spending it.
M&I: The other part of this is the AI — this deal seems not to account at all for how Google increasingly will just wall off the garden with their AI Overview search responses and not even send any traffic to news outlets in the first place. Which is a real problem for older or archived stories.
MP: We’re clearly entering the post-hyperlinks structure of the internet. The day of referral traffic is declining. That’s why these mechanisms are necessary and we have to keep fighting them from a regulatory perspective. It’s funny to hear people make the argument [against link taxes] by saying if we have them there will be fewer links to news sites. As if we’re steering things in that direction. The Internet is already going in that direction.
M&I: And now money will be funneled to Google for AI research that will only help them do this more!
MP: I don’t think we should have an unlawful monopoly deciding what the future of AI and journalism should be. So I’m very wary of creating any structure, as this does, that entrenches Google even deeper into our journalism system. We need to go the other direction.
M&I: What’s the answer here to save journalists in these struggling newsrooms? Or one answer.
MP: We need collective bargaining. There has to be a mechanism for people creating the content. This is a labor issue. Publishers see it as a business issue. But I see it as a labor issue. Not just for the journalists but for the larger good. You can’t run anything worthwhile off free labor. Journalists will lose, and citizens will lose.
MindBendy
A short story about the long road ahead
REBOOT
Pazgrove Shmelberg looked out his trailer window and thought about what a great actor he was.
He didn't want to allow himself such thoughts. He wanted to stay humble, just like all the legends before him. But when he stopped to reflect on it, he had to admit — he was pretty great.
Pazgrove Shmelberg had landed every major prize there was to land, even winning a top Academy for Release of New Content trophy. He'd beaten out every eligible man and woman for that Ted. Every single one.
Well maybe not a top trophy, maybe Best Bit Performer.
And not technically won, but nominated.
Not officially nominated. But considered. Considered strongly. He'd heard it from the president of the Academy herself.
OK, not from the president herself. He had been told it by his agent, who had heard it from a colleague who'd been present at the party where she said it. But still, how many people could say that they had heard from a person who had heard from a person that there considered strongly for Best Bit Performer by someone who could do something about it? How many people could boast that?
Pazgrove Shmelberg pulled open the window and filled his lungs with oxygen. He felt excitement for this day. Hope. This movie was gonna be so good. There was a space chase, and a tearful mother-daughter reunion, and a villain's grand plot, and not one, not two, but three romantic-comedy set pieces. Endless opportunity to showcase his chops.
Pazgrove Shmelberg peered out into the brightness and took in the activity. To top off everything else this movie was, well, it was genuine. The bona fide article; the real deal. The studios all said — and functioned under the assumption that — what people liked were the reboots. But Pazgrove knew what they really liked were the realies. They wanted movies this way. Genuine. Old school. Original. Not reboots.
Yep, “The Avengers 14" was going to be a great movie.
Pazgrove Shmelberg stepped out of the trailer, pushing the door closed behind him. He was going to slay it today. Slay. It.
One of those energy-summoning exercises he’d been reading about – the ones practiced by the legends – popped into his head. He decided to do one.
Eyes closed, he brought his palms together. Wrists low, fingers up ("Conjure the energy"), stand up on one leg ("Center the energy"), kick out the leg ("Reject the bad energy")
He opened his eyes. "Miyagi says, great shoot!"
That felt good.
Some movement caught Shmelberg's attention from behind Warehouse B.
"Whose dumb idea was this movie anyway?" Jason Bateman was saying.
"Oh, like you would know a good idea from the Organic Rankine Cycle,"
Ethan Hawke retorted.
The voices grew louder and the figures began to come into view.
They were a ragtag group, six or seven large, staggering their way toward the lot. An urgency hung over them, a sallow hunger. They looked like a gang of Huns coming over the mountain, Shmelberg thought.
"I don't think either of you fellas know much about the Organic Rankine Cycle or a good movie," Denzel Washington was saying, fixing the speakers with a stern gaze.
Ethan Hawke looked wounded. "Hey, that hurts man. We were just joking and you…you…you have to go and say something serious like that.” He flipped his low-hanging hair to suggest the level of bother.
“Sorry, Hawkie, you know I'm just kidding," Denzel Washington said, breaking into a broad smile. "What I said wasn't true.”
Pause.
"You definitely know what the Organic Rankine Cycle is."
The group erupted in laughter, led by Viola Davis, who often laughed hardest. Even Ethan Hawke had to laugh. He slapped Denzel Washington approvingly on the back. “Good one, Denzie," he said. "Real good one."
The figures grew to full size now; they were practically at the set. Pazgrove had told himself he wouldn’t let them bother him, not today. But annoyance crept in anyway. I mean, he understood why studios did it. Even in an original they had to insert a few reboots — cost reasons, marketing reasons, all that. But did there have to be so many of them? And did they have to be so loud?
"Jesus, these guys get Oscar attention for one movie and we have to listen to them for the rest of time," a Texas voice from the back of the group was drawling in the direction of Denzel Washngton and Ethan Hawke.
Everyone turned around. "Like, how much longer do we have to put up with them?" the voice said, but more good-natured than mean. “It was one Oscar movie. Like, 60 years ago.”
“Why McConaughey, how many Oscars you got?” Ethan Hawke said. "Also one, no?"
“And wasn’t it 60 years ago too?” mused Viola Davis.
“No no, you got it wrong Vi," Denzel Washington said. “It’s that the movie felt 60 years long.”
Everyone laughed, even Matthew McConaughey, though his eyes registered a small pain.
“Oh Oscar counts. Oscar counts," a mellifluous voice cut in from the group's side. “So much talk of Oscar counts.
Everyone turned. "Come back to me," the voice added with a hushed theatrical swoop, "when you can no longer count them."
“Meryl!” Ethan Hawke said.
“We didn’t know you were in this," Denzel Washington said. “Have you been walking with us this whole time? We didn’t see you.”
“How could you see anything in this fog of ego?” Meryl said. “Ego. So much ego,” she said in a disappointed sing-song. But her eyes twinkled, neutralizing the insult.
“So many egos,” Jason Bateman said angrily. "So many damn egos."
Everyone turned to him, then turned back to their conversation.
"Why are you here Meryl?" Ethan Hawke asked.
"You tell me 'Avengers 14' is being shot," she lilted, "where else am I gonna be?" Several of the others nodded.
“So, you guys feeling good about what we're shooting today?” Matthew McConaughey asked. They had reached the set and were standing in clusters as crew members — hair and makeup people, lighting people—swarmed around. Well, around Pazgrove Shmelberg.
"Ugh, realies," said Ethan Hawke, his eye alighting on his co-star. “I don’t know why they have to be here.” He gestured his hands to punctuate his displeasure, and Ethan Hawke’s arm waved right through him. Pazgrove Shmelberg did his best to make it seem like it didn’t bother him.
"Now now Hawkie, we were once like them too," Denzel Washington said.
"Yeah I was once writing novels too,” Ethan Hawke replied. “Doesn't mean I gotta go back to that.”
"Well you got a point there," Denzel Washington said, chuckling and flashing a million-peso grin. “You got a good point there.”
"Not to break up your little coffeeklatsch here, but everybody ready?" Viola Davis asked.
“Still gotta get a few more pages down,” Matthew McConaughey said, putting hands to his temples. “Give me a minute.”
“Yeah, me too,” “Same,” “I also got to.” The other murmurs went up, then hands did the same to heads.
“Meryl?" Ethan Hawke asked.
"I flashed it all in this morning,” Meryl said, pointing to her head.
“See, now that,” Denzel Washington said, turning to Matthew McConaughey with an instructive finger, “that is why she’s the best." Matthew McConaughey swatted him away.
As everyone flashed, Meryl wandered to the edge of the set, surveying all those around her, especially the realies. Her face seemed a mix of amused and curious, like she was studying a species she once knew but couldn’t at present summon much knowledge about. Most of the others didn’t take much of an interest in the realies, but Meryl’s intense gaze suggested she found them worthy of her focus. What it was like to still do that, it said — why did they still do that – even with the knowledge they could never be as good or well-known as the people they were doing it with?
"I think we can get started now?” Ethan Hawke called to an assistant nearby. The assistant gave a not-my-decision shrug.
“Seems so," Viola Davis said. “All of us performers are already here.”
“You sure about that?" a voice asked. The group turned around. The articulation, the inflection, the marble-mouthiness — unmistakable.
"Bogie?” said Matthew McConaughey, as puzzled as the others. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m confused,” Denzel Washington said.
"Yeah. See Meryl, now Meryl was a bit of a shock," Ethan Hawke added, gesturing to her at the edge of the set, Hawke-ish expressiveness in his voice. “But you, Bogie? We didn't think you'd be here.”
Bogie smiled, seeming to enjoy their perplexity. "You tell me ‘Avengers 14’ is being shot," he said, in a Bogie drawl so inimitable it may as well have been parody, "where else am I gonna be?" He fixed Matthew McConaughey a good-natured 'do you need me to explain this' look. "I even brought a couple friends with me."
He stepped aside to reveal two performers, a man and a woman. They were stolid as statues, their expressions unchanging. In fact elbow to elbow like that they almost read not as people but as a painting, a Hollywood American Gothic. "Seeing here how no one knows anything, I thought I'd bring the man who knew too much," Bogie explained.
Viola Davis twinkled, “I hope you guys will do a better job knowing things now than you did for most of that movie.”
Laughter from the group. The male performer, though, just stood there stone-faced. And the female performer shrugged. “Whatever will be, will be,” she said dispassionately.
“What’s with them?” Ethan Hawke whispered to Denzel Washington.
"Some kind of activation glitch, maybe?" Denzel Washington whispered back.
“Or they were always like that,” McConaughey piped in between them.
“Enough with you,” Denzel Washington said, swatting him away again.
“So are we going to get this show going?” Meryl trilled, walking back to the group. "Oh hey Bogie," she said, unassumingly.
"Meryl," Bogie said, tipping his hat in reply.
"Yeah, it's not clear who we're waiting for," Ethan Hawke said. "All of us legends are already here."
Viola Davis raised her eyes at him.
"And other people are here too," he added.
"Yeah who else are we waiting for?" Jason Bateman said, angrily.
"I might have an idea," a voice said. It came from off to the side and sounded, in its diminution, like it originated from a small body, which it did. But that body was also glowing. Flanking it were two other bodies, equally bright. One of them wore what appeared to be a green halo.
"Wow, Millie B," Denzel Washington said, sounding genuinely impressed.
"Welcome to our set," Ethan Hawke said, almost appearing to bow.
"We are happy you graced us," said Meryl, a deep indebtedness in her voice.
"Mam. And mams," Matthew McConaughey said, raising his hand salutorily to his brow.
"It's good you're here," said Jason Bateman, slightly less angry.
"I'm confused," Viola Davis said. "We love having you here. But…why are you here?"
"Well, we thought you people might need a little star power," said the one they called Millie B. Then, turning to one side, "Acting tutorials from Selena," and, to the other, "and also from our angelic friend.” Millie B nodded to the green halo-ed one, who nodded imperceptibly back.
"Plus you tell us ‘Avengers’ 14 is being shot,” the one called Selena said, “where else are we gonna be?”
"The earlier ones were classics when we were in our realie prime," explained the one they called Millie B.
"B.E., you were in ‘9,’ weren’t you?" Denzel Washington asked.
"Yes," answered the one with the green halo. The response was terse but somehow soulful, even musical.
"Won a Ted for it," the one they called Millie B said proudly on Billie's behalf.
."But then, B.E. won a lot of Teds," the one they called Selena added.
"You guys all won Teds pretty much for everything you were in, didn't you?" Bogie said.
"The longest anyone in the trio went without a Ted was six months," Millie B said, so matter-of-fact it didn’t seem like bragging.
"And that was only because of that first big realie strikes," Meryl said, almost sounding proud on the trio’s behalf.
"When was that, '43?" Washington asked.
The one they called Millie B nodded, then gave a wry smile. "Back when we were on the other side of this."
Pazgrove Shmelberg happened to be passing at that moment and, almost sensing this involved him, slowed to hear what was being said.
Bateman’s eyes fired him daggers. "What are you looking at?” he snapped, even angrier than usual. “Go on, move along.”
"Yes, we all had to sit that one out briefly," said the one they called Selena to the group. "But we were back winning Teds right after."
"Best time of my life," the one they called Millie B, added nostalgically.
“You guys really did crush it,” Ethan Hawke said, impressed.
"And it wasn't," added Viola Davis, turning pointedly to Matthew McConcaughey, "60 years ago."
"So what? It was 20 years ago," he grumbled.
"20's not 60," she said.
“OK, enough sniping,” Viola Davis said, cutting through the insults.
“Sniping. So much sniping,” Meryl said.
“Yeah let’s just get to making this movie,” Matthew McConaughey said.
“Yes,” Ethan Hawke said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s make a movie.” He looked at the assistant, who nodded. “Finally,” Ethan Hawke said.
Ethan Hawke took his place next to Denzel Washington and Viola Davis, his comrades in crime-fighting, he the Chthon to their Celestials. They looked across at today's victim, the latest minor-role inhabitant, a foil there mainly to showcase the acting chops of those he is playing against.
“Action,” the assistant director called out.
"And why would you try to kill my mutant half-brother?" Ethan Hawke approached the foil as he said this. He was half quiet-rage, half soulful vibrato — the combination that kept him employed the last 100 years.
"Kill him? I had only come to tell him about the new pizza recipe," Pazgrove Shmelberg said.
The rage half took over Ethan Hawke’s face. "A pizza recipe… that could kill him!" Ethan Hawke thundered back.
"No no, it only looked that way," Pazgrove Shmelberg said, beseeching. "There was no way it could actually have hurt your mutant half-brother." Pazgrove Shmelberg put as much feeling into these terrible lines as he could. If he didn’t know better — and, unfortunately, he did — he’d think the writers were giving the realies bad dialogue on purpose. “It is, in fact, the most magic of pepperonis,” he said.
“And everyone knows,” Pazgrove Shmelberg continued, lacing his dialogue with ennui, “that magic pepperonis can’t hurt you.”
"Incorrect!” Ethan Hawke bellowed. “The pepperonis only looked magical. But they weren’t magical. They were the most ordinary, pedestrian, commonplace—”
Suddenly he stopped himself. “I can’t do this.”
The assistant director looked up surprised. "What is it?” they asked.
“Ethan, man, come on,” Denzel Washington pleaded. "Don't do this now."
“No, I can’t, I just can’t. I can’t do it.” Ethan Hawke wriggled his shoulders as though his annoyance was a kind of spirit he could shake off. “I can’t perform opposite this, this, this, this..." He couldn't bring himself to utter the word, so he trailed off, and the word he couldn’t voice just hung in the air, unsaid but palpable.
Pazgrove Shmelberg looked down, wounded. He wanted to disguise his feelings. But sometimes he found he couldn't; he couldn't will himself to look a certain way. Disguise seemed like a desirable skill to have in an actor — the ability to totally conceal how you were feeling at a given moment. He worried he didn’t have it. But when he was getting into this business his mother told him the opposite — that it was better he couldn't disguise. "This will make your feelings more convincing, Pazzie,” she said. Right now he wished for anything that these legends couldn’t see his feelings.
“I’m sorry, I can try to do it more to your liking,” Pazgrove Shmelberg said. What he really should have said — long ago — was more along the lines of “what are you doing here anyway; this is supposed to be a real movie, with real people, not one of these hybrid pieces of garbage, with real people and also you people.” But even his candor couldn’t manage that.
Ethan Hawke was having none of it. He just continued looking annoyed. He didn't say anything; in fact, no one on set spoke for a long few seconds. But finally he broke the silence. “I need to get out of here,” he said. And off he stomped, marching the 50 meters across the set to its perimeter, looking like he could walk 50 kilometers.
But suddenly, as if guided by an invisible force, he swung an about-face. He stopped, turned widely and came right back to the set. There was only the smallest stutter as he did, an ever-so-brief pause before he swung back.
“OK, I guess I can try this one more time," he said, reaching his mark again.
Meryl stood on the sidelines with the Big Three, looking amused. "Men," she said, and the Big Three smiled.
---
In a control room a little bit away from the set a man sat looking at screens and knobs and grew increasingly angry.
"Why can't Vi be more tearful?" the man said.
"We have it pushed up to the highest allowable setting," said the oompaloompa to the left of him.
The man glowered.
"But we can try a little higher," the oompaloompa to the right quickly added.
"And why can't Denzel be more charming?" the man said to the oompaloompa on the right. “Charm is why he’s here.”
"If we turned it up any more we'd break the charm-meter, Director C," the oompaloompa to the right said.
The man's expression sank deeper into anger.
"But we can try to edge it a little higher still," the oompaloompa to the left quickly said.
“OK well what about the dinosaurs then, do we have to have them talk so much?" The man said. "I thought they were supposed to be the silent types."
“We already have Doris and Jimmy silent, do you want us to have Bogie not say much either?” said the oompaloompa to the right.
The man thought for a moment. "Yes, please. The moderns can do the talking for them." He paused, a small smile washing across his face for the first time that day. “Everyone wants to hear what they have to say.”
“More dialogue for the Big Three,” the oompaloompa to the left said as in assent, as he registered the change on a small device in front of him. "I'll alert the writing bots.
The man grew angry.
“Why wasn’t this done weeks ago?" He let out an existential bellow. "Why?!!!”
The oompaloompas said nothing.
The man looked away from the screen and toward the ceiling in a state of existential lividness. He could not be placated. "Whyyyyy??!!!. He yelled. “Whyyyyyyy???!!!”
The oomaloompa to the right anxiously punched up the writing program. “Here we go Director C, it will just take a minute.” The man did not seem to listen, just staring at the ceiling as if frozen.
The man was still looking up at the ceiling when the oompaloompa on the left noticed Ethan Hawke had started to walk off. He quickly jumped onto the screen and punched a few buttons, causing Ethan Hawke to turn around. Hopefully he did it fast enough, fast enough that Director C wouldn’t—
“What’s happening? Did Hawke just try to leave?" the man said, as his eyes cast back from the ceiling to the screen. Are we still getting... walkoffs??!” he asked incredulously.
"So sorry, there are a few glitches we haven’t fixed yet," the oompaloompa to the left said with extreme apology.
The man said nothing, just watched as Ethan Hawke walked back to Denzel Washington, Viola Davis and his third scene partner, whoever that was.
"Can we get this third one--what's his name?"
"Shmelberg, sir," the oompaloompa to the left said.
"Can we get this Shmelberg to be a little more convincing? I don't really buy what he's supposed to be feeling."
The oompaloompas looked at each other.
After a long pause, the one to the right said, "I don't think that we can do that sir.”
"Why not?" the man said, his voice rising.
Another pregnant pause. Then the oompaloompa to the left said, extra cautiously. "He's a realie."
At this the man exploded.
--
In a bungalow on the lot overlooking the set, two people dressed in impeccable clothing and carefully coiffed hair sat in front of screens and knobs. On the screens were three figures, an angry one and two assistant-types. The people in impeccable clothing watched as the one in the middle blew his top at the assistants.
One of those in impeccable clothing reached forward to turn the knob down, but it seemed to have little effect. The other in impeccable clothing turned to him and said:
“I told you Hitchcock would’ve been better than Cameron.”
--
“The Avengers 14: The Revenge of the Magic- Pepperoni Seekers” came out several weeks later, day-and date. Everyone watched it right away, either flashing it or taking the MoviePill, whichever they preferred. Needless to say, it was a huge hit. All across the land, all over the world, wherever people gathered, they met and raved about how much they liked the movie.
“So exciting.” “So convincing. “So funny.” “So human.” They said they especially liked the realies. But everyone knew what they really liked were the reboots.
The Mind and Iron Totally Scientific Apocalypse Score
Every week we bring you the TSAS — the TOTALLY SCIENTIFIC APOCALYPSE SCORE (tm). It’s a barometer of the biggest future-world news of the week, from a sink-to-our-doom -5 or -6 to a life-is-great +5 or +6 the other way. Last year ended with a score of -21.5 — gulp. Can 2024 do better? The summer hasn’t been great. This week? Still pretty not great.
JOURNALISM JUST GOT GOOGLED: -3.0
SOME GOOD PEOPLE ARE FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT FOR REPORTING: +2.5
HOLLYWOOD ACTING COULD SOON GET REALLY WEIRD: -2.O