Entertainment
Column: Fire is part of L.A.'s ethos. But this Angeleno is asking, 'Is it time to go?'
“Is it time to go?”
That’s the question my husband and I have been asking ourselves with traumatic regularity over the past seven days. As we watched the Eaton fire erupt in nearby Altadena, we wondered. When we got the evacuation warning alert, we answered: We packed the car, took a few additional minutes to scoop up some photo albums and left.
After the warning and nearby mandatory evacuations were lifted in our area on Saturday, we returned home. Our power went out on Sunday and when neighbors received texts saying it would be out until Wednesday, we asked the question again — we hadn’t bothered to unpack the cars. Then the lights went on and we figured we’d stay. On Monday, we woke again to high winds and a “particularly dangerous situation” alert from the National Weather Service.
Compared with thousands of people living in the Los Angeles area, we are incredibly lucky. And we feel that. But we’re also exhausted and, with the winds blowing hard even as I write, on edge. Now the question has become bigger and more demanding.
Is it time to go … forever? To leave, if not California then the foothills, which we have called home for 21 years?
A year or two after I moved to L.A. the Old Topanga fire of 1993 swept through Malibu, creating scenes of desperate escape and destruction similar to, if more limited than, those we’ve seen from Altadena and the Palisades. I remember at the time people darkly joking that “Malibu” was a Native American term for “Do not live here.”
Altadena also burned that year, once in a brush fire that killed two firefighters, again in a wildfire that destroyed or damaged 40 homes. But it was after Old Topanga that revered California writer, activist and historian Mike Davis wrote his famous essay, “The Case for Letting Malibu Burn,” in which he argued, among other things, that Los Angeles had already paid too high a price for allowing rich people seeking seclusion, beauty and exclusivity to build in places historically prone to fire.
Now I look at the mountains that rear up around my community of La Crescenta, beautiful hills that, depending on the time of year and amount of rainfall, can make you feel like you’re in Ireland or Scotland. And I wonder: Should we be living here?
Just two years ago, they were covered with snow; a few weeks ago, fog crept down, as it often does. On Sunday, while the Eaton fires still raged, they sat serene and seemingly untouchable against a bright blue sky, the air so clear you would never know a horrific fire continued to burn just miles away.
But I know it’s a mirage. The winds can change that in a hour; an arsonist or accidental spark in less than a minute. During the 2009 Station fire, flames were visible on the hills as we evacuated. At more than 160,000 acres, it remains the largest wildfire in Los Angeles County history, claiming the lives of two firefighters and destroying 89 homes.
The January 2025 fires will be remembered for far more widespread destruction of property. With at least 25 people dead and 12,000 structures destroyed, the Eaton and Palisades fires are among the worst in modern history — and they are still burning.
Angelenos take pride in their resilience. For many, fires (like floods or earthquakes) are the price one pays for living in paradise.
But with climate change forcing Southern California into a maddening cycle of deluge and drought, people are beginning to question the wisdom of building, or rebuilding, communities that edge up to the more wilder areas of L.A.’s varied topography. Davis’ essay is once again being quoted, directly and in subtext, as officials, experts, historians and randos on Reddit discuss the sustainability of Southern Californians living so close to hills and mountains where fire regularly breaks out.
Davis wasn’t talking about Altadena, or the foothills, where fire has been far more rare than in Topanga and Malibu. But still, if I step out of my house, I can see hills covered with dried-out brush and the tops of power stations. And I wonder.
Not that we live in an urban wilderness. We live in what is known as a developed tract, dominated by the wide streets and cheek-by-jowl midcentury homes designed by Webster Wiley. There are street lights and sidewalks; a park and a half-dozen schools lie within walking distance.
Neither did we come seeking privacy, exclusivity or even beauty, at least of the wild sort. We bought here because of the fine school district, the ease of commute to The Times, which was then downtown, and the general affordability. Down the hill in Montrose, Honolulu Boulevard is such a lively and classic small-town main street that it shows up in countless TV series and films.
Yes, as we drive up the streets that lead to our home, we dip under bowers of California oaks, see deer, bobcats and the occasional bear, but as in Altadena, there’s nothing exclusive about this part of the world and we still felt part of the metropolis; on a clear day, you can see most of downtown.
My husband and I love our home, where we have experienced most of our marriage and raised our three children. Watching as people, including friends and colleagues, post pictures of the smoldering ruins of equally beloved homes, our hearts break. But they also fill with fear. It could so easily be us. Next time, or even this time.
A house is just a house, compared with human lives. But our house is the only thing of real value that we own. (Mostly; there is still a mortgage.) It is what allowed my husband to (finally) retire at 72 and, barring some unexpected windfall, it is the only inheritance our children will have. We have fire insurance, for now, though given the recent history of that industry, our premiums could be raised to unsustainable levels or our coverage dropped altogether. And then what?
If we are fortunate and the house continues to survive this interminable fire season, we could comfort ourselves with the uniqueness of these ghastly circumstances — the 85-plus-mph “mountain wave” winds, the heavy rains in early spring followed by unusual dryness. This is not Malibu, after all. How often could such a horrific confluence of events occur?
Too often in recent years and no doubt more often in the future. Climate change is real and it is flooding, burning, battering and desiccating California, the country and the world on a daily basis. And not just in places prone to catastrophe.
Scientists warn, too many politicians ignore and the rest of us are forced to evacuate, to mourn friends and family, to gape at the wreckage of where we once lived.
I have railed, and will continue to rail, against those who refuse to quickly and resolutely address the environmental issues that threaten all life on this planet. But right now, as I check in with The Times’ excellent fire coverage and regularly tap into Watch Duty to see if the Eaton fire is on the move again, my husband and I look up at the hills and ask each other: “Is it time to go?”
Are the mountains that have delighted and inspired us for so many years now a threat? Will the eucalyptus in the corner of our yard be our undoing? Or the pine trees that tower around our neighborhood?
We have already gotten rid of our lawn, put in gravel and succulents, taken down two trees that had grown uncomfortably close to our house. But we still have roses and lavender, jasmine and ivy. We felt we had to plant two smaller trees to replace the ones we killed. Now they’ve grown and their drying leaves rattle in the wind. Was that a mistake? Is being here at all a miscalculation?
We are exhausted, we are anxious and the Santa Anas are blowing, which can shred reasonable thought even without extreme fire risk. With so many in real crisis, it’s hardly the time for the existential variety. There are thousands in critical need; contemplating what could happen is a luxury when so many must cope with what already has.
Nevertheless, the city, county and state will have to face tough questions and make hard choices once the fires are out. How do we prevent such a catastrophe from happening again? Can we?
Homes, businesses and lives will be rebuilt, but how and where?
Our car remains packed as we squint out at the hills. For now, we can only pray and await further instruction.
Movie Reviews
Roll On 18 Wheeler: Errol Sack’s ‘TRUCKER’ (2026) – Movie Review – PopHorror
I am a sucker for all those straight-to-video slasher movies from the 90’s; there was just a certain point where you knew the acting was terrible, however, it made you fall in love. I can definitely remember scanning the video store sections for all the different horror movies I could. All those movies had laughable names and boom mics accidentally getting in the frame. Trucker seems like a child of all those old dreams, because it is.
Let’s get into the review.
Synopsis
When a group of reckless teens cause an accident swroe to never speak of it. The father is reescued by a strange man. from the wreckage and nursed back to health by a mysterious old man. When the group agrees to visit the accident scene, they meet their match from a strange masked trucker and all his toys with revenge on his mind.
Roll on 18 Wheleer
Trucker is what you would imagine: a movie about a psychotic trucker chasing you. We have seen it many, many times. What makes the film so different is its homage to bad movies but good ideas. I don’t mean in a negative way. When you think of a slasher movie, it’s not very complicated; as a matter of fact, it takes five minutes to piece the film together. This is so simple and childlike, and I absolutely love it. Trucker gave us something a little different, not too gory, bad CGI fire, I mean, this is all we old schlock horror fans want. Trucker is the type of film that you expect from a Tubi Original, on speed. However, I would take this over any Tubi Original.
I found some parts that were definitely a shout-out to the slasher humor from all those movies. Another good point that made the film shine was the sets. I guess what I can say is the film is everything Joy Ride should have been. While most modern slashers are trying to recreate the 1980s, the film stands out with its love for those unloved 1990’s horror films. While most see Joyride, you are extremely mistaken, my friend; you will enjoy this film much more.

In The End
In the end, I enjoyed the entire film. At first, I saw it listed as an action thriller; I was pleasantly surprised, and Trucker pulled at my heart strings, enveloping me in its comfort from a long-forgotten time in horror. It’s a nostalgic blast for me, thinking back to that time, my friends, my youth, and finding my new home. Horror fans are split down the middle: from serial-killer clowns (my side) to elevated horror, where an artist paints a forty-thousand-year-old demon that chases them around an upper-class studio apartment. I say that a lot, but it’s the best way to describe some things.
The entire movie had me cheering while all the people I hated suffered dire consequences for their actions. It’s the same old story done in a way that we rabid fans could drool over, and it worked. In all the bad in the world today, and my only hope for the future is the soon-to-end Terrifier franchise. However, the direction was a recipe to succeed with 40+ year old horror fans like me. I see the film as a hope for tomorrow, leading us into a new era.
Trucker is set to release on March 10th, 2026
Entertainment
Review: In ‘American Classic,’ Kevin Kline and Laura Linney deliver a love letter to theater
The lovely, funny “American Classic,” premiering Sunday on MGM+, is a love letter to theater, community and community theater. Kevin Kline plays Richard Bean, a narcissistic stage actor. He’s famous enough to be opening on Broadway in “King Lear,” but he has to be pushed onstage and is forgetting lines. After he drunkenly assails a hostile New York Times critic — caught on video, of course — he’s suspended from the play, and his agent (Tony Shalhoub) advises him to get out of town and lay low until the heat’s off, as they used to say in the gangster movies.
Learning that his mother (Jane Alexander, acting royalty, in film clips) has died, Richard heads back to his small Pennsylvania hometown, where his family — all actors, like the Barrymores, but no longer acting — owns a once-celebrated theater. To Richard’s horror, it has, for want of income, become a dinner theater, hosting touring productions of “Nunsense” and “Forever Plaid” instead of the great stage works on which he cut his teeth.
Brother Jon (Jon Tenney), running the kitchen at the theater, is married to Kristen (Laura Linney), Richard’s onetime acting partner, who dated him before her marriage; now she’s the mayor. Their teenage daughter, Miranda (Nell Verlaque) — a name from Shakespeare — does want to act and move to New York, as her mother had before her, but is afraid to tell her parents. Richard’s father, Linus (Len Cariou), is suffering from dementia, though not to the point he won’t actively contribute to the action; every day he comes out again as gay.
Across the eight-episode series, things move from the ridiculous to the sublime. Richard’s attempt to stage his mother’s funeral, with her coffin being lowered from the ceiling, while “Also sprach Zarathustra” plays and smoke billows toward the audience, fortunately comes to naught; but he announces at the ceremony that he’ll direct a production of Thornton Wilder’s 1938 play “Our Town” at the theater, to “restore the soul of this town.” (His big idea is to ignore Wilder’s stage directions, which ask for no curtain, no set and few props, with a “realistic version,” featuring a working soda fountain, rain effects and a horse.) Fate will have other plans for this, and not to give away what in any case should be obvious, the title of the play will also become its ethos, with a cast of amateurs, including Miranda’s jealous boyfriend, Randall (Ajay Friese), and ordinary people standing in for the ordinary people of Wilder’s Grover’s Corners.
The series has a comfortable, cushiony feeling; it’s the sort of show that could have been made as a film in the 1990s, and in which Kline could have starred as easily in his 40s as in his 70s; it has the same relation to reality as “Dave,” in which he played a good-hearted ordinary Joe who takes the place of a lookalike U.S. president. The town is essentially a sunny place, full of mostly sunny people, to all appearances, a typical comedy hamlet. But we’re told it’s distressed, and Mayor Kristen is in transactional cahoots with developer Connor Boyle (Billy Carter), who wants clearance to build a casino on the site of a landmark hotel. (Much of the plot is driven by money — needing it, trading for it, leaving it, losing it.) He also wants his heavily accented, bombshell Russian girlfriend, Nadia (Elise Kibler), to have a part in “Our Town.”
As in the great Canadian comedy “Slings & Arrows,” set at a Shakespeare Festival outside of Toronto, themes and moments and speeches from the play being performed are echoed in the lives of the performers, while the viewer experiences the double magic of watching a fine actor playing an actor playing a part. Kline, of course, is himself an American classic, with a long stage and screen career that encompasses classical drama, romantic and musical comedy and cartoon voiceovers; the series makes room for Richard to perform soliloquies from “Hamlet” and “Henry V,” parts Klein has played onstage. He brings out the sweetness latent in Richard. Linney, who played against her sweetheart image in “Ozark,” is happily back on less deadly ground (though she’s tense and drinks a little). Tenney, who was sweet and funny on “The Closer,” and who we don’t see enough of these days, is sweeter and funnier here, and gets to sing. (All the Beans will sing, except for Linus.)
As a comedy, it is often predicable — you know that things will work out, and some major plot points are as good as inevitable — but it’s the good sort of predictability, where you get what you came for, where you hear the words you want to hear, ones you could never have written yourself. “American Classic” is not out to challenge your world view in any way but wants only to confirm your feelings and in doing so amplify them. Shock effects are fine in their place — and to be sure there are major twists in the plot — but there is a certain release when the thing you’re ready to have happen, happens, whether it brings laughter or tears. Either is welcome.
Movie Reviews
‘Scream 7’ Review: Ghostface Trades His Metallic Knife for Plastic in Bloody Embarrassing Slasher Sequel
It’s funny how this film is marketed as the first Scream movie in IMAX, yet it’s their sloppiest work to date. Williamson accomplishes two decent kills. My praise goes to the prosthetic team and gore above anything else. The filmmaking is amateurish, lacking any of the tension build and innovation in set pieces like the Radio Silence or Craven entries. Many slasher sequences consist of terribly spliced editing and incomprehensible camera movement. There was a person at my screening asking if one of the Ghostfaces was killed. I responded, “Yeah, they were shot in the head; you just couldn’t see it because the filmmaking is so damn unintelligible.”
Really, Spyglass? This is the best you can do to “damage control” your series that was perfectly fine?
I’m getting comments from morons right now telling me that I’m biased for speaking “politically” about this movie. Fuck you! This poorly made, bland, and franchise-worst entry is a byproduct of political cowardice.
The production company was so adamant about silencing their outspoken star, who simply stated that she’s against the killing of Palestinian people by an evil totalitarian regime, that they deliberately fired her, conflating her comments to “anti-semintism,” when, and if you read what she said exactly, it wasn’t. Only to reconstruct the buildup made in her arc and settle on a nonsensical, manufactured, nostalgia-based slop fest to appeal to fans who lack genuine film taste in big 2026. To add insult to injury, this movie actively takes potshots at those predecessors, perhaps out of pettiness that Williamson didn’t pen them or a mean-spirited middle finger to the star the studio fired. Truly, fuck you. Take the Barrera aspect out of this, which is still impossible, and Scream 7 is a lazy, sloppy, ill-conceived, no-vision, enshittification of Scream and a bloody embarrassment to the franchise. It took a real, morally upright actress to make Ghostface’s knife go from metal to plastic.
FINAL STATEMENT
You either die a Scream or live long enough to see yourself become a Stab.
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