Imagine what it would be like to time-travel from 2019 to now. If you were just strolling down a city street, and not talking to anyone, would you even know that we’re in a pandemic? Sidewalks are no longer deserted, most pedestrians have stopped wearing masks outside, and cardboard signs praising essential workers have been thrown into the recycling bin. But there’s still one big tip-off that things are a little fishy: all those outdoor-dining setups.

“If the 20th century was the story of liberal democracy’s progress toward victory over other ideologies—communism, fascism, virulent nationalism—the 21st century is, so far, a story of the reverse.” For The Atlantic’s December cover story, staff writer Anne Applebaum details the dangerous rise of autocratic power around the world.

As a stand-up comic who has lived on and off with my parents throughout adulthood, I sometimes tell this joke: “So I’m weird because I’m 30 and live with my parents, but you’re normal because you’re 30 and live with your wife and kids? You still live with your family, loser.

It is the view of a lifetime: a sea of 8,488 expectant faces, their collective gaze converging to a single point, which happens to be exactly where I’m standing. Behind me sit about 60 members of the Colorado Symphony; my bandmates are at my side. Our band, Guster, is headlining Red Rocks, a natural amphitheater carved into the side of a rock formation in Morrison, Colorado, and universally regarded as one of the world’s preeminent live-music venues.

For decades, Hollywood has struggled to adapt anime, a type of Japanese animation. The genre has a distinct visual style—lush backgrounds, sleek camera movement, exaggerated facial expressions—that looks uncanny with live actors. And the storytelling, which tends to dramatize a character’s gradual change, doesn’t always fit into the usual conflict-driven Hollywood plot structures.