No visa, no work: Why celebrities are suddenly terrified of Trump
Earlier this year I interviewed a well-known British pop star who made some vaguely disparaging comments about the US president. Nothing particularly odd about that – liberal-leaning artists (i.e. most of them) have always tended to speak their minds.
But no sooner had this person's comments filtered up the chain of command – from their publicist to their manager – than a message came back. 'Probably better it's not in the article,' said the manager, who has a decades-long reputation for not giving a fig about upsetting anyone. I obliged, largely because I found the comments tasteless and tangential to the matter in hand. Yet the incident was telling: people in the creative industries are desperate not to upset the Trump administration for fear that they'll be denied a visa, and therefore entry, into the potentially lucrative country. And musicians, actors and writers – and their teams – are taking pre-emptive action.
My pop star's manager is not the only one. Last month Squid Game creator Hwang Dong-hyuk – a man who in the past has appeared to criticise Trump with little prompting – was asked in a Telegraph interview about parallels between the president and one of the characters in his grizzly South Korean drama. 'I have to visit the United States quite often and you know how they are getting trickier issuing their visas… So why don't we return to this subject after [Trump] has left office?' Hwang said.
Other big names are equally aware of the situation. In March, the Liverpool-born Harry Potter and White Lotus actor Jason Isaacs said that although he has a US work visa, he was unsure whether his 'clear dislike' for the president would affect his ability to work there. In general, the chorus of disapproval that stars voiced during Trump's first term has fallen noticeably silent.
The issue of US visas and the arts re-entered the news today when Liam O'Hanna, a rapper who goes by the stage name Mo Chara in controversial Belfast hip-hop group Kneecap, appeared at Westminster magistrates' court on a terror charge after allegedly displaying a flag in support of proscribed organisation Hezbollah at a London gig last year. Kneecap are due to play a sold out US tour in October. O'Hanna, who has denied the charge, was released on unconditional bail until a further appearance in August. Legally, Kneecap can still go the US. But will they be allowed in?
Kneecap aside (and we'll come back to them), music promotors say working visas are already hard to get.'Visas for America are a major issue. Getting them has definitely got worse, and more expensive,' one high-profile tour promoter tells me. 'They're just making it really difficult.'
US immigration officials and officers are known to search publicly available information about potential visitors, including their social media and online profiles. These searches can take place either when a visa is being applied for or at an airport on arrival. Electronic devices can be confiscated and searched. An author friend tells me that he's been advised buy to a new laptop rather than risk any contentious manuscripts being found on his old one.
Border control agency the US Customs and Border Protection (CBP) is principally looking for information regarding a person's planned activities in the US, according to Tamizdat, a Brooklyn-based organisation that helps international artists navigate US visa policies and is a huge advocate of cross-border cultural mobility. 'But if an officer discovers politically sensitive statements in your devices, it is reasonable to assume this will not improve your chances of being admitted to the US,' Tamizdat says on its website.
Earlier this year, three members of punk rock band UK Subs said that they were denied entry and detained on arrival in Los Angeles. Bassist Alvin Gibbs took to Facebook in March to explain that he was questioned at length at LAX after being 'flagged' by the computer system, firstly because he had an 'incorrect visa' and for a second reason he claimed agents wouldn't disclose to him. 'I can't help but wonder whether my frequent, and less than flattering, public comments regarding their president and his administration played a role – or perhaps I'm simply succumbing to paranoia,' Gibbs wrote.
But paranoia may be what's at play here after all. Matthew Covey co-launched Tamizdat and founded law firm CoveyLaw, which last year helped arrange US visas for nearly 1,000 UK artists. Covey says that 'no artist has been denied a visa, detained or deported [under Trump] who would not have been subject to the same process under [former US president] Biden. We have certainly seen denials and we've seen people being turned around at the border, but every one of those follows a well-established fact pattern.' Artists, to date, have not been banned due to their political opinions, the content of their art or their public statements, he reiterates.
'They don't want to be Springsteened'
What has changed among the arts community, Covey says, is a creeping 'fear' about what could happen, given what's happened to academics and students. Earlier in June, an Australian writer and former Columbia University student called Alistair Kitchen was denied entry into the US and sent home due – he claimed – to his writings on the pro-Palestine student protests at Columbia. The CBP denied this, saying Kitchen had 'provided false information on his ESTA [visa waiver] application'.
But creatives are concerned. They don't want to be Springsteened, to coin a phrase. US citizen Bruce Springsteen has been excoriating about Trump on his current European tour, calling the administration 'corrupt, incompetent and treasonous'. Trump, in return, took to his Truth Social platform to call The Boss 'highly overrated' and 'a pushy, obnoxious JERK'.
Neil Young is another case in point. The US-Canadian dual citizen, who will headline Glastonbury next week, is a long-term Trump critic. In April the 79-year-old rocker openly wondered whether he'll be barred from US when he returns from his European tour in August. 'I may be one of those returning to America who is barred or put in jail to sleep on a cement floor with an aluminium blanket. That is happening all the time now,' Young wrote. You can see why some worried Britons are self-censuring.
On top of this, the cost of visas has risen. The cost to a hypothetical British actor obtaining a work visa for a stint on Broadway, including legal fees, has risen from 'under $3,000' three years ago to 'at least $5-6,000' now, Covey says. This latter fee includes 'fast-tracking', which is all-but essential these days.
Add into this the rising cost of living once in the US, and an artist has to be sure that the juice is worth the squeeze. 'I haven't heard of anyone giving up yet,' says the music promoter. 'But I imagine if you're fee isn't that great you'll give up. I think the fees have to be solid enough to make it worth your while to employ the correct visa people to do the work.'
Cost, red tape and paranoia
Covey argues that it is the cumulative impact of cost, red tape and paranoia about potential rejection due to political views that is worrying artists. 'The barriers of entry to the US market were already so high – in terms of cost and administrative lift – that for years many artists have been questioning whether the US is worth the effort. I think that adding fear into the mix is the straw that breaks the camel's back, for many artists,' he says. (US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, a division of the Department of Homeland Security, was approached for comment.)
But the reasonably benign situation could change 'in a heartbeat', says Covey. And that heartbeat might have occurred on Wednesday in the broiling heat of Westminster magistrates' court in central London when Kneecap's O'Hanna appeared. Even if O'Hanna is eventually found guilty, he could, technically, still legally travel to America to perform. This is because while section 2.12(a) of the US's Immigration and Nationality Act can deem anyone with a criminal history ineligible for entry, there is a waiver for this. Meaning the tour could still happen.
🚨🚨North American Tour🚨🚨
We're off to Canada and the US in October for our Smashing Walls Tour!
Tickets: https://t.co/xD4zNTcr3c pic.twitter.com/TMBSQrHOW4
— KNEECAP (@KNEECAPCEOL) April 18, 2023
At the time of writing, there is no suggestion that Kneecap's 21-date US tour in October will not going ahead. However, a music industry source is doubtful. 'Realistically, Kneecap would have a major issue with any American tour now. I imagine they're working under the assumption they're going to get turned away,' the source says. (Kneecap was approached for comment.)
There's also a time issue. Visas take months to arrange. Their cause may not be helped by a poster for an earlier 2023 US tour which showed a cartoon of the trio holding a makeshift bomb that bore a distinct resemblance to Donald Trump's head.
Meanwhile, the UK music industry says that it fully backs creative expression. 'Freedom of creative expression is one of the cornerstones of music. Singers and songwriters throughout history have never been afraid to use their voice to protest and bring about positive change,' Tom Kiehl, the chief executive of UK Music, which represents the industry, tells me.
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30 minutes ago
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‘It's hard to find work': Marlee Matlin on making Hollywood history but waiting for change
In 1987, at the age of 21, Marlee Matlin became the youngest person ever to win a best actress Oscar. Footage of her victory appears early in Marlee Matlin: Not Alone Anymore, a new documentary on the trailblazing actor's life and career: Matlin, remarkably fresh-faced even for 21, in her very 80s purple dress, her brunette hair swept up by a floral headpiece, black-rimmed glasses on, appears stunned as William Hurt, her co-star in Children of a Lesser God and her boyfriend at the time, reads her name. Thunderous applause. The camera captures fellow nominee Jane Fonda mouthing 'that's so great' as Matlin, the first and still only deaf actor to win the award, approaches the podium and kisses Hurt. As she delivers her speech in American Sign Language (ASL), she seems almost too shocked to emote, overcome with the gravity of the moment. Matlin's win was indeed groundbreaking, a watershed moment for deaf representation. 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'I wanted to return to her Oscar-winning moment twice,' Stern, a deaf actor herself, told me through an interpreter, 'because sound does limit people. There are a lot of things that I feel hearing people miss when they are just listening with their ears and not listening with their eyes.' When I first watched Matlin's win, I assumed, as Stern expected, that 'it's this roaring applause, so we're celebrating'. Without sound, the picture is clearer. 'You could see in that moment how scary it is,' said Stern. 'And it's right there. It's been in front of us this whole time.' Stern's intrinsic understanding of the deaf perspective was the reason Matlin, who went on to a long career on such shows as Seinfeld, The West Wing, The L Word and, most recently, the Oscar-winning film Coda, decided to make the film at all. 'Almost none of the documentaries that I've seen that have to do with a subject matter like myself have not been done right,' she told me over Zoom via her interpreter, Jack Jason, who has worked with Matlin since 1985. When PBS's American Masters approached her about a documentary, she had one demand: the director had to be deaf, and it had to be Stern, a longtime friend and occasional collaborator who co-created the show This Close. As she did with early financiers of Coda who wanted to cast big-name hearing actors for two deaf roles, Matlin stuck to her guns. Deaf participation, take it or leave it. 'I wanted to have that type of conversation I could [with] Shoshannah, where I could feel free and sign and not worry about an interpreter voiceover, not worry about my surroundings, not worry about any of that, just be there,' Matlin said. 'That was the first time that I felt at ease.' 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an hour ago
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People desperately trying to call family in Iran are getting mysterious robotic responses
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It remains unclear who is behind the operation, though four of the experts believed it was likely to be the Iranian government while the fifth saw Israel as more likely. The messages are deeply eerie and disconcerting for Iranians in the diaspora struggling to contact their families as Israel's offensive targeting Iranian nuclear and military sites pounds Tehran and other cities. Iran has retaliated with hundreds of missiles and drones, and the government has imposed a widespread internet blackout it says is to protect the country. That has blocked average Iranians from getting information from the outside world, and their relatives from being able to reach them. 'I don't know why they're doing this,' said Ellie, whose mother is diabetic, low on insulin and trapped on the outskirts of Tehran. She wants her mother to evacuate the city but cannot communicate that to her. A request for comment sent to the Iranian mission to the U.N. was not immediately answered. Most of the voices speak in English, though at least one spoke Farsi. If the caller tries to talk to it, the voice just continues with its message. A 30-year-old women living in New York, who heard the same message Ellie did, called it 'psychological warfare.' 'Calling your mom and expecting to hear her voice and hearing an AI voice is one of the most scary things I've ever experienced,' she said. 'I can feel it in my body.' And the messages can be bizarre. One woman living in the U.K. desperately called her mom and instead got a voice offering platitudes. 'Thank you for taking the time to listen,' it said, in a recording that she shared with the AP. 'Today, I'd like to share some thoughts with you and share a few things that might resonate in our daily lives. Life is full of unexpected surprises, and these surprises can sometimes bring joy while at other times they challenge us.' Not all Iranians abroad encounter the robotic voice. Some said when they try to call family, the phone just rings and rings. Colin Crowell, a former vice president for Twitter's global policy, said it appeared that Iranian phone companies were diverting the calls to a default message system that does not allow calls to be completed. Amir Rashidi, an Iranian cybersecurity expert based in the U.S., agreed and said the recordings appeared to be a government measure to thwart hackers, though there was no hard evidence. He said that in the first two days of Israel's campaign, mass voice and text messages were sent to Iranian phones urging the public to gear up for 'emergency conditions.' They aimed to spread panic — similar to mass calls that government opponents made into Iran during the war with Iraq in the 1980s. The voice messages trying to calm people 'fit the pattern of the Iranian government and how in the past it handled emergency situations,' said Rashidi, the director of Texas-based Miaan, a group that reports on digital rights in the Middle East. Mobile phones and landlines ultimately are overseen by Iran's Ministry of Information and Communications Technology. But the country's intelligence services have long been believed to be monitoring conversations. 'It would be hard for anybody else to hack. Of course, it is possible it is Israeli. But I don't think they have an incentive to do this,' said Mehdi Yahyanejad, a tech entrepreneur and internet freedom activist. Marwa Fatafta, Berlin-based policy and advocacy director for digital rights group Access Now, suggested it could be 'a form of psychological warfare by the Israelis.' She said it fits a past pattern by Israel of using extensive direct messaging to Lebanese and Palestinians during campaigns in Gaza and against Hezbollah. The messages, she said, appear aimed at 'tormenting' already anxious Iranians abroad. When contacted with requests for comment, the Israeli military declined and the prime minister's office did not respond. Ellie is one of a lucky few who found a way to reach relatives since the blackout. She knows someone who lives on the Iran-Turkey border and has two phones — one with a Turkish SIM card and one with an Iranian SIM. He calls Ellie's mother with the Iranian phone — since people inside the country are still able to call one another — and presses it to the Turkish phone, where Ellie's on the line. The two are able to speak. 'The last time we spoke to her, we told her about the AI voice that is answering all her calls,' said Ellie. 'She was shocked. She said her phone hasn't rung at all.' Elon Musk said he has activated his satellite internet provider Starlink in Iran, where a small number of people are believed to have the system, even though it is illegal. Authorities are urging the public to turn in neighbors with the devices as part of an ongoing spy hunt. Others have illegal satellite dishes, granting them access to international news. M., a woman in the U.K., has been trying to reach her mother-in-law, who is immobile and lives in Tehran's northeast, which has been pummeled by Israeli bombardment throughout the week. When she last spoke to her family in Iran, they were mulling whether she should evacuate from the city. Then the blackout was imposed, and they lost contact. Since then she has heard through a relative that the woman was in the ICU with respiratory problems. When she calls, she gets the same bizarre message as the woman in the U.K., a lengthy mantra. 'Close your eyes and picture yourself in a place that brings you peace and happiness,' it says. 'Maybe you are walking through a serene forest, listening to the rustle of leaves and birds chirping. Or you're by the seashore, hearing the calming sound of waves crashing on the sand.' The only feeling the message does instill in her, she said, is 'helplessness.'
The Guardian
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Graydon Carter: ‘The closest I've come to death? A tense argument with Russell Crowe at an Oscar party'
Born in Canada, Graydon Carter, 75, moved to New York in 1978. He became a staff writer on Time magazine, followed by Life in 1983; in 1986, he co-founded the satirical publication Spy. He edited the New York Observer for a year before becoming editor of Vanity Fair in 1992; he retired in 2017. His memoir, When the Going Was Good, is out now. He lives in New York City with his third wife and has five children. When were you happiest? My first week in New York in 1978, when I was about to start as a writer at Time. And my first week in the south of France after retiring from my job of 25 years as editor of Vanity Fair. Which living person do you most admire, and why? It will be the one or two or three senior Republican leaders who take a public and forceful stand against the ugly lunacy of the Trump administration. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? Intermittent laziness. What was your most embarrassing moment? That time I congratulated a waitress on being pregnant. Aside from a property, what's the most expensive thing you've bought? My children's education. Describe yourself in three words Content. Cheerful. Appreciative. What would your superpower be? To be able to fall asleep in five minutes. What has been your biggest disappointment? That I didn't go to Turkey during the pandemic for one of those male hair treatments. What is your most treasured possession? A cardboard Leica camera my then 13-year-old daughter made for me for Christmas. Inside was an accordion strip of photos of the two of us. What do you most dislike about your appearance? Thinning hair. And thickening everything else. What is your most unappealing habit? My wife has weaned me off most of them. What is the worst thing anyone's said to you? 'Didn't you used to be Graydon Carter?' What is your guiltiest pleasure? Hermès handkerchiefs – and two scoops of vanilla ice-cream after every dinner. To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why? Canadians are trained to say sorry to almost everything and everyone. What did you dream about last night? I dreamed that my penis was much larger than it is. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? It's all good – which is code for the opposite. How often do you have sex? Like most people my age, hourly. What is the closest you've come to death? Getting into a tense argument with Russell Crowe during one of the Vanity Fair Oscar parties. What single thing would improve the quality of your life? The metabolism I had in my 20s. How would you like to be remembered? With dozens upon dozens of beautiful women weeping over my casket. What is the most important lesson life has taught you? Be generous and kind. Honestly, those two things did everything for me. Tell us a secret I still smoke a cigarette every morning at 11. It sets me up for the day.
