Fresh Air - A daughter's rebellion against a regime and her father

Episode Date: February 17, 2026

Photojournalist Loubna Mrie grew up in Syria in a wealthy and abusive home. Her father was part of the regime, allegedly an assassin for Bashar al-Assad’s father. Loubna joined the Syrian revolution first as a protester and then as a photojournalist. She talks with guest interviewer Aarti Shahani about how her family and country fell apart, and lessons she brought to her new home in the U.S.. Her book is ‘Defiance: A Memoir of Awakening, Rebellion, and Survival in Syria.’ Later, John Powers reviews ‘Crime 101,’ a thriller starring Chris Hemsworth and Halle Berry. Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is fresh air. I'm Terry Gross. Our guest today is the Syrian photojournalist, Lubna Marai. She first joined the Syrian Revolution as an act of rebellion against her father. Before we meet her, it's my pleasure to introduce our guest interviewer, Arthur Shahani. She's a former NPR tech reporter. You may have also heard her interviews on her podcast, Art of Power, or read her migrant memoir, which is about fighting ICE to protect her father. It's called Here we are. Now that I've introduced Arthy, here she is with Lubna Marai. Fifteen years ago, the country Syria joined the Arab Spring. Lubna Marai became part of this movement, first as a casual protester, and over time as a photojournalist

who documented the attacks and killings that the government claimed never happened. She was unlike the majority of protesters in a key way. She is Aloite, the religious minority that rule to the country. Lubna didn't consider herself political at first, but she did deeply resent her father. He came from a poor Al-Alawite family and made his money by allegedly being an assassin for the father of Bashar al-Assad. When daughter defied father, he punished her for it horrifically. The Syrian civil war lasted far longer than Lubna Moray ever expected. The estimated death toll is more than 650,000.

Another 100,000 people have been forcibly disappeared. And more than 13 million Syrians remain displaced. Syria had 22 million people at the start of the Civil War, so that's more than half of the population. Lubna Morai's new book is called Defiance, a memoir of Awakening, Rebellion, and Survival in Syria. Two parts in particular really got under my skin. First, the toxic family dynamics that honestly feel wincingly familiar to me and probably to many of you listening. And then the less familiar part, she documents how her country fell apart. That's something a lot of us feel increasing anxiety around.

Lubna Moray, welcome to fresh air. Thank you. Both of your parents are al-a-white, a minority in Syria, a bit more than 10% of the population and the same. same religion as the ruler at the time, Hefez al-Assad. And your mom's mom does not approve of your parents' marriage, even though they're both Alawite. Tell us about how your parents met and why grandma didn't like it. So my parents met at the funeral of my grandfather, my mother's father, who was a big figure in her life. My grandfather was, he was a consulate in Turkey, in Brazil, in Germany. and he loved my mother so much

and he always told her that her future depends on education it does not depend on marriage and he truly wanted my mother to seek education like all her siblings and my mother was very she loved her father so much and my father

was the opposite of my grandfather my father comes from a family that did not have the privilege to go to school, to go to college, and they were involved in some dirty business for the Syrian government. And my grandfather was aware of that. So my grandmother was also aware of that. And my grandmother was very clear with my mom that if this marriage goes south, you will be bearing the consequences on your own. And did your mom ever tell you about why she fell for your dad? Did she say it in her own words?

Throughout my childhood My father was very, very, very abusive But there was always this side of him That was very charming and very loving That my mother really wanted us to see And I think that's why my mother was really keen On keeping my father into our lives Me and my sister

Despite all the abuse that he was showing her and us Can I speak about the memoir a little bit? Of course, yeah. I thought we were doing that, but tell me what you were saying. No, no, no. Because like trying to figure out those sides of my father and trying to remember my childhood without being tinted with so much pain and grief was one of the most difficult aspects of writing this book.

Because memoirs, especially memoirs that are filled with pain and grief, they are very difficult to write because you really need to write about people with love and nuance. and write with love even about the people that you hate and despise the most. And pain tempts us, pain and anger tempts us to see things in absolutes, to flatten people into heroes and villains. And when you do that, you risk leaving parts of the truth out. And this is not fair for them and it's not fair for the reader. I loved how I was being treated when someone asked me about my full name and I mentioned my father. It was all painful and kind of shameful to admit that,

especially after all what my father did later on in my life. But although as a daughter I despised him, as an author, and as someone writing this memoir, it felt like I had the responsibility towards him to show all sides of him, even the sides that I don't want to remember anymore. When you were born, your dad told your mom, I want to name this baby after my mistress. Yeah, so my father had lots of mistresses before my birth and during my mother's pregnancy and even after. And in that time, in that society, it was very normalized for a guy to have mistresses.

because as the say was, nothing disgraces a man, nothing disgraces a man except his pocket. So as long as the guy was taking care of his family financially, he can do whatever he wants. And that was not exceptional to my family. This was kind of the broad understanding of the gender dynamics. And if a guy ends up in an affair, it's always on the female. Tell me, Lubna, when you were,

a small child, your first home is your grandmother's home in Damascus. Your mom and your older sister, Alia, and you live with grandma. But grandma, she wasn't spoiling you, you know, kind of as we expect grandmas to do. No, my, so when my grandmother told my mother, if this marriage does not work out, you are going to bear the consequences alone. when my father eventually left the country and my mother took us to live in grandmother's house in Damascus even though I was very young I was able to sense that we were not welcomed in the house

and my mother did everything to broaden our world outside of that house she would take us out every day and eventually my grandmother wanted us to leave the house and I remember at some point my mother was like sobbing on the phone with my father asking him for help. And he offered to help on one condition that we move from Damascus to a small coastal town called Jablis, where he would offer us a house, where he would also like support us financially on the condition that we will be raised near his big family in Jablis. So not living with him but living amongst family? Not living with him, but like living near his

sisters and brothers. And looking back, I truly wish my grandmother acted differently because the whole trajectory of my life would have been different. My mother had to choose our freedom over hers. She was willing to

uproot herself completely from everything she knew to move to a city that she doesn't know anyone in, like she was not even close with my father's family in order for me and my sister to have like a stable life. She wanted us to have a home.

So you move from Damascus to Jablae, basically, because you cannot stay in your grandmother's home and your mom's at her wit's end. Jablis is a coastal town. And it's, in some ways, it sounds really beautiful. You use one of my favorite words throughout your memoir, Corniche. And I have to say, I love the word Corniche because my father, he was actually a child's refugee who landed in Beirut long ago. And he would tell me about his walks along the Corniche. So when you say it, I think of that. It's the scene on the beach, right?

It's where people are courting each other, looking fabulous. I mean, Jablet is a very, like, small city, but it felt like bigger than life itself. Like, it was so vibrant. It was full of life. The air was, like, because we moved to Jabla in the summer, and I remember how the air smelled of the sea and how our balcony would have. kind of like this dew in the morning

and sometimes I would just like wipe my fingers on the window cell and I sometimes I know it's gross but I would taste it and it would be so salty and it was very different

than Damascus like in Jablet there is this like card cellars everywhere and and the houses were so close to each other and you would see neighbors like inviting each other

over for coffee you know, by just like shouting to each other from the balconies. I crossed the street. And it was so beautiful. Like I remember how much I loved the sea. But then as I got older, I started to realize this is also where women walk. And this is where women meet their like future husbands. Because you go, you walk on the corniche.

You're dressed as best as possible. Your hair reeking of hair spray because the humidity is insane. and you're just walking back and forward and then all these beautiful cars. And you had money there as well, is that, right? You come to realize that your family is quite wealthy. Oh, yeah, I loved that, especially when I first started school, you know,

when I was being kind of put towards the end, but then the teacher asked me, what's your full name? And I told her, Lubna Marei, and then she asked me, are you related to my father? And when she knew I was Jowdat's daughter, she put me in the front seat. And there was all these signs and hints that my family was special,

that I had this power by having this last name. How did you find yourself using that power as a child? You know, this is when my mother started to kind of push back against this because she truly did not want me and my sister to use this power, like my cousins were doing. And she always told us that your power comes from your education and having a future for yourself. It will never come just from your last name or from your dad's money and your dad's inheritance. And that was the main conflict often between my mom and dad.

That message is very powerful for you. And you seem as a child continuously torn. between your mom saying get your education and your dad's sort of waving his money in your face and saying, follow my lead. Describe that dance because you spent quite a bit of time also trying to curry favor with your father. So the thing is that I was really bad in school. So in ninth grade, I had very bad scores and my mom was horrified with me because the year before, my sister's score was one of the top three scores in the country. And my mother was so happy with my sister's score because, you know, like throughout our childhood, people kept telling her, like, girls need their father and their, and their lives in order to succeed.

So by my sister's achievement, my mother showed everyone and proved to everyone that she was enough, like she was more than enough. So my sister's score were her source of pride. So the year after that, when my scores were super low, my scores were her source of shame. And my mother was so angry with me. And in that moment, I knew I can just turn to my father. And my father, when he knew about my score,

he took me out, out for lunch, and he got me a piece of gold. And he told me not to worry about my grades. and he reminded me again that, you know, school is for poor people who will need to apply for jobs after college, but I wouldn't need that because I have his money, his worth, his inheritance, and I would have a rich husband. And then I told him, like, but my mother says the opposite,

and he told me, like, but look at your mother, she would die of hunger without me. And I, for some reason, I repeat that line to my mother. And she was so furious. She calls him and she tells him that he's illiterate and he's trying to destroy everything she's trying to instill in us. And two weeks later, we tried to get money from him and he demands my mother to be on the phone and to apologize from him. And I remember seeing her on the phone whispering,

may God bless your hands. I'm so sorry for what I said. And that gave me a hint that I needed him. I needed my father's approval. I needed his money if I wanted to have a good future. Lubna, you write very frankly on this relationship with your dad where you're as a child learning to play the game. You also talk about being in some ways kind of a bratty rich kid, right?

Like drinking top shelf liquor, you splurge on a... American fast food, which somehow is a status symbol all over the world. Right. It's crazy. Yeah. And it becomes impossible to keep playing this game after something you discover one night when you were at your father's house. Yeah.

Can you tell us about that night? I mean, it's really hard to go there. But so as I mentioned before, my father had lots of mistresses. And at some point I became very close with my father. And he was kind of rewarding me for spending more time with him by giving me more money. So money became my understanding of what love is. And the more money he gave me, the more love I felt coming from him. So at some point we became close and I would spend my weekends at his house.

And, you know, sometimes women, women would come and I mean I was I was old enough at that point to know what was going on and there was this one woman who would come and she often brought her daughter with her and first I was very like I admired my father that he allowed his mistress to bring her daughter because probably the daughter has no one else in the house to take care of her and so I I felt like it was very generous of my father to to allow the daughter to also stay at the house. and when I used to stay with my father we had separate floors one day I went to my father's floor and I saw the mistress in the kitchen

and I heard sound coming from my father's room and I remember just like being frozen and I look at the mistress's face and she lowered her eyes and I remember she started to push me slowly towards the door, but then I hear the voice again, I hear the sound again, and I realized that my father was not sleeping with the mom. He was actually sleeping with a child. And I was so horrified. You discover that your father is raping the 12-year-old daughter of his mistress. Yeah.

And that her mother knows she's facilitated. it. Yeah. And when he learns that you have now found out, you're in on the secret. Yeah. He calls you to his room. And what happens? He gives me a folder, sorry, like an envelope with $100 bills. And he asked me to count them. And I remember it was almost like the equivalent of a million Syrian lira. And he takes $400 of the stash and he gives

it to me. And I knew what he was doing. He wanted to remind me that I can judge him as much as I want but he has the power. And I took the money from him and I kissed his hand and I thanked him. You know, Lubna, as I came to that

part of your memoir. What I honestly thought is I thought about the Epstein files, which are coming out, which continue to come out. Again, the daughter was 12 years old. And what's, what's so sad about all of this is that it's also on the women in these instance. I mean, like, even with Epstein files, like, he has a female facilitating all of this for him. I mean, I, I, it's really hard for me to make any, you know, big claims, but in my culture, there is this kind of collective agreement that the younger the girl is, the better. And, you know, it's not, it's like, and this is what, it becomes scary, like, how young is too young. And it, like, in a way, it was normalized. Like, there were girls in my school.

who got married in like 8th grade and 9th grade. And these were like 14 years old girls. No one questioned that. No one said, okay, this girl still is not developed mentally to make this decision. We're listening to guest interviewer Arthur Shahani's interview with activist and journalist Lubna Moray about her new book, Defiance, a memoir of awakening, rebellion and survival in Syria. We'll hear more of the interview after a break. I'm Terry Gross, and this is fresh air. This is fresh air. I'm Terry Gross. Let's get back to our interview with photojournalist and activist

Lubna Marai, who's now living in exile in the United States. Her new book is called Defiance, a memoir of awakening, rebellion, and survival in Syria. Her father was part of Syria's al-Assad regime, but when the Arab Spring began, she joined the movement. against the regime. In the book, she takes a very personal approach to the Syrian Civil War and tries to make sense of how her family and country fell apart, perhaps for similar reasons. Mariah had to learn to hold a camera steady as civilians, including children, fled, snipers, and barrel bombs. She also talks about grappling with alcoholism and reluctantly making New York City her home. She spoke with guest interviewer, Arthur Shahani.

you decide to leave your father's hometown and move to Damascus. And there, you experience a political awakening. Describe the very first protest you joined. So the very first protest I joined, I, first of all, I was, I mean, I am raised in a society that is so shielded from the realities of what's happening in the country. So even though I was seeing protests online and kind of aware of what was going on, I did not expect anything bad to come out of me going to the protest. I actually stumbled upon the protest. I was scrolling through Facebook. I saw this announcement for a protest that was happening next hour.

And I just called a friend and I tell him, hey, let's go to this neighborhood. I mean, I didn't say protest because, you know, I know, like, phone lines were monitored. So I just mentioned the name of the neighborhood. And my friend freaks out. He's like, why are you saying this on the phone? Because he knew that even if I just say the name of the neighborhood, whoever is listening or if anyone is listening, they will know we are going to a protest because it was a hotbed for anti-government protests at that time. And I remember when I was getting dressed, I was thinking.

and I was like wondering like should we go for hookah after or should we go for lunch after? Just a nice light and breezy afternoon. Yeah, and I'm like, okay. And then I was like, oh, maybe we should actually eat lunch before because I get nauseous if I smoke hookah with that before eating lunch. So I was going there kind of convinced that it's going to be like I just wanted I just wanted to see. I was just curious. I wanted to see from afar and then everything will be good. We go to the protest, we join the crowd, and they push him to the front because at that point they were asking men to go to the front and women to the back.

So in case they shoot at us, we are protected. And I march with these people, complete strangers, and I could not chant with them. I remember they were chanting against, they were saying Yilan Rhoa, like curse your soul, Hafez, which is the father of the current president. And I couldn't say the words. I opened my mouth and I tried to push them out.

And I couldn't. It felt I was doing something wrong. Because you were raised to believe that Hafez al-Assad was the great protector of the al-White people. And that we loved him. I mean, I loved him so much that I didn't even refer to him as president as a child. I used to refer to him as Baba Assad, Father Assad.

And even though I was aware, kind of aware of what's going on in the country and aware that, you know, maybe Baba Assad was not as great as we were told, still I was, his love was so ingrained in me. I couldn't say the words. We marched for a little bit and I hear like a sound like, like my mind told me it was a drum because I saw videos online where people would bring a drum to the protest. And when I heard the sound, I was like, oh, wow, the drum is here. And I was, I knew I was mistaken that I was not a drum when I started to see people running my way. like they were running the opposite direction and I knew we were being shot at

and I start running with people and I was terrified and I didn't know where to go and I find myself on a corner between like a wall and a car and one person was running and I see him And then seconds later, he just falls to the ground.

And I realized he was shot. And at that moment, I remember hearing myself screaming, I don't want to die, I don't want to die. And I keep running and I'm shaking so much that I end up falling. And then someone lifts me from my armpits, grabs me. And he asked me, did you get shot? I said, no.

and he just runs with me and he takes me to a building we go upstairs he pushes the door and it was a house full of women and few children and I see them all

gathered around the window and I go with them I look out from the window and I see more people were being dragged to safety

and there was like streaks of blood on the pavement underneath. And that day, eight people got killed. And I knew my life was not going to be the same after that day. Because I knew everything I was told growing up was a lie. And it made me question everything I grew up believing. You say, you know, everything you were told was a lie. help us understand what do you mean by that that everything was a lie?

That people are being killed in protests because they're doing something like terrible or because they are firing at the police and that, you know, these people are the ones creating chaos in the country. But I was one of them. Like I didn't even shout. I didn't even chant and I almost got killed. Like, it made me realize that just the fact that you are going into the street and say something you're not supposed to say, you're going to be punished by live bullets. We're listening to our guest interviewer, Arthur Shahani, speaking with Lebna Moray, author of the new book, Defiance, a memoir of Awakening, Rebellion, and Survival in Syria.

Marai is a photojournalist. They'll continue the conversation after a short break. fresh air. This is fresh air. Let's get back to the conversation with journalist and writer Lubna Marai about her new book, Defiance, a memoir of awakening, rebellion, and survival in Syria. She spoke with guest interviewer Arthur Shahani. Your protest becomes known to your entire family. And what happens to your mother, who all this time has been living in your dad's family's property and your dad is part of the very government you're now protesting to overthrow. When I took a step to make my involvement public, I would, I admit that I did that not knowing the punishment that was, that's awaiting me. Because at that moment, at that point, I did,

I was not really aware of the brutality that my father was capable of. I, I, expected him to be angry, but I did not expect him to be involved in my mother's disappearance in order for me to turn myself in. And that's something I blamed myself for, for years, that if I only did things differently, my mother would have been alive now. What did your father do? At some point, things become really dangerous in Damascus, and so I decide to flee to Turkey. And on the way to Turkey, I get into this conflict with one of the rebel commanders.

And as a result, I feel like I need to film a video saying that this movement has Alohites and they exist. and it was a way for me to like push back against that narrative that was being adopted by both the rebels and the government that all al-a-whites are supportive of the government. So it felt, I felt responsible to say something. You wanted to show that members of the al-A-Lite minority also supported the anti-government movement. Exactly. So I recorded that video and I uploaded it. And two days later, I was crossing to Turkey. And can I read this because it's very painful for me just to recount without...

Can I read it? It's easier for me. Okay. Or that ruins the interview. It doesn't ruin the interview now. My mother's cell phone number appears on the screen. I answer immediately. Mama, can you hear me?

I ask. Her voice comes through trembling. Something is not right. I fear the worst has occurred the very real danger of my father and what he might do if I did anything public against the government under my real identity. I hadn't listened to her.

I had done what she warned me against and left her to deal with the consequences alone. Consequences, she had seen. seen coming long before me. Mama, are you okay? I've been so worried about you. Please tell me you're okay. I beg.

It seems as if she's not able to hear what I'm saying. Later, I would wonder if she could even hear my voice or if she had been forced to speak without hearing me on the other end. Lubna, please come back. I need to have a surgery and I want you to come home, she says. I hear the pain in her sobs, and it makes me wish for my own death, knowing that I'm responsible for what's happening to her. If my father ordered men to detain her, I should be there instead,

before I can say anything. The line cuts. And that was the last time I hear from her, and I cannot tell you how many times I replayed. this phone call in my head over the past, I know, 14 years at this point. But, you know, I blamed myself. I just felt it was my fault that I did something so reckless, so public, while my mother was still there.

And I underestimated the danger I was putting her through. Your mother is no longer with us. No. Do you think she'd be proud of you for how you've used your voice? I would like to think so, but I know that she, silence was something that she didn't want me to adapt. And I felt, you know, writing this book was a way for me to honor her. And although, you know, pushing her memory away and the grief was how I've, able to stay sane and move forward.

I just wish I had have told her more how much I loved her and how much I appreciated her. And I think that's what's so painful about losing a parent in a young age because in a young age you just assume your parents are going to be there for you forever. And I was not able to tell her any of this.

You're saying it in a very big way now, Lubna. I found defiance to be breathtaking. And I was really pulled in, frankly, because I'm worried about the stability of my own country, the United States. And one of the key things that you describe is your effort to document the horror of warfare. You are documenting. You are literally learning to hold a camera steady as bullets are flying and people are running. you are part of that movement that is showing truth and believing when we show truth, justice will prevail. I mean, that's the underlying premise of journalism. That's why we do what we do. And I have to ask you, Lubna, do you still believe in the power of reporting of journalism to bring justice?

I think our oppressors wait for us to give up. and one of the ways to give up and let our oppressors win is by just stop speaking up and not push against the narrative that they are trying that they are adopting and you know one of the reasons that I decided to write this book was it was a political moment when I realized that there was this collective agreement on turning the page on the Arab Spring and

this collective agreement to rehabilitate Assad after he shattered the country. It was a responsibility to write what happened and we need documentation even if we are not seeing the results

now this is for the future generations to understand what was happening and although we are not able to stop the atrocities, we can give the future generation a toolbox to think better and to move better and learn from our mistakes. And I always tell, you know, when people ask me, oh, what do you think now about the Arab Spring? And I always tell them, like, the Arab Spring taught us to dream, but now this moment taught us to think.

Lubna Marai, I want to thank you, and I needed to hear you today. Thank you so much. Lebna Marai is the author of the new book, Defiance, a memoir of awakening, rebellion, and survival in Syria. She spoke with guest interviewer Arthy Shahani. Arthy is a former NPR tech reporter. She hosted the podcast, Art of Power, and is the author. of the memoir, Here We Are. Coming up, Critic at Large, John Powers, reviews the new thriller, Crime 101, starring Chris Hemsworth, Halle Berry, and Mark Ruffalo. This is fresh air. This is fresh air.

The new thriller, Crime 101, stars Chris Hemsworth as an L.A. Jewel thief who gets involved with a police detective and a high-end insurance agent. The movie also stars Hallie Barry and Mark Ruffalo. Our critic at large, John Power, says the movie is a deliberate throwback, and he had a swell time watching it. If there's anything I miss in pop culture, it's the presence of ordinary movies. I don't mean blockbusters like Avatar or cultural events like Barbenheimer or Oscar contenders like one battle after another. I'm talking about the routine, well-made entertainments that, for nearly a century, used to open in theaters and every week. You'd go see them because the story sounded good, or you liked the stars,

or you just wanted to enjoy something as part of an audience. I was reminded of how much I'd miss them as I watched Crime 101, a pleasingly rare example of what used to be commonplace. Based on a 2020 novella by their terrific crime novelist Don Winslow, Bart Leighton's movie boasts a slate of top-notch stars, and puts a nifty, self-conscious spin on the old-fashioned heist picture. Hop-scotching through Los Angeles's glamour and grit, the action centers on three solitary characters, each at a personal Rubicon. Chris Hemsworth plays Davis, a virtuoso jewel thief who pulls off clockwork robberies in neighborhoods along the 101 freeway.

A study in terse masculinity, Davis is a Steve McQueen fan, it's worth noting. This control freak gets knocked off his bearings by running a foul of his mentor, played by a menacing Nick Nolte, and by getting involved with a charming publicist. That's Monica Barbaro, who wants him to open up. His nemesis is an honest police detective named Lou, nicely played by Mark Ruffalo. Rumpled and brainy, Lou's got an unhappy wife. that's Jennifer Jason Lee, and an unhappy boss who tells him to stop chasing the 101 jewel thief

and start padding LAPD arrest stats by closing easier cases. But Luz obsessed. Both he and Davis wind up crossing paths with Sharon, that's an excellent Halle Berry, who works selling high-end insurance to rich jerks. One played with fine jerkiness by Tate Donovan. Waiting for a promotion that never comes, Sharon suffers from insomboise. Sharon suffers from insomnia. Her sleep app chastises her,

and seeks refuge in self-affirmation tapes. Although frustrated, Sharon is sharp. Here, soon after they meet, Davis takes her to a restaurant and asks her to size him up. Well, you look like a person who has secrets. Your shirt's new, or newly pressed, which says you don't do your own laundry

or you're a bit OCD. You're very groomed, your hair, your nails, your $12,000 watch there. Everything is just a little too perfect. Which tells me you have a lot of money and a lot of time on your hands, Mike. Got the clothes, the cars, but you can't seem to look me in the eye.

And I bet you didn't grow up with money. Can you figure that? Because people who grow up in chaos crave order. You're talking about me or are you? Maybe both. Now, if you've ever seen a heist movie, you know that the action will inevitably build to a big robbery that brings all the principles together. Crime 101 does this quite deftly, and even stirs into the brew a young thug, played by Barry Keegan,

in comical blonde hair, whose run-amuck emotions make him dangerous. That said, one of the movie's pleasures is that it isn't clogged with action sequences. It's got an old-fashioned interest in character, especially compromised characters, and gestures at darkness rather than diving into it. It glistens with the silver-lined optimism you find in Elmore Leonard. The dialogue is intelligent and often witty. The stars seem like stars. The tension keeps building.

And now that filming has largely abandoned L.A., it's a treat to see a movie that once again captures the many textures of the city, from its taco stands and snaking freeways, to its yoga mat beaches, billionaire mansions, encampments on the streets. Layton lets us see how the whole plot is driven by the abyss separating the entitlement of LA's halves from the struggle of its countless have-nots. Winslow's original novella appeared in a collection called Broken, and that's a handy clue to what makes this movie interesting. Davis, Lou and Sharon are all wounded but essentially decent

people who follow specific codes of honor. Davis's robberies take care to never, ever hurt anyone. Lou doesn't bust innocent people just for the arrest stats or cover up police shootings like other cops. Sharon behaves like a proper insurance agent, believing she's helping people feel safe and climbing the corporate ladder diligently. Yet they inhabit a broken reality. Davis's fellow crooks don't actually believe in honor among thieves. Lou's colleagues care less about justice than covering for each other. Sharon's bosses think that women agents age out because rich male clients only want to deal with hot young ones. As the story builds, each must confront this broken world and decide whether or not to do some

breaking of their own, starting with their own personal codes. Naturally, I won't tell you what or who gets broken, but I will say that Crime 101 pays off neatly, probably too neatly. But I didn't mind at all. That's how ordinary movies are supposed to end. John Powers reviewed Crime 101. It's now in theaters. Tomorrow on Fresh Air, we take a look inside the development of the company Anthropics artificial intelligence assistant called Claude. New Yorker writer Gideon Lewis Krauss goes inside the lab

where researchers and digital neuroscientists are racing to make this AI system different from competitors. He'll discuss the implications of AI's widening use, including systems that write their own code. I hope you'll join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham

with additional assistance today from Charlie Kair. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne Mie Boldenado, Lauren Crenzel, Teresa Madden, Nazareth, Thea Chaloner, Susan Yucundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nestor. Roberta Shorak directs the show. Our co-host is Tanya Mosley. I'm Terry Gross.