Jensen McRae is still chewing over something her therapist told her during their first session together.
“I was talking about how sensitive I am and how I was feeling all these feelings,” the 27-year-old singer and songwriter recalls, “and she was like, ‘You have yet to describe a feeling to me — everything you’ve described is a thought.’” McRae’s eyes widen behind her stylish glasses. “That destroyed me. She said, ‘Feelings are in your body. Thoughts are in your head.’
“This was like six years ago, and I think about it constantly.”
A proudly bookish Los Angeles native whose academic ambitions took her to the competitive Harvard-Westlake School, McRae wrote her first song at around age 8; by the time she was a teenager, music had become her way to cope with the cruelty of the world. Yet when she looks back at the stuff she wrote when she was younger, what strikes her isn’t that it was too raw — it’s that it wasn’t raw enough.
“I think I was trying to intellectualize my feelings to get away from being vulnerable,” she says. “Now I know there’s room for both — there’s a way to be intellectually rigorous about my sensitivity.”
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Indeed there is, as McRae demonstrates on her knockout of a sophomore album, “I Don’t Know How But They Found Me!” Released in April by the respected indie label Dead Oceans (whose other acts include Mitski and Phoebe Bridgers), the LP documents the dissolution of two romantic relationships in gleaming acoustic pop songs that use gut-punch emotional detail to ponder complicated ideas of gender, privilege and abuse.
In “Massachusetts,” a snippet of which blew up when she posted it on TikTok in 2023, she captures the private universe she shared with an ex, while “Let Me Be Wrong” thrums with an overachiever’s desperation: “Something twisted in my chest says I’m good but not the best,” she sings, the rhyme so neat that you can almost see her awaiting the listener’s approving nod.
“I Can Change Him” is an unsparing account of the narrator’s savior complex that McRae was tempted to leave off the album until her team convinced her otherwise. “I think of myself as an evolved and self-actualized woman,” she says with a laugh. “So the admission that I thought it would be my love that transforms this person — I mean, it’s super embarrassing.” Then there’s “Savannah,” which lays out the lasting damage left behind after a breakup, and the chilling “Daffodils,” in which McRae sings about a guy who “steals base while I sleep.”
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McRae’s songs don’t flinch from trauma, but they can also be very funny. “I’d like to blame the drugs,” she sings, longing for toxic old comforts in a song called “I Don’t Do Drugs.” And here’s how she brings the guy in “I Can Change Him” to life in just a few lines:
Same old eight-dollar cologne Same old he can’t be alone Same old cigarettes he rolls Same old Cozmo’s “Plastic Soul”
Asked whether she’d rather make someone laugh or cry, McRae needs no time to think. “I’m always proud when I make someone cry,” she says as she sits on a park bench in Silver Lake on a recent afternoon. “But more important to me than being the sad girl is that I’m funny — that’s way more important to my identity.” She smiles.
“I’ve definitely made dark jokes where people are like, ‘That’s horrible that you think you can joke about that,’” she says. “I’m like, ‘It’s my thing — the sad thing happened to me.’”
McRae’s music has attracted some famous fans. In 2024 she opened for Noah Kahan on tour, and she recently jammed with Justin Bieber at his place after the former teen idol reached out on Instagram with kind words about “Massachusetts.” Last month, McRae — a graduate of USC’s Thornton School of Music — played a pair of packed hometown shows at the El Rey where she introduced “Savannah” by telling the crowd, “You are not defined by the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
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“Jensen is extremely … if I say the word ‘gifted,’ you’ll be like, ‘okay’ — but she truly is a gifted individual,” says Patrice Rushen, the veteran jazz and R&B musician who mentored McRae as chair of the Thornton School’s popular music program. (Among the classics McRae learned to perform during her studies was Rushen’s 1982 “Forget Me Nots.”) Rushen praises the depth and precision of McRae’s songwriting — “her ability to see beyond what’s right in front of her and to find just the right word or texture in her storytelling.”
“I adored her as a student,” Rushen adds.
McRae was born in Santa Monica and grew up in Woodland Hills in a tight-knit family; her dad is Black and her mom is Jewish, and she has two brothers — the older of whom is her business manager, the younger of whom plays keyboard in her road band.
The singer describes herself as both a goody two-shoes and a teacher’s pet, which she affectionately blames on her father, a lawyer who went to UCLA and Harvard Law School. “He was born in 1965 — his birth certificate says ‘Negro’ on it, which is crazy,” she says. “His whole life, it was: ‘You have to be twice as good to get half as far.’ And even though I was born in the ’90s, that was still kind of instilled in us.
“Especially being at Harvard-Westlake,” she adds. “I was one of the few Black kids, and I didn’t want to be underestimated. Now, I find being underestimated kind of funny because I have so much confidence in my own ability that when someone thinks I’m not gifted in whatever way, I’m like, ‘Oh, you’ll find out you’re wrong soon enough.’”
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McRae studied songwriting at USC’s Thornton School of Music.
(Michael Rowe / For The Times)
Having absorbed the songwriting fundamentals of James Taylor, Sara Bareilles and Taylor Swift, McRae entered USC in 2015 and played her first gig — “the first one that wasn’t a school talent show,” she clarifies — at L.A.’s Hotel Cafe after her freshman year.
“I don’t know if my mom knows this, but I told her not to come,” she recalls with a laugh. “I was like, ‘I’m 18 — I’m grown up now — and I’m gonna be hanging with all these cool people.’” In fact, her audience that night consisted of only the bartender and the other acts on the bill.
Her creative breakthrough came when she wrote her song “White Boy” when she was 20. It’s about feeling invisible, and McRae knew she’d achieved something because “when I finished it, I was like, ‘I can never play this in front of anyone.’” A few years later, during the COVID-19 pandemic, she fired off a jokey tweet imagining that Bridgers would soon write a song about “hooking up in the car while waiting in line to get vaccinated at dodger stadium”; the post went viral, racking up shares from thousands of people, including Bridgers.
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“I had to put my phone in a drawer because it was buzzing so much,” says McRae, who ended up writing the song herself and calling it “Immune.”
For “I Don’t Know How But They Found Me!” — the title borrows a line of dialogue from “Back to the Future” — McRae sought a lusher sound than she got on her folky 2022 debut; she recorded the album in North Carolina with the producer Brad Cook, who’s also worked with Bon Iver and Waxahatchee and who helped fill out the songs with appealing traces of turn-of-the-millennium pop by Avril Lavigne and Ashlee Simpson.
As a singer, McRae can expertly control the sob in her voice, as in “Tuesday,” a stark piano ballad about a betrayal made all the more painful by how little it meant to the traitor. At the El Rey, McRae doubled down on that theme in a florid yet intimate rendition of “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” the Mike Reid/Allen Shamblin tune that Bonnie Raitt turned into one of pop’s greatest anthems of dejection.
What did McRae learn about songwriting at USC? She mentions a technique called “toggling,” which one professor illustrated using John Mayer’s “Why Georgia.”
“The first line is, ‘I’m driving up ’85 in the kind of morning that lasts all afternoon,’” McRae says. “That’s a description of the outside world. Then the next line is, ‘I’m just stuck inside the gloom,’ toggling back to the internal emotion. That’s something I pay attention to now. If I’m writing a verse, I’ll do scene-setting, scene-setting, scene-setting, then how do I feel about it?”
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McRae is particularly good at dropping the listener into a scenario, as in “Savannah,” which starts: “There is an intersection in your college town with your name on it.” To get to that kind of intriguing specificity, she’ll sometimes write six or eight lines of a verse, to discard the first few — “Those are often just filler words,” she says — and “rearrange the rest so that whatever I had at the end goes at the top. Now I have to beat that.”
For all her craft, McRae knows that songwriting is just one of the skills required of any aspiring pop star. She loves performing on the road, though touring has become “physically punishing,” as she puts it, since she was diagnosed a few years ago with a thyroid condition and chronic hives, both of which have led to a severely restricted diet. She recently posted a TikTok in which she detailed her regimen of medications — one attempt, she says, to bring some visibility to the topic of chronic illness. (That said, McRae admits to being unsettled by the DM she received the other day from a fan who recognized her at her allergist’s office: “They’re like, ‘Hey, I saw you — I was going in to get my shots too.’”)
McRae views social media more broadly as “a factory that I clock into and clock out of.” She’s well aware that it’s what enabled her to start building an audience. And she’s hardly anti-phone. “I love being on my phone,” she says. “I literally was born in the right generation. But when it comes to constantly looking at images of myself, that’s my business card or my portfolio — it’s not actually me, the human being.”
In January, she deleted TikTok during the brief outage related to President Trump’s ban of the app. “Then, of course, it came back right away, but I couldn’t re-download it. So for a month I didn’t have TikTok. As it turns out, I was fine.”
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Arguably better?
“Probably, yeah. I’m back on it now, obviously, because I have to do promo. At first I thought it was the loudest, most overstimulating thing in the world — I couldn’t believe I used it. Then after a week, I was like, oh yeah, no, I’m reacclimated.”
A family and friends gather for a naming-day ceremony at a Danish seaside hotel, but an unexpected appearance by one uninvited attendee (Trine Dyrholm) ruptures the veil of bland, happy-clappy familial unity in director Mads Mengel’s gutsy, well-wrought debut feature, The Guest.
The most audacious move here may be Mengel and co-screenwriter Christian Bengtson’s choice to write something that will inevitably invite comparisons with Festen (The Celebration), arguably the most notorious Danish-language film of the last 30 years, which similarly revolved around a bougie gathering disrupted by angry revelations. But there’s a savvy 2026 vibe about the way the film refuses to create florid melodrama out of quotidian crisis, and instead observes with generosity as the characters grope awkwardly toward emotional détente and mutual forgiveness.
The Guest
The Bottom Line
When wetting the baby’s head goes too far.
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Venue: Karlovy Vary Film Festival Cast: Simon Bennebjerg, Trine Dyrholm, Josephine Park, Peter Gantzler, Petrine Agger, Mette Klakstein Wiberg, Kristine Kujath Thorp, Buster Lund Luscher Director: Mads Mengel Screenwriter: Christian Bengtson, Mads Mengel
1 hour 40 minutes
Festen-alumnus Dyrholm, having a bit of a career moment with outstanding performances both here and in the recent The Girl With the Needle among others, leads a uniformly excellent cast in a work that deserves celebration on the festival circuit and beyond.
Dyrholm’s Vibeke is technically the first person we meet, although she’s seen only in shadow at first as she smokes and drives while her unattached seatbelt, caught outside by a closed door, clatters on the road. This is the kind of unsafe driving her son Karl (Simon Bennebjerg) so deplores, a point of contention later on in the story when he will steal her car keys in interest of her own safety and that of others.
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But well before we get to that flashpoint, the film introduces Karl, effectively the film’s protagonist, as he arrives at the swanky resort with his wife Emilie (Mette Klakstein Wiberg) and their infant son Elliot (Buster Lund Luscher). The young family, who’ve chosen this new, secular tradition instead of a christening to welcome their child to the world, are there a day before the ceremony to meet up with core family members.
As this advance party settles down for dinner, a table that includes Karl’s sister Rikke (Josephine Park) and Emilie’s parents Frank (Peter Gantzler) and Kirsten (Petrine Agger), there’s a surprise: Vibeke is coming, courtesy of Rikke’s invitation. Karl is quietly furious and seems determined to turn her away, even when she shows up minutes later. Poor Frank and Kirsten look on confused, determinedly polite in their insistence that all family members should be welcome.
Bengtson and Mengel’s economical script carefully dripfeeds backstory as the film unfolds to explain that Karl hasn’t spoken to his mother in years, that Rikke has taken over all the daily mom management and that she’s very worn out by it. Even so, she insists Vibeke is regularly taking her medication and isn’t a problem these days, although to Karl every weird anecdote and moment of emotional intensity is an augur of impending chaos. Rikke counters that their mother is just “big, that’s her personality not her condition.”
Interestingly, that specific condition is never named throughout, although armchair diagnosticians might spot many of the signs of bipolar disorder. But the film’s emotional focus on the person and her actions rather than the label is also very contemporary, reflecting a more holistic, inclusive mindset and approach to dealing with mental health issues.
Which is all fine and dandy, until Vibeke duly does skip a dosage and starts getting manic. One of the first signs of chemical imbalance arrives during the ceremony on the beach, when Vibeke carries little Elliot much further away from the shore than anyone wants, creating a panic. From there it just gets worse as Vibeke picks up on the censorious feeling emerging from the other party guests, who had found her so charming the night before when she’d led everyone to the casino to play roulette and diverted a bunch of partying teenagers from the room next to Karl and Emilie so they could get some sleep. When the toasts at the formal dinner begin, Vibeke’s mood darkens much further, and if we’ve all learned one thing from Festen, it’s be very afraid when a Dane gets up to make a toast.
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Cinematographer David Bauer’s nimble-footed lensing and use of natural light does indeed hark back considerably to the look of those Dogme 95 movies back in the day, as does the naturalistic editing style deployed by Louis Emil Ramm Seeberg. But there are plenty of sins against the rules of cinematic chastity that marked that movement, such as the ample space made for Lasse Aagaard’s affecting, low-key score that amps up the anxiety as Vibeke starts to spiral.
That said, Mengel keeps things simple in sonic terms when it really counts, letting the musicality of Dyrholm’s deep, sonorous voice ring out on its own in the big monologue scenes. She is, as ever, utterly mesmerizing but the performance is made even more powerful by the muted, expressive reactions of the rest of the cast as they look on, frozen like deer in the headlights of the car crash of pseudo-christening. Moments of levity puncture the gloom, but the final feeling is one of numbed sorrow and pity for all these kind, fallible people, just trying to do their best.
Rhea Seehorn was nervous about whether “Pluribus” would be recognized by Emmy voters Wednesday when nominations were announced. So she was jubilant when she and the surreal sci-series on Apple TV scored 18 nominations, the most for a first-year drama.
“I’m just so grateful,” the actor said in a phone interview. “People were like, ‘Why were you nervous?’ Honestly, you never actually know. I’m just so thrilled for the show, my co-stars, the production design, the editing, the writing, the music, the sound. I haven’t moved from my couch since they first announced everything because I’m still trying to call everybody on the show.”
Seehorn received a nomination for lead actress in a drama series for her portrayal of cynical Carol Sturka, a fantasy romance author who finds herself in a mystifying situation after a virus seems to have wiped out most of Earth’s population. The series was created by Vince Gilligan, who created the acclaimed series “Breaking Bad” and co-created its spinoff “Better Call Saul,” which also featured Seehorn.
The actor compared her experience of being nominated for “Pluribus” to “Better Call Saul,” which earned her two supporting actress nominations: “ ‘Better Call Saul’ was such a family that supported and cheered each other on, and I’m so grateful I have that environment again. People could not be happier for each other, and we get to celebrate the show together.”
She added, “The only part that feels different is that it’s my first nomination as a lead. It’s the process of Vince writing this for me and seeing the mountain which he wanted me to climb and going through that process. The whole thing has been its own journey, so ending up with awards and nominations, and being so well received by critics and fans is not lost on me.”
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The series has been applauded for its mix of drama, comedy and strangeness in its portrait of a woman coming to terms to what seems like an impossible dilemma.
“I love the storytelling, how much Vince and I would drill down on making this as authentic as we could in terms of an everyman who has to deal with an insane situation,” Seehorn said. “Most of us are just not heroic or leaping off the couch to go save the world. And Carol is dealing with immense grief and confusion in an utter dystopian crisis. I love the humor and the drama that comes out of us being as realistic as we can with her amidst an unrealistic event.”
Fans of “Pluribus” have been relentlessly curious since the finale in December about when the second season will launch.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Seehorn said. “I don’t have to keep secrets because I’m not great at keeping them, and I know nothing. I don’t know what I’m doing with an atom bomb in the driveway. I can’t wait to find out. The writers want to have the same quality and reward the intelligence of the fans and never phone a single thing in. So their process is their process.”
In a roundabout way, the fact that I don’t have a strong attachment to The Wizard of Oz as a film (my late mother loved it, so that memory is deeply rooted in me, but the movie itself never did much for me) contributed directly to how amusing I found Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass to be. This comedy spoofs the plot of the classic fantasy movie, though the jokes are largely about Hollywood. The humor is big and broad, with some of the jokes really landing. Others? Not so much. Still, more than enough do to warrant a recommendation.
Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass gets a lot of mileage out of sending up show business, even if the observations, while funny, are not particularly new. Besides the deluge of jokes, there’s also a lot of likably broad characters to spend time with, especially our lead. They make the 90 minutes and change spent together with them go down very easy.
Sony Pictures Classics
For Gail Daughtry (Zoey Deutch), her life as a small town hairdresser is perfect. Engaged to her high school sweetheart Tom (Michael Cassidy), she’s the picture of happiness, at least until a trip to a celebrity book signing. There, Tom meets and ends up sleeping with his “celebrity pass,” a term Gail wasn’t even really previously aware of. Feeling betrayed, Gail impulsively joins her co-worker and friend Otto (Miles Gutierrez-Riley) on a trip to Los Angeles. There, a psychic convinces her that the can save her marriage by sleeping with her own celebrity pass: Jon Hamm (Jon Hamm).
Journeying through Tinseltown in a manner that recalls Dorothy’s adventure in Oz, Gail and Otto won’t have to find Hamm alone. Joining forces with talent agency assistant Caleb (Ben Wang), down on his luck paparazzo Vincent (Ken Marino), and actor John Slattery (John Slattery). As they search for Hamm, some for their own purposes, they meet other celebrities, while also being hunted by a group of Italian assassins after a case of mistaken identity. Eventually, they come across Hamm, and the moment of truth is at hand.
Sony Pictures Classics
Zoey Deutch dives headfirst into a broad comedy like this, absolutely relishing the opportunity to get silly again. She’s able to make Gail a babe in the woods but also someone you laugh with, not at. It’s a wildly enjoyable turn. Deutch started out in comedies and was always a talented comedic actress, so it’s a pleasure to watch her back at it. Miles Gutierrez-Riley and Ben Wang get some very funny moments, while Ken Marino is a reliable comic presence. Jon Hamm and John Slattery are delighted to be sending up themselves, with amusing results. Supporting players here, in addition to Michael Cassidy, also include Kerri Kenney, Richard Kind, Thomas Lennon, Joe Lo Truglio, Fred Melamed, and more, plus some cameos.
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Filmmaker David Wain, again co-writing with Ken Marino, continues to make it look easy. Few can make a silly comedy like Marino and Wain, especially as they pack their flicks with extra bits that only subsequent viewings reveal. Is Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass on the same level as Wet Hot American Summer or They Came Together? No, not quite. At the same time, is this, scattershot approach and all, funnier than most other 2026 releases? You bet. Marino and Wain have a hit rate that allows some of the jokes to miss, as you only have seconds to wait before the next one, which probably will hit.
Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass is very amusing, and occasionally hilarious, even if not as many jokes land as you might expect. Zoey Deutch is great in the lead role, David Wain is in his comfort zone, and the laughs come hot and heavy. If you’re a Wain fan, this new movie should be a must see.
Sony Pictures Classics
Sony Pictures Classics
