In interviews since the divorce, Lopez has consistently framed the end of the marriage as both deeply painful and ultimately transformative, at times calling it “the best thing that ever happened” to her because it forced serious inner work. Those earlier remarks laid the groundwork for her latest comments, which focus more explicitly on self‑interrogation, therapy, and a decision to stop seeking validation or rescue in romantic partners.

The ‘Figure Yourself Out’ Turning Point

Lopez’s new remarks surfaced on a June 15, 2026 episode of the podcast “SmartLess,” where she said that after her “last divorce” she canceled her tour, stayed home, and told herself, “You need to f---ing figure yourself out.” She described sitting with herself and asking, “What is going on with you? Forget about everybody else. There’s nobody to blame here except yourself in a certain way,” calling that period a “turning point” in how she approached relationships and personal responsibility.

Coverage in outlets including Yahoo Entertainment and the Economic Times’ Panache vertical similarly emphasized Lopez’s insistence on pausing to reflect rather than moving directly into new projects or partnerships. She linked that pause to an intentional decision to stop projecting blame outward and instead examine the beliefs and patterns that led her into repeated cycles in love.

Lopez told the SmartLess hosts that part of “figuring herself out” involved recognizing that while other people’s behavior may be hurtful or flawed, she still has agency in the choices she makes and the dynamics she stays in. She framed that realization as both uncomfortable and necessary, describing the divorce period as “puzzling” and “hell” but also as the beginning of a more honest relationship with herself.

Canceling Work and Choosing Stillness

The singer‑actor explained that in the wake of the split, she “canceled my tour” and chose to “just sit there” rather than use work or new relationships to distract herself, a decision that mirrors earlier reports she had paused major commitments to focus on healing. A March 2026 preview of her “Nightline” interview, aired via Good Morning America, likewise quoted her saying she “had to stop everything,” take a year off, and cancel tours so she could sit with what had happened instead of “running away from it through work” or another person.

Lopez told that earlier segment that she needed to be home with her teenage twins, Max and Emme, emphasizing that caring for her children and herself took priority over career momentum during that time. She also recounted reaching a point where she asked, “What is going on with you?” and concluded that she could no longer place responsibility for her unhappiness solely on others, echoing the accountability theme she highlighted again on SmartLess.

Her comments build on a pattern of describing stillness and introspection as crucial to her recovery, including an October 2024 Interview magazine conversation where she said her “whole f---ing world exploded” and that she had to go off on her own to prove she could be “complete” without a relationship. In that discussion she argued that people, including herself, must be “good on your own” before building something more complete with someone else, a message that can resonate with many audiences, including LGBTQ+ people navigating pressure to define themselves through relationships.

Therapy, Accountability, and Redefining Love

In separate interviews over the past year, Lopez has described engaging in extensive therapy and coaching to understand her patterns and past relationships, saying on “The Howard Stern Show” that she turned to a religious coach, individual and couples therapists, and even a coach focused on addiction dynamics. She told Stern that her most recent divorce was “the best thing that ever happened to me” because it forced her into a deep “journey” of self‑examination and left her more self‑assured and self‑aware.

Lopez has also spoken about never feeling “truly loved” in some past relationships and about former partners not being “capable” of providing the kind of love she needed, while acknowledging her role in choosing those relationships. In an Interview magazine conversation with comedian Nikki Glaser, she said the second split from Affleck “almost did take me out for good” but on the other side she now views it as “exactly what I needed,” even comparing the wake‑up call to being hit with a “f---ing sledgehammer.”

Through these remarks, Lopez has repeatedly stressed that a relationship does not define her and that she must find happiness within herself rather than in external validation. She has said she is “not looking for anybody” in terms of a new partner and is instead focused on being happy and whole as a single person, describing herself as “so happy” being single in a March 2026 People preview of her Nightline interview.

These themes of self‑acceptance and internal validation intersect with broader cultural conversations around mental health, trauma recovery, and the need for safe, affirming relationships across communities, including LGBTQ+ people who often face additional stigma and pressure around relationship norms. Lopez’s decision to be open about therapy and coaching also contributes to destigmatizing mental health support for fans who may be navigating their own complex breakups, identity questions, or family dynamics.

Public Reaction and Ongoing Narrative

News outlets summarizing Lopez’s SmartLess comments have largely framed them as another chapter in a long‑running story about how she processed the end of her marriage to Affleck, combining earlier accounts of heartbreak with a more recent emphasis on empowerment and self‑work. Headlines from outlets such as Entertainment Weekly and Yahoo focused on her explicit directive to herself to “figure yourself out,” highlighting the blunt language as a distillation of the personal reckoning she describes.

Lopez’s narrative has also been linked to broader coverage of her post‑divorce life, including her decision to stay single, step back from dating, and prioritize her children and inner healing over the search for another “great love.” While public reaction varies across social media and comment sections, outlets consistently present her latest comments as a message about personal accountability and growth rather than as a critique of Affleck or of relationships in general.

For fans and observers, particularly those from marginalized communities who may relate to themes of resilience and self‑construction, Lopez’s willingness to talk bluntly about starting over in her mid‑50s underscores that there is no fixed timeline for figuring oneself out. Her message that “you have to be complete” and “good on your own” before seeking something more complete with another person echoes advice frequently shared within LGBTQ+ and other communities focused on building healthy, consensual, and affirming relationships.

Rannells, now 47, told host Kevin Fallon that he had once shared the story of dating Cooper with Girls creator Lena Dunham and co‑creator Jenni Konner during the show’s run. According to Rannells, when he described what it was like to date the older CNN anchor as a 25‑year‑old working actor, the writers responded that it was “a fun story” and later folded its emotional beats into Elijah’s arc.

On the podcast, Rannells described their past relationship as short but significant enough that it stayed with him as he navigated his career and queer storytelling on screen. He emphasized that the romance was “very brief,” underscoring that what endured was less the duration and more the dynamic of dating a well‑established, older media figure while still figuring out adult life.

From real life to Girls

Rannells portrayed Elijah Krantz, the gay former boyfriend and later roommate of Lena Dunham’s character Hannah Horvath, across all six seasons of Girls from 2012 to 2017. The character evolved from comic relief to one of the show’s emotional centers, giving many LGBTQ+ viewers one of the few gay male characters in a major HBO dramedy at the time.

In the show’s fifth season, Elijah begins dating Dill Harcourt, a charismatic and polished news anchor played by Corey Stoll, whose on‑screen persona exudes confidence, success, and middle‑aged stability. Their relationship is marked by an age gap and a stark contrast between Dill’s established career and Elijah’s more chaotic path, themes that Rannells now links directly back to his own experience with Cooper.

Rannells told the podcast that once he shared his story with Dunham and Konner, “then it became the story that Elijah had in the series,” indicating that the Dill storyline grew from the emotional reality of navigating intimacy and power imbalances in queer relationships. In season 5, Elijah gradually realizes that Dill intends to maintain other romantic and sexual “friends” while seeing him, prompting Elijah to question his self‑worth and what he wants from a partner.

That storyline culminates in Elijah ending the relationship when he understands that Dill is unwilling to commit to monogamy or prioritize him, a breakup that viewers and critics at the time praised for its emotional honesty and for treating a gay relationship with the same narrative weight as the show’s straight pairings. Rannells had previously told Elle in 2016 that Elijah saw Dill as his first fully adult relationship, noting that the character had to decide whether to stay with someone who was “not all in.”

Years of speculation about Dill’s inspiration

Speculation that Dill Harcourt was inspired by Anderson Cooper began almost as soon as the character appeared, fueled by Dill’s job as a prominent TV news figure and his composed on‑screen demeanor. In 2016, Cooper himself joked about the resemblance and was asked whether Dill might be based on him, at one point suggesting that the character reminded him of Fox News personality Bill O’Reilly instead.

Corey Stoll, who played Dill, repeatedly declined to tie the role to any one real‑life anchor, telling LGBTQ+ outlet Queerty during the show’s original run that he “did not base this character on anybody.” At the time, Rannells also seemed to distance the character from Cooper, telling Elle that Dill represented an “adult” from outside the Girls core group’s world and that his job could have been many different things.

With Rannells’ new comments, some of that ambiguity has cleared: he now explicitly states that his brief romance with Cooper served as the basis for Elijah’s relationship with Dill, at least on a narrative level. However, he has not claimed that Dill is a direct impersonation of Cooper, and Stoll has maintained that he constructed the character without modeling him on any specific journalist.

Queer‑focused outlets have highlighted the revelation as an example of how TV often draws from the lived experiences of LGBTQ+ performers, even when those inspirations remain unspoken for years. Coverage has also noted that the story underscores the importance of queer actors having a voice in shaping the narratives they help bring to screen.

Revisiting queer representation on Girls

Girls has long been discussed for its depictions of young adulthood, sexuality, and gender, with Elijah standing out as one of the show’s most prominent gay male characters. Rannells’ recent comments invite a rewatch of Elijah’s storyline through the lens of lived queer experience, including the complexities of dating older, more established partners in a media landscape that has often marginalized gay relationships.

During his Obsessed appearance, Rannells also discussed broader questions of queer representation and intimacy on set, including how he choreographed intimacy with Stoll before intimacy coordinators became common practice in television production. He framed those efforts as part of making Elijah’s sex and dating life feel authentic and respectful, particularly for gay viewers who rarely saw themselves depicted with similar nuance in prestige TV at the time.

Media outlets have noted that Rannells’ revelation arrives at a moment when many shows are re‑evaluated for how they handled LGBTQ+ characters, especially in the early 2010s. For some viewers, learning that a real queer relationship informed Elijah’s arc reinforces the sense that the character’s heartbreak and growth were grounded in realities many gay men and queer people have experienced.

Where Rannells and Cooper are now

Rannells has since moved on to a variety of stage and screen projects, including the recent HBO film Miss You, Love You, which he promoted while appearing on Obsessed alongside co‑stars Allison Janney and Bonnie Hunt. He has been in a relationship with actor Tuc Watkins since 2019, after the pair met working together, and the two have become a visible couple in theater and television circles.

Anderson Cooper, for his part, has not publicly commented in detail on Rannells’ latest statements, though he has previously addressed theories about Dill Harcourt with humor and distance. The CNN anchor shares two sons, Wyatt and Sebastian, with his ex‑partner Benjamin Maisani, with whom he has continued to co‑parent after their romantic relationship ended.

Rannells’ decision to attach his own history to Elijah’s story publicly does not change the text of Girls, but it adds a newly transparent layer to one of the show’s most memorable queer arcs. For many LGBTQ+ fans who saw pieces of their dating lives reflected in Elijah’s mismatched romance with Dill, the confirmation that a real, if brief, relationship between two gay men helped shape the storyline may deepen the connection they feel to the character and his journey.

Background and Context

Underwood rose to mainstream prominence through ABC’s Bachelor franchise, first appearing on The Bachelorette and Bachelor in Paradise before being cast as the 23rd Bachelor and heavily marketed as an “adult virgin” looking for his future wife. Coverage at the time emphasized his evangelical faith, desire for marriage and fatherhood, and his status as a never‑before‑married, sexually inexperienced lead, a narrative that quickly became central to his public identity.

In the years after his Bachelor season, Underwood later came out as gay in a 2021 interview with Good Morning America, saying he had “ran from myself for a long time,” had “hated” himself, and had only recently come to terms with his sexuality. He has since discussed the mental health toll of living in the closet and the intense scrutiny that followed his time as a high‑profile reality TV lead.

‘Only Hooked Up With Married Men’

In his recent comments, Underwood said that during the years before he came out, he developed an internal “rule” that he would only be intimate with men who were married and presenting as “straight.” He explained that, in his view at the time, these men had “more to lose” if their encounters were exposed, which he believed gave him some measure of protection against being outed.

“To protect myself, I would only hook up with married men,” Underwood said, adding that these were married “straight” men whose family lives and public images would be jeopardized by disclosure of same‑sex encounters. He described this approach as “messed‑up” in hindsight but said it reflected the depth of his fear about potential blackmail or outing during his early football career and subsequent reality TV fame.

Underwood’s description of those encounters aligns with earlier interviews in which he distinguished between what he called “hookups” and intercourse, saying in 2021 that he had “experiment with men” before joining the franchise but had not had sex with a man at that time. In that earlier Variety‑linked discussion, he reiterated that he maintained his virginity label in the narrow sense of not having had penetrative sex, despite having engaged in other physical experiences with men.

Fear, Secrecy and the ‘Virgin Bachelor’ Label

Underwood said his fear that closeted experiences would surface intensified after he was cast in The Bachelor franchise, particularly once his virginity became a defining storyline that producers foregrounded in promotions and episodes. He recalled being repeatedly asked by media and within the show itself why he was a virgin, worrying that any deeper probing into his past would expose his history of same‑sex hookups.

According to the new interview, Underwood said he “hated” being framed as the “Virgin Bachelor” because the narrative felt both reductive and risky, given that it encouraged curiosity about his sexual history at a time when he was still closeted. He suggested that producers’ focus on his virginity overshadowed the internal conflict he was experiencing regarding his faith, his identity as a gay man, and his fear that former partners could come forward.

On the We Need to Talk podcast, Underwood said he now wishes he had been allowed, or felt safe enough, to share a more vulnerable account of his struggle with sexuality rather than leaning into the simplified virgin trope. He reflected that a more honest conversation during his Bachelor tenure might have offered viewers a clearer window into the complexities faced by closeted LGBTQ+ people in highly public, heteronormative environments.

Coming Out and Life After Reality TV

Underwood publicly came out as gay in April 2021 in a Good Morning America segment, saying he had arrived at a place where he needed to stop “running” from himself and share his truth with the public. In that interview, he described years of shame and internalized homophobia, followed by a period of processing his identity before deciding to come out, which he called “the next step in all of this” for his own well‑being and for the people in his life.

Since then, Underwood has built a public life as an out gay man, including co‑hosting the Hulu dating series Are You My First?, which focuses on singles who have not had sex and explores varied experiences of virginity and intimacy. He married political strategist Jordan C. Brown in May 2023 after the couple’s engagement in early 2022, and the two have spoken publicly about their plans for family life and their journey as a same‑sex couple.

In a separate interview about his past, Underwood has described earlier “homoerotic” experiences in sports locker rooms and has said he first hooked up with another man on his 21st birthday, emphasizing that these encounters happened only when he was single and not in committed relationships. He also said that many of the men he was involved with identified as “straight” in their day‑to‑day lives, a pattern he now links to broader pressures around masculinity and sexuality in sport and reality television.

Reactions and Ongoing Conversations

Underwood’s latest remarks about exclusively hooking up with married men have prompted renewed discussion online about the ethics and risks of closeted relationships, including for spouses and families who may be unaware of their partners’ same‑sex behavior. Commentators and fans of the Bachelor franchise have also revisited how reality TV formats can constrain or erase the experiences of LGBTQ+ people, even as those individuals are positioned as romantic leads within rigidly heterosexual narratives.

In these new interviews, Underwood has framed his past choices as rooted in fear rather than malice, underscoring the impact of stigma on closeted gay and bisexual people who feel compelled to protect themselves through secrecy. He has at the same time acknowledged that the strategies he used, including limiting his intimacy to married men, were “messed‑up” and has expressed a wish that he could have been more open and vulnerable during his time as the “Virgin Bachelor.”

Makkena said she asked herself how to justify Mary Robert being “obsessed” with Deloris and decided that an unspoken, perhaps subconscious attraction would give the relationship more emotional texture. She emphasized that no one involved in the production, including Goldberg, was aware she was playing the role this way, describing it as “an internal little secret” that guided her performance without altering the script or overt blocking.

How queerness shaped Mary Robert

In Sister Act, Makkena’s Mary Robert begins as a very quiet, sheltered novice nun who struggles to project her voice and assert herself within the convent’s rigid hierarchy. Over the course of the film, she is drawn toward Deloris, a flamboyant lounge singer hiding in the convent as Sister Mary Clarence as part of a witness protection arrangement, whose boldness and musicality help Mary Robert step into her own power.

Makkena told the podcast that she imagined Mary Robert being unconsciously and subconsciously drawn to Deloris in a way the innocent young nun would not fully understand, particularly given her limited experience of the world and the cloistered environment. She suggested that this quiet attraction, never explicitly acknowledged in the film, added stakes to Mary Robert’s journey and helped explain why Deloris becomes such a catalytic figure in her life, inspiring her to sing solo and challenge expectations.

Queer readings and LGBTQ+ audiences

Makkena’s comments dovetail with long-standing queer readings of Sister Act that have circulated among LGBTQ+ viewers and writers, who have often noted the film’s resonances with stories of self-discovery, chosen family, and life inside restrictive institutions. A 2020 essay on LGBTQ+ site Hornet argued that the film’s narrative—about Deloris hiding her true identity in a religious setting, clashing with authority, and ultimately being celebrated for her authenticity—has been particularly meaningful to queer audiences who grew up in conservative or religious environments.

According to Makkena, LGBTQ+ media noticed the chemistry between Mary Robert and Deloris early on, even if mainstream coverage did not center it. She recalled being told after the movie’s release that Out magazine had commented on the “sexual tension” between the two characters in its review, and remembered feeling surprised and pleased that critics had picked up on what she had intended as a subtle subtext.

A hit film with enduring LGBTQ+ resonance

Released in 1992, Sister Act became one of the most commercially successful comedies of the early 1990s, pairing Goldberg’s lead performance with an ensemble that included Maggie Smith, Kathy Najimy, Mary Wickes, and Harvey Keitel. The film follows Deloris Van Cartier, a Reno lounge singer who witnesses a mob killing and is placed in protective custody in a San Francisco convent, where she reinvents the convent choir with Motown-infused arrangements that draw crowds and media attention.

For many LGBTQ+ viewers, the story of a performer hiding who she is to survive, only to find freedom when she embraces her showy, camp sensibilities, has echoed common themes in queer life narratives. The film’s emphasis on chosen community, mutual support among women in religious life, and the joyful transformation of a rigid institution through music has helped cement its status as a queer favorite, even without explicit LGBTQ+ characters or plot lines.

Subtext, ‘secrets,’ and on‑screen representation

In her recent remarks, Makkena said the attraction she imagined between Mary Robert and Deloris functioned as a kind of acting “secret,” something performers often use to ground their characters’ emotional stakes even when those motivations are never spelled out in dialogue. She indicated that this internal backstory helped her calibrate Mary Robert’s looks, reactions, and growing confidence around Deloris, allowing her to play the dynamic as more than simple hero worship or platonic admiration.

The choice also highlights how, in an era with less direct LGBTQ+ representation in mainstream family films, some actors quietly built queer subtext into their performances as a way of honoring experiences that could not be plainly written into scripts at the time. For many viewers, learning that Makkena intentionally played Mary Robert with an underlying attraction to Deloris may affirm interpretations they have held for decades, providing a rare instance where an actor explicitly confirms a queer reading that had previously lived mostly in fan conversations and specialized media.

Legacy and a possible future for ‘Sister Act’

The original film’s popularity led to a 1993 sequel, Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit, and eventually to a stage musical adaptation, expanding the story’s reach across generations and geographies. In recent years, Disney has been developing a third Sister Act movie, with Goldberg attached to return as Deloris, signaling enduring interest in the franchise and its themes of reinvention, community, and joyful defiance.

Makkena’s new comments arrive at a time when audiences and critics increasingly revisit older works through a contemporary lens, reassessing how LGBTQ+ subtext, camp performance styles, and coded narratives have shaped the canon of popular film. For LGBTQ+ people who grew up with Sister Act, her acknowledgment that Mary Robert’s devotion to Deloris carried an element of attraction may deepen the film’s existing resonance, illustrating how queer meaning has often been present on screen even when it could not yet be plainly named.

The actor may have ended months of speculation triggered by Zendaya’s stylist Law Roach’s claim in March that the couple had already held a wedding. In a very 2026 twist, artificial intelligence played a role in the reveal.

When Holland was asked by Esquire U.K. whether he had to inform family members about AI images that appear to show him and Zendaya at their wedding, the actor replied, “No, because they were all there.”

“That’s all you’ll get on that,” he said of the matter.

Elsewhere, in the story published Tuesday, Holland gushed about how the couple supported each other behind the camera.

"Our business can present very stressful situations and it’s really nice to have a bedrock of a relationship that will stand the test of time,” he said.

“So, for me, I found my person. She’s my best friend, and I’m the happiest I ever have been when I’m with her, but I also have never felt so supported and safe, ever. Period.”

Holland and Zendaya first met when they co-starred in the 2017 movie “Spider-Man: Homecoming.” They star together in big movies this summer: “The Odyssey” and “Spider-Man: Brand New Day.”

“Obsession” fell just short. It debuted with $17 million. They were still thrilled. Barker made the horror film with just $750,000. It was enormously successful. But then something unexpected happened. The following weekend, “Obsession” easily cleared $20 million. And then it did again and again and almost a fourth time — an almost unheard-of staying power.

“It was just like: Holy cow. I didn’t think that was an option,” Barker says. “Now we’ve said if it hits $300 million, we’ll all get the tattoo. We had to make a new milestone. And I think we’ll reach it.”

Over the last month, “Obsession” has sent shock waves through Hollywood. Barker’s microbudget thriller has grossed $286 million worldwide, and it’s still going. On its fifth weekend in theaters, it was second only to Steven Spielberg’s “Disclosure Day,” with $19 million. In North America, it has outgrossed “Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu.” It’s the biggest hit in the 24-year existence of Focus Features, which has had to postpone the video-on-demand release. It ranks among the most profitable movies ever made.

Barker, who built a following making sketches and short films on YouTube, is living out the dream of every aspiring filmmaker. Life, he granted in a recent interview, is different now.

“My day to day is pretty much the same. It’s just that when I go out in public, it’s a lot different,” he says, laughing. “I actually feel a little unsafe sometimes.”

That’s an ironic development for someone whose twist on an old Monkey Paw story has frightened moviegoers. In “Obsession,” Bear Bailey (Michael Johnston) wishes on an antique toy called a One Wish Willow that his crush, Nikki (Inde Navarrette), loved him. The spell — loosely inspired by an old “Simpsons” Halloween episode — works disturbingly well.

The astonishing success of “Obsession” has been hotly debated throughout the industry. Coupled with the A24 hit “Backrooms,” by 20-year-old Kane Parsons, it’s been a coming-out party for YouTube as a breeding ground for the next generation of filmmakers.

It’s also brought waves of Gen Z moviegoers — who already make up a promisingly robust percentage of frequent ticket buyers — into theaters. Summer has historically been dominated by legacy franchises, but “Obsession” may represent a sea change.

“If there’s a lesson from ‘Obsession,’ I think it’s about audiences,” says Peter Kujawski, chairman of Focus Features. “We have a generation that grew up online, approaches culture with enormous curiosity and playfulness, and is far less concerned with where a filmmaker comes from than whether the story connects. They’re engaged, incredibly film-literate and eager to champion new voices and original stories.”

From YouTube to the multiplex

Barker, who grew up in Mobile, Alabama, before moving to Los Angeles at 18, says he feels as though he’s writing for his generation. The response to “Obsession,” he says, taps into a collective need.

“I get it because I think we’re a little tired of being at home. Our generation is the COVID generation,” says Barker. “I was fortunate enough to have all four years of high school experience. My brother, Riley, lost two years of that. We’re sick of the phones.”

Barker wanted to be an actor before he wanted to be a filmmaker. And while his early exposure to “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” at age 11, helped set him on a horror path, he didn’t begin that way.

“I was a huge Harry Potter fan growing up. Huge. I was obsessed,” Barker says, smiling. “I had all the wands. I would dress up.”

Barker attended film school in Los Angeles for a year, where he met Cooper Tomlinson, a co-star and producer on “Obsession.” The two soon forged their own path, though, on YouTube and TikTok. Their comedy sketch series, “That’s a Bad Idea,” found a footing online.

Barker wrote and directed the 2023 short “The Chair,” which attracted the interest of Tea Shop Productions. Producer James Harris approached Barker about a feature of “The Chair,” but he instead wanted to make a film — “Obsession” — that drew on many of the same ideas. Meanwhile, Barker also made an $800 found-footage horror film, “Milk & Serial.” After failing to secure distribution, he simply uploaded to YouTube. It went viral and landed him an agent.

“Obsession” was selected to premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival last year, giving it an enviable platform. After a bidding war, Kujawski and Focus acquired it for $15 million.

“What stands out about Curry is that he isn’t working from an inherited playbook,” says Kujawski. “Whether you look at his earlier work or ‘Obsession,’ there’s a consistency of vision and a confidence in his storytelling that immediately sets him apart. He knows exactly what he wants to say while being absolutely committed to making every minute of his work as entertaining as possible, and he’s willing to take real risks in service of that vision.”

More ‘Obsession,’ but other projects first

Barker’s swift but hard-earned rise has made him the poster boy for a new brand of filmmaker, one who has honed his craft as a digital creator and arrives with an established fan base. Jason Blum, the chief executive of Blumhouse Productions, has compared Barker and company to the 1970s wave of American auteurs, “making edgy movies that are connecting in theaters in a crazy way.”

“When you really step back, my journey is not really that different than Christopher Nolan or David Fincher or Steven Spielberg,” Barker says. “You can watch their early short films and see their work before they were given a chance. I think YouTube is just a path, a platform we can use now to show the industry what we’ve got.”

Now, Barker is one of the most in-demand filmmakers in Hollywood. He has already shot his next feature, “Anything But Ghosts,” starring Aaron Paul and Bryce Dallas Howard, for Blumhouse. Two months ago, A24 announced that he will write and direct a reboot of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

All the attention has taken some getting used to. Filmmakers like Ari Aster and Zach Cregger and even Spielberg have reached out to compliment Barker on his film.

“That’s when you start to feel this impostor syndrome of like: What? It’s not that good,” Barker says, laughing. “All I see when I watch ‘Obsession’ is the problems.”

An “Obsession” sequel is, naturally, a certainty. “A sequel isn’t hard for this movie,” grants Barker. He sketches out how new wishes by other characters on One Wish Willows could lead to entirely different stories, all revolving around some new vice: greed, fame, whatever.

But as much as it’s tempting to see “Obsession” as the product of Barker's own wish, it’s more like the opposite. In the film, Bear’s profound mistake is putting off confessing his feelings to Nikki, thinking there’s plenty of time to do it. (The movie immediately cuts to a dead cat.) Barker, on the other hand, had no timidity about realizing his dreams. He wanted to make movies, so he did.

“Anyone that asks what advice you have for young filmmakers, I always say the same thing,” says Barker. “I went to a film school for a year out in L.A. and I watched people paralyze themselves with the pressure of: I’ve told people I’m a director so now I have to direct something that has to be good. If it’s not good, everyone’s going to judge me. The result of that thinking is two years on one short film.”

“You can’t put too much pressure on an idea,” adds Barker. “You just got to make it.”

According to coverage of the complaint, Banks contends that she sat for a roughly three‑and‑a‑half‑hour interview that was ultimately reduced to approximately 16 minutes across the docuseries, a condensation she argues stripped out key moments where she accepted accountability for past decisions. Her legal team has reportedly cited breach of contract, “false light,” and defamation‑by‑implication claims, arguing that the edit exaggerates her callousness toward former contestants and minimizes her attempts to respond to their criticisms.

The suit names Netflix alongside docuseries co‑directors and related production entities, and Banks is said to be seeking a jury trial and unspecified punitive damages, though the exact monetary amount has not been made public. As of mid‑June, Netflix and the producers had not issued detailed public responses to the legal filing, leaving much of the public narrative to be shaped by former contestants and online reaction.

Adrianne Curry’s Sharp Response: ‘Welcome to the Party’

Adrianne Curry, who won Cycle 1 of America’s Next Top Model in 2003, has emerged as one of the most prominent voices reacting to Banks’ lawsuit, using social media videos to question the former host’s stance on editing. In an Instagram video, Curry said she had “read that Tyra Banks is suing Netflix because she didn’t like being edited,” before breaking into laughter and adding, “Bitch, for real, girl?” and the line “Welcome to the party, pal,” a reference to Bruce Willis’ character in Die Hard.

Curry’s remarks explicitly link Banks’ frustration over being “edited” to the long‑standing grievances of contestants who say their own words and actions were reshaped by producers for dramatic effect. She has previously explained that she declined to participate in the Netflix docuseries at all because she feared her comments would be cut and rearranged into a narrative she could not control, describing a lack of trust in reality‑TV editing practices after her experience on the show and other programs.

In January, Curry said on X that she found it “absurd” to analyze the series “over 20 years later with a woke lens,” even as she acknowledged experiencing hunger, financial instability, and intense pressure during production, underscoring the complicated relationship many alumni have with the franchise. Her current reaction to the lawsuit builds on that history: Curry positions Banks’ complaint as a case of a powerful producer encountering the same editing tactics that contestants—some of them queer, gender‑nonconforming, or otherwise marginalized—say shaped how they were seen by millions of viewers.

A History of Skepticism Toward the Docuseries

Curry’s latest comments come after months of mixed messaging from her about the Netflix project, which she has alternately criticized and used as a springboard to reflect on her time on ANTM. In late January, she confirmed she had “no intention” of joining the docuseries, titled Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model, saying she worried that her remarks would be molded into a pre‑set narrative and that she preferred to avoid the intense public judgment that often follows outspoken reality‑TV alumni.

At the same time, she has repeatedly described the conditions of filming as harsh, saying in one Spanish‑language interview that contestants “were starving every day” and speculating that the new documentary might serve as “damage control and a launch platform” for Banks and the franchise. She has also recounted feeling misled about what winning the series would mean for her modeling career, telling one outlet that she had been promised mentoring from supermodels like Gisele Bündchen and Banks and a major career path that never materialized after cameras stopped rolling.

Curry’s commentary extends to other figures from the show, including judges and creative staff who, she argues, were equally involved in decisions now being framed as solely Banks’ responsibility. In various posts, she has criticized what she calls a “festival of cover‑ups” around the franchise, while still saying she forgives those involved and remains grateful for the opportunities the show provided—an ambivalence that reflects wider tensions for many reality‑TV alumni who are also navigating ongoing careers, families, and, for some, queer and trans community ties shaped by that early visibility.

Other Alumni Say Banks Is Getting ‘A Taste of Her Own Medicine’

Curry is not alone in her reaction to Banks’ lawsuit. Angelea Preston, a former contestant whose win was controversially rescinded years ago after producers discovered she had previously done escort work, told Entertainment Weekly that if Banks truly believes the documentary created a “false narrative” through editing, then “now she knows how we feel.” Preston described the situation as “karma,” arguing that many contestants felt misrepresented by the original series’ editing choices, including how their anger, vulnerability, or queerness were framed for maximum drama.

Preston has a long history of challenging the franchise; she previously attempted to sue Banks and the show’s producers for damages after losing her title, alleging that the handling of her past work and the narrative constructed around it harmed her career and personal life. In her latest comments, she rhetorically asked if Banks wants Netflix to release the full footage of the docuseries interview and pressed the host about whether any potential legal win could translate into compensation for former contestants who say they were harmed.

The voices of Curry, Preston, and others are resonating with audiences who have long questioned the ethics of reality television, especially formats that prominently feature young women, queer contestants, and people of color navigating high‑stakes competitions under constant surveillance. The docuseries includes allegations of racism, fat‑shaming, and other forms of discrimination, and it has prompted fresh discussions about the responsibility of producers, networks, and streamers to safeguard participants’ mental health and avoid exploitative portrayals.

Curry’s Complex Defense of Banks and the Larger Conversation on Accountability

Even as she mocks Banks’ lawsuit, Curry has also, at times, defended the former host against what she views as disproportionate “cancel culture” backlash in the wake of Reality Check. Earlier this year, she published a lengthy statement arguing that “being a d***head isn’t illegal” and saying she does not believe Banks deserves to be “canceled,” stressing that she has chosen to forgive Banks and other producers for how they treated her and for effectively erasing her from the show’s official legacy.

Curry has also said she respects Banks for not issuing what she sees as a performative apology in response to public pressure, telling followers in one video that Banks “isn’t sorry” and “owes you nothing,” and arguing that forcing people to publicly express remorse they do not feel amounts to a “struggle session.” That framing has drawn criticism and support; some viewers interpret it as minimizing the harm alleged by contestants, while others see it as a call to distinguish between genuinely abusive behavior and the often‑harsh realities of the fashion and television industries two decades ago.

For LGBTQ+ fans and former contestants, the conversation around Banks’ lawsuit and Curry’s reaction is layered onto memories of how queer and gender‑nonconforming people were depicted on early‑2000s reality TV—often as stereotypes, “villains,” or emotional cautionary tales. While recent reality series have made strides in centering contestants’ self‑described identities and boundaries, the docuseries and subsequent lawsuit underscore how editing power and contractual control still largely rest with producers and platforms, not with the people whose lives and identities are being televised.

As Banks pursues her claims in court and Netflix weighs its response, Curry’s pointed “Welcome to the party, pal” encapsulates a broader sentiment among alumni: that reality‑TV participants—whether aspiring models, queer creatives, or young people seeking visibility—have long lived with the consequences of editing choices they did not control. The lawsuit ensures that, for now, the questions raised by Reality Check—about accountability, consent, and who gets to shape the final story—will continue to play out not just on screen, but in court and across social media.

The Emmy-winning performer, now 32, used the conversation to revisit the emotional impact of becoming a household name as a tween and teen, framing her experience as part of a broader pattern of how child entertainers are treated as “products” rather than as developing young people with complex emotional needs. Her comments add new detail to concerns she has raised in recent years about the mental health toll of childhood stardom and the pressures that come with being a young Black woman navigating a highly visible career.

‘The darkest’ time of her life

During the Tribeca discussion, Palmer told Goldberg that the “darkest” period of her life dated back to her teen years, when she was working steadily and gaining widespread recognition through projects such as “True Jackson, VP” and other high-profile roles. She described a time when her external image sharply diverged from her internal reality, recalling that people wanted her to appear “happy and smiling” while she was privately overwhelmed and struggling.

Palmer said she felt that those around her were mainly interested in her upbeat persona, not in how she truly felt, which intensified her sense of isolation. She recalled being “so sad” that the pain eventually turned into numbness, describing sitting alone in her room as a teenager and realizing that people seemed more invested in her public image than in her emotional well-being.

‘We were all being traumatized by fame’

In the Tribeca conversation, Palmer emphasized that the pressures of celebrity affected her entire family, not just her as the person in front of the camera. She said there was a period when “we were all being traumatized by fame,” but noted that her relatives had “a more relatable experience to the trauma of the fame” than she did, because she was the star and they were “in the star shadow.”

While Palmer has previously praised her family as “awesome,” she explained that the dynamics of sudden success created stress and confusion for everyone, and that no one in the household fully understood the unique pressures she faced as the one constantly in the public eye. Her comments are consistent with earlier interviews in which she described fame as a shock to her family’s system, citing experiences like being suddenly surrounded by large crowds in public spaces and realizing that her income at a young age carried enormous expectations.

Building a ‘protective’ persona

Palmer told the Tribeca audience that, in response to these pressures, she developed a kind of protective persona to shield herself from the emotional strain of being constantly watched and evaluated. She suggested that this persona helped her function within the entertainment industry but also led her to lock away parts of herself, creating distance between her authentic emotions and the version of herself that others expected to see.

In previous conversations, Palmer has likened child stardom to being treated as a commodity, saying that systems around children on networks like Disney and Nickelodeon can be “dehumanizing” because they are designed to maximize output rather than support young people’s holistic development. These reflections connect her current comments about a constructed persona to a longer-running critique of an industry that often encourages young entertainers to prioritize performance and productivity over their own mental health.

Earlier disclosures of trauma and mental health struggles

Palmer’s latest remarks at Tribeca echo earlier disclosures she has made about trauma, depression, and anxiety rooted in her childhood and teen years, including experiences unrelated to but intensified by her fame. In a 2024 People cover story tied to her upcoming book “Master of Me: The Secret to Controlling Your Narrative,” she revealed that she survived child-on-child sexual abuse at around age 5 and that the impact of that experience became clearer to her around age 12.

She linked that early trauma, combined with the pressure of being a child entertainer and family breadwinner, to “a lot of anxiety, a lot of stress, a lot of depression” throughout her youth. Palmer has also spoken about how the financial and emotional weight of supporting her family at a young age complicated her ability to process her feelings, contributing to periods when she felt out of control and unsure how to advocate for herself.

Industry pressures, exploitation, and relationships

Beyond the general stress of fame, Palmer has described specific situations that intensified the difficulties of her teenage years, including a relationship with an adult man while she was still a minor. In that 2024 interview, she recounted dating a 20-year-old when she was 15 during the period she was starring in “True Jackson, VP,” later writing in her book that the power imbalance “put me in a place that harmed me in ways I couldn’t have known.”

More recently, she has said that reaching the age her older partner was at the time allowed her to see the relationship as exploitative, framing it as part of a broader pattern of adults failing to fully protect or advocate for young performers in the industry. In discussions about her past, she has tied that dynamic to concerns that child stars, including girls and gender-diverse young people, can be especially vulnerable to manipulation because they are treated as professionals long before they have the power or knowledge to set boundaries.

The mental health toll of being a ‘product’

Palmer has repeatedly connected her personal story to the wider mental health toll experienced by many former child stars, noting that what she went through is not unique. In earlier interviews, she has described the systems surrounding child entertainers as “no machinery more dehumanizing,” stressing that children in such environments are often treated as “a product” rather than as whole, developing people who need support, privacy, and room to make mistakes.

She has also spoken about periods of significant depression and anxiety that she traces in part to having “so much responsibility at a young age” and lacking the tools to process her emotions amid constant work and public scrutiny. These reflections align with her description at Tribeca of feeling alone and numb as a teen, even while maintaining a polished public image as a charismatic television star and vocalist.

Public narrative, identity, and reclaiming control

In recent years, Palmer has focused on reclaiming control over her narrative, including through memoir, interviews, and her own media platforms. Her upcoming book “Master of Me” centers on what she calls “controlling your narrative,” and her press appearances surrounding the project have highlighted her efforts to speak openly about trauma, healing, and boundaries without allowing those experiences to define her entire identity.

Palmer has also addressed how public fascination with her personal life, including a highly scrutinized past relationship and legal actions she has taken, has at times overshadowed her artistry, something she has said she “hated” because it placed her “personal junk” at the center of coverage of her career. By framing her teenage years as a dark period marked by trauma and dehumanizing pressures, she is now foregrounding her own perspective, situating her story within broader conversations about safety, consent, and mental health for young people in entertainment.

A broader conversation about child stardom and care

Palmer’s comments arrive amid renewed public discussion about how child entertainers are treated, including calls for stronger legal protections, mental health support, and accountability for adults and institutions that profit from their labor. While Palmer did not frame her Tribeca remarks as a policy argument, her account of feeling alone, overburdened, and “traumatized by fame” reinforces concerns raised by other former child stars who say their early careers left lasting psychological scars.

Her narrative also intersects with ongoing cultural conversations about supporting young people — including LGBTQ+ youth and other marginalized communities within entertainment — whose experiences of visibility, pressure, and scrutiny can be particularly intense. Palmer’s willingness to speak candidly about her past contributes to a growing body of testimony from artists challenging the idea that early fame is purely glamorous, and calling for systems that center the well-being and autonomy of children rather than their marketability.

Looking ahead

As Palmer continues to expand her career as an actor, musician, producer, and author, her reflections on the “darkest” years of her life function as both a personal reckoning and a public record of the costs behind her success. She has credited therapy and self-reflection with helping her process what she endured and with giving her language to describe experiences that once left her feeling powerless or misunderstood.

By naming fame itself as a source of trauma and underscoring that her teenage years were far more painful than they may have appeared to observers, Palmer adds new depth to public understanding of her journey from child star to adult multi-hyphenate. Her latest comments at Tribeca, combined with her ongoing work and forthcoming book, suggest that revisiting that darkness is part of an ongoing effort to define her story on her own terms — and to invite more transparent, compassionate conversations about what young performers need to thrive.

According to court filings, Netflix and its music arm are named in connection with alleged false endorsement related to the use of Banks’ image on album art for the docuseries’ soundtrack, while EverWonder Studio and the directors are also accused of contractual breaches and defamatory editing choices. Banks is seeking unspecified damages, including alleged loss of future business opportunities and income, and has requested a jury trial to determine any financial award.

Background and context

“Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model” is a three-part documentary released on Netflix earlier this year that revisits the long‑running reality competition “America’s Next Top Model,” which Banks created, produced, and hosted for much of its run. The docuseries examines both the global influence of the show and its controversies, including episodes that LGBTQ+ viewers and advocates have criticized in recent years for reinforcing narrow beauty standards and occasionally framing queer and gender‑nonconforming contestants through a sensationalized lens.

Banks participated in the project by sitting for what she describes as a three‑and‑a‑half‑hour interview about the series’ legacy, including criticism of past creative and production choices. In court documents, she says she used that time to acknowledge missteps, to reflect on decisions she would change, and to discuss how reality television norms have evolved around issues such as body image, race, and representation of LGBTQ+ contestants and judges.

Banks’ claims about ‘selective editing’ and assault narrative

Central to Banks’ lawsuit is the allegation that only about 16 minutes of her multi‑hour interview ultimately appeared in the final cut of “Reality Check,” and that this material was “stripped of context and reassembled” to support a narrative very different from what she intended to communicate. The lawsuit contends that producers used “selective editing, deliberate omission, and surgical manipulation of continuous footage” to imply that Banks knowingly allowed a contestant to be sexually assaulted during filming, exploited that trauma to boost ratings, and later could not recall the incident when asked.

The contested storyline centers on former Cycle 2 contestant Shandi Sullivan, whose experience during a 2003 trip to Milan is framed in the docuseries as a sexual assault, according to descriptions referenced in the complaint. Banks asserts in her filing that she was unaware Sullivan categorized what happened as sexual assault and that, during her interview, she was not told that the documentary would depict the incident in those terms or suggest she had knowingly allowed harm to occur.

In the lawsuit, Banks argues that the editing choices wrongly convey to viewers that she prioritized ratings over the safety and well‑being of a contestant, a portrayal she describes as a “complete fabrication.” The complaint also states that segments of Banks’ interview were “decontextualized and rearranged” to make it appear as if she was directly responding to questions about the alleged assault when, she claims, she had not been informed of Sullivan’s characterization of the incident as sexual violence.

Alleged impact on Banks’ career and business ventures

Banks states that the fallout from the docuseries has harmed not only her public reputation but also her current businesses, including SMiZE & DREAM, an ice‑cream venture based in Sydney, Australia. According to the lawsuit, online ratings for SMiZE & DREAM have “deteriorated” since the documentary’s release, which Banks links to the renewed scrutiny and criticism sparked by the series’ portrayal of her decisions on “America’s Next Top Model.”

The suit claims that this alleged misrepresentation has caused “serious harm and damage” to Banks’ personal brand, which has evolved over decades to encompass modeling, television production, entrepreneurship, and mentorship, including work with emerging talent from diverse racial, cultural, and LGBTQ+ backgrounds. In addition to financial losses, Banks says she has experienced significant mental anguish from what she characterizes as a misleading depiction broadcast to a global Netflix audience.

Contract and false endorsement allegations

Beyond defamation, Banks alleges the filmmakers violated specific clauses in a rights agreement designed to limit how her participation and likeness could be used in the project. The complaint references what it describes as a “no‑defamation” clause and a “no‑word‑placement” clause, arguing that these were “essential obligations” of the parties’ agreement and that they were breached before and at the time the Netflix series was released.

Banks also accuses Netflix and EverWonder of false endorsement, saying her image was used in promotional materials and on the soundtrack album cover in a way that could lead audiences to believe she fully approved of and endorsed the documentary as released. The suit seeks an injunction barring Netflix from using her likeness in connection with the soundtrack and, more broadly, aims to prevent what she characterizes as misleading associations between her brand and the contested narrative.

Silence so far from Netflix and filmmakers

As of mid‑June, major outlets reporting on the lawsuit have not published any detailed public response from Netflix, EverWonder Studio, or directors Mor Loushy and Daniel Sivan to Banks’ allegations. Coverage notes that Netflix declined or did not immediately respond to requests for comment when contacted about the filing, leaving Banks’ complaint as the primary publicly available account of the dispute at this stage.

Legal experts quoted in broader industry reporting about defamation litigation involving entertainment projects say such cases often turn on what a “reasonable viewer” would infer from the editing and context of a film or series, though specific expert commentary on Banks’ case has not yet been widely published. At present, there is no trial date publicly set in the court documents cited by outlets, and the defendants’ formal legal responses are expected to further clarify their position on editorial choices in the documentary.

Implications for reality TV, consent, and survivor narratives

The lawsuit arrives amid ongoing public debate about how reality television portrays power dynamics, consent, and survivor narratives, including those involving women, LGBTQ+ contestants, and other marginalized participants in high‑pressure formats. In recent years, “America’s Next Top Model” has been re‑examined by fans, former contestants, and critics who have raised concerns about how episodes handled topics such as race, body size, queerness, and gender expression, often in ways that now draw scrutiny for reinforcing stereotypes or glamorizing distress.

While Banks’ complaint focuses on the alleged misrepresentation of her own words and knowledge, the underlying incident involving Shandi Sullivan underscores broader questions about how productions document, frame, and respond to experiences that participants later describe as sexual assault or boundary violations. Advocates for survivors and for safer working conditions in entertainment have long urged producers and networks to adopt trauma‑informed standards, including clear reporting pathways, consent protocols for intimate scenarios, and careful collaboration with participants when their stories involve sexual violence, regardless of the participants’ gender or sexual orientation.

Editing ethics, docuseries, and public perception

Banks’ allegations also speak to a broader conversation about ethics in documentary storytelling and docuseries editing practices, especially when projects revisit older reality shows that included queer contestants, gender‑nonconforming people, and other communities now demanding more accountable representation. The lawsuit argues that, because viewers were told they were watching a documentary, they approached the series expecting a level of completeness and context that, in Banks’ view, was not honored in how her interview was presented.

If the case proceeds, it may test how U.S. courts balance filmmakers’ editorial discretion and the First Amendment against claims that editing choices can cross into actionable defamation when they allegedly convey a false implication about someone’s knowledge, intent, or complicity in harm. For audiences, including LGBTQ+ viewers who have grappled with both the influence and the harms of “America’s Next Top Model,” the lawsuit underscores how much power editing holds over how histories of fashion, gender, and reality television are remembered.