If reports are to be believed, pharmaceutical giants such as Pfizer, AstraZeneca PLC, GlaxoSmithKline, Sanofi and Bristol Myers Squibb may be gearing up to increase the price of over 350 medicines in the US in early January.

If reports are to be believed, pharmaceutical giants such as Pfizer, AstraZeneca PLC, GlaxoSmithKline, Sanofi and Bristol Myers Squibb may be gearing up to increase the price of over 350 medicines in the US in early January. The rise in price has been anticipated following the passing of the Inflation Reduction Act (IRA) by the Biden administration. Under the act, the government will negotiate prices directly for some medicines. Medicines are extremely expensive in the USA, compared to other countries because the pharma companies are allowed to set prices without any interference from the government or any related agency. Read more: US: FDA approves most expensive drug ever, costs $3.5 million per dose However, IRA attempts to change the status quo and thus pharma companies are attempting to get ahead of the curve, according to healthcare research firm 3 Axis Advisors which made the prediction. The pharma companies are expected to swing hard at the beginning; meaning the launch prices of the medicines will be kept high so as to offset inflation and avoid unnecessary press by the annual price increases. "Drug makers have to take a harder look at calibrating those launch prices out of the gate...so they don't box themselves into the point where in the future, they can't price increase their way back into profitability," Antonio Ciaccia, president of 3 Axis was quoted as saying by Reuters. WATCH | Gravitas: FDA approves life-changing therapy for Diabetes × The price increase comes on the back of pharma giants raising the price of over 1,400 medicines in 2022. Pfizer has increased the price of 89 medicines while GSK has increased the price of 26 unique medicines. According to reports, the median medicine price increase hovered around 4.9 per cent while the average increase stood at 6.4 per cent. This is the highest increase in the price of medicines since 2015. While most pharmaceutical companies keep the price hike under 10 per cent, the frequent hikes throughout the year manage to take the price beyond the reach of the users. Read more: China looking at Indian market for approved Covid-19 drugs as demand increases (With inputs from agencies) WATCH WION LIVE HERE:

Pharma companies to increase price of at least 350 medicines in the US from next year: Report

On Oct. 30, 2015, a fire ripped through a nightclub in the Romanian capital, Bucharest, leaving 64 people dead. Almost six years later, a documentary about the fire and its tragic aftermath has been nominated for two Oscars.

It would be the first Oscar win for the Eastern European country, but the film’s success is bittersweet for many Romanians, given its painful subject matter — particularly since many believe not enough has changed since 2015.

“Collective,” which has been nominated for best documentary feature and best foreign film, follows a group of investigative journalists from a sports newspaper as they uncover painful truths about the Romanian health care system.

“The situation was so appalling that basically it should have been a big scandal in the whole of Europe,” said Alexander Nanau, the film’s director.

Events on the night of the fire and its immediate aftermath ricocheted across Romania, toppling the government at the time — led by the Social Democratic Party — and mobilizing civil society into large-scale protests.

In the years since, however, there have been further political scandals, and few health care overhauls. The coronavirus pandemic has also put huge new demands on the struggling Romanian health care system. Two fires in COVID-19 wards in the last six months have left at least 20 people dead.

Many Romanians wonder how much has really changed since “Collective.”

While tragic, the nightclub fire is just the film’s starting point. The blaze claimed 27 lives in its immediate aftermath, but 64 people would ultimately die, many victims of a health care system awash with corruption and willing to hide painful truth from the victims and their families.

Standing outside one of Bucharest’s main hospitals, Nanau recalled: “It was basically in front of this hospital where the minister of health always stood flanked by doctors saying ‘We can treat the burn victims at the highest standards.’”

However, as the journalists found out, the burn unit was not even operational at the time, Nanau said. “It’s incredible that they have the guts to lie to all these people that their kids are being given surgery in the most modern burn unit when in fact this was closed.”

The journalists also discovered that the disinfectant used in hospitals across the country was being watered down, to the extent that it was largely ineffectual, probably resulting in many more deaths. The owner of the company involved drove his car into a tree after the truth was brought to light, killing himself.

The documentary shows in real time the reaction of the journalists after a whistleblower sends them footage from a hospital of maggots crawling in the wound of a burn victim.

The film has been compared to both “Spotlight” and “All the President’s Men,” and in a review for The New York Times late last year, Manohla Dargis described “Collective” as a “staggering documentary” that offered “no moment when you can take an easy breath, assured that the terrible things you’ve been watching onscreen are finally over.”

For people in Romania, however, much of what is shown onscreen is painfully familiar.

Catalin Tolontan, then editor-in-chief of the daily newspaper Gazeta Sporturilor, is one of the main protagonists of “Collective.” Before the documentary, “We used to receive 10 or 15 messages per day from the public, with scoops or information,” he said in an interview. “After the movie we received 70 to 80 a day.”

Tedy Ursuleanu, who suffered severe burns across her head and body, and had her fingers amputated as a result of the fire, is one of the strongest characters in the film.

In an interview, she said that it was not a hard decision to let the filmmakers follow her, but that seeing the film was a painful experience. “When I saw some of the scenes, the impact was as if I lived those moments again,” Ursuleanu said. “I started to cry. I needed to go outside to compose myself.”

Ursuleanu said she believed that not enough progress had been made in the years since the documentary was filmed. “Changes have taken place, but they are few compared to the needs we have here,” she said. “Sadly, tragedies like this could easily happen again, because even now measures are not respected.”

Partway through the documentary, “Collective” introduces a young, reform-minded health minister, Vlad Voiculescu, who is brought in as part of a short-lived technocrat government.

Voiculescu and his team face strong resistance as they try to bring greater transparency to the health care system, while having to accept that the system was culpable in many deaths.

In a recent interview, Voiculescu, who was reappointed as health minister late last year, said that what frustrated him most was that on his return he found an institution that was “even more collapsed than before.” Now, Voiculescu is more focused on dealing with the coronavirus than overhauling the Romanian health care system.

“Collective,” which appeared on streaming platforms late last year, has resonated strongly with audiences around the world, especially at a time when the pandemic has made health care a central issue globally.

Nanau, a Romanian director who spent much of his life in Germany before moving back to his home country in 2015, has a track record of producing powerful documentaries. His previous film, “Toto and His Sisters,” followed the lives of three teenagers left to fend largely for themselves in one of the poorest areas of Bucharest, after their mother was sent to prison on drug charges.

But with “Collective,” he seems to have found a subject that hit at a perfect moment.

The film’s impact has also been felt outside Romania. Earlier this year in Mongolia, when a woman with COVID-19 was transferred from the hospital in freezing temperatures just days after giving birth, journalists began asking tough questions of the government, apparently encouraging one another on Facebook by referencing “Collective,” which a local television station had shown days earlier. Protests followed, and the government ultimately resigned.

“If you are a journalist in a small country and saw ‘Spotlight,’ you could say, ‘Well, this is the U.S., they have a lot of resources, they have a strong democracy, they have a bond between the public and government,’” Tolontan, the newspaper editor, said. “But if you are in Mongolia or the Czech Republic, Indonesia, and you saw this movie, you think ‘They’re like us.’”

Romanian movies like “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days,” “Beyond the Hills” and “Child’s Pose” have received top awards at international festivals over the years, but none has won an Oscar.

Andrei Gorzo, a Romanian film critic, said that it was harder for Romanian viewers to see “Collective” as a morally clear-cut tale of a few good people fighting to change the rotten system. Instead, he said, it captures a specific moment in Romania, when urban, middle-class voters believed in a new breed of politician, young and unsullied, who could clean up Romanian politics. “It is impossible for me to watch the film without acknowledging that a lot of that romanticism has turned sour since then,” he said.

Others are more optimistic. “The generation that will change things here is not the generation that is 35-plus,” Nanau said. “It’s the younger generation, and these are the people that write to us, that we have met in the cinemas.”

Tolontan said he saw “Collective” as “a point of no return” for Romanian society.

Whether the film wins at the Oscars ceremony next month, many Romanians still hope that the film’s biggest impact will be at home, and that they can leave its content in the past.

On Oct. 30, 2015, a fire ripped through a nightclub in the Romanian capital, Bucharest, leaving 64 people dead. Almost six years later, a documentary about the fire and its tragic aftermath has been nominated for two Oscars.

On Oct. 30, 2015, a fire ripped through a nightclub in the Romanian capital, Bucharest, leaving 64 people dead. Almost six years later, a documentary about the fire and its tragic aftermath has been nominated for two Oscars. It would be the first Oscar win for the Eastern European country, but the film’s success is bittersweet for many Romanians, given its painful subject matter — particularly since many believe not enough has changed since 2015. “Collective,” which has been nominated for best documentary feature and best foreign film, follows a group of investigative journalists from a sports newspaper as they uncover painful truths about the Romanian health care system. “The situation was so appalling that basically it should have been a big scandal in the whole of Europe,” said Alexander Nanau, the film’s director. Events on the night of the fire and its immediate aftermath ricocheted across Romania, toppling the government at the time — led by the Social Democratic Party — and mobilizing civil society into large-scale protests. In the years since, however, there have been further political scandals, and few health care overhauls. The coronavirus pandemic has also put huge new demands on the struggling Romanian health care system. Two fires in COVID-19 wards in the last six months have left at least 20 people dead. Many Romanians wonder how much has really changed since “Collective.” While tragic, the nightclub fire is just the film’s starting point. The blaze claimed 27 lives in its immediate aftermath, but 64 people would ultimately die, many victims of a health care system awash with corruption and willing to hide painful truth from the victims and their families. Standing outside one of Bucharest’s main hospitals, Nanau recalled: “It was basically in front of this hospital where the minister of health always stood flanked by doctors saying ‘We can treat the burn victims at the highest standards.’” However, as the journalists found out, the burn unit was not even operational at the time, Nanau said. “It’s incredible that they have the guts to lie to all these people that their kids are being given surgery in the most modern burn unit when in fact this was closed.” The journalists also discovered that the disinfectant used in hospitals across the country was being watered down, to the extent that it was largely ineffectual, probably resulting in many more deaths. The owner of the company involved drove his car into a tree after the truth was brought to light, killing himself. The documentary shows in real time the reaction of the journalists after a whistleblower sends them footage from a hospital of maggots crawling in the wound of a burn victim. The film has been compared to both “Spotlight” and “All the President’s Men,” and in a review for The New York Times late last year, Manohla Dargis described “Collective” as a “staggering documentary” that offered “no moment when you can take an easy breath, assured that the terrible things you’ve been watching onscreen are finally over.” For people in Romania, however, much of what is shown onscreen is painfully familiar. Catalin Tolontan, then editor-in-chief of the daily newspaper Gazeta Sporturilor, is one of the main protagonists of “Collective.” Before the documentary, “We used to receive 10 or 15 messages per day from the public, with scoops or information,” he said in an interview. “After the movie we received 70 to 80 a day.” Tedy Ursuleanu, who suffered severe burns across her head and body, and had her fingers amputated as a result of the fire, is one of the strongest characters in the film. In an interview, she said that it was not a hard decision to let the filmmakers follow her, but that seeing the film was a painful experience. “When I saw some of the scenes, the impact was as if I lived those moments again,” Ursuleanu said. “I started to cry. I needed to go outside to compose myself.” Ursuleanu said she believed that not enough progress had been made in the years since the documentary was filmed. “Changes have taken place, but they are few compared to the needs we have here,” she said. “Sadly, tragedies like this could easily happen again, because even now measures are not respected.” Partway through the documentary, “Collective” introduces a young, reform-minded health minister, Vlad Voiculescu, who is brought in as part of a short-lived technocrat government. Voiculescu and his team face strong resistance as they try to bring greater transparency to the health care system, while having to accept that the system was culpable in many deaths. In a recent interview, Voiculescu, who was reappointed as health minister late last year, said that what frustrated him most was that on his return he found an institution that was “even more collapsed than before.” Now, Voiculescu is more focused on dealing with the coronavirus than overhauling the Romanian health care system. “Collective,” which appeared on streaming platforms late last year, has resonated strongly with audiences around the world, especially at a time when the pandemic has made health care a central issue globally. Nanau, a Romanian director who spent much of his life in Germany before moving back to his home country in 2015, has a track record of producing powerful documentaries. His previous film, “Toto and His Sisters,” followed the lives of three teenagers left to fend largely for themselves in one of the poorest areas of Bucharest, after their mother was sent to prison on drug charges. But with “Collective,” he seems to have found a subject that hit at a perfect moment. The film’s impact has also been felt outside Romania. Earlier this year in Mongolia, when a woman with COVID-19 was transferred from the hospital in freezing temperatures just days after giving birth, journalists began asking tough questions of the government, apparently encouraging one another on Facebook by referencing “Collective,” which a local television station had shown days earlier. Protests followed, and the government ultimately resigned. “If you are a journalist in a small country and saw ‘Spotlight,’ you could say, ‘Well, this is the U.S., they have a lot of resources, they have a strong democracy, they have a bond between the public and government,’” Tolontan, the newspaper editor, said. “But if you are in Mongolia or the Czech Republic, Indonesia, and you saw this movie, you think ‘They’re like us.’” Romanian movies like “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days,” “Beyond the Hills” and “Child’s Pose” have received top awards at international festivals over the years, but none has won an Oscar. Andrei Gorzo, a Romanian film critic, said that it was harder for Romanian viewers to see “Collective” as a morally clear-cut tale of a few good people fighting to change the rotten system. Instead, he said, it captures a specific moment in Romania, when urban, middle-class voters believed in a new breed of politician, young and unsullied, who could clean up Romanian politics. “It is impossible for me to watch the film without acknowledging that a lot of that romanticism has turned sour since then,” he said. Others are more optimistic. “The generation that will change things here is not the generation that is 35-plus,” Nanau said. “It’s the younger generation, and these are the people that write to us, that we have met in the cinemas.” Tolontan said he saw “Collective” as “a point of no return” for Romanian society. Whether the film wins at the Oscars ceremony next month, many Romanians still hope that the film’s biggest impact will be at home, and that they can leave its content in the past.

Since the Oscar-nominated ‘Collective,’ much and little has changed

For her 60th birthday, veteran Korean star Yuh-Jung Youn made herself a promise. She would collaborate only with those she trusts. Even if their ventures fell short, as long as she personally appreciated the people making them, the result wouldn’t much concern her.

That late-life philosophy, born of decades of limited choices and professional trauma, brought her to 'Minari,'&nbsp;director Lee Isaac Chung’s semi-autobiographical story about a Korean family putting down roots in Arkansas. Youn’s bittersweet performance as the grandmother, Soonja, in the tenderhearted immigrant drama has earned her an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actress, the first for a Korean actress.

“Me, a 73-year-old Asian woman could have never even dreamed about being nominated for an Oscar,” Youn said via video call from her home in Seoul. “‘Minari’ brought me a lot of gifts.”

As she recounted this triumph and the many pitfalls that preceded it, her pensive expression often broke into an affable smile, cheerful laughter even. Dressed in a demure black top and long necklace, there was an effortless grace to her serene presence. She came off unhurried and welcoming but determined to make her ideas understood. Occasionally she asked a friend off-camera for help with certain English words to hit each point more precisely.

She expressed surprise at the fact that co-star Steven Yeun was the first Asian American performer to receive a nomination for best actor: “All I can say is: It’s about time! The success of ‘Parasite’ has definitely helped” get more recognition for Korean performers, she said.

That movie, directed by Bong Joon Ho, was the first not in English to win best picture, and it has figured into Youn’s Oscar run in other ways.

She had returned from shooting a new project in Vancouver, British Columbia, an Apple TV drama titled “Pachinko,” just in time to hear the announcement of her nomination. First, she felt numb. Then the Korean news media began effusively reporting on her chances. “It’s very stressful. They think I’m a soccer player or an Olympian,” she said, adding, “That pressure is really hard on me.” Because of Bong’s movie, “they have hope I can win. I keep telling him, ‘It’s all because of you!’”

Bong, a fan of Kim Ki-young’s “Woman of Fire,” the 1971 film in which Youn made her feature debut, envied her awards-season experience during the pandemic. “He told me, ‘You’re lucky you can just sit down and do Zoom calls. In America they have an awards race and you have to go here and there and everywhere.’ I thought running races were only for horses,” she said.

She’s making a strong push to the finish. Youn is nominated at Sunday’s SAG Awards for her performance and as part of the “Minari” ensemble. She’s also up for an Independent Spirit Award later this month. And she’s already won accolades from more than 20 groups of critics.

They’re the latest turn in a career that covers more than 50 years in Korean television and film — including a recent cooking reality show titled “Youn’s Kitchen” and a new nonfiction series set in a guesthouse, “Youn’s Stay” — but the self-taught thespian never envisioned a life in the performing arts. Her international breakthrough seems to her, like everything else along the way, fortuitous.

“It’s embarrassing,” she said. “Most people fell in love with the movies or fell in love with theater. But in my case, it was just an accident.”

When she was a teenager in the early 1960s, an emcee for a children’s game show saw her touring a TV station and invited her to pass out gifts to the audience: “I got the check after that, and it was good money.” Similar jobs ensued until a director suggested she audition for a drama. Although she was hesitant, necessity propelled her: She had failed her college entrance exam, causing her mother profound shame.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what acting was,” she said. “I tried to memorize the line and do whatever they asked me to do. At the time, I didn’t know if I was enjoying it or if I disliked it.”

But as she was on the rise in the mid-1970s, Youn married and moved to Florida, where her husband attended a university. She spent nearly a decade as a housewife raising her two American-born children, but then she divorced and returned to Korea as a single mother. Her fame had vanished, and ingrained sexism in Korean society made resuming her career a cruel pursuit. “The audience would call and say, ‘She is a divorcee. She shouldn’t be on television,’” she recalled, adding, “Now they like me very much. That’s very strange, but that’s human.”

To put her two sons through college, she accepted parts almost indiscriminately. But turning 60 — and no longer obligated to financially support her family — meant she could invest only in people she believed in, such as auteur Hong Sang-soo, who occasionally frustrates her for the many takes he requests, and Im Sang-soo, who cast her in roles unheard of for a Korean actress of her age. In “The Taste of Money” (2013), for example, Youn embodies a powerful woman who sexually harasses her younger male secretary.

Youn’s close friend In-Ah Lee, a producer, introduced her to Chung at a film festival in Busan. Chung, like Bong, revered her in “Woman of Fire,” and his knowledge or her early work impressed her. She wanted to know more about him. “Everybody teases me about this now,” she said. “I fell in love with Isaac because he is a very quiet man. I wish he was my son too.”

In every film, Chung said via email, “she does something that is surprising or unexpected. I felt her own life and approach to life were very close to the part I had written.” He added that the actress is known in South Korea for her big heart and no-nonsense manner, and he knew she would bring those qualities to the “Minari” role “in a way that invites audiences in.”

Writing for The Nation, critic Kristen Yoonsoo Kim said Youn “steals the spotlight; even as she leans toward caricature, her Soonja brings much-needed humor and vitality to a drama that could otherwise sink easily into the dour.” (Kim’s reviews also appear in The New York Times.)

When Youn read the script, the perils of the Korean American experience and how it doesn’t fit neatly into a single identity resonated with her. “Maybe I did this movie for my two sons too, because I knew their feelings,” she said.

Chung won her over when she asked if he wanted her to imitate his grandmother and he replied that wasn’t his objective. She valued the freedom to create a character beyond what was on the page. Yet it was Chung’s empathetic approach that she came to cherish.

She recalled the chaotic first day of filming “Minari” in the heat of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Chung could see she was suffering, Youn recalled. “I could feel his respect and worry for me.”

By contrast, she admitted, she thought the many scenes she shared with Alan S. Kim, an inexperienced young actor who plays her grandson, would test her patience. “I thought, ‘It’s going to be miserable. What am I going to do with this one?’” But when she realized the boy had memorized his lines, her worry disappeared. She shares his work ethic.

Intense preparation had always served as Youn’s shield against self-consciousness about her background. “I didn’t go to acting school and I didn’t study film, so I had an inferiority complex. I practiced so hard when I got a script,” she said.

But she is skeptical about further prospects in Hollywood. Youn, who often apologized during the interview for how blunt she thinks she sounds in a tongue not her own, fears that her lack of English proficiency may impede her. But given time to learn her dialogue, she is willing to try.

“Come to think of it, it was all worth it,” Youn said. “At the time, I was suffering with only small roles and most people hated me. I thought about just quitting or going back to the States.” But she’s a survivor, she said. “I’m still alive and finally enjoying acting.”

For her 60th birthday, veteran Korean star Yuh-Jung Youn made herself a promise. She would collaborate only with those she trusts. Even if their ventures fell short, as long as she personally appreciated the people making them, the result wouldn’t much concern her.

For her 60th birthday, veteran Korean star Yuh-Jung Youn made herself a promise. She would collaborate only with those she trusts. Even if their ventures fell short, as long as she personally appreciated the people making them, the result wouldn’t much concern her. That late-life philosophy, born of decades of limited choices and professional trauma, brought her to 'Minari,' director Lee Isaac Chung’s semi-autobiographical story about a Korean family putting down roots in Arkansas. Youn’s bittersweet performance as the grandmother, Soonja, in the tenderhearted immigrant drama has earned her an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actress, the first for a Korean actress. “Me, a 73-year-old Asian woman could have never even dreamed about being nominated for an Oscar,” Youn said via video call from her home in Seoul. “‘Minari’ brought me a lot of gifts.” As she recounted this triumph and the many pitfalls that preceded it, her pensive expression often broke into an affable smile, cheerful laughter even. Dressed in a demure black top and long necklace, there was an effortless grace to her serene presence. She came off unhurried and welcoming but determined to make her ideas understood. Occasionally she asked a friend off-camera for help with certain English words to hit each point more precisely. She expressed surprise at the fact that co-star Steven Yeun was the first Asian American performer to receive a nomination for best actor: “All I can say is: It’s about time! The success of ‘Parasite’ has definitely helped” get more recognition for Korean performers, she said. That movie, directed by Bong Joon Ho, was the first not in English to win best picture, and it has figured into Youn’s Oscar run in other ways. She had returned from shooting a new project in Vancouver, British Columbia, an Apple TV drama titled “Pachinko,” just in time to hear the announcement of her nomination. First, she felt numb. Then the Korean news media began effusively reporting on her chances. “It’s very stressful. They think I’m a soccer player or an Olympian,” she said, adding, “That pressure is really hard on me.” Because of Bong’s movie, “they have hope I can win. I keep telling him, ‘It’s all because of you!’” Bong, a fan of Kim Ki-young’s “Woman of Fire,” the 1971 film in which Youn made her feature debut, envied her awards-season experience during the pandemic. “He told me, ‘You’re lucky you can just sit down and do Zoom calls. In America they have an awards race and you have to go here and there and everywhere.’ I thought running races were only for horses,” she said. She’s making a strong push to the finish. Youn is nominated at Sunday’s SAG Awards for her performance and as part of the “Minari” ensemble. She’s also up for an Independent Spirit Award later this month. And she’s already won accolades from more than 20 groups of critics. They’re the latest turn in a career that covers more than 50 years in Korean television and film — including a recent cooking reality show titled “Youn’s Kitchen” and a new nonfiction series set in a guesthouse, “Youn’s Stay” — but the self-taught thespian never envisioned a life in the performing arts. Her international breakthrough seems to her, like everything else along the way, fortuitous. “It’s embarrassing,” she said. “Most people fell in love with the movies or fell in love with theater. But in my case, it was just an accident.” When she was a teenager in the early 1960s, an emcee for a children’s game show saw her touring a TV station and invited her to pass out gifts to the audience: “I got the check after that, and it was good money.” Similar jobs ensued until a director suggested she audition for a drama. Although she was hesitant, necessity propelled her: She had failed her college entrance exam, causing her mother profound shame. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what acting was,” she said. “I tried to memorize the line and do whatever they asked me to do. At the time, I didn’t know if I was enjoying it or if I disliked it.” But as she was on the rise in the mid-1970s, Youn married and moved to Florida, where her husband attended a university. She spent nearly a decade as a housewife raising her two American-born children, but then she divorced and returned to Korea as a single mother. Her fame had vanished, and ingrained sexism in Korean society made resuming her career a cruel pursuit. “The audience would call and say, ‘She is a divorcee. She shouldn’t be on television,’” she recalled, adding, “Now they like me very much. That’s very strange, but that’s human.” To put her two sons through college, she accepted parts almost indiscriminately. But turning 60 — and no longer obligated to financially support her family — meant she could invest only in people she believed in, such as auteur Hong Sang-soo, who occasionally frustrates her for the many takes he requests, and Im Sang-soo, who cast her in roles unheard of for a Korean actress of her age. In “The Taste of Money” (2013), for example, Youn embodies a powerful woman who sexually harasses her younger male secretary. Youn’s close friend In-Ah Lee, a producer, introduced her to Chung at a film festival in Busan. Chung, like Bong, revered her in “Woman of Fire,” and his knowledge or her early work impressed her. She wanted to know more about him. “Everybody teases me about this now,” she said. “I fell in love with Isaac because he is a very quiet man. I wish he was my son too.” In every film, Chung said via email, “she does something that is surprising or unexpected. I felt her own life and approach to life were very close to the part I had written.” He added that the actress is known in South Korea for her big heart and no-nonsense manner, and he knew she would bring those qualities to the “Minari” role “in a way that invites audiences in.” Writing for The Nation, critic Kristen Yoonsoo Kim said Youn “steals the spotlight; even as she leans toward caricature, her Soonja brings much-needed humor and vitality to a drama that could otherwise sink easily into the dour.” (Kim’s reviews also appear in The New York Times.) When Youn read the script, the perils of the Korean American experience and how it doesn’t fit neatly into a single identity resonated with her. “Maybe I did this movie for my two sons too, because I knew their feelings,” she said. Chung won her over when she asked if he wanted her to imitate his grandmother and he replied that wasn’t his objective. She valued the freedom to create a character beyond what was on the page. Yet it was Chung’s empathetic approach that she came to cherish. She recalled the chaotic first day of filming “Minari” in the heat of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Chung could see she was suffering, Youn recalled. “I could feel his respect and worry for me.” By contrast, she admitted, she thought the many scenes she shared with Alan S. Kim, an inexperienced young actor who plays her grandson, would test her patience. “I thought, ‘It’s going to be miserable. What am I going to do with this one?’” But when she realized the boy had memorized his lines, her worry disappeared. She shares his work ethic. Intense preparation had always served as Youn’s shield against self-consciousness about her background. “I didn’t go to acting school and I didn’t study film, so I had an inferiority complex. I practiced so hard when I got a script,” she said. But she is skeptical about further prospects in Hollywood. Youn, who often apologized during the interview for how blunt she thinks she sounds in a tongue not her own, fears that her lack of English proficiency may impede her. But given time to learn her dialogue, she is willing to try. “Come to think of it, it was all worth it,” Youn said. “At the time, I was suffering with only small roles and most people hated me. I thought about just quitting or going back to the States.” But she’s a survivor, she said. “I’m still alive and finally enjoying acting.”

She never dreamed of acting, now she’s an Oscar nominee for 'Minari'

Urging the Metropolitan Opera to compensate its artists “appropriately,” the company’s music director, Yannick Nézet-Séguin, sent a letter to leaders at the Met on Thursday saying that the many months its orchestra and chorus had gone without pay during the pandemic had become “increasingly unacceptable.”

He sent the letter as the Met’s musicians were scheduled to receive their first partial paychecks since they were furloughed in April. Before this week, they had been the last major ensemble in the country without a deal for at least some pay during the pandemic. In addressing the players’ nearly yearlong furlough — and hinting at the tough negotiations ahead, in which the Met is seeking long-term pay cuts from its unionized employees — Nézet-Séguin was doing something rare for a music director: weighing in on labor matters.

“Of course, I understand this is a complex situation,” Nézet-Séguin wrote, “but as the public face of the Met on a musical level, I am finding it increasingly hard to justify what has happened.”

The letter was obtained by The New York Times and confirmed by its recipients, which included Peter Gelb, the Met’s general manager; the leaders of the negotiating committees representing the chorus and orchestra; and members of the opera’s board of directors.

“We risk losing talent permanently,” Nézet-Séguin warned in the letter. “The orchestra and chorus are our crown jewels, and they must be protected. Their talent is the Met. The artists of the Met are the institution.”

The orchestra committee has said that 10 out of 97 members have retired during the pandemic as the ensemble has gone unpaid, a stark increase from the two to three who retire in an average year.

“Protecting the long-term future of the Met is inextricably linked with retaining these musicians, and with respecting their livelihoods, their income and their well-being,” Nézet-Séguin wrote.

The Met said in a statement that “we share Yannick’s frustration over the lengthy closure and the impact it has had on our employees,” and added that the company was pleased that its orchestra and chorus and others were now receiving bridge pay. The Met said all involved were “working together for new agreements that will ensure the sustainability of the Met into the future.”

The Met, the nation’s largest performing arts organization, has said that since the pandemic forced it to shut its doors it has lost an estimated $150 million in earned revenue, and that it was seeking pay cuts from its workers, as many arts institutions have. The Met has been trying to cut the payroll costs for its highest-paid unions by 30% — the change in take-home pay would be more like 20%, it has said — and has offered to restore half the cuts when ticket revenue and core donations return to prepandemic levels.

Months into the furlough, the Met offered partial paychecks to its workers if they agreed to those cuts, but the unions resisted. At the end of the year, the Met offered partial paychecks on a temporary basis for simply returning to the bargaining table. Members of the American Guild of Musical Artists, which represents chorus members, dancers and others, accepted at the end of January and have been receiving paychecks for more than a month. The orchestra musicians voted to accept the offer this week. (The Met has locked out its stagehands, whose contract expired last year.)

Nézet-Séguin wrote in his letter that he was relieved that both the musicians and the chorus members are now being paid, but added that “this is just a start.” The deal allows for temporary payments of up to $1,543 a week, less than half of what the musicians are typically paid.

Nézet-Séguin was named the Met’s music director in 2016, when he was tapped to succeed James Levine, who led the company for four decades (Levine, who stepped down to an emeritus position because of health problems and was then fired two years later after an investigation into sexual abuse allegations, died this month.)

“I implore the fiduciaries of this incredible house to urgently help to find a solution to compensate our artists appropriately,” Nézet-Séguin wrote. “We all realize the challenges, economic and otherwise, that the Met is facing, and therefore I ask for empathy, honesty and open communication throughout this process.”

Urging the Metropolitan Opera to compensate its artists “appropriately,” the company’s music director, Yannick Nézet-Séguin, sent a letter to leaders at the Met on Thursday saying that the many months its orchestra and chorus had gone without pay during the pandemic had become “increasingly unacceptable.

Urging the Metropolitan Opera to compensate its artists “appropriately,” the company’s music director, Yannick Nézet-Séguin, sent a letter to leaders at the Met on Thursday saying that the many months its orchestra and chorus had gone without pay during the pandemic had become “increasingly unacceptable.” He sent the letter as the Met’s musicians were scheduled to receive their first partial paychecks since they were furloughed in April. Before this week, they had been the last major ensemble in the country without a deal for at least some pay during the pandemic. In addressing the players’ nearly yearlong furlough — and hinting at the tough negotiations ahead, in which the Met is seeking long-term pay cuts from its unionized employees — Nézet-Séguin was doing something rare for a music director: weighing in on labor matters. “Of course, I understand this is a complex situation,” Nézet-Séguin wrote, “but as the public face of the Met on a musical level, I am finding it increasingly hard to justify what has happened.” The letter was obtained by The New York Times and confirmed by its recipients, which included Peter Gelb, the Met’s general manager; the leaders of the negotiating committees representing the chorus and orchestra; and members of the opera’s board of directors. “We risk losing talent permanently,” Nézet-Séguin warned in the letter. “The orchestra and chorus are our crown jewels, and they must be protected. Their talent is the Met. The artists of the Met are the institution.” The orchestra committee has said that 10 out of 97 members have retired during the pandemic as the ensemble has gone unpaid, a stark increase from the two to three who retire in an average year. “Protecting the long-term future of the Met is inextricably linked with retaining these musicians, and with respecting their livelihoods, their income and their well-being,” Nézet-Séguin wrote. The Met said in a statement that “we share Yannick’s frustration over the lengthy closure and the impact it has had on our employees,” and added that the company was pleased that its orchestra and chorus and others were now receiving bridge pay. The Met said all involved were “working together for new agreements that will ensure the sustainability of the Met into the future.” The Met, the nation’s largest performing arts organization, has said that since the pandemic forced it to shut its doors it has lost an estimated $150 million in earned revenue, and that it was seeking pay cuts from its workers, as many arts institutions have. The Met has been trying to cut the payroll costs for its highest-paid unions by 30% — the change in take-home pay would be more like 20%, it has said — and has offered to restore half the cuts when ticket revenue and core donations return to prepandemic levels. Months into the furlough, the Met offered partial paychecks to its workers if they agreed to those cuts, but the unions resisted. At the end of the year, the Met offered partial paychecks on a temporary basis for simply returning to the bargaining table. Members of the American Guild of Musical Artists, which represents chorus members, dancers and others, accepted at the end of January and have been receiving paychecks for more than a month. The orchestra musicians voted to accept the offer this week. (The Met has locked out its stagehands, whose contract expired last year.) Nézet-Séguin wrote in his letter that he was relieved that both the musicians and the chorus members are now being paid, but added that “this is just a start.” The deal allows for temporary payments of up to $1,543 a week, less than half of what the musicians are typically paid. Nézet-Séguin was named the Met’s music director in 2016, when he was tapped to succeed James Levine, who led the company for four decades (Levine, who stepped down to an emeritus position because of health problems and was then fired two years later after an investigation into sexual abuse allegations, died this month.) “I implore the fiduciaries of this incredible house to urgently help to find a solution to compensate our artists appropriately,” Nézet-Séguin wrote. “We all realize the challenges, economic and otherwise, that the Met is facing, and therefore I ask for empathy, honesty and open communication throughout this process.”

Met Opera’s music director decries musicians’ unpaid furlough

One year ago, the grim news that Broadway was shutting down was sweeping through the theater district. Performers were packing up their things and heading home; theater staff members were stationed in lobbies to intercept ticket holders and explain to them that the show was canceled.

As a return date was pushed further and further, performers and theater staff resigned themselves to finding work elsewhere.

But on Friday, the anniversary of the day their beloved industry shut its doors, Broadway singers, dancers, actors and front-of-house staffers gathered in Times Square, just across from the TKTS discount ticket booth, to perform live for a small audience of industry insiders and passersby.

The pop-up show was part concert, part rally. Broadway legend Chita Rivera spoke about the power of theater to heal a beleaguered society, and then André De Shields, decked out in a glittering gold suit and a transparent face shield, sang the opening song from “Pippin” along with an array of Broadway stars, backup singers and dancers.

“I’m just happy that we’re all trying to remind the world that we’re still here, and we will be back,” said Bre Jackson, a singer who belted out a solo in the “Pippin” number.

One year ago, Jackson, 29, was returning to New York from a national tour of “The Book of Mormon” and preparing for five auditions. Within 12 hours, she said, the auditions were all canceled, and suddenly she was thrust into a job market without much need for professional singers and actors. Jackson eventually found work as an office manager for a therapy practice, finding performing gigs every so often.

One of the main purposes of these pop-up performances — of which there have been dozens across the city — is to provide paying gigs for people in the industry who have lost their entire incomes during the pandemic, said Blake Ross, one of the event’s producers. The performance was funded by a collection of organizations, including nonprofits Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS and NYCNext.

Although perform inside theaters are unlikely until after Labor Day, the message of the show was that the end of the industry’s nightmare seemed to be getting closer. Last night, President Joe Biden asked states to make all adults eligible to be vaccinated by May 1, a hopeful sign that shows might be able to start rehearsals over the summer.

The performance landed on one of the first warm, springlike days of the year in New York City, adding a jolt of excitement. It felt like a reunion of sorts: After a long time working from home, some people shrieked when they saw each other, keeping their distance but air-hugging or elbow-bumping. To make sure that crowds didn’t form in Father Duffy Square, event planners made no public announcement of the performance, but passersby gathered on the edges of the makeshift stage and stood on elevated surfaces to get better views.

The cast started with a topical classic, George Benson’s “On Broadway,” with a group of high-energy, sneaker-clad and masked backup dancers. (There had been barely any time to rehearse beforehand, so just before showtime, the dancers ran through their choreography just offstage on the concrete.) Next, singers Lillias White, Nikki M. James, Peppermint and Solea Pfeiffer joined in “Home” from “The Wiz.” And a choir sang an original song written about the pandemic hiatus, “We Will Be Back,” by Allen René Louis. Costumes from shows like “Wicked” and “Phantom of the Opera” lined the stage edges, glittering and gleaming on mannequins.

During the pandemic, two musicals, “Mean Girls” and “Frozen,” announced that they would not be returning to Broadway, as well as two plays that were in previews, Martin McDonagh’s “Hangmen” and a revival of Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” On Friday, several shows promised that they would indeed be back, including “Mrs. Doubtfire,” which got through three performances before it was forced to close, and “Six,” which had been scheduled to open March 12, 2020.

That day, Judi Wilfore, house manager for the Imperial Theater, remembers standing in the lobby before the scheduled evening performance of “Ain’t Too Proud” and breaking the news to ticket holders. Even though Broadway shut down on a Thursday, Wilfore came to work that weekend, too, in case any audience members showed up.

Over the summer, Wilfore decided that she needed to find work elsewhere, so she took an online course at Health Education Services, to get certified as a COVID compliance officer. At Friday’s event in Times Square, it was her job to make sure people were following safety guidelines and to manage a team of front-of-house theater staffers who were hired to help run the event.

Wilfore has been a compliance officer for gigs here and there — including the load-out of the “Beetlejuice” set from the Winter Garden Theater — but like many in the industry, she yearns for the eventual return to indoor theater, where she oversaw the bustling movements of staffers and audience members.

“We love what we do,” she said, “and the fact that we haven’t been able to do it in a year is unfathomable.”

One year ago, the grim news that Broadway was shutting down was sweeping through the theater district. Performers were packing up their things and heading home; theater staff members were stationed in lobbies to intercept ticket holders and explain to them that the show was canceled.

One year ago, the grim news that Broadway was shutting down was sweeping through the theater district. Performers were packing up their things and heading home; theater staff members were stationed in lobbies to intercept ticket holders and explain to them that the show was canceled. As a return date was pushed further and further, performers and theater staff resigned themselves to finding work elsewhere. But on Friday, the anniversary of the day their beloved industry shut its doors, Broadway singers, dancers, actors and front-of-house staffers gathered in Times Square, just across from the TKTS discount ticket booth, to perform live for a small audience of industry insiders and passersby. The pop-up show was part concert, part rally. Broadway legend Chita Rivera spoke about the power of theater to heal a beleaguered society, and then André De Shields, decked out in a glittering gold suit and a transparent face shield, sang the opening song from “Pippin” along with an array of Broadway stars, backup singers and dancers. “I’m just happy that we’re all trying to remind the world that we’re still here, and we will be back,” said Bre Jackson, a singer who belted out a solo in the “Pippin” number. One year ago, Jackson, 29, was returning to New York from a national tour of “The Book of Mormon” and preparing for five auditions. Within 12 hours, she said, the auditions were all canceled, and suddenly she was thrust into a job market without much need for professional singers and actors. Jackson eventually found work as an office manager for a therapy practice, finding performing gigs every so often. One of the main purposes of these pop-up performances — of which there have been dozens across the city — is to provide paying gigs for people in the industry who have lost their entire incomes during the pandemic, said Blake Ross, one of the event’s producers. The performance was funded by a collection of organizations, including nonprofits Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS and NYCNext. Although perform inside theaters are unlikely until after Labor Day, the message of the show was that the end of the industry’s nightmare seemed to be getting closer. Last night, President Joe Biden asked states to make all adults eligible to be vaccinated by May 1, a hopeful sign that shows might be able to start rehearsals over the summer. The performance landed on one of the first warm, springlike days of the year in New York City, adding a jolt of excitement. It felt like a reunion of sorts: After a long time working from home, some people shrieked when they saw each other, keeping their distance but air-hugging or elbow-bumping. To make sure that crowds didn’t form in Father Duffy Square, event planners made no public announcement of the performance, but passersby gathered on the edges of the makeshift stage and stood on elevated surfaces to get better views. The cast started with a topical classic, George Benson’s “On Broadway,” with a group of high-energy, sneaker-clad and masked backup dancers. (There had been barely any time to rehearse beforehand, so just before showtime, the dancers ran through their choreography just offstage on the concrete.) Next, singers Lillias White, Nikki M. James, Peppermint and Solea Pfeiffer joined in “Home” from “The Wiz.” And a choir sang an original song written about the pandemic hiatus, “We Will Be Back,” by Allen René Louis. Costumes from shows like “Wicked” and “Phantom of the Opera” lined the stage edges, glittering and gleaming on mannequins. During the pandemic, two musicals, “Mean Girls” and “Frozen,” announced that they would not be returning to Broadway, as well as two plays that were in previews, Martin McDonagh’s “Hangmen” and a revival of Edward Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” On Friday, several shows promised that they would indeed be back, including “Mrs. Doubtfire,” which got through three performances before it was forced to close, and “Six,” which had been scheduled to open March 12, 2020. That day, Judi Wilfore, house manager for the Imperial Theater, remembers standing in the lobby before the scheduled evening performance of “Ain’t Too Proud” and breaking the news to ticket holders. Even though Broadway shut down on a Thursday, Wilfore came to work that weekend, too, in case any audience members showed up. Over the summer, Wilfore decided that she needed to find work elsewhere, so she took an online course at Health Education Services, to get certified as a COVID compliance officer. At Friday’s event in Times Square, it was her job to make sure people were following safety guidelines and to manage a team of front-of-house theater staffers who were hired to help run the event. Wilfore has been a compliance officer for gigs here and there — including the load-out of the “Beetlejuice” set from the Winter Garden Theater — but like many in the industry, she yearns for the eventual return to indoor theater, where she oversaw the bustling movements of staffers and audience members. “We love what we do,” she said, “and the fact that we haven’t been able to do it in a year is unfathomable.”

‘We’ll be back,’ broadway says, on shutdown anniversary

It was a February day so overcast that noon looked like dusk, and Frances McDormand felt a little rattled. She told me this as we ambled down the main street of the small coastal town where she lives, a modest, hidden place so far from Hollywood that studio searchlights would have a hard time finding it. Still, someone had managed.

Earlier that day, the phone rang at McDormand’s house, and while she didn’t recognize the man on the other end, he certainly knew who &lt;em&gt;she &lt;/em&gt;was. When the caller told her he was watching “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri,” the 2017 movie in which she plays an avenging mother named Mildred, McDormand realized she was on the phone with a fan who had tracked down her unlisted landline.

“It was the first creepy call I’ve gotten in 16 years here,” she told me. Though she hung up right away, McDormand now wondered what she might have asked him: “OK, what part were you watching? The scene where I threw the Molotov cocktail at the police station?”

Maybe the fan had hoped to speak with righteous Mildred, who harangues priests and cops and hurls fire bombs in the pursuit of justice. Instead, he reached Frances McDormand, a 63-year-old woman who chats up everybody she comes across in her small town, doesn’t like to think of herself as famous, and has won two Oscars.

This is the tricky thing about how persuasively McDormand embodies her characters: You think you know&lt;em&gt; her&lt;/em&gt; because you’re certain you know them. Whether it’s kindhearted Marge from “Fargo,” tetchy Olive from “Olive Kitteridge,” or bohemian Jane in “Laurel Canyon,” McDormand specializes in playing women with worldviews. You can tell right away what they like and don’t like, who they would be friendly with and who they can’t stand.

Since she rarely grants interviews, most people only see the real McDormand blazing an iconoclastic streak through televised awards shows, where she is barefaced instead of Botoxed and once wore her own jean jacket in lieu of borrowed couture. (In Hollywood, this mild noncompliance is tantamount to a declaration of war.) McDormand is highly skeptical of any ceremony where actors are done up like glamorous gladiators, and when her husband, filmmaker Joel Coen, was once asked to produce the Oscars alongside his brother, Ethan, McDormand suggested they set the telecast at Coney Island, which would have forced Hollywood glitterati to mingle with the freak show.

That irreverence is McDormand’s most endearing trait: On the day we met, she ducked into a liquor store to satisfy her craving for Fritos — “You know they’re gooood, right?” she teased — and before we sat together on a concrete wall by the coastline, McDormand clambered on top of it and used the length of her splayed body to measure a pandemic-appropriate distance between us. She makes a concerted effort not to treat herself like a precious movie star in the hopes that you won’t, either.

That’s why she lives where she lives and why, as she perched on the wall opposite me in an olive puffer jacket, she asked me not to divulge the name of her town. That morning’s phone call aside, “I get to live my more authentic self here,” she said, “and I don’t have to pretend to be anybody else.”

She nodded toward the beach, where a handful of people cavorted with their dogs and surfboards. “I don’t mind being&lt;em&gt; their&lt;/em&gt; movie star,” she said. “I’m just not going to be yours.”

STILL, THE LINE BETWEEN McDORMAND and her characters will only grow blurrier with the release of her intimate new film, “Nomadland.” In this sunset-dappled drama from the director Chloé Zhao, McDormand plays Fern, a widow who packs her things into a van and joins up with a tribe of older itinerant workers to spend their golden years working odd jobs all across the American West.

“Nomadland” would eventually require more from this private star than she is used to giving, but when McDormand first met with Zhao in early 2018, she was mostly curious what the up-and-coming director would think of her: “I was like, ‘Man, I just want to be relevant. Do you think I’m relevant?’”

Perhaps that’s a surprising admission for a woman who was then on the verge of winning her second Oscar, for “Three Billboards,” but McDormand had just entered her 60s and worried that good opportunities could prove harder to find. Even before that, most of her best-known roles had required some hustle to obtain, which is part of the reason McDormand has lately become a producer, too.

“Our industry is such an ageist industry,” Zhao told me by phone. “Someone like Frances McDormand who is just so authentically herself, who has not tried to erase those lines on her face or cover that up to fit into the industry — to me, she’ll be relevant forever.”

And it was exactly that authentic self that intrigued Zhao. In her previous films, “The Rider” and “Songs My Brothers Taught Me,” Zhao had cast nonprofessionals and built character arcs for them that were inspired by their actual experiences. “Nomadland,” based on a nonfiction book by Jessica Bruder, would offer her the same opportunity: Real nomads from Bruder’s book, like Linda May and Swankie, were enticed to play pivotal supporting roles in the film.

But since Zhao wanted those women to simply be themselves in front of the camera, she decided that for the sake of coherence, McDormand would need to play a version of herself, too. “It’s very interesting, the layers of it,” Zhao said. “Fran is playing Fern, but even the name ‘Fern’ came from herself and who she thinks she might be if she hit the road.”

In fact, McDormand had long harbored a fantasy of turning her back on Hollywood, changing her name, and setting off in an RV upon reaching her 60s. “Chloé tapped into the truth of it,” McDormand said, “which was at different points of my life, I’ve said to my husband, ‘I can’t take this anymore, I’m dropping out.’”

“Nomadland” let McDormand play out that dream and a few others. Many of the people McDormand interacts with in the film had no idea she was a famous actress — they figured she was just another nomad, and spoke to her like a normal person in exactly the way that she craves.

In some ways, all that verisimilitude could be grueling, too — McDormand was surprised at how exhausted she would feel after long days of simply being present in front of the camera, reacting to the stories real people unspooled. Zhao also asked McDormand to put in actual hours at Fern’s odd jobs, like harvesting beets in Nebraska or working at a warehouse in California.

But the result is a performance that McDormand has never given before, one that has less to do with acting and more to do with simply &lt;em&gt;being&lt;/em&gt;. As Los Angeles Times critic Justin Chang wrote in his “Nomadland” review, “McDormand doesn’t disappear into Fern; she’s revealed by Fern, and Fern is revealed by her.”

That sort of ineffable, hard-to-pin-down portrait was exactly Zhao’s intention. “I like to think that we have captured a great performance,” she said, “but also, an essence of Fran as well.”

Still, the director and her star sometimes disagreed on just how much of that essence to use. Details both large and small have been pulled directly from McDormand’s real life: Fern proudly shows off a set of plates that McDormand’s father bought her as a college graduation gift, and Zhao cast one of the actress’s oldest friends as Fern’s sister so the recriminations they air in the film could have a real weight.

But when Zhao floated the idea of finding a role in the film for McDormand’s son, Pedro, or suggested that Fern’s dead spouse, glimpsed only in a photograph, should be played by McDormand’s actual husband, Joel Coen, her lead drew a line in the sand. “I have to believe that it’s not just a documentary of me,” McDormand said. “I did create a character, just like I’ve created myself in 63 years, too.”

FOR MOST OF HER LIFE, McDormand has been fascinated by the formula through which one concocts a self-image. How much does it have to do with authenticity, and to what extent is it constructed by playing pretend?

“I would say probably fifth grade is the first time I can remember, ‘Oh, I know what they think I am, and I’m going to subvert it,’” she told me.

What they knew about McDormand then was that she was the adopted daughter of Vernon McDormand, a minister for the Disciples of Christ. That sort of role in that sort of family required a certain amount of public respectability, but as she got older, and an English teacher at McDormand’s school in Monessen, Pennsylvania, asked her to read the role of Lady Macbeth in a workshop, she found herself thrilled to leave propriety at the door.

“That was the hook,” McDormand said. “It was the power of being a really shy, slightly suspect seventh-grader who could stand in front of a group of people and keep their attention.” She loved, too, that Shakespeare’s female characters were as power-hungry as the men: “It’s like I used to say to Joel, ‘Why don’t you guys write better roles for women? In fact, why don’t you just write a role for men and then let me play it?’”

She had married Coen not long after making her screen debut in the 1984 noir “Blood Simple,” which he directed with Ethan. Twelve years later, the Coen brothers would give McDormand her signature role, one that could only be played by a woman: Marge, the chirpy, pregnant police chief in “Fargo.”

That film made her famous, a condition that McDormand considered a fire to be stomped out: After hiring a publicist, she almost immediately instructed him to turn down most requests.

“I made a very conscious effort not to do press and publicity for 10 years in what other people would think would be a very dangerous moment in a female actor’s career, but it paid off for exactly the reasons I wanted it to,” she said. “It gave me a mystery back to who I was, and then in the roles I performed, I could take an audience to a place where someone who sold watches or perfume and magazines couldn’t.”

To her, “Nomadland” is the culmination of that effort to keep herself unspoiled in the public eye. “That’s why it works,” she said. “That’s why Chloé could bear to even think of doing this with me, because of what I’ve created for years not just as an actor, but in my personal life.”

We traipsed back through town, and as we walked up a hill covered in overgrowth and eucalyptus trees, McDormand drew one final line: “So I’m going to pass my house, and then I’m going to leave you,” she said. She asked if I had dinner plans, and directed me to a farm stand I could stop by on the way home. “They’ve got gorgeous little gems and some good old arugula,” she said, “but no eggs right now because the chickens are all cold.”

As McDormand offered me kindly advice while standing in front of a felled eucalyptus trunk, I could have sworn I was talking to Fern, who is so practical and self-reliant. It reminded me of a story she had told me earlier: Not long ago, for the drive-in premiere of “Nomadland” in Pasadena, California, McDormand had decided to pull the van from the film out of storage. She thought it would be fun to sit in during the screening, but when she came face to face with the car she had lovingly named “Vanguard,” McDormand found herself overcome.

She had considered that van “the interior life of Fern, and therefore me,” she said, and to see Vanguard dirty and filled with junk after two years apart was almost too much to bear. An hour and a half into their reunion, Coen found McDormand still scrubbing the car, dripping sweat, insisting that she needed just a little more time with Vanguard. “I’m cleaning her,” McDormand told him. “I can’t let her go!”

It isn’t easy to move on when you’ve made something that requires so much of you. Before we parted ways, I asked McDormand how she felt after making “Nomadland.” I thought she scoffed at me, but she was laughing at the very idea.

“Well, at what point?” she said. “&lt;em&gt;Is&lt;/em&gt; it afterwards? I don’t know!” Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her puffer jacket and disappeared into the eucalyptus grove, taking Fern with her.

It was a February day so overcast that noon looked like dusk, and Frances McDormand felt a little rattled. She told me this as we ambled down the main street of the small coastal town where she lives, a modest, hidden place so far from Hollywood that studio searchlights would have a hard time finding it.

It was a February day so overcast that noon looked like dusk, and Frances McDormand felt a little rattled. She told me this as we ambled down the main street of the small coastal town where she lives, a modest, hidden place so far from Hollywood that studio searchlights would have a hard time finding it. Still, someone had managed. Earlier that day, the phone rang at McDormand’s house, and while she didn’t recognize the man on the other end, he certainly knew who she was. When the caller told her he was watching “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri,” the 2017 movie in which she plays an avenging mother named Mildred, McDormand realized she was on the phone with a fan who had tracked down her unlisted landline. “It was the first creepy call I’ve gotten in 16 years here,” she told me. Though she hung up right away, McDormand now wondered what she might have asked him: “OK, what part were you watching? The scene where I threw the Molotov cocktail at the police station?” Maybe the fan had hoped to speak with righteous Mildred, who harangues priests and cops and hurls fire bombs in the pursuit of justice. Instead, he reached Frances McDormand, a 63-year-old woman who chats up everybody she comes across in her small town, doesn’t like to think of herself as famous, and has won two Oscars. This is the tricky thing about how persuasively McDormand embodies her characters: You think you know her because you’re certain you know them. Whether it’s kindhearted Marge from “Fargo,” tetchy Olive from “Olive Kitteridge,” or bohemian Jane in “Laurel Canyon,” McDormand specializes in playing women with worldviews. You can tell right away what they like and don’t like, who they would be friendly with and who they can’t stand. Since she rarely grants interviews, most people only see the real McDormand blazing an iconoclastic streak through televised awards shows, where she is barefaced instead of Botoxed and once wore her own jean jacket in lieu of borrowed couture. (In Hollywood, this mild noncompliance is tantamount to a declaration of war.) McDormand is highly skeptical of any ceremony where actors are done up like glamorous gladiators, and when her husband, filmmaker Joel Coen, was once asked to produce the Oscars alongside his brother, Ethan, McDormand suggested they set the telecast at Coney Island, which would have forced Hollywood glitterati to mingle with the freak show. That irreverence is McDormand’s most endearing trait: On the day we met, she ducked into a liquor store to satisfy her craving for Fritos — “You know they’re gooood, right?” she teased — and before we sat together on a concrete wall by the coastline, McDormand clambered on top of it and used the length of her splayed body to measure a pandemic-appropriate distance between us. She makes a concerted effort not to treat herself like a precious movie star in the hopes that you won’t, either. That’s why she lives where she lives and why, as she perched on the wall opposite me in an olive puffer jacket, she asked me not to divulge the name of her town. That morning’s phone call aside, “I get to live my more authentic self here,” she said, “and I don’t have to pretend to be anybody else.” She nodded toward the beach, where a handful of people cavorted with their dogs and surfboards. “I don’t mind being their movie star,” she said. “I’m just not going to be yours.” STILL, THE LINE BETWEEN McDORMAND and her characters will only grow blurrier with the release of her intimate new film, “Nomadland.” In this sunset-dappled drama from the director Chloé Zhao, McDormand plays Fern, a widow who packs her things into a van and joins up with a tribe of older itinerant workers to spend their golden years working odd jobs all across the American West. “Nomadland” would eventually require more from this private star than she is used to giving, but when McDormand first met with Zhao in early 2018, she was mostly curious what the up-and-coming director would think of her: “I was like, ‘Man, I just want to be relevant. Do you think I’m relevant?’” Perhaps that’s a surprising admission for a woman who was then on the verge of winning her second Oscar, for “Three Billboards,” but McDormand had just entered her 60s and worried that good opportunities could prove harder to find. Even before that, most of her best-known roles had required some hustle to obtain, which is part of the reason McDormand has lately become a producer, too. “Our industry is such an ageist industry,” Zhao told me by phone. “Someone like Frances McDormand who is just so authentically herself, who has not tried to erase those lines on her face or cover that up to fit into the industry — to me, she’ll be relevant forever.” And it was exactly that authentic self that intrigued Zhao. In her previous films, “The Rider” and “Songs My Brothers Taught Me,” Zhao had cast nonprofessionals and built character arcs for them that were inspired by their actual experiences. “Nomadland,” based on a nonfiction book by Jessica Bruder, would offer her the same opportunity: Real nomads from Bruder’s book, like Linda May and Swankie, were enticed to play pivotal supporting roles in the film. But since Zhao wanted those women to simply be themselves in front of the camera, she decided that for the sake of coherence, McDormand would need to play a version of herself, too. “It’s very interesting, the layers of it,” Zhao said. “Fran is playing Fern, but even the name ‘Fern’ came from herself and who she thinks she might be if she hit the road.” In fact, McDormand had long harbored a fantasy of turning her back on Hollywood, changing her name, and setting off in an RV upon reaching her 60s. “Chloé tapped into the truth of it,” McDormand said, “which was at different points of my life, I’ve said to my husband, ‘I can’t take this anymore, I’m dropping out.’” “Nomadland” let McDormand play out that dream and a few others. Many of the people McDormand interacts with in the film had no idea she was a famous actress — they figured she was just another nomad, and spoke to her like a normal person in exactly the way that she craves. In some ways, all that verisimilitude could be grueling, too — McDormand was surprised at how exhausted she would feel after long days of simply being present in front of the camera, reacting to the stories real people unspooled. Zhao also asked McDormand to put in actual hours at Fern’s odd jobs, like harvesting beets in Nebraska or working at a warehouse in California. But the result is a performance that McDormand has never given before, one that has less to do with acting and more to do with simply being. As Los Angeles Times critic Justin Chang wrote in his “Nomadland” review, “McDormand doesn’t disappear into Fern; she’s revealed by Fern, and Fern is revealed by her.” That sort of ineffable, hard-to-pin-down portrait was exactly Zhao’s intention. “I like to think that we have captured a great performance,” she said, “but also, an essence of Fran as well.” Still, the director and her star sometimes disagreed on just how much of that essence to use. Details both large and small have been pulled directly from McDormand’s real life: Fern proudly shows off a set of plates that McDormand’s father bought her as a college graduation gift, and Zhao cast one of the actress’s oldest friends as Fern’s sister so the recriminations they air in the film could have a real weight. But when Zhao floated the idea of finding a role in the film for McDormand’s son, Pedro, or suggested that Fern’s dead spouse, glimpsed only in a photograph, should be played by McDormand’s actual husband, Joel Coen, her lead drew a line in the sand. “I have to believe that it’s not just a documentary of me,” McDormand said. “I did create a character, just like I’ve created myself in 63 years, too.” FOR MOST OF HER LIFE, McDormand has been fascinated by the formula through which one concocts a self-image. How much does it have to do with authenticity, and to what extent is it constructed by playing pretend? “I would say probably fifth grade is the first time I can remember, ‘Oh, I know what they think I am, and I’m going to subvert it,’” she told me. What they knew about McDormand then was that she was the adopted daughter of Vernon McDormand, a minister for the Disciples of Christ. That sort of role in that sort of family required a certain amount of public respectability, but as she got older, and an English teacher at McDormand’s school in Monessen, Pennsylvania, asked her to read the role of Lady Macbeth in a workshop, she found herself thrilled to leave propriety at the door. “That was the hook,” McDormand said. “It was the power of being a really shy, slightly suspect seventh-grader who could stand in front of a group of people and keep their attention.” She loved, too, that Shakespeare’s female characters were as power-hungry as the men: “It’s like I used to say to Joel, ‘Why don’t you guys write better roles for women? In fact, why don’t you just write a role for men and then let me play it?’” She had married Coen not long after making her screen debut in the 1984 noir “Blood Simple,” which he directed with Ethan. Twelve years later, the Coen brothers would give McDormand her signature role, one that could only be played by a woman: Marge, the chirpy, pregnant police chief in “Fargo.” That film made her famous, a condition that McDormand considered a fire to be stomped out: After hiring a publicist, she almost immediately instructed him to turn down most requests. “I made a very conscious effort not to do press and publicity for 10 years in what other people would think would be a very dangerous moment in a female actor’s career, but it paid off for exactly the reasons I wanted it to,” she said. “It gave me a mystery back to who I was, and then in the roles I performed, I could take an audience to a place where someone who sold watches or perfume and magazines couldn’t.” To her, “Nomadland” is the culmination of that effort to keep herself unspoiled in the public eye. “That’s why it works,” she said. “That’s why Chloé could bear to even think of doing this with me, because of what I’ve created for years not just as an actor, but in my personal life.” We traipsed back through town, and as we walked up a hill covered in overgrowth and eucalyptus trees, McDormand drew one final line: “So I’m going to pass my house, and then I’m going to leave you,” she said. She asked if I had dinner plans, and directed me to a farm stand I could stop by on the way home. “They’ve got gorgeous little gems and some good old arugula,” she said, “but no eggs right now because the chickens are all cold.” As McDormand offered me kindly advice while standing in front of a felled eucalyptus trunk, I could have sworn I was talking to Fern, who is so practical and self-reliant. It reminded me of a story she had told me earlier: Not long ago, for the drive-in premiere of “Nomadland” in Pasadena, California, McDormand had decided to pull the van from the film out of storage. She thought it would be fun to sit in during the screening, but when she came face to face with the car she had lovingly named “Vanguard,” McDormand found herself overcome. She had considered that van “the interior life of Fern, and therefore me,” she said, and to see Vanguard dirty and filled with junk after two years apart was almost too much to bear. An hour and a half into their reunion, Coen found McDormand still scrubbing the car, dripping sweat, insisting that she needed just a little more time with Vanguard. “I’m cleaning her,” McDormand told him. “I can’t let her go!” It isn’t easy to move on when you’ve made something that requires so much of you. Before we parted ways, I asked McDormand how she felt after making “Nomadland.” I thought she scoffed at me, but she was laughing at the very idea. “Well, at what point?” she said. “Is it afterwards? I don’t know!” Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her puffer jacket and disappeared into the eucalyptus grove, taking Fern with her.

What Frances McDormand would (and wouldn’t) give to 'Nomadland'

Priyanka Chopra Jonas isn’t the kind to let a minute of her life slip away, even when life is on lockdown.

While others were perfecting their sourdough starters last spring, Chopra Jonas decided to write her first book — and finished it. As quarantine fatigue curtailed our enthusiasm for crafting and Kondo-izing, she was in London shooting the romantic drama “Text for You” alongside Sam Heughan and Celine Dion.

By the time a lot of us had been rendered bloblike, Chopra Jonas was in overdrive, simultaneously promoting three projects: her Netflix movie, “The White Tiger,” adapted from Aravind Adiga’s Booker Prize-winning rags-to-riches novel about a self-made Bangalore businessman; her memoir, “Unfinished,” which chronicles her 38 years, including her reign as Miss World and breakthrough into Bollywood and eventually Hollywood; and her new sustainable hair care line, Anomaly.

As if that weren’t enough, she was prepping to shoot “Citadel,” a spy series directed by the Russo brothers for Amazon, which had been delayed a year because of COVID-19 restrictions.

Through it all, Chopra Jonas was still finding room for some self-care and shut-eye, “which has to be scheduled time, because otherwise I would never get sleep,” she said. In a phone call in late January from her home in London, Chopra Jonas tracked the recent routines and cultural items that are keeping her busy.

These are edited excerpts from the conversation.

Wednesday morning

In our profession, my routine is dictated by the schedule that my team decides for me, predominantly. So the only thing routine-y about my schedule is I always make sure I have at least eight hours of sleep. My coffee machine is in my bedroom, right by my bed. The first thing I do is press the Nespresso button and smell the aroma of the coffee, and that’s how my eyes open.

Then I check out the news and scroll through Twitter usually still when I’m in bed. I need five or 10 minutes to orient myself to the fact that I’m waking up. On a languid day, maybe it would be half an hour. This ritual is ultimately what led me to “The White Tiger.” There was so much chatter around it in literary circles. I’m an avid reader. I try and pick up the books everyone’s talking about because I don’t really have the luxury of time to discover my own favourites.

My days start with a workout, usually on Zoom with my trainer. I started getting consistent with working out during quarantine. I hate working out otherwise. I’m not one of those people who’s like, “Oh my gosh, I enjoy it so much that I need it.” I listen to Hindi rap, like Raftaar and Divine, while I work out. It’s alive and visceral.

Wednesday afternoon

I watched the inauguration, and I think I felt exactly what the world was feeling. It was a very emotional time for a lot of my friends and family in America, and I felt very excited about the fact that the country is stepping into the right direction in terms of leadership. Not only should leadership look like this, but also sound like this. As someone coming from a country who has had many females in high positions of power, it’s awesome to see the U.S. finally get their first.

My days for the past two weeks have been back-to-back with recording my audiobook and promo, and [together] it takes 12 to 13 hours a day. I filmed three talk show interviews — Kelly Clarkson, Lilly Singh and Ellen — and I recorded a few podcasts and did several phone interviews. I think I was one of the earlier people to commit to the fact that we’re going to be working off Zoom for a really long time. So I found a corner of my room with a fireplace where I do all my Zoom calls.

Wednesday night

Before bed, I always need a few hours to unwind, and this is usually when I watch TV or read. Right now I’m reading “Amnesty,” Aravind Adiga’s next novel. I obviously am a fan. This is based in Australia, and it’s about a Sri Lankan immigrant, and it’s a thriller from his perspective. I do love to get out of work mode and just enjoy the content for what it is. But most of my reading I do with both [enjoyment and the idea of a project] in mind.

I haven’t been able to commit to a TV show because of how busy my schedule is. I recently finished “The Undoing,” “The Boys” and “Bridgerton” but I’m also really into movies after dinner. I’ve watched a lot of the Oscar contenders — “Sound of Metal,” “Da 5 Bloods,” “One Night in Miami.”

Thursday morning

Finally, I had some semblance of a morning I don’t even know how long. I woke up by 10, had a quick workout and then I had luxurious brunch with my mom, who is living in London with me. She was here with my husband during the holidays so that we could be together. I felt safer with her around me. My husband left-top of the year, but I didn’t let my mom go. So I’ve sort of kidnapped her right now.

Thursday afternoon

My first call wasn’t until 2 — a prep call with the producers of “Citadel,” which I am so excited to start. Prep calls are usually character development, which is one of my favourite things. The most exciting job as an actor is when you have the ability to take someone off the page and really breathe life into them.

Thursday night

Then it was back to promo. Unlike normal junkets where you’re local and live with the media, we have been up early and late to hit markets all over the world. Tonight we ended with “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert” at 1 am.

I couldn’t sleep, because you know when you go beyond tired on the other side of the hill? That happened. Then I was on TikTok for hours. I’m a secret admirer, so I consume whatever they show me. It’s a lot of baby videos or doggy videos or kitten videos.

We got a quarantine pet, yes, we did! He’s Panda, and he’s a rescue. I got Nick a German shepherd for our anniversary last year, and my dog, Diana, who I’ve had for four years, she’s a rescue as well. So we had the two. But Nick’s parents were visiting and they brought their girls with them, and the house was full of four dogs, and it was so amazing that after Nick’s parents left, I was kind of feeling like, we need another dog. He’s a mix between an Australian shepherd and a husky. And he’s a punk. He deliberately defies you but he’s so adorable that you forget everything. He’s in LA with Nick at the moment, but they should be coming here sometime next month.

Friday morning

It was my last free weekday before I start “Citadel,” which I’ll be filming until next November. It was also release day of “The White Tiger.” Release day is filled with a roller coaster of emotions, but always with bright eyes and hope for a strong opening. I’m so proud to share this film with the world.

Friday afternoon

I did “Hot Ones.” Oh my God. I’ve done it before on Jimmy Fallon, and it almost killed me. But this time — and I love spicy food. I need hot sauce. I carry it everywhere — but some of the hot sauces are like poison. They’re insane how spicy they are. I literally felt like I was going to faint. I had to open the doors up and walk outside and eat ice cream and milk, and I was crying. Ghost pepper was at No. 4. So you could imagine what No. 10 was.

Friday night

I did a viewing party for “The White Tiger” with a lot of my family and friends all on Zoom. It is such a provocative tale of something that all of us have become so desensitized to, which is this large division between the haves and the have-nots. And COVID specifically showed the world that disparity so glaringly. When is the last time you’ve driven past a homeless shelter or a homeless person and not done anything about it? A majority of the world lives in circumstances like that, so it’s really a sort of mirror into self-reflection. I’m very proud of the movie because it has social commentary, but at the same time it’s sarcastic, funny, dark and really clever.

Priyanka Chopra Jonas isn’t the kind to let a minute of her life slip away, even when life is on lockdown. While others were perfecting their sourdough starters last spring, Chopra Jonas decided to write her first book — and finished it.

Priyanka Chopra Jonas isn’t the kind to let a minute of her life slip away, even when life is on lockdown. While others were perfecting their sourdough starters last spring, Chopra Jonas decided to write her first book — and finished it. As quarantine fatigue curtailed our enthusiasm for crafting and Kondo-izing, she was in London shooting the romantic drama “Text for You” alongside Sam Heughan and Celine Dion. By the time a lot of us had been rendered bloblike, Chopra Jonas was in overdrive, simultaneously promoting three projects: her Netflix movie, “The White Tiger,” adapted from Aravind Adiga’s Booker Prize-winning rags-to-riches novel about a self-made Bangalore businessman; her memoir, “Unfinished,” which chronicles her 38 years, including her reign as Miss World and breakthrough into Bollywood and eventually Hollywood; and her new sustainable hair care line, Anomaly. As if that weren’t enough, she was prepping to shoot “Citadel,” a spy series directed by the Russo brothers for Amazon, which had been delayed a year because of COVID-19 restrictions. Through it all, Chopra Jonas was still finding room for some self-care and shut-eye, “which has to be scheduled time, because otherwise I would never get sleep,” she said. In a phone call in late January from her home in London, Chopra Jonas tracked the recent routines and cultural items that are keeping her busy. These are edited excerpts from the conversation. Wednesday morning In our profession, my routine is dictated by the schedule that my team decides for me, predominantly. So the only thing routine-y about my schedule is I always make sure I have at least eight hours of sleep. My coffee machine is in my bedroom, right by my bed. The first thing I do is press the Nespresso button and smell the aroma of the coffee, and that’s how my eyes open. Then I check out the news and scroll through Twitter usually still when I’m in bed. I need five or 10 minutes to orient myself to the fact that I’m waking up. On a languid day, maybe it would be half an hour. This ritual is ultimately what led me to “The White Tiger.” There was so much chatter around it in literary circles. I’m an avid reader. I try and pick up the books everyone’s talking about because I don’t really have the luxury of time to discover my own favourites. My days start with a workout, usually on Zoom with my trainer. I started getting consistent with working out during quarantine. I hate working out otherwise. I’m not one of those people who’s like, “Oh my gosh, I enjoy it so much that I need it.” I listen to Hindi rap, like Raftaar and Divine, while I work out. It’s alive and visceral. Wednesday afternoon I watched the inauguration, and I think I felt exactly what the world was feeling. It was a very emotional time for a lot of my friends and family in America, and I felt very excited about the fact that the country is stepping into the right direction in terms of leadership. Not only should leadership look like this, but also sound like this. As someone coming from a country who has had many females in high positions of power, it’s awesome to see the U.S. finally get their first. My days for the past two weeks have been back-to-back with recording my audiobook and promo, and [together] it takes 12 to 13 hours a day. I filmed three talk show interviews — Kelly Clarkson, Lilly Singh and Ellen — and I recorded a few podcasts and did several phone interviews. I think I was one of the earlier people to commit to the fact that we’re going to be working off Zoom for a really long time. So I found a corner of my room with a fireplace where I do all my Zoom calls. Wednesday night Before bed, I always need a few hours to unwind, and this is usually when I watch TV or read. Right now I’m reading “Amnesty,” Aravind Adiga’s next novel. I obviously am a fan. This is based in Australia, and it’s about a Sri Lankan immigrant, and it’s a thriller from his perspective. I do love to get out of work mode and just enjoy the content for what it is. But most of my reading I do with both [enjoyment and the idea of a project] in mind. I haven’t been able to commit to a TV show because of how busy my schedule is. I recently finished “The Undoing,” “The Boys” and “Bridgerton” but I’m also really into movies after dinner. I’ve watched a lot of the Oscar contenders — “Sound of Metal,” “Da 5 Bloods,” “One Night in Miami.” Thursday morning Finally, I had some semblance of a morning I don’t even know how long. I woke up by 10, had a quick workout and then I had luxurious brunch with my mom, who is living in London with me. She was here with my husband during the holidays so that we could be together. I felt safer with her around me. My husband left-top of the year, but I didn’t let my mom go. So I’ve sort of kidnapped her right now. Thursday afternoon My first call wasn’t until 2 — a prep call with the producers of “Citadel,” which I am so excited to start. Prep calls are usually character development, which is one of my favourite things. The most exciting job as an actor is when you have the ability to take someone off the page and really breathe life into them. Thursday night Then it was back to promo. Unlike normal junkets where you’re local and live with the media, we have been up early and late to hit markets all over the world. Tonight we ended with “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert” at 1 am. I couldn’t sleep, because you know when you go beyond tired on the other side of the hill? That happened. Then I was on TikTok for hours. I’m a secret admirer, so I consume whatever they show me. It’s a lot of baby videos or doggy videos or kitten videos. We got a quarantine pet, yes, we did! He’s Panda, and he’s a rescue. I got Nick a German shepherd for our anniversary last year, and my dog, Diana, who I’ve had for four years, she’s a rescue as well. So we had the two. But Nick’s parents were visiting and they brought their girls with them, and the house was full of four dogs, and it was so amazing that after Nick’s parents left, I was kind of feeling like, we need another dog. He’s a mix between an Australian shepherd and a husky. And he’s a punk. He deliberately defies you but he’s so adorable that you forget everything. He’s in LA with Nick at the moment, but they should be coming here sometime next month. Friday morning It was my last free weekday before I start “Citadel,” which I’ll be filming until next November. It was also release day of “The White Tiger.” Release day is filled with a roller coaster of emotions, but always with bright eyes and hope for a strong opening. I’m so proud to share this film with the world. Friday afternoon I did “Hot Ones.” Oh my God. I’ve done it before on Jimmy Fallon, and it almost killed me. But this time — and I love spicy food. I need hot sauce. I carry it everywhere — but some of the hot sauces are like poison. They’re insane how spicy they are. I literally felt like I was going to faint. I had to open the doors up and walk outside and eat ice cream and milk, and I was crying. Ghost pepper was at No. 4. So you could imagine what No. 10 was. Friday night I did a viewing party for “The White Tiger” with a lot of my family and friends all on Zoom. It is such a provocative tale of something that all of us have become so desensitized to, which is this large division between the haves and the have-nots. And COVID specifically showed the world that disparity so glaringly. When is the last time you’ve driven past a homeless shelter or a homeless person and not done anything about it? A majority of the world lives in circumstances like that, so it’s really a sort of mirror into self-reflection. I’m very proud of the movie because it has social commentary, but at the same time it’s sarcastic, funny, dark and really clever.

Priyanka Chopra Jonas’s Week: Fireside Zoom calls and 'Bridgerton' episodes

A few days after the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, David Letterman sat behind his desk at CBS’s “Late Show” and shared the story of a rally in Choteau, Montana, to raise money for New York. Getting choked up, he told his viewers, “If that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about the spirit of the United States, then I can’t help you.”

Nineteen years later, with the country in the midst of a monthslong pandemic, Letterman found it difficult to conjure up any similarly inspiring anecdotes. One morning last week, this veteran late-night host, broadcaster and comedian, now 73, was sitting in a park here, contemplating the Hudson River and cracking wise about the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge.

“It looks kind of unfinished,” he said through a fabric mask that barely held back his unruly beard. “Doesn’t it look like the new kid got to design it?”

But truth be told, Letterman was in a more melancholy than mirthful frame of mind. Though he, his wife, Regina, and their son, Harry, have remained safe, he knows several people who were stricken by the coronavirus, some of whom died from it. And he is deeply frustrated by what he feels have been inconsistent, nationwide efforts to inform people about the pandemic and mitigate its spread.

While hardly its most devastating casualty, Letterman’s Netflix interview show, “My Next Guest Needs No Introduction,” returns Wednesday but nearly came to a halt. He had recorded two episodes, with Kim Kardashian West and with Robert Downey Jr., before the pandemic, and believed the season — if not the series — was finished.

Instead, he was able to produce two more episodes over the summer, under substantially different circumstances: one with Dave Chappelle, which was recorded at an outdoor pavilion in Yellow Springs, Ohio; and one with Lizzo, at her home studio in Los Angeles, which had no audience at all.

For Letterman, each of these episodes offered him a further education in the evolution of entertainment and deeper insights as an interviewer and observer of human nature. Even so, he found himself yearning for what he called “the carefree days of nonsense” when he could “bring people into a theater and talk to them for an hour, and when we were done I would go out into the crowd and shake hands, and everybody would want to tongue-kiss me.”

“We don’t do that anymore,” he added.

Letterman spoke further about his pandemic experience, the making of his Netflix series and what he hopes the future might hold for him. These are edited excerpts from that conversation.

Q: How has the pandemic been for you? What is it like for you now?

A: Like everybody else, you forget about it. Six, eight months into it, you go on talking as though things are normal, and then it’s, oh, no, we can’t do that because of the pandemic. In the beginning, it was more than ghastly. The husband of a woman that worked at (“Late Show”), he died. A teacher at Harry’s school died. Paul Shaffer and his wife both had it. Cathy, his wife, was hospitalized. Barbara Gaines, who was a producer on the show, she and her wife both had it. And on and on and on.

Q: How do you feel when you come into contact with people elsewhere in the country who don’t seem to be taking the pandemic as seriously?

A: That makes me very sad. Because we learned a lesson that these other people are dismissing. I was talking to a friend of mine, and he was furious at the mayor of his city for keeping it closed, and he said, “Well, that guy will never be reelected.” And I just thought, do I tell him what this really can be? We’re looking at a quarter of a million people dead soon. But I just didn’t want to have that fight. 
 
Q: After the 9/11 attacks, you gave several “Late Show” monologues where you tried to rally your viewers’ spirits and bring them together. Do you ever feel like saying anything similar now?

A: Something applicable to these times? I wish I had the wherewithal to say something meaningful. But all of these people who are resisting the idea of prevention, I just keep thinking: What about the families of the 220,000 people who are dead? I wonder how they’re feeling. I don’t get it. I have no solution other than to do what is told: Take care of yourself and your family.

Q: How did the pandemic affect your work on your Netflix series?

A: I thought we were done for good. Really. In the beginning, it really seemed like, holy God, they’re coming over the wall, we’re all going to die. People keep reminding me that, at my age, I’m particularly vulnerable. Which I don’t appreciate at all. “Dad, you know you’re close to 100, you’d better not go out.”

Q: How did you decide to continue with your season?

A: We had two more episodes (with Lizzo and Dave Chappelle) in preproduction, and we were eager to do something. We did them within a very short period of time, and then we came home. By that point, there were protocols in place from the production company and from Netflix that we had to observe, gladly, and we got through it OK.

Q: Kim Kardashian West, who is now a prized guest on your Netflix series, was a frequent target of mockery in your “Late Show” days.

A: Oh, I was at the head of that list. I can remember when she would be booked on the show, it was like, I don’t know anything about her, and I’ve never seen her show. And then when we went to talk to Kanye, I thought, oh, I’ve misjudged this woman.

Q: What changed your mind about her?

A: After we met with Kanye West (for the previous season of the Netflix series), I had a long talk with her at their home, and I started to think about how I had used her as a joke and regarded her as someone not to be taken seriously. I found that that impression was not the end of the story. She had a family. She has her prison reform program. I won’t comment on the ease of being married to Kanye West. And if she can keep a show like that on the air for all those years, that’s an accomplishment. If you can stay in business on television that long, good for you.

Q: You went to Yellow Springs, Ohio, to interview Dave Chappelle. Did you perform at his outdoor comedy show there?

A: Yes. I think I did it. (To his publicist) Did I do it? (Publicist answers: “You did it.”) I’m being told I did it (laughs). It was grand. The setting is unique. It’s outdoors. Everybody’s tested, everybody social distanced. He had three or four comics on and each comic made my heart sink deeper. Because when I was doing comedy, a lot of it was (weakly) “Hey, where you from?” But these men and women, whoa — the level of it, the intellect of it, the presentation of it is so much more than it was when me and my little buddies were, “Hey, how ya doin’, I just got in from Indiana.” Really? No one cares. Get outta here.

Q: Do you ever have moments in these interviews where you feel as if you don’t have a shared frame of reference to talk to some of these guests?

A: Yes. Because the experience is barely parallel. We’re all in show business, but that’s as close a comparison as you can make, culturally. I did feel like, is this going to look stupid? An old guy here, trying to talk to people who are thriving and alive and dominating the world through social media? I felt like it was a wreck. That’s the inner dialogue.

Q: How do you get past this?

A: Like anybody else that you talk to, every human being, there are situations that helped develop into what they are. So you’re going to get a story out of anybody. It may not happen in the first five minutes, but in every one of these experiences, there’s always a conduit for mutual experience. “Oh yeah? You think that’s something? Well, one time I choked on a peanut-butter sandwich and nearly died.” You have to make everybody a good interview.

Q: Do you think that late-night television, a genre that you helped to pioneer, has been diminished in recent years — that so much of it has become political comedy that doesn’t really move the needle and crowds out everything else?

A: I know that people have been hugely successful with it. Stephen (Colbert) has done a great job with my old show — his show now. In my day, the goal was just anything to make the audience laugh. That may be part of the dynamic now. People have this hunger to see the current administration being assailed and embarrassing itself. So I think that’s what (late-night shows) worked toward. I don’t fault them for that. After a while, it wears thin, but the appetite for it has not worn thin. I think they still do enough business to keep people happy.

Q: Do you ever find yourself fearing for the future of this country?

A: I really did, until recently. And now I am confident — or more confident than I’ve been in the last four years — that we’re changing presidents in a couple of weeks. And it will be a huge victory. Not just for our culture and our government, but the simple act of voting will have been the reason that the rest of our country is put back together and, in many ways, saved from what appears to be tyranny, certainly jeopardy. I think it will be a huge victory on many fronts, not the least of which is calling attention to the valuable freedom of voting.

Q: Please don’t mistake this for a suggestion, but do you ever think about packing it in as a broadcaster entirely?

A: First of all, you can’t hurt my feelings because I’m dead inside. But the Netflix people put me back in business in a way that has been, for me, really, really fun. On the other hand, I recognize my own shelf life. I’m way overdue. When it happens, I still will enjoy little things here and there, and that’ll be enough. But there’s other people more capable. I got no problem with that. If there is any kind of schedule, it would be when my son is finished with high school. But if it’s tomorrow, that’s fine.

Q: Your son, Harry, is 16 now. Are you worried about how the pandemic is going to affect his life?

A: I think it’s every parent’s concern, regardless of the age of their kids. But for Harry and his buddies, the junior year of high school is a crucial experience. Now they’re starting to look beyond high school, and it’s not good. For guys Harry’s age and older, it might be a setback. Time takes care of everything, and one hopes that that’s the case here.

Q: How do you talk about these feelings with him?

A: I had a conversation with my son the other night that went this way. Because of the pandemic and the fact that he’s getting older, I said, Harry, your mother and I have two responsibilities. One is to keep you safe. And other than the time that your mother let you roll off the bed and land on your head, we have kept you safe. The other responsibility is your happiness. And he said, “Have you been drinking?” So that’s how that works at my house.

&nbsp;

A few days after the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, David Letterman sat behind his desk at CBS’s “Late Show” and shared the story of a rally in Choteau, Montana, to raise money for New York.

A few days after the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, David Letterman sat behind his desk at CBS’s “Late Show” and shared the story of a rally in Choteau, Montana, to raise money for New York. Getting choked up, he told his viewers, “If that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about the spirit of the United States, then I can’t help you.” Nineteen years later, with the country in the midst of a monthslong pandemic, Letterman found it difficult to conjure up any similarly inspiring anecdotes. One morning last week, this veteran late-night host, broadcaster and comedian, now 73, was sitting in a park here, contemplating the Hudson River and cracking wise about the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge. “It looks kind of unfinished,” he said through a fabric mask that barely held back his unruly beard. “Doesn’t it look like the new kid got to design it?” But truth be told, Letterman was in a more melancholy than mirthful frame of mind. Though he, his wife, Regina, and their son, Harry, have remained safe, he knows several people who were stricken by the coronavirus, some of whom died from it. And he is deeply frustrated by what he feels have been inconsistent, nationwide efforts to inform people about the pandemic and mitigate its spread. While hardly its most devastating casualty, Letterman’s Netflix interview show, “My Next Guest Needs No Introduction,” returns Wednesday but nearly came to a halt. He had recorded two episodes, with Kim Kardashian West and with Robert Downey Jr., before the pandemic, and believed the season — if not the series — was finished. Instead, he was able to produce two more episodes over the summer, under substantially different circumstances: one with Dave Chappelle, which was recorded at an outdoor pavilion in Yellow Springs, Ohio; and one with Lizzo, at her home studio in Los Angeles, which had no audience at all. For Letterman, each of these episodes offered him a further education in the evolution of entertainment and deeper insights as an interviewer and observer of human nature. Even so, he found himself yearning for what he called “the carefree days of nonsense” when he could “bring people into a theater and talk to them for an hour, and when we were done I would go out into the crowd and shake hands, and everybody would want to tongue-kiss me.” “We don’t do that anymore,” he added. Letterman spoke further about his pandemic experience, the making of his Netflix series and what he hopes the future might hold for him. These are edited excerpts from that conversation. Q: How has the pandemic been for you? What is it like for you now? A: Like everybody else, you forget about it. Six, eight months into it, you go on talking as though things are normal, and then it’s, oh, no, we can’t do that because of the pandemic. In the beginning, it was more than ghastly. The husband of a woman that worked at (“Late Show”), he died. A teacher at Harry’s school died. Paul Shaffer and his wife both had it. Cathy, his wife, was hospitalized. Barbara Gaines, who was a producer on the show, she and her wife both had it. And on and on and on. Q: How do you feel when you come into contact with people elsewhere in the country who don’t seem to be taking the pandemic as seriously? A: That makes me very sad. Because we learned a lesson that these other people are dismissing. I was talking to a friend of mine, and he was furious at the mayor of his city for keeping it closed, and he said, “Well, that guy will never be reelected.” And I just thought, do I tell him what this really can be? We’re looking at a quarter of a million people dead soon. But I just didn’t want to have that fight. Q: After the 9/11 attacks, you gave several “Late Show” monologues where you tried to rally your viewers’ spirits and bring them together. Do you ever feel like saying anything similar now? A: Something applicable to these times? I wish I had the wherewithal to say something meaningful. But all of these people who are resisting the idea of prevention, I just keep thinking: What about the families of the 220,000 people who are dead? I wonder how they’re feeling. I don’t get it. I have no solution other than to do what is told: Take care of yourself and your family. Q: How did the pandemic affect your work on your Netflix series? A: I thought we were done for good. Really. In the beginning, it really seemed like, holy God, they’re coming over the wall, we’re all going to die. People keep reminding me that, at my age, I’m particularly vulnerable. Which I don’t appreciate at all. “Dad, you know you’re close to 100, you’d better not go out.” Q: How did you decide to continue with your season? A: We had two more episodes (with Lizzo and Dave Chappelle) in preproduction, and we were eager to do something. We did them within a very short period of time, and then we came home. By that point, there were protocols in place from the production company and from Netflix that we had to observe, gladly, and we got through it OK. Q: Kim Kardashian West, who is now a prized guest on your Netflix series, was a frequent target of mockery in your “Late Show” days. A: Oh, I was at the head of that list. I can remember when she would be booked on the show, it was like, I don’t know anything about her, and I’ve never seen her show. And then when we went to talk to Kanye, I thought, oh, I’ve misjudged this woman. Q: What changed your mind about her? A: After we met with Kanye West (for the previous season of the Netflix series), I had a long talk with her at their home, and I started to think about how I had used her as a joke and regarded her as someone not to be taken seriously. I found that that impression was not the end of the story. She had a family. She has her prison reform program. I won’t comment on the ease of being married to Kanye West. And if she can keep a show like that on the air for all those years, that’s an accomplishment. If you can stay in business on television that long, good for you. Q: You went to Yellow Springs, Ohio, to interview Dave Chappelle. Did you perform at his outdoor comedy show there? A: Yes. I think I did it. (To his publicist) Did I do it? (Publicist answers: “You did it.”) I’m being told I did it (laughs). It was grand. The setting is unique. It’s outdoors. Everybody’s tested, everybody social distanced. He had three or four comics on and each comic made my heart sink deeper. Because when I was doing comedy, a lot of it was (weakly) “Hey, where you from?” But these men and women, whoa — the level of it, the intellect of it, the presentation of it is so much more than it was when me and my little buddies were, “Hey, how ya doin’, I just got in from Indiana.” Really? No one cares. Get outta here. Q: Do you ever have moments in these interviews where you feel as if you don’t have a shared frame of reference to talk to some of these guests? A: Yes. Because the experience is barely parallel. We’re all in show business, but that’s as close a comparison as you can make, culturally. I did feel like, is this going to look stupid? An old guy here, trying to talk to people who are thriving and alive and dominating the world through social media? I felt like it was a wreck. That’s the inner dialogue. Q: How do you get past this? A: Like anybody else that you talk to, every human being, there are situations that helped develop into what they are. So you’re going to get a story out of anybody. It may not happen in the first five minutes, but in every one of these experiences, there’s always a conduit for mutual experience. “Oh yeah? You think that’s something? Well, one time I choked on a peanut-butter sandwich and nearly died.” You have to make everybody a good interview. Q: Do you think that late-night television, a genre that you helped to pioneer, has been diminished in recent years — that so much of it has become political comedy that doesn’t really move the needle and crowds out everything else? A: I know that people have been hugely successful with it. Stephen (Colbert) has done a great job with my old show — his show now. In my day, the goal was just anything to make the audience laugh. That may be part of the dynamic now. People have this hunger to see the current administration being assailed and embarrassing itself. So I think that’s what (late-night shows) worked toward. I don’t fault them for that. After a while, it wears thin, but the appetite for it has not worn thin. I think they still do enough business to keep people happy. Q: Do you ever find yourself fearing for the future of this country? A: I really did, until recently. And now I am confident — or more confident than I’ve been in the last four years — that we’re changing presidents in a couple of weeks. And it will be a huge victory. Not just for our culture and our government, but the simple act of voting will have been the reason that the rest of our country is put back together and, in many ways, saved from what appears to be tyranny, certainly jeopardy. I think it will be a huge victory on many fronts, not the least of which is calling attention to the valuable freedom of voting. Q: Please don’t mistake this for a suggestion, but do you ever think about packing it in as a broadcaster entirely? A: First of all, you can’t hurt my feelings because I’m dead inside. But the Netflix people put me back in business in a way that has been, for me, really, really fun. On the other hand, I recognize my own shelf life. I’m way overdue. When it happens, I still will enjoy little things here and there, and that’ll be enough. But there’s other people more capable. I got no problem with that. If there is any kind of schedule, it would be when my son is finished with high school. But if it’s tomorrow, that’s fine. Q: Your son, Harry, is 16 now. Are you worried about how the pandemic is going to affect his life? A: I think it’s every parent’s concern, regardless of the age of their kids. But for Harry and his buddies, the junior year of high school is a crucial experience. Now they’re starting to look beyond high school, and it’s not good. For guys Harry’s age and older, it might be a setback. Time takes care of everything, and one hopes that that’s the case here. Q: How do you talk about these feelings with him? A: I had a conversation with my son the other night that went this way. Because of the pandemic and the fact that he’s getting older, I said, Harry, your mother and I have two responsibilities. One is to keep you safe. And other than the time that your mother let you roll off the bed and land on your head, we have kept you safe. The other responsibility is your happiness. And he said, “Have you been drinking?” So that’s how that works at my house.

David Letterman isn’t here to cheer you up this time