Every coach I ever had told me to keep my head up. Here I am, eyes locked on the ball. That pretty much explains why the pros never called.

Let me start with a confession that won’t surprise anyone who knows me. I spent the last few weeks yelling at my television, hugging my corgi, and occasionally wiping my eyes over a game I have no business being this emotional about.

And before I say anything nice, let me say the true thing first. FIFA, as an organization, is essentially unrivaled when it comes to greed and corruption. That’s not a hot take. That’s just the scoreboard. What makes it worse, genuinely worse, is that FIFA holds hostage this beautiful thing that billions of people around the globe love. They didn’t build the beauty. They just own the gate and charge admission to our joy.

So. That’s on the record.

And yet.

This tournament has been spectacular. I mean it. Some of these characters and storylines were the kind of thing you couldn’t sell to a studio because they’d tell you it was too much. The ascendance of Cape Verde, a nation you could fit in a corner of Los Angeles, walking onto the biggest stage in sports. Erling Haaland and all of Norway leaning into their Viking heritage, minus the plundering. Messi, at 39 years old, somehow dragging Argentina to the final by sheer will and muscle memory. Lamine Yamal, at nineteen, somehow dragging Spain to that same final. The best strikers on earth elbowing each other for the Golden Boot like kids fighting over the last slice.

Almost every game was riveting. And America’s run was mesmerizing. That last game against Belgium broke my heart in the specific way only sports can, the way that feels completely disproportionate and completely real at the same time. Luckily, a lifetime of L.A. Clippers fandom prepared me for exactly this kind of grief. I’ve been in training for heartbreak since before some of these players were born.

But here’s what stayed with me after the final whistle.

My own World Cup, my first real one, started at the very beginning, and it started with Iran. From the moment they walked onto the field, I found myself rooting for them. Not for any complicated reason, and not in spite of everything happening in the world. Because of it. An American, in a tournament played partly on American soil, in a year like this one, quietly pulling for Iran. The world needed that. And I felt it in my chest before I could explain it. That was the moment I was in, all the way in.

Because that’s the thing. For weeks, every single day, we watched people from different continents gather joyfully in the same place. Different languages. Different religions. Different colors of skin. Countries with real, serious, ugly history between them, and their fans standing shoulder to shoulder, painted up, screaming, crying, hugging strangers over a ball crossing a line. Something born out of cynicism and avarice still managed to produce moments of genuine human beauty.

I’m not defending the cynicism. I’m not laundering the avarice. I’m just telling you what I saw.

And I’ll tell you something else the final settled for me. For most of my life, one thing genuinely bugged me about soccer: the best team didn’t always win. A whole tournament could come down to penalty kicks, a coin flip in cleats, and the better side would go home wondering what the hell just happened. This time, the better side won. And here’s my confession. I ached to watch Messi ride off into the sunset on some impossible, storybook note. One last miracle at 39, the ending they’d write a movie about. But Spain deserved it. Yamal and that team were the best on the grass, and they got exactly what they earned. It was fitting. It was even, in its own way, a kind of justice. The fairy tale I wanted lost to the ending that was true. And I’ve been around long enough to know that’s usually the ending worth respecting.

Because life rarely hands us clean categories. And part of being an adult, maybe the hardest part, is understanding that you can love something complicated. A game. A spouse. A parent. A country celebrating its 250th birthday. You don’t have to pretend the ugly parts aren’t there. But you do have to accept that a lot of the joy in this life arrives tangled up in systems we would never have designed and couldn’t fully defend if you put us on the stand.

I’ve lived long enough to know that almost nothing is entirely good or entirely bad. The people I’ve loved most were not simple. The best careers I’ve helped build were not straight lines. My own story sure as hell isn’t a clean category. Life is gradations, subtle ones, all the way down.

And that, to me, is exactly why storytelling matters, why real narrative journalism matters. A chart can’t hold a contradiction. A bullet point can’t show you FIFA taking a cut while a kid from Cape Verde weeps into his national flag. Only a story can carry both of those truths in the same hand and make you feel the weight of them. Stories shine a light on the parts of reality most of us would never otherwise see, let alone understand.

So no, I won’t tell you it was all beautiful, and I won’t tell you it was all rotten. It was both. It usually is.

Love the complicated thing. Just don’t lie to yourself about what you’re loving.

HOLLYWOOD · REFLECTIONS

I want to tell you something I have never told anyone: in sixty years of working and living in Hollywood — 40 years of premieres, screenings, junkets, festivals, and every conceivable kind of industry event and I have never once stolen a poster off a wall.

Until a few nights ago.

After the screening of Is God Is, I walked past the lobby display on my way out and I stopped. I looked at that poster for a long moment. And then I took it. Tucked it under my arm, and walked out like I’d done it a thousand times. I have not done it once before in my life.

That should tell you everything you need to know about what this film did to me.

✦

I’ve seen a lot of movies. A lot. It comes with the territory when you’ve spent your life in this business. And I’ll be honest with you — it has been a long time since I walked out of a screening and couldn’t shake it the next morning. Couldn’t shake it the morning after that either. Is God Is has been living in me since I saw it, and I’m still not entirely sure what to do with that.

The film, directed by Aleshea Harris in a remarkable debut, follows twin sisters — Racine and Anaia — who receive word that the mother they believed died in a childhood house fire is actually alive, badly burned, and on her deathbed. The fire was no accident. Their father set it. And their dying mother, whom the girls call God, has one final request for her daughters: make him dead.

That’s the premise. What Harris does with it is something else entirely.

“What this film is really about is the right to feel what you feel — fully, without apology, without someone deciding your reaction is too much.”

— BRIAN MEDAVOY

I’ve been around long enough to know when a filmmaker is doing something genuinely new. Harris fuses Greek tragedy, Black Southern gothic, and a kind of spaghetti western rhythm into a story that shouldn’t hold together on paper — and onscreen it is absolutely riveting. The performances, particularly Kara Young as the fire-driven Racine and Mallori Johnson as the more inward Anaia, are the kind you remember years later. Sterling K. Brown, as the father they call Man, is quietly terrifying in the way only truly great acting can be.

And then there is Mykelti Williamson. I’ll be transparent with you: Mykelti is my client, and has been for some time. But I want to be equally transparent about something else… I would be writing these exact words whether he was or not. He plays Man’s shady lawyer, a character who carries one of the film’s most harrowing secrets, and what Mykelti does with that role in a relatively limited amount of screen time is extraordinary. He makes you feel the weight of every year that man spent compromised, complicit, and cornered. It’s the kind of performance that reminds you what it looks like when a truly gifted actor is given material worthy of them. I’ve believed in Mykelti’s brilliance for a long time. Watching this film, I was proud all over again — and honestly, a little grateful that the rest of the world gets to see what I already knew once again !

But what I can’t stop thinking about what followed me home and apparently drove me to minor theft…. IS is what the film is actually about.

✦

In six decades of working with talent, I’ve sat across the table from a lot of people who’ve been told, in one way or another, that what they’re feeling is too much. Too angry. Too raw. Too honest. And I’ve watched what happens to people who spend a lifetime learning to make themselves smaller so that others are more comfortable.

Is God Is refuses that bargain entirely. It asks a harder question: what does it cost a person to suppress righteous anger for years and years? What does it look like when that rage finally has nowhere left to go but out?

Harris isn’t making a film that celebrates violence for its own sake. She’s making a film about reckoning. About what happens when people who have been denied justice for a very long time decide they are done waiting for someone else to deliver it. There is moral complexity here that Hollywood rarely allows its characters and almost never allows characters who look like Racine and Anaia.

That, more than anything, is why this film matters. And why it deserves to be seen.

✦

I’ve spent my career trying to find stories that tell the truth. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes the business gets in the way of the truth and you do the best you can. But every now and then, something comes along that reminds you why any of us got into this in the first place — why stories matter, why cinema at its best is an act of radical empathy.

Is God Is is one of those films. It will shake something loose in you if you let it.

Go see it. And if there happens to be a poster in the lobby on your way out — well. I understand if you’re tempted.

Mine Wasn’t Like That

I read something about Jonah Hill talking about how he stepped away because he wasn’t happy — and now he wants to come back and just be funny again.

It made me think.

Because his version of it is clean.

He stepped back. Built a life. Got happy. Found his way back.

Mine wasn’t like that.

I didn’t step away from things that weren’t working.

I sabotaged things that were.

Relationships. Opportunities. Stability. The stuff people spend their whole lives trying to build.

So what’s the relevance?

Actually… it’s the same story. Just a different expression of it.

Because at the core of both is the same thing: being disconnected from yourself.

For some people, that shows up as anxiety. For others, it shows up as shutting down. And for some of us… it shows up as blowing up anything good before it has a chance to last.

I’ve seen it with clients for 30 years. I just don’t think I fully recognized it in myself until later.

What Hill is talking about — getting back to what made him love it in the first place — isn’t just about comedy. It’s about returning to something honest.

And the truth is, however you get there — whether you quietly step away or crash your way out — the work is the same.

You have to find your way back to yourself.

Not the version that’s trying to win.

Not the version that’s trying to prove something.

The version that actually enjoys it.

That’s where everything starts working again.

Not perfectly.
But honestly.

And honestly is the only thing that ever really sustains.

Brian Medavoy:

Watching the Golden Globes this year, I felt something I haven’t felt in a while: relief.

Not because George Clooney showed up.nNot because Julia Roberts reminded everyone what a “movie star” actually means.

But because the energy was different.

They weren’t chasing anything. They weren’t explaining themselves. They weren’t performing for approval. They walked in like time never passed.

And it hit me: Hollywood still makes room for the grown-ups.
Not always. Not automatically. But it does.

I’m writing this with my client and friend Rob Morrow because we’re both at an age where patterns become impossible to ignore. We’ve lived long enough in this business to know what’s real and what’s noise. We’ve had the highs, the quiet stretches, and those strange in-between years where you’re still talented, still hungry… but the industry isn’t quite sure where to place you.

Those are what we call — lovingly — the weird wig years.

Not because you’re wearing an actual wig.
Because sometimes your career feels like one: it fits… but it doesn’t feel like you.

Hollywood loves the word comeback. But most careers don’t work like that. Most careers are cycles:
work, build, win, lose, learn, survive, repeat.

So the real question isn’t “How do you come back?”

It’s how do you stay without losing yourself?

That’s what Clooney and Julia were radiating. Not Look at me, I’m back.
More like: I never left. I just wasn’t performing for you.

That’s the spirit of this piece: re-emergence. Not desperation. Not nostalgia. A return with clarity, ease, and a little more truth.

Rob Morrow:

The word is viability. What makes someone viable.

I recently did a benefit reading of the screenplay All The President’s Men with Ethan Hawke. In the Q&A afterwards, he talked about being “on the hustle” since he was 15. About trying to stay “relevant.”

I thought about Ethan doing one line in the movie Quiz Show, he was already an established actor. He said he admired Robert Redford so much that he just wanted to see how he worked. Ethan’s a novelist, a documentary filmmaker, a songwriter. I thought about those variables. To hear him speak, you would have no sense that he is in the midst of a beautiful mid-career surge. A re-emergence…

Creativity is a gift. Not to get too metaphysical, but it’s a portal. And keeping it open requires work.

George Clooney just made his Broadway debut. Julia Roberts paints and is very philanthropic. By the way, did you notice at the Golden Globes, the generous acknowledgement Julia gave to Eva Victor, who made an auspicious debut as director/writer/star with their poignant, plaintive film Sorry, Baby? That gesture is a currency and Julia knew it. She basically anointed the filmmaker/star.

Generosity is a by product of Maturity. Maturity is a source of power. If it’s conscious.

I have multiple projects I’m developing. Movies, TV shows, from books, original ideas. I wrote a memoir. I’m writing a novel. I write and perform music. I do plays in little theaters that few know of, or see. I do a podcast. I exercise. I meditate. These are all ends unto themselves for me. But they also translate into momentum.

Momentum is everything. It’s physics. Newton’s First Law of Motion; a body at rest stays at rest until an external force acts upon it. That is — action. Never stop taking action. Seek, engage, express.

The reason it looks as if George and Julia and Sean Penn and Steve Martin have not gone away… is because they haven’t. Maybe they weren’t in every news cycle, but they were always in motion. Always evolving.

The reason it feels like the grown ups are in the room is because they have grown up. Evolved. Matured with grace and humility. Not too long ago they were the fresh faced new kids on the block.

Do it! Whether they let you or not. Odds are someone will eventually notice.

I just finished reading Ann Powers’ beautiful NPR piece on High Fidelity — and between that article and Lionel Richie’s new book Truly, I found myself sitting with why I love music, and why talking about it still means so much.

Both reminded me that behind every playlist, every song, every “you’ve gotta hear this” moment — is a search for connection. It’s not about taste or snobbery. It’s about how art helps us understand each other and ourselves. It doesn’t hurt that there is not a hit Lionel Ritchie song that I can’t not play on the piano.

The Mirror of High Fidelity

Rewatching High Fidelity through Powers’ lens hit me harder than expected. What once felt like a love letter to music snobs now feels like a story about growth — how we use art to connect, not compete.

She writes that beneath John Cusack’s record-store bravado lies something quieter: a man trying to be seen through what he loves. That’s really all of us. Every song we share says, this is who I am, this is where I come from, this is how I want to connect with you.

We’ve gone from collecting records to collecting moments — from “you wouldn’t understand” to “you’ve got to hear this.” And in a world where algorithms suggest everything, it’s still human conversation that makes discovery feel alive.

Because as Powers reminds us, “What really matters is what you like, not what you are like.” Maybe it was never about preference. Maybe it was always about empathy.

The Lionel Richie Lesson

Then there’s Lionel.

I was fortunate enough to have my meeting with him not too long ago. It was one of those rare afternoons you don’t plan for but never forget — just me, Lionel, his beautiful life partner Lisa, and my client, Reno Wilson.

Reno is someone I deeply admire and respect — not just for his talent, but for his heart. I’ll never forget standing at Lincoln Center as he became Louis Armstrong, belting out “You Rascal You” in front of a packed house with Wynton Marsalis and his band behind him. Talk about the chills. You could feel the room leaning in — the kind of moment that reminds you why you got into this business in the first place.

So sitting in that meeting with Reno and Lionel — two artists who lead with soul — was something else entirely. Within minutes, I was completely moved by Lionel’s presence, his warmth, his stories. By the whole moment — I had to excuse myself to the restroom — not because I needed a break, but because I was overwhelmed. Tears had quietly snuck up on me and I surely didn’t want them to notice…. And of course, Lisa blurted out..look at him Lionel.. he has tears.. I thought I left before anyone noticed but I guess I was wrong

I’ve been around presidents, legends, power players… but no one — no one — has ever made me feel that kind of pure emotional joy. That hour with Lionel, Reno, and Lisa will stay with me forever.

I’ve been listening to Lionel everywhere — on Joe Rogan, in his new book Truly, Smartless and in those deeply human moments on American Idol. The more I hear him, the clearer it becomes: Lionel doesn’t just talk about music — he talks about life.

He listens. He gives love. He reminds us that kindness never goes out of style. His stories aren’t about fame — they’re about people: his parents, Berry Gordy, his fans, and the strangers who crossed his path.

A few of his words hit me right between the eyes:

• “What’s behind me doesn’t count. It’s about what’s in front.”
• “If you lose your sense of humor, they got you.”
• “Talk to old people. Ask old people. They’ve been through the blitz.”
• “You don’t have to be defined by other people’s ideas of you.”
• “It’s not about how I won — it’s about how I survived the valleys of insecurity.”

That’s Lionel — real, grounded, generous. Every line a reminder that your legacy isn’t what you create… It’s how you make people feel along the way.

The Bridge Between Music and Meaning

Ann Powers and Lionel Richie — two very different voices — are actually saying the same thing: the art isn’t the point, the connection is.

Whether it’s a record store debate in High Fidelity or Lionel asking his mom what she loved most about his dad (“He makes me laugh”), the real music lives in the space between people.

It’s not about proving what you know. It’s about staying open — laughing more, listening deeper, and sharing what moves you.

So the next time a song stops you in your tracks, don’t just hit “like.” Tell someone why. That’s how we turn playlists into relationships — and noise into meaning.

Because at the end of the day, the music fades, but the connection plays on.

I was 30 feet up on my roof, half-naked, swinging a hammer in the pouring rain, still drunk from the night before — all to cover up a lie I told my business partner. That was rock bottom.

Cut to 30 years later, standing on a sunlit rooftop in Istanbul, overlooking the Bosphorus, feeling something I hadn’t in decades: peace.

I had taken a trip to Turkey to reconnect with an old college roommate I hadn’t seen in almost 20 years. I’m a sentimental person, and somewhere over the Atlantic, I had a feeling this was going to be one of those moments — the kind you don’t fully appreciate until much later, but that hit you in the gut as meaningful the second they arrive.

It was. It turned out to be one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life.

I went not knowing what to expect — not from the country, not from my old friend. But he was even better than I remembered. He welcomed me into his family, his world, and gave me a window into Turkey that only someone local — and deeply rooted — could offer.

Turkey itself was a revelation. A collision of tension and harmony, East and West, ancient and modern. Every step through Izmir, Bodrum, and the Grand Bazaar felt like walking through layers of time — not just in the streets, but in my own mind.

That’s when I realized I was finally ready to tell this story.

Not because it’s flattering. It’s not. But because I’ve spent years pretending it didn’t matter anymore — that I’d moved on. The truth is, it shaped everything. And until recently, I hadn’t fully faced it.

When I was 30 years old, I was on top of the world. I was repping Jason Bateman, Mariah Carey, Ryan Reynolds — A-listers. I had four shows on the air and was at the forefront of a talent management revolution. I lived in a $2 million house in Bel Air with three beautiful blondes. Two were Golden Retrievers. The third was a woman I thought I’d marry. I lost all three.

I was living a dream that’s lured generations of wide-eyed kids to Hollywood. But dreams have shadows, and I ignored mine. You’d think growing up in this town, I’d know all the cautionary tales. I did. I just thought I was the exception.

For a while, I managed to keep the highs going. But control is a funny thing — it often looks like discipline when it’s really just momentum. And like a lot of those cautionary tales, I didn’t see the crash coming until I was already in the wreckage.

Unlike most people, my rock bottom wasn’t when I lost everything. Mine came when I had it all.

One cold, rainy morning, I was startled awake — still delirious from the night before — by a 10am call from my business partner, Erwin.

“Brian. Where the fuck are you?”

I was supposed to be at a meeting with the head of Madison Square Garden — a meeting that would have cemented a roll-up of the top management companies in the business. It was the pinnacle of everything we’d built. I missed it. I missed the biggest meeting of our lives.

But when you’re deep in the illusion of control, you don’t admit you’re spiraling. So I lied. I told Erwin the rain had caused a leak in my ceiling and I was waiting on roofers before my house short-circuited and burned down.

He didn’t buy it.

So I doubled down. I told him to come see for himself.

Still drunk and now fully committed to the lie, I ran outside in my underwear, grabbed a hammer, climbed a ladder in the rain, and started smashing the roof of my own house. I slipped. Fell. Smashed my elbow. Couldn’t move my left arm. But I got back up.

I wasn’t about to be caught.

I climbed the ladder again, started pounding holes into the shingles, soaked to the bone. Sweat and rain were indistinguishable. When I finally broke through, I peered into the hole feeling victorious… and thought:

When the fuck did I get an attic?

Now I was in it. I climbed into the attic, hammer still in hand, tearing through drywall, trying to make the lie look real. I was drenched, injured, practically naked, and still drunk — when my phone rang again. It was Erwin.

“Never mind,” he said. “Just meet me at the office.”

I never waited for the roofers.

It’s been decades since that day, and I still think about it. But what’s changed is how I hold it now. I don’t lead with shame anymore. I lead with truth — and gratitude.

That trip to Turkey reminded me that the past doesn’t disappear — but it doesn’t have to define you either. It just asks to be acknowledged.

Some stories stay buried until you’re far enough from them to see the full picture. And sometimes, it takes standing halfway across the world, reconnecting with someone who knew you before, to realize just how far you’ve come — and how far you still want to go.

I’m not where I need to be.
But I’m a hell of a lot better than I used to be.

Why your voice matters more than the myth of originality — and how owning your influences is the key to creative freedom.

If you’re a creative in 2025, odds are you’ve spent a little too much time chasing something called “originality.” We’ve been told it’s the gold standard: that you need to break the mold, reinvent the wheel, and come up with something no one has ever thought of before.

Here’s a reality check: That’s not creativity. That’s pressure. And it’s killing your momentum.

I recently watched a video (linked here) that flipped this whole idea on its head — and honestly, it felt like a creative exhale. The core message? You don’t have to create something original. You just have to make something yours.

Creativity isn’t born from thin air. It’s built — layered, remixed, reinterpreted — through the lens of your experience, your heartbreaks, your weird obsessions, and your truth. The best work doesn’t start from a blank slate. It starts with something familiar… and becomes personal.

Think about your favorite movies, songs, or scripts. Odds are they borrow from something else — another story, another culture, another piece of art. But what makes them land is the unique spin each creator brought to the table.

So why are we so afraid of influence?

In music, it’s called sampling. In fashion, it’s vintage with a twist. In film, it’s homage. Whatever the medium, it’s not about copying — it’s about interpreting. Great artists don’t deny their influences. They transform them.

The real magic happens when you stop worrying about whether your idea is new, and start asking: What happens when I tell this story, from my point of view?

That’s the sauce. That’s the artistry. That’s what makes someone stop scrolling.

Here’s what I’m telling my clients:
Forget originality. Aim for authenticity.
Forget genius. Aim for perspective.
Forget the blank page. Start with a spark.

That spark can be anything — a line from a movie you loved as a kid. A conversation you overheard on the subway. A painting that made you feel something. Creativity is everywhere. But what you do with it? That’s yours. That’s your fingerprint.

So the next time you feel stuck, stop digging for a diamond that doesn’t exist. Instead, look at what’s already in your hands — and give it your spin. That’s the remix. That’s the story. That’s you, being creative on purpose.

And you know what? That’s enough.

P.S. I am obsessed with Hark Daily (the day’s best podcast moments in news, culture and more). Do yourself a favor and check today’s out here.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a dog person — capital D, capital P. But raising a new puppy recently reminded me that, for all the years I’ve spent managing talent, navigating egos, or producing projects, nothing quite humbles you like the early days with a four-legged baby who chews like it’s their job and listens only when it’s convenient.

I’ve learned (or maybe relearned) a few life lessons through the experience — things that have made me a better version of myself not just at home, but at work, with friends, and in life.

Here are three big ones:

1. Patience Isn’t Optional — It’s Everything.

You can’t rush a puppy. You can try, but good luck with that. They’ll pee where they shouldn’t, bark when you’re on a Zoom, and turn your favorite sneaker into modern art. But something wild happens when you stop trying to control every outcome and start meeting them where they are — they start to trust you. They learn. You both grow.

Same with people. Whether it’s a client finding their voice, a partner building confidence, or someone new figuring out their place in the room — patience isn’t just kind, it’s strategic. I’ve learned that real leadership means slowing down, breathing through the chaos, and showing up again the next day with consistency.

2. Consequences Are How We Learn — Not Punishment.

I used to think “discipline” was about correction. But with puppies, it’s more about communication. If I don’t set clear boundaries, how can I expect them to understand what’s okay and what’s not? And when they do get it wrong — which they will — it’s not about punishing them, it’s about helping them connect the behavior to the result.

This is true in business and life. Mistakes don’t define us — how we respond to them does. I’ve learned to be more thoughtful about the way I give feedback and the systems I set up, whether I’m raising a dog or mentoring a young assistant. Fair consequences build trust. Arbitrary ones break it.

3. Save the Drama for the Real Drama.

There’s no room for theatrics when you’re cleaning up a puppy disaster at 3 a.m. You just deal. Puppies don’t care about your stress or your ego. They care if you’re grounded. They care if you’re safe. They respond to your energy — not your words.

It reminded me how much unnecessary drama we let into our lives. How many things we overreact to. In this business, drama is currency — but only when it serves the story. In real life? It’s noise. I’ve started asking myself: Is this a real crisis, or just a moment I need to manage better?

Raising this puppy hasn’t just been about training her — it’s been about re-training me. To lead with love. To communicate clearly. To chill the hell out when it’s not that deep. And most importantly, to remember that connection is built moment by moment — not by perfection, but by presence.

And in case you’re wondering — yes, Emmy’s still chewing things. But now she brings them to me first, and that’s progress.

MTV understood something fundamental: You don’t grow old with your audience — you pick your target demo and evolve to meet them where they are. If you don’t, you fade into irrelevance.

Of course, even MTV couldn’t escape the march of time. The internet transformed music video consumption, but for decades, MTV wasn’t just a channel — it was the epicenter of pop culture. When it reinvented itself, audiences adjusted. Change wasn’t the problem; stagnation was.

Which brings me to the last night’s Oscars and the question of whether I watched it or not…

I live and work in an industry built around inspiration. Every artistic work worth its salt started with someone being moved to the point that they had to create something from it.

To me, it does feel like our state of the union on what we’ve accomplished in the past year and the challenges we will face in the coming years. It’s an emotionally charged showcase of the best talent in the business, and there are always a few moments that stick with you, that make you stop and reflect.

And yet, the Oscars are losing their audience.

Not because movies aren’t important anymore, but because the way people engage with entertainment has changed. The Academy still acts as if the Oscars are a must-watch cultural event, but that era is long gone.

Today’s audiences don’t operate like they used to. They live in an on-demand culture. They watch what they want, when they want, on the platform of their choice. If it’s not easily accessible, they move on. That’s why distribution is king. Content alone isn’t enough — it needs to be where people already are.

Imagine if, in the weeks leading up to the Oscars, every nominated film was available for free on streaming. Not for an outrageous $20 fee. Suddenly, people might actually watch them. Not because they were told to care, but because it was easy. The problem isn’t that today’s movies are bad — it’s that most people haven’t seen them.

So how do we fix it?

First, the Oscars need to meet audiences where they are. That means embracing streaming, not just for the films themselves but for the ceremony. Offer multiple ways to engage — live broadcasts, interactive experiences, behind-the-scenes content. Make it easy, make it fun, and, most importantly, make it accessible.

Second, the Academy needs to rethink how it presents the show. Instead of a bloated telecast, why not break it up? Turn it into a multi-platform event spread out over a week. Spotlight different categories with short, engaging digital segments leading up to the main event. Build anticipation instead of asking viewers to commit to three hours all at once.

And, thirdly, if fashion and spectacle are the draw, lean into it. Bring in influencers from TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram to cover the red carpet in a way that actually excites younger audiences. Feature interactive voting, live reactions, and real-time engagement. The Oscars don’t have to be a relic — they can be a cultural event again.

Because here’s the thing: Movies aren’t dying. Storytelling is thriving. The appetite for great content is bigger than ever. But the Oscars have failed to evolve with the way people consume entertainment.

I used to care. I used to love the Oscars. But now? If I want to watch something at home — and I watch everything at home — it’s not going to be a drawn-out, self-congratulatory ceremony. It’s going to be a series, something I can invest in on my terms. Long-form entertainment isn’t the problem — people binge-watch for entire weekends. The issue is that the Oscars don’t hold attention. They haven’t earned it.

And that’s the key: In today’s world, attention isn’t given — it’s earned.

The Academy doesn’t have an audience problem. It has a relevance problem.

But relevance isn’t impossible to reclaim. The Oscars can adapt, modernize, and thrive. Just like our business can… I am going to stay positive….. It just takes a willingness to embrace the present instead of clinging to the past.

The future of the industry is bright — if we let it be. Maybe I will watch next year.

As the year winds down, I want to express my heartfelt gratitude to you for being part of my journey. Your likes, comments, and thoughtful engagement mean so much to me. Watching our little community grow and inspire one another has truly been incredible.

With that in mind, I’d love to share some of the moments and insights that have touched me this December — a reminder that it’s never too late to learn, to feel deeply, and to connect meaningfully.

Which is why my first recommendation is the new Elton John documentary on Disney+ called “Never Too Late.” Elton John looks back on his life and the astonishing early days of his 50-year career in this emotionally charged, full-circle journey. You can watch it here.

Just when I thought I had seen all of the best documentaries, I found this list: The 12 best documentaries of 2024

My next watch will be Super/Man: The Christopher Reeve Story for sure.

Lastly, I’ve always been a huge Smartless fan, but this episode with Denis Villeneuve has to be the best interview I’ve heard this year. It opens with a discussion of Denis’s film “Arrival,” along with the short story it was based on, “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang (which you should definitely read if you have a few mins, it’s online for free).

In the director’s words, the story is about “Living in the present time, to make the best out of it, and not to be afraid of living for the fear of death.” Amid hardship, it is valuable to take a step back and look at what really matters in life: your relationships.

Nobody ever asks to see their awards one last time when they are on their deathbed. No one asks to hear their career achievements listed one last time. We ask to see the people who we love.

This holiday season, as we take time to surround ourselves with family and good friends, I recommend that you try to appreciate those moments and not let the worries of tomorrow cloud them. As Will Arnett says in the episode, “Life is in session. Surrender to it.” Happy holidays.

Warm regards,

Brian