This piece is part of a new series featuring frank accounts of the strike from Hollywood writers at different levels in their careers. The diarists have been granted anonymity to encourage candor.
Now it’s getting real. That initial, Chayefsky-esque thrill of telling AMPTP to go fuck itself is starting to fade. All the truckers still blare their horns in union solidarity, and the energy’s still amped — this week the Latinx Writers Committee flooded Universal and the African American Writers Committee all but laid siege to Paramount — but now there’s a routine.
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The [Writers] Guild’s almost out of blank signs, so you have to pick through a cluster of someone else’s used slogans when you check in. It’s like sorting through the t-shirt rack at Target to find just the right snark to fit your mood. (Is today more a “ChatGPTDeezNuts” day or a “Nice Tesla, Pay me” day?)*
The studios also have distinct identities. Sony’s the fun one, Disney’s for families and seniors (easy on the insoles) and Universal is for singles — probably because there are discount Margaritas at the Taco stand just across the 101. And Netflix is clearly the see-and-be-seen picket line, while Warners is the one everyone forgets about. The gripe among captains is that Imagine Dragons would’ve done way more good over there because the WB lot is a factory floor. All the Netflix execs are acting like it’s 2020 and zooming from home anyway. But Burbank gets so hot.
What’s really starting to sink in: This is going to be a long one. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Not that anyone’s surprised. AMPTP will do the usual, trying to lure the DGA into throwing us under the bus. There’s some cautious optimism this time: DGA did come to our pep rally at the Shrine. (Though, man, the Teamsters stole the show. Those guys know how to throw down.) But it’s hard not to fear we’re just Charlie Brown and they’re Lucy with the football – because that’s how it’s usually been. But still, one can dream about how fast this would all be over if DGA and SAG actually went to the mattresses.
Admittedly, this time does feel different: It feels existential. Part of the reason Sony is so fun is if you’re a WGA member who can even afford to live on the Westside, you came up during the mad money days of the ’80s and ’90s. And Paramount might feel more like Helm’s Deep because, if you didn’t, you live so far east, it’s the only commute that won’t kill you — or, worse, drain your gas tank. (Yeah, today was definitely a “Nice Tesla, Pay me” day.)
Part of it’s AI — which seems like a meteor coming for everyone, not just writers. Writers are banging out anti-AI signs faster than Dall-E can rip off online fantasy artists. (Hell, they ripped the name off Pixar!) The only person more hated on the picket line than Ted Sarandos might be Sam Altman: you train up your mega-killer computer god on our work and then have the gall to blog about a UBI? Fuck you. Where’s my residuals, Microsoft?
Not to let Ted off the hook. For all its many, many faults, Hollywood at least had a system. We gave you The Sopranos and Breaking Bad and Atlanta and the goddamn Golden Girls. The whole world wanted to know our secret sauce. (Hint: it’s called a writers room.) Then, Mr. Move-Fast-and-Break-Shit broke how we all made a living. Netflix’s super-secret AI has already taken over the “greenlighting” job – yet this guy is still pulling down 8 figures, and we can’t get a minimum 10 weeks of work guarantee?
Hell, they won’t even agree to try not to replace us all with robots in three years. So, yeah. This is definitely going to take a while. Here’s my only for-sure strike prediction: Once this shit is over, the next Bond villain is going to be wearing a hoodie.
*Not plagiarizing! Both actual signs I’ve seen. Kudos to their underpaid, anonymous authors!
