Latest news with #StanleyKubrick
West Australian
2 days ago
- Lifestyle
- West Australian
Adrian Barich: roaming cats, salmon sperm facials and why it pays to lie about your suburb in Golden Triangle
There's been a recent migration out of my circle of friends — a good mate of mine has moved deeper into Perth's western suburbs. I'm not sure why; maybe he needed more space? He intimated it was his wife's idea, but this is the third friend who has succumbed to the lure of the Golden Triangle. But leafy, large and peaceful as it is, as he quickly discovered, it's also harder to get to many places he likes to go. He reckons it feels like everything's twice as far now; just getting out of the suburb takes 15 minutes. He's also noticed the difference in streetscapes. In Subiaco, you have the nightly car shuffle: street parking everywhere, bonnets pushing into flowerbeds, and the occasional unclaimed Corolla. In Dalkeith, it's eerily still. Garages, some subterranean, swallow cars whole, giving the impression no one lives there. It's less neighbourhood, more secret society … but hopefully not in the Eyes Wide Shut style of that Stanley Kubrick movie. Subi, you see, is more of a village. Chardonnay socialists on compact blocks, rescue dogs from the pound, and more Pilates studios than parking bays. Amusingly, since moving to postcode 6009, my mate has decided to tell people he now lives in Claremont. He feels that it's not only more palatable socially, but it can also save you a fortune on tradies. Call a plumber and mention Dalkeith or Peppermint Grove, and the invoice arrives before they do, handwritten on a gold-plated clipboard. Even the great Mal Brown once claimed he lived in Nedlands, when in fact he resided in Dalkeith. Strategic fib, or masterclass in low-key living? Either way, it's a smart play. Of course, appearances are everything these days. It used to be that people went under the knife to look younger. Now they go under the pen; Ozempic seems to be sweeping through the western suburbs like a seasonal flu. It appears to be the weight-loss weapon of choice. Forget spin classes or fasting. But that's nothing compared to what I heard the other day over a long mac topped up: salmon sperm injections. I had to ask twice. Apparently, it's all the rage in certain salons where the lighting is flattering and the price list is in Roman numerals. The idea is that it rejuvenates your skin. Personally, I'll stick with SPF 50 and a brisk walk around Rosalie Park with Frankie; at a stretch, maybe Botox. But you've got to admire the dedication. Fishy business, if you ask me. Hard to fathom. (Bom bom). Now, while we're on the subject of things that are hard to believe, there's a new battleground emerging in these leafy streets: cat containment. That's right, some of the most heated suburban debate right now isn't about high-rise developments or school zoning, it's about pussycats. There's a growing push to keep moggies indoors or, at the very least, contained to their own yards. It's for the safety of local wildlife, I understand, but enforcing this? Good luck. Cats aren't like dogs. You can't just whistle and expect compliance. You can't guilt them with a treat. They know they're in charge. I reckon if our orange tabby Tom could send a text, it would be 'Where's my food?!' And he would then block me. The new slogan is 'bring in the cat at night,' which is a real twist for those of us who grew up with Fat Cat signing off at 7pm on Channel 7 to the phrase 'Put out the cat'. Times have changed. Now it's all curfews, GPS collars and feline curtailment policies. It's serious business. I overheard one regular at Rosalie Park (my local dog park) suggesting we might one day see designated cat parks with fences, obstacle courses, and barista stations for the humans, plus babycinnos and puppuccinos. Stranger things have happened. You laugh, but we already have dog birthday parties with cakes shaped like bones. It's all part of what makes this patch of Perth so entertaining. Life west of the freeway can be a mix of the aspirational and the absurd.
Perth Now
2 days ago
- Lifestyle
- Perth Now
Go west, life is … different there
There's been a recent migration out of my circle of friends — a good mate of mine has moved deeper into Perth's western suburbs. I'm not sure why; maybe he needed more space? He intimated it was his wife's idea, but this is the third friend who has succumbed to the lure of the Golden Triangle. But leafy, large and peaceful as it is, as he quickly discovered, it's also harder to get to many places he likes to go. He reckons it feels like everything's twice as far now; just getting out of the suburb takes 15 minutes. He's also noticed the difference in streetscapes. In Subiaco, you have the nightly car shuffle: street parking everywhere, bonnets pushing into flowerbeds, and the occasional unclaimed Corolla. In Dalkeith, it's eerily still. Garages, some subterranean, swallow cars whole, giving the impression no one lives there. It's less neighbourhood, more secret society … but hopefully not in the Eyes Wide Shut style of that Stanley Kubrick movie. Subi, you see, is more of a village. Chardonnay socialists on compact blocks, rescue dogs from the pound, and more Pilates studios than parking bays. Amusingly, since moving to postcode 6009, my mate has decided to tell people he now lives in Claremont. He feels that it's not only more palatable socially, but it can also save you a fortune on tradies. Call a plumber and mention Dalkeith or Peppermint Grove, and the invoice arrives before they do, handwritten on a gold-plated clipboard. Even the great Mal Brown once claimed he lived in Nedlands, when in fact he resided in Dalkeith. Strategic fib, or masterclass in low-key living? Either way, it's a smart play. Of course, appearances are everything these days. It used to be that people went under the knife to look younger. Now they go under the pen; Ozempic seems to be sweeping through the western suburbs like a seasonal flu. It appears to be the weight-loss weapon of choice. Forget spin classes or fasting. But that's nothing compared to what I heard the other day over a long mac topped up: salmon sperm injections. I had to ask twice. Apparently, it's all the rage in certain salons where the lighting is flattering and the price list is in Roman numerals. The idea is that it rejuvenates your skin. Personally, I'll stick with SPF 50 and a brisk walk around Rosalie Park with Frankie; at a stretch, maybe Botox. But you've got to admire the dedication. Fishy business, if you ask me. Hard to fathom. (Bom bom). Now, while we're on the subject of things that are hard to believe, there's a new battleground emerging in these leafy streets: cat containment. That's right, some of the most heated suburban debate right now isn't about high-rise developments or school zoning, it's about pussycats. There's a growing push to keep moggies indoors or, at the very least, contained to their own yards. It's for the safety of local wildlife, I understand, but enforcing this? Good luck. Cats aren't like dogs. You can't just whistle and expect compliance. You can't guilt them with a treat. They know they're in charge. I reckon if our orange tabby Tom could send a text, it would be 'Where's my food?!' And he would then block me. The new slogan is 'bring in the cat at night,' which is a real twist for those of us who grew up with Fat Cat signing off at 7pm on Channel 7 to the phrase 'Put out the cat'. Times have changed. Now it's all curfews, GPS collars and feline curtailment policies. It's serious business. I overheard one regular at Rosalie Park (my local dog park) suggesting we might one day see designated cat parks with fences, obstacle courses, and barista stations for the humans, plus babycinnos and puppuccinos. Stranger things have happened. You laugh, but we already have dog birthday parties with cakes shaped like bones. It's all part of what makes this patch of Perth so entertaining. Life west of the freeway can be a mix of the aspirational and the absurd.
Telegraph
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
Forget A Clockwork Orange, this is Kubrick's greatest film
In the early 1970s, Stanley Kubrick was enjoying one of the most extraordinary positions the film industry has ever given a director and producer. His last three films – Dr Strangelove (1964), 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and A Clockwork Orange (1971) had been global sensations, securing his reputation as a perfectionist auteur who loomed larger over his movies than any concept or star. 'Kubrick' was by now an imprimatur of a certain style, and one that his current studio, Warner Bros, was eager to bankroll wherever it might lead them. Production on his next project was shrouded in the utmost secrecy, stemming from Kubrick's long-standing paranoia about the tabloid press. All anyone was allowed to know was that his new film would star Love Story heartthrob Ryan O'Neal – a seemingly un-Kubricky choice of leading man – and the former Vogue and Time magazine cover model Marisa Berenson, a co-star in Cabaret (1972). It was to be shot largely in Ireland. Never an originator of his own screenplays, Kubrick had in mind to adapt Thackeray's 1844 novel The Luck of Barry Lyndon, a satirical picaresque about the fortune-hunting of an Irish rogue and the position he secures for himself in the English aristocracy. Robbed by highwaymen on the road to Dublin, O'Neal's Redmond Barry advances himself through cunning and impersonation, and eventually makes his way to England, where he seduces Lady Lyndon (Berenson), an unhappy trophy wife, nudges her husband into the grave – and proceeds to squander her wealth while becoming a dreadful rotter, openly flaunting his infidelities. Almost every Kubrick film is a showcase for some major innovation in technique. In 2001, it was revolutionary visual effects; in The Shining, it was his mastery of the Steadicam. On Barry Lyndon, Kubrick and cinematographer John Alcott set themselves the challenge of shooting as many sequences as possible without recourse to electrical light. For the many densely furnished interior scenes, this meant candlelight. For months they tinkered with different combinations of lenses and film stock, before getting hold of a number of super-fast 50mm lenses developed by Zeiss for use by Nasa in the Apollo moon landings. With their huge aperture and fixed focal length, mounting these was a nightmare, but they managed it, and so Kubrick's vision of recreating the huddle and glow of a pre-electrical age was miraculously put on screen. The painterly, determinedly static quality of Barry Lyndon was thereby dictated. The actors in the many dining and gambling scenes had to move as slowly as possible, to avoid underexposure. But it all fits perfectly with Kubrick's gilded-cage aesthetic: the film is consciously a museum piece, its characters pinned to the frame like butterflies. For the stunningly beautiful exteriors, in which Ireland plays itself, as well as England, and Prussia during the Seven Years' War, Kubrick and Alcott looked to the landscapes of Watteau and Gainsborough; the interiors that were day-lit owe a lot to Hogarth, with whom Thackeray had always been fascinated. Alcott would win an Oscar for his amazing work, as would three other departments: Ken Adam and Roy Walker for their scrupulously researched art direction, Milena Canonero for her often outlandish but totally persuasive costumes and Leonard Rosenman for his arrangements of Schubert and Handel, whose addictively funereal Sarabande in D Minor stomps ominously in the background of the various duels, like a march to the gallows. The film was greeted, on its release, with dutiful admiration – but not love. Critics were itching to rail against the perceived coldness of Kubrick's style, the film's gorgeously remote artistry and sedate pace. Ever sharp-tongued, Pauline Kael dismissed it with a bored wave as a 'coffee-table movie'. Audiences, on the whole, agreed – it was not the hit Warner Bros had been hoping for, especially in the USA. Though it got seven Oscar nominations in total, it was up against fierce competition that year and lost Best Picture and Best Director to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. (The only personal Academy Award Kubrick would receive across his career was for the effects in 2001: A Space Odyssey, rather suggesting that the Academy pegged him first and foremost as a technician.) An air of disappointment clouded the film's reputation for many years – as O'Neal (who died in 2023) would tend to agree. He was madly fond of Kubrick and spent the long, arduous shoot doing everything he could to please him. But like a reality TV contestant griping about a distorted edit, he was dismayed by the end result. Kubrick's year-long cutting process, in O'Neal's view, had ruined his performance, making him look like a 'clueless and opportunistic Shallow Hal of the 18th century'. Newly restored in 4K, Barry Lyndon turns 50 this year – and has only grown more mesmerising with each passing decade. O'Neal's take actually gets to the heart of it: the film's compulsive power depends entirely on the weak moral fibre of its antihero, a soldier of fortune who becomes ever more corrupt the richer he gets. We can celebrate the lucky breaks of a penniless scamp, but it all comes to nothing once he claws his way to the topmost rungs of society. Only there does he meet his nemesis: pouting stepson Lord Bullingdon (played with teary resentfulness by Kubrick's right-hand man, Leon Vitali), who implacably punishes Barry for ruining Lady Lyndon's life and orchestrates his downfall. The ending may not be quite as windingly savage as in Kubrick's next two films (The Shining and Full Metal Jacket), but the sense of waste, irony and unfulfilment are cosmic lessons learnt. It's telling that Kubrick made this and A Clockwork Orange back-to-back in the 1970s – the heyday of the misogynist antihero, including pretty much every character Jack Nicholson ever played, from Five Easy Pieces to Chinatown and beyond. Kubrick's male rebels belong to that lineage: they aim to defy whatever cage society tries to put them in, but never truly manage to escape. What made A Clockwork Orange a huge global hit (it grossed $114 million, versus Barry Lyndon's paltry $20 million) was that it gave audiences their kicks: sex, ultraviolence and musings on free will, all set to beefed-up Beethoven, which electrified the counterculture. Candlelit strolls to the terrace, to the slow strum of a Schubert trio, were self-evidently a far harder sell. The period piece may have spoken to its own time more obliquely than the twisted science-fiction morality play, but A Clockwork Orange has not dated at all well. It's Barry Lyndon that now looks timeless. Indeed, bizarrely current. In 2021, it spawned a viral sensation on TikTok, when the British rapper 21 Savage found his track 'a lot' wedded, unexpectedly, to a fan edit of Lyndon moments that perfectly matched the chorus: 'How much money you got? A lot. How many problems you got? A lot.' Revisiting Lyndon in full today is a spellbinding experience on many levels, but it makes you realise that the most undervalued aspect of Kubrick's genius could well be his way with actors. O'Neal's slippery, unformed quality is more perfect for the lead role than he ever clearly knew, and the doll-like presence of Berenson, her face a sad mask, is similarly ideal. Meanwhile, the supporting cast is a long, glittering procession of cameos – not from star names, but from vital character players. Leonard Rossiter makes the first unforgettable impression as Captain Quin, the pompous and prickly suitor of Barry's cousin Nora (Gay Hamilton), raising snobbish indignation to an art form. The Irish stage actor Arthur O'Sullivan has just two scenes as the notorious highwayman Captain Feeney, but manages to be both disarmingly polite and quietly terrifying. Patrick Magee, who played the crippled writer in A Clockwork Orange, gets a lovely, quizzical turn as the avuncular Chevalier de Balibari, an inveterate cheat at cards who takes Barry under his wing. And the list goes on, taking in the extraordinary Murray Melvin as a pursed-lipped reverend, Marie Kean as Barry's mother, Frank Middlemass as the splenetic Sir Charles Lyndon, Hardy Krüger as a Prussian captain, Steven Berkoff as a priapic gambler, Vitali's blubbing Lord Bullingdon and Kubrick favourite Philip Stone – Alex's father in A Clockwork Orange and the dead caretaker Grady in The Shining – as the Lyndon family lawyer. Subjected to the director's infamous regime of many, many exacting takes, their faces light up the film and the era like a series of fine, carefully hung oil portraits. Kubrick's cast may have been required to sit for these for days and weeks on end, but we're forever in their debt. This slow-burn masterpiece is a gallery worth walking through again and again.
Irish Times
3 days ago
- Entertainment
- Irish Times
Barry Lyndon turns 50: Is Kubrick's epic, filmed in Ireland, a folly or a masterpiece?
Some 20 years ago, I was invited round to Sir Ken Adam's house in Knightsbridge for a conversation about a new book on his work as a production designer. I knew I was in the right place when I saw his Rolls-Royce parked outside the grand stucco porch. One of only three German-born airmen to fly for the RAF in the second World War, Adam had long been recognised as a legend of the industry. Over a 50-year career, he worked on every variety of picture – from Addams Family Values to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang – but Adam was, by then, resigned to the awareness that, in any interview, the conversation would quickly touch upon James Bond and Stanley Kubrick . He made seven Bond films. The two pictures he made with Kubrick were among the most striking looking ever made: Dr Strangelove and Barry Lyndon. I remember approaching the subject of the latter film with some caution. Half a century after its release, Barry Lyndon, much of which was shot in Ireland, remains shrouded in myth and controversy. Is the lavish 18th-century epic a folly or a masterpiece? Did the IRA really chase Kubrick away? Was the pressure on the crew so great? It was said the stress of dealing with Kubrick's obsessions on that film – shooting by candlelight, replicating 19th-century paintings – accelerated this former fighter pilot towards (as we then still said) a nervous breakdown. Stanley Kubrick on the set of Barry Lyndon. Photograph: Sunset Boulevard/Corbis via Getty Images Adam, who died in 2016, did not balk when I used those words. 'Oh yes, a terrible breakdown,' he told me. 'We were working these incredibly long hours. And there was the closeness to Stanley, who was so completely disorganised. We didn't have a script as such. He had just [photocopied] pages from [William Makepeace] Thackeray's novel and then discovered that didn't work; I could have told him that at the beginning.' [ One of Stanley Kubrick's greatest films was made free to watch on YouTube. It's a sign of the trouble movie studios are in Opens in new window ] This gets at an often-overlooked aspect of Kubrick's approach. Yes, he was meticulous. But, according to Adam (who would know), that perfectionism was at odds with a lack of structural discipline. 'We were chasing around all day looking for a location and then shooting all night,' Adam told me. 'If a scene didn't work it was, of course, the fault of the location.' Marisa Berenson in Barry Lyndon Adam ended up in the care of 'a famous Scottish psychiatrist' who told him that, to get well, he would have to 'cut the umbilical cord' with Kubrick. When he emerged from care he got a phone call from the director. Kubrick noted how pleased he was that Adam was better and explained that he now wanted the production designer to shoot a second-unit sequence in Potsdam. 'That gave me such a shock that the next day I was back in the clinic!' he told Sir Christopher Frayling. Adam could, reasonably enough, have concluded, on the film's release in 1975, that it was not worth the effort or the strain on his mental health. Barry Lyndon, adaptation of a short novel by Thackeray, received mixed reviews and was not a financial success. [ Reissue of the Week: Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lyndon - terribly beautiful, relentlessly authentic Opens in new window ] Pauline Kael, then in her pomp as film critic of the New Yorker, greatly enjoyed revealing her disappointment. 'Kubrick has taken a quick-witted story, full of vaudeville turns ... and he's controlled it so meticulously that he's drained the blood out of it,' she wrote. 'He suppresses most of the active elements that make movies pleasurable.' Charles Champlin of the Los Angeles Times thought it 'the motion picture equivalent of one of those very large, very heavy, very expensive, very elegant and very dull books that exist solely to be seen on coffee tables'. The great Derek Malcolm, writing in the Guardian, turned to a cricketing analogy. 'It's half a film,' he wrote. 'He is like a batsman trying to score a century without anybody noticing.' Many were unconvinced by Ryan O'Neal's deadened performance in the title role (domestic viewers still wince a little at his so-so Irish accent). Huntington Castle's yew tree walk, made famous when a scene in Barry Lyndon was filmed there. Photograph: Nick Bradshaw It would be wrong to suggest the whole world was against it. There were good reviews from Gene Siskel in the Chicago Tribune and Vincent Canby in the New York Times. The Irish Times, on first glance, also caught its brilliance. In his review, Fergus Linehan railed against negative criticism 'that misunderstood both the film's method and purpose'. Linehan went on to place it alongside the likes of The Godfather Part II and Badlands among his 12 best films (on Irish release dates) of 1975. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences nominated Barry Lyndon as best picture in what now seems a contender for the finest line-up in the Oscars' history. It competed opposite Dog Day Afternoon, Nashville, Jaws and eventual winner One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Adam won his second Oscar (an award he thought 'ironic' for a film largely set on already existing locations). Yet there was still a sense the film was a grand extravagance that failed to repay the effort demanded of any viewer. Kubrick's films often take a long time to settle in with critics and viewers. 2001: A Space Odyssey divided opinion on release in 1968. It is said Rock Hudson sloped out early grumbling 'What is this bullsh**t?' as Discovery One made its glacial way towards Jupiter. On Sight and Sound's 2022 poll to find the greatest films of all time, 2001 landed in sixth place. [Kubrick] was not a designer, but he knew every technical job: editing, sound, photography. Nobody could say: 'This couldn't be done.' They would have been fired immediately. — Sir Ken Adam Kubrick was famously nominated as worst director in the first ever (admittedly idiotic) Golden Raspberry Awards for The Shining in 1980. It was also trashed by Pauline Kael and Roger Ebert before going on to establish itself as one of the greatest of all horror pictures. As a crisp new 4K restoration of Barry Lyndon arrives in cinemas for the golden jubilee, the early sceptical responses seem as distant and eccentric as the riots at the first night of Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring. It was the second highest rated Kubrick film on that recent Sight and Sound poll. Five years ago, this newspaper, enjoying itself in the pandemic summer, named it as the best Irish film of all time. The troubled history of its production only adds to the legend. By the time Kubrick, a middle-class Bronx boy who had begun as a still photographer, came to shoot Barry Lyndon, his forbidding reputation was already in place. Dr Strangelove, 2001: A Space Odyssey and A Clockwork Orange, his three previous films, had all kicked up different degrees of furore. The controversy around that last film (talk of copycat violence eventually led to the director withdrawing A Clockwork Orange in the UK) heaped sombre mystique on overcooked intimations of heroic genius. The director had originally wanted to follow up A Clockwork Orange with a film on Napoleon, but financing fell through after the failure of Sergei Bondarchuk's bombastic Waterloo. He then considered a take on Thackeray's Vanity Fair, but, deciding that book was too huge, settled instead on the same author's more compact The Luck of Barry Lyndon. O'Neal, huge in the aftermath of Love Story, secured the title role – an Irish rogue who romances a rich widow after conning his way through the Seven Years' War – when Robert Redford turned it down. Supermodel Marisa Berenson was to play the moneyed Lady Lyndon. Ryan O'Neill, photographed in 2015, 40 years after filming Barry Lyndon In 1973 the Warner Bros charabanc arrived to an Ireland which was less accustomed to huge American productions than is now the case. Ardmore Studios accommodated some of the shooting, but it is the location work that really sticks in the brain. Powerscourt House in County Wicklow provided elegant backdrops just a few months before its destruction in a fire. One can also spot Kells Priory in Co Kilkenny, Huntingdon Castle in Co Carlow and Castletown House in Co Kildare. Not everywhere is representing a domestic location. Dublin Castle stands in for the Prussian retreat of Chevalier de Balibari, a grifter (actually Irish) played with majestic oddness by the untouchable Patrick Magee. Reasonably enough, much attention has gone the way of the technical innovations that characterised a complex production. If you know anything about Barry Lyndon you probably know that John Alcott, who won that year's Oscar for best cinematography, was required to shoot some scenes solely by candlelight. This ultimately required the adaptation of superfast 50mm Zeiss lenses that had originally been designed by Nasa for use on the moon. 'I was very good friends with Stanley,' Adam told me. 'He was not a designer, but he knew every technical job: editing, sound, photography. Nobody could say: 'This couldn't be done.' They would have been fired immediately.' Adam argued that Kubrick enjoyed his time in Ireland, but he wasn't sufficiently enamoured to ignore an apparent phone call from the IRA demanding that he leave the country within 24 hours. He was gone in 12. 'Whether the threat was a hoax or it was real, almost doesn't matter,' Jan Harlan, a producer on the film, later told the Irish Independent. 'Stanley was not willing to take the risk. He was threatened, and he packed his bag and went home. And the whole crew went with him.' Fifty years later, the reputation of Barry Lyndon could hardly be more secure. Elevated by music from The Chieftains , subverted by an ironic voiceover from Michael Hordern, the film winds a sinister mordancy around its overwhelmingly beautiful images. There is a sense throughout of impending loss. None of this can last. I can't say if Adam felt it was all worthwhile. It was then 30 years after the fact, but the mental stress clearly still rankled. 'I took all Stanley's problems on my shoulders,' he said. 'And ended up apologising for things that were nothing to do with me.' The 4K restoration of Barry Lyndon is on limited release from July 18th
The Citizen
4 days ago
- Politics
- The Citizen
Unchecked AI is already wreaking havoc in the real world
AI is now used to create fake nudes, spread propaganda and blackmail victims. Some have died. Where are the safeguards? In the classic movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, one of the central characters is HAL (Heuristically Programmed Algorithmic Computer), described as a sentient artificial general intelligence (AI) computer. It's responsible for the functioning of the Discovery One spacecraft – until it isn't and starts acting up in unpredictable ways. It's difficult to believe that this warning about the malign possible behaviour of AI premiered 57 years ago. Director Stanley Kubrick and author Arthur C Clarke's vision of the future is coming true before our eyes, as AI starts misbehaving or being used by humans for anti-social and illegal behaviour. ALSO READ: GirlCode Hackathon set to empower women in tech across Africa Today, we report on how AI programmes and sites are being used to fake nude and sexually suggestive images of young people, who are then blackmailed by the creators. Some of the victims have committed suicide. Then there is AI propaganda – alleged to be spread by Russian 'bots' – which seeks to portray Burkina Faso's military dictator, Ebrahim Traore, as an African messiah as he supposedly opposes 'Western colonialism'. In both cases, AI produces material which is believable, easily hoodwinking the casual observer. ALSO READ: Meet the South African who started a Silicon Valley AI firm at 22, made it on Forbes and won a Google award Is it not time our lawmakers started putting in place laws to control what could be a major threat to society as we know it?
