We checked in with Hollywood writers a year after the strike. They’re not OK

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Christi Carras and Stacy Perman | (TNS) Los Angeles Times

LOS ANGELES — For 14 straight years, Ted Sullivan was consistently paid to pen stories for the screen. The Hollywood-based, 53-year-old TV writer and producer’s résumé boasts credits on hit shows such as “Riverdale” and “Star Trek: Discovery.”

Now, he spends seven to eight hours a day writing without pay, preparing for the unforeseeable moment that Hollywood studios start greenlighting projects and hiring writers again. He misses the picket lines of the WGA strike, which, to him, were the next best thing to working in a writers’ room, surrounded and supported by colleagues.

He hasn’t worked in a real writers’ room since the strike began.

“I feel like I’m in the worst ‘Twilight Zone’ ever,” Sullivan said, “where I wake up and I’m now 20 years old again writing spec scripts for free in my apartment.”

A year after Writers Guild of America members walked out in pursuit of higher wages, enhanced streaming residuals and limitations on the use of artificial intelligence, The Times checked in with multiple writers of varying experience levels spanning film and TV.

Some declined to be named to avoid risking future employment. All said that either they or their colleagues have struggled to find work for at least 12 months amid a contraction that has led to unstable production and employment levels across the entertainment industry.

The so-called peak TV era that enabled 599 original scripted series to land in a single year is over, likely never to return.

Film, TV, commercial and other production activity in the first quarter of 2024 was 20.5% lower than the five-year average, according to FilmLA, a nonprofit organization that tracks on-location production in the Greater Los Angeles area.

Globally, film and TV production lagged by about 7% in the first quarter of 2024 compared to the same period in 2023, per tracking company ProdPro.

“We’re not seeing this V-shaped recovery in writer employment,” said Patrick Adler, principal at Westwood Economics and Planning Associates. “If you squint, maybe it’s a slight upward bounce. But … it’s not perceptible in the data that there’s been some switch flipped on in the industry.”

The slowdown did not originate with the work stoppages of 2023. Writers and other entertainment workers began noticing a decline in employment opportunities long before the writers’ and actors’ strikes began.

Following the so-called streaming wars — when companies spent exorbitant amounts of money on direct-to-digital content to compete with Netflix — studios have dramatically slowed their pace.

Television networks have been purchasing far fewer shows, “and only from big names,” said Jess Meyer, a writer known for “The Flight Attendant.”

“You need cachet to even sell.”

The studios’ cost-cutting strategy has left writers in a pinch.

“As a viewer, what is there to watch? How can they make nothing?” Meyer said. “Even producers are saying, ‘Let’s wait until the right moment.’ I don’t know what that means.”

Some have speculated that entertainment companies are determined to lie low until they can recoup the money lost in the streaming frenzy. A studio executive who was not authorized to comment disputed that idea.

“I’ve never heard of anyone saying, … ‘We’re intentionally going to sell less,’” the executive said.

Another studio source who was not authorized to comment said the pullback was necessary because the TV production boom was “simply unsustainable.”

“Factors such as rising production costs, a lack of competitive film and television tax credits here in California, and shrinking advertising revenue certainly play into that, but this contraction is a return to normal more than anything else,” the person said.

The shrinking business has been particularly challenging for writers from underrepresented groups. Aiko Little, an early-career writer who serves as vice chair of the WGA’s Native American and Indigenous writers committee, said that they began to notice a dip in employment opportunities near the end of 2022.

From left, Lane Factor as Cheese, Paulina Alexis as Willie Jack, D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai as Bear, Devery Jacobs as Elora Danan in “Reservation Dogs,” a rare TV series centering on Indigenous characters. (Shane Brown/FX/TNS)

During the peak TV era, writers in Little’s circles encountered more openings than usual thanks to projects centered on Indigenous characters, such as FX’s “Reservation Dogs” and Peacock’s “Rutherford Falls.”

More recently, Little observed, it’s been difficult for Native American and Indigenous writers to secure jobs beyond the occasional documentary or revisionist western.

“I’m used to the uncertainty,” Little said. “But how do you explain to your community that the possible is looking more impossible?”

Some seasoned writers remember the start of the streaming revolution as a boon for writers. One screenwriter, who spoke anonymously to protect job opportunities, compared the advent of streaming to the arrival of Uber, when it seemed like “anyone with a car” could make a decent living on their own schedule.

Eventually, that started to change. Writing staffs and paychecks began to shrink. Hiring processes became more demanding and expensive, with companies requiring job candidates to participate in “pitch competitions” and prepare “elaborate PowerPoint presentations” hawking their ideas, the screenwriter said.

“It’s not enough to go in with a pitch,” said Chuck Rose, a 20-year writing veteran with several TV and film projects now in development as well as a series on Amazon. “It has to be based on [intellectual property] … and networks want them with an actor attached.”

Even when the streaming business appeared to be booming, industry leaders had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, said one studio executive who was not authorized to comment.

“I think when the pandemic started, the fear became more real,” the executive added. “I don’t think it’s a surprise to anyone who follows the business.”

The TV and streaming industry’s consolidation means writers will continue to struggle with fewer buyers. A major setback for writers was Nexstar Media Group’s 2022 takeover of the CW Network — previously considered a haven for up-and-coming storytellers seeking steady work and upward mobility.

Writers told The Times that since the CW changed hands from Paramount Global and Warner Bros.’ Discovery, one of their last reliable sources of employment has all but disappeared. Under Nexstar, the CW has been moving away from scripted, young-adult-facing dramas toward live sports and other programming targeting its parent company’s evening news-watching audience.

“Mentors had ushered many of us toward going that route,” Little said. “So when the blow of the CW happened, I think many of us were left at a bit of an impasse. … It was a challenge for the mentors as well. I think a lot of them felt, possibly, a little helpless.”

The CW sale is one of many corporate shakeups in recent years. Walt Disney Co.’s acquisition of 21st Century Fox, followed by Warner Bros.’ merger with Discovery, also have taken a toll on employment — with the possible sale of yet another major studio, Paramount, still looming.

The “Core Four” of “Riverdale” returned in Season 6. They are, from left, Betty (played by Lili Reinhart), Veronica (Camila Mendes), Archie (KJ Apa) and Jughead (Cole Sprouse). The CW was once considered a haven for early-career writers seeking steady work and upward mobility.(Courtesy The CW/TNS)

Post-merger, Warner Bros. Discovery has stood out for shelving film and TV projects that, in some cases, have already been completed, in favor of tax breaks and other savings.

“That’s work that people have spent a lot of time on that … they don’t get to put on their résumé anymore,” said Madison Bateman, an animation writer and story editor known for “DuckTales” and “The Ghost and Molly McGee.”

CGI cartoon renderings of the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote in a dim dungeon.

According to Bateman, many animated productions have switched from hiring staff writers to freelancers, who make less and sometimes have to wait several months for paychecks.

What was once a career that Bateman’s parents could “brag to their friends about” has devolved into “the exact thing that they were worried about and warned … about having a backup plan for.”

“I’m flipping furniture now,” she said. “A friend is learning to groom dogs. We’re really having to scrounge for work.”

While attention has primarily focused on the challenges in TV, film writers have been feeling the squeeze as well.

Veteran feature writer Cameron Ali Fay began to notice a downturn at the beginning of 2022, when Netflix revealed in a bombshell earnings report that it had lost 200,000 subscribers, tanking the streaming giant’s stock.

“That caused a lot of shockwaves,” Fay said. “I think every other streaming service was looking at that and thinking, ‘Oh my God, we’ve gotta tighten our belts.’”

Prior to what Fay called “the Netflix ripple effect,” feature writers could count on streamers to invest in original screenplays, even as the theatrical release calendar was decimated by the COVID-19 pandemic and ultra-fixated on established intellectual property.

Most feature writers — who aren’t fortunate enough to be operating in the big-budget IP space — have since been left to compete for dwindling streaming deals, Fay said.

“It’s a really difficult business,” Fay added, “and I’ve only seen it get more difficult for the majority of artists in the past 17 years.”

The WGA strike culminated in a historic deal in September that raised writers’ wages, established AI protections and created minimum staffing requirements.

Those gains have “started to reverse some of the damage,” one writer said. But until the rest of the industry bounces back, the wounds could take some time to fully heal. “Survive to ’25” is a sentiment that writers have begun to internalize.

“I really, really worry about these young writers, and … sometimes I feel guilt — like I should be talking them into doing something else with their lives,” Sullivan said. “But nothing would have stopped me. And I know that nothing will stop them.”

_____

©2024 Los Angeles Times. Visit at latimes.com. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.

The List: National Geographic’s over-the-top travel bucket list

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Considering National Geographic’s legendary history of exploration — they began publishing their globetrotting coverage in 1888 — it’s hardly surprising that their bucket list for 2024 is more exciting than ours.

Some of us might have had “see the Olympics in Paris” on our list. NatGeo has “run an Olympic marathon in Paris.” Turns out the city is hosting a Marathon for All on Aug. 10, when 20,000 lucky lottery winners will race the 26.2-mile route from Paris to Versailles.

Oh sure, you want to ride a horse? Go on safari? How about a horseback safari in Kenya?

Route 66 road trip? How about doing that while 600 hot air balloons soar overhead?

It’s a list that will fire your imagination, even if riding horses on safari sounds a tad scary. (There are lions!) Here’s just a peek at the top 8. Find details on all 20 adventures and plenty of other “best of the world” travel inspiration at www.nationalgeographic.com.

7 Coolest Travel Adventures for 2024

1 Go on horseback safari in Kenya

2 Run an Olympic marathon in Paris

3 Ski tour UNESCO sites in Georgia

4 Bear watch in Alaska’s Katmai National Park

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Review: ‘Gasoline Rainbow’ is a memorable teenage road trip along an improvised Oregon trail

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Wiley, Oregon is a nowhere kind of one-stoplight town. It’s not even that: The droopy overhanging traffic light blinks only yellow. No traffic. Just the light.

This forlorn image signals the start of one end of “Gasoline Rainbow,” the latest genre blur from the brothers Bill Ross IV and Turner Ross opening this weekend at the Music Box Theatre. A beat-up Econoline-type van interrupts the silence. In it are five Wiley high school graduates, nervously thrilled with the getaway they’re about to make. The kids haven’t stolen anything, other than the van “borrowed” from one of the friends’ folks. But time and the meager options afforded by Wiley have stolen plenty from these five. As we share their zigzag, life-altering itinerary, a 513-mile backroad odyssey gathers an emotional momentum we’re grateful to experience.

The Ross brothers continue their exploration of docu-fiction here (more on that shortly). The five friends make their introductions by way of their school IDs popped onto the screen. Their names: Tony Aburto, Micah Bunch, Nichole Dukes, Nathaly Garcia and Makai Garza. “Gasoline Rainbow” chronicles their fortunes on the road, the chance encounters that take them to a bonfire gathering here, a truck stop there. Their destination: the Pacific Ocean, and a raging “End of the World” party somewhere on the coast they’ve heard about.

I’d rather not detail the encounters, other than to note the overnight crash pads and bull sessions offered by various relatives and newfound acquaintances. We come to know these three young, good-hearted men and two good-hearted young women as they drink, smoke, dance, skateboard and discover what it feels like to open up about their worry about what’s next. For all that, “Gasoline Rainbow” lets the story of their lives and this particular road-trip story go where it goes. I found the movie very moving, and often funny (discussion topics range from “The Lord of the Rings” to Enya), and not far in some respects from the roads taken by Chloe Zhao’s “The Rider” and “Nomadland,” portraits of rootless or questing American spirits in a time without a compass.

And this is where we talk about what the movie is, and isn’t, and acknowledge that the Ross brothers make no bones about it.

“Gasoline Rainbow” is not a documentary. It’s fiction. The five central figures use the real names of the first-time actors playing versions of themselves, and a lot of what they talk about comes from their real lives and doubts and yearnings. But the narrative is an extended form of outlined and improvised imagination. The Ross brothers roughed out the idea in early 2020, an eyeblink before the pandemic; a little over a year later, in between pandemic lockdowns, they started filming with their cast members. Plenty of visual cues and tip-offs arrive early in “Gasoline Rainbow,” indicating the fictional/nonfictional blur afoot; an arresting shot, filmed (I think) from the front of the van, shooting inside, delights the eye while consciously or subconsciously telling you it’s not a documentary.

Neither was the Ross’s previous film “Bloody Nose, Empty Pockets,” a ripe 2020 ensemble portrait of the regular customers of a Las Vegas dive bar on the evening of the 2016 Trump victory. Actors and non-actors alike created those parts, just as the five expressive and unerring amateurs fill out parallel versions of themselves in “Gasoline Rainbow.”

Also, regarding the town of Wiley: There isn’t a Wiley, not really. It’s fictional. So it really is a nowhere kind of town, literally.

The movie suggests something more interesting, I think, than 100% truth or 100% fiction. We’re all from somewhere; we all wonder if we’re doing it right, whatever “it” is. We all dream of freedom somehow tethered to our families, our friends, our sense of belonging. The Ross brothers belong to a long, coast-to-coast family of docu-fiction landmarks, from New York-set “On the Bowery” (1956) to Los Angeles-set “The Exiles” (1961).

See it, and see what you make of this new and quite wonderful example of this in-between cinematic tradition — and of Tony, Micah, Nichole, Nathaly and Makai, both real and imagined.

“Gasoline Rainbow” — 3.5 stars (out of 4)

No MPA rating (language)

Running time: 1:48

How to watch: now showing at the Music Box Theatre, 3733 N. Southport Ave., Chicago, and limited theaters nationwide. Streaming on MUBI.com May 31

Michael Phillips is a Tribune critic.

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The bugs are coming! If a cicada invasion sounds familiar, thank Hollywood

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Magicicada septendecim, also known as Brood XIII, also known as the 17-year locust, also known as the Northern Illinois Brood, also known as the cicada you’re most likely to squash (with malice or not) in the next few weeks, has burning red eyes. Large compound suckers. Looks perpetually alarmed. Its thorax is coal black. Its wings are veined and sort of orange-red, the color of plastic jack-o’-lanterns. Not to demonize these shuffling, jumpy critters. They won’t kill you. They won’t sting you. They won’t bite your head off. You actually could eat Magicicada septendecim. Aristotle ate cicadas. What, you think you’re better than Aristotle?

Brood XIII, though, is the perfect movie bug.

If this were a film, it would eat you: Some scientists in Springfield would be working on a way to solve world hunger, except good intentions would turn bad and Brood XIII would grow to the size of small dogs and develop a taste for human flesh. More likely, in the next few weeks, as Brood XIII spreads throughout Northeast Illinois, joining up in places with cousin Brood XIX, the worst that will happen is a bunch of dead trees and squirming human flesh.

Still, if you are like me, a connoisseur of bug films, the scenario is unnerving.

They don’t bite, they suck, draining precious bodily fluids (from trees). Their names alone — Brood XIII, The Great Southern Brood, and so forth — sound intentionally ominous, and their origin story — they rise out of the earth simultaneously once every 221 years, when the soil is at least 64 degrees — is basically off-brand Stephen King I.P. There are 2,500 species of cicada, and Illinois will see the ones straight out of central (bug) casting. As many as a trillion are expected, and while evolutionary biologists are not certain how cicadas know to rise out of the soil simultaneously, they suspect it’s partly a show of strength and pragmatism:

Should they emerge all at once, yes, many will perish — but mankind can’t stop them all.

The bug, any bug, as Hollywood has taught for generations, is an unknowable, unstoppable menace, autonomous and so rich in fecundity, it outpaces man’s ability to truly eradicate. In David Cronenberg’s still touching/disgusting 1986 remake of “The Fly,” Jeff Goldblum, in the late stages of his man-to-bug transformation, delivers a sort of movie bug manifesto. He feels the rush of the house fly growing inside him. He tells Geena Davis that “Insects don’t have politics.” Insects, he says, are brutal, they show “no compassion, no compromise — we can’t trust the insect.” It’s an explosion of freedom that people will never know. But right now, he does: “I am an insect who dreamt he was a man, and now that dream is over.”

What man has over bugs is size, but inevitably, that’s never enough, either.

In the meditative 1974 science fiction cult favorite “Phase IV” — the only film directed by Saul Bass, better known for merging graphic design with movie credit sequences in classics such as “Anatomy of a Murder” and  “Psycho” — a scientist in the arid Southwest notes that his nemesis is “so defenseless in the individual, yet so powerful in mass.” He means lowly ants, which in the film, develop an ability to communicate across species and have begun to signal their intentions to man. Their messages are not inviting. The ants leave traps, take out computers, construct “2001”-like monoliths in the desert. Unlike in most bug thrillers, Bass dedicates an inordinate amount of time to watching actual bugs stalking, scurrying, forging. The point being, indeed, they look squishable. Yet there are so many of them, streaming outward in rivers of writhing ink-black malevolence, by the end of the film our hero (Michael Murphy) realizes he is being controlled by ants.

“We didn’t know for what purpose,” he says wistfully, “but we knew we would be told.”

More to the point, in the way-cheesier “Empire of the Ants” (1977), starring Joan Collins as a shady land developer, giant ants hole up in warehouse offices (seriously) and organize people (or at least Floridians) to do their bidding. “My god!” a woman shouts. “They’re herding us like cattle!” The movie bug — like the similar-sounding Borg of “Star Trek” — is a bundle of our uncanniest fears: Bugs are not individuals, bugs have patience, bugs self-sacrifice, bugs move in sync. They are the original hive mind. Like the real thing, movie bugs prove so uncomfortable to man, their verbs alone generate shivers: Bugs crawl, bugs creep, bugs nest, bugs chew, bugs cocoon. Bugs, if they’re doing their cinematic job, revolt. In “The Mist” (2007), Frank Darabont’s exceedingly nightmarish Stephen King adaptation, there’s a scene in which survivors of a giant bug invasion pick find victims pasted to the walls of a storage room, shrouded in webbing. A hand reaches out. A soldier, alive. Yet his skin pulses with nascent spiders. The soldier tumbles from the web and shatters into a puddle of bugs.

Bugs killed this man, we realize, but bugs were also holding him together.

Ew, sure. But I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I have been a lover of bug movies since my grandmother insisted on reminding me throughout my childhood that killer bees should be arriving from Mexico any day now. Gen X, back me up: Nukes were eventual, but killer bees were always just around the corner.

So, for a brief window in the 1970s, disaster movies merged with those newspaper warnings of coming insect plagues. As bad as the William Shatner vehicle “Kingdom of the Spiders” (1977) was, its images burrowed like termites: children (and their bikes) covered in webs, country roads littered with spiders. Rachel Carson didn’t predict in “Silent Spring” that William Shatner would one day hopscotch through streets of poisonous tarantulas, but “Kingdom of the Spiders” did raise real-world fears that pesticides could kill natural predators, creating imbalances in nature. “Squirm” (1976) promised a world in which extreme weather would lead (somehow) to everyday worms ganging up in carnivorous undulating spaghetti dinners that borrow into your face and make cicada-like cries of digital white noise sounding suspiciously like busted synthesizers.

The peak of this mini-trend was “The Swarm.” Its cast alone is proof that folks in the 1970s were sweating the threat of bug infestations: Henry Fonda plays a scientist, Olivia de Havilland plays a schoolteacher, Richard Chamberlain plays a doctor. Michael Caine, the hero, is shocked when killer bees invade Texas: “The bees have always been our friends!” But they derail trains, cause a nuclear explosion and completely raze Houston. (“Will history blame me or the bees?” asks the general, played by Richard Widmark.) The best part is the earnest disclaimer over the credits that plays now like a parody of environmentalism: “The African killer bee portrayed in this films bears absolutely no relationship to the industrious hard-working American honey bee to which we are indebted for pollinating vital crops that feed our nation.” I mean, the last thing Warner Bros. would need is picketing honey bees.

Especially after generations of mixed messaging.

If bug flicks since the 1970s have been largely concerned with unstoppable infestations of normal-size pests, Hollywood’s depiction of insects prior to Nixon and disco were defined by scale. In 1954, four months before “Godzilla” was initially released in Japan, launching the age of atomic monsters, “Them!” and its giant radioactive ants in the New Mexico desert scrambled there first. The opening scenes remain an effectively spooky template: A child is found wandering, only able to say “THEM!” A trailer is found demolished. A storekeeper is found dead, full of formic acid, a chemical generated by ants. What does it mean? A myrmecologist (Edmund Gwenn, who won an Oscar for playing Santa in “Miracle on 34th Street”) decides atomic testing at the nearby White Sands military base created big ants.

Giant bug movies of the 1950s played like “Frankenstein” smooshed against UFO invasion pictures with a heaping side of Cold War metaphor: Giant locusts (“Beginning of the End”) attack Chicago, a giant spider attacks Arizona (“Tarantula”), giant scorpions (“The Black Scorpion”) attack Mexico City. A few facts about the organized, devious nature of the invading hordes get muttered by scientists and generals, then invariably someone has to “call Washington.” Unless Washington is already threatened (“The Deadly Mantis”). Not unlike when politicians spoke of the Soviets, the predictions could get positively Biblical: “An entire population razed for deliverance!” screamed the trailer for “Black Scorpion.”

And the Bible doesn’t have a lot of good things to say about insects.

Most “are to be hated” (Leviticus 11:20). In fact, it’s a short walk from the Bible to the visceral nausea that characterizes the gnarliest use of bugs in movies. Kate Capshaw swings wildly at millions of bugs in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom,” but it’s that single centipede that crawls into her hair that gets the audience gagging. One large spider crawls down the belly of a woman in the shower in “Arachnophobia.” There’s a bug scene in Peter Jackson’s remake of “King Kong” full of throbbing fanged pink worms but it’s the way the rescue party swats and spins and waves frantically at themselves that get across the ick.

Even as I write this, I itch.

But it’s hard to say precisely why. Bugs have become a shorthand for countless concerns, from mental collapse (“Bug,” William Friedkin’s 2006 adaptation of the Tracy Letts play), to feeling small (“A Bug’s Life“), to the dehumanization of the proletariat in probably the most celebrated bug story of all, Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.” But disgust is probably most common.

Nothing coveys revulsion faster than a wiggling dark clump of cockroaches. There’s nothing worse than walking into a cloud of gnats. Movie bugs play off this, like a psychosomatic extension of 3-D, causing physical recoil by merely being. Yet we hardly matter to them. As naturalist E.O. Wilson once wrote: “If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.” When cicadas — whose shrill whine sounds eerily like the evil ants of “Them!” — occupy our streets this summer, keep that mind. They do not want your flesh, and they do not want to herd you like cows.

But they will outlast you.

Step lively.

cborrelli@chicagotribune.com