In Early Works, we talk to artists young and old about the jobs and life experiences that led them to their current moment. Today, it's The Sense of an Ending actor Jim Broadbent, who talks about his long road to film acting, turning down Shaun of the Dead, and why he's not likely to work with legendary director Mike Leigh again.

Both of my parents were amateur actors, and they were both trained in the arts. My father was an architect designer, and my mother was trained as a sculptor at London's Royal Academy. After World War II, my mother stopped pursuing sculpture to focus on the family, and my father had a furniture-manufacturing company, but they acted in their free time and started an amateur theater group in rural Lincolnshire that continued into the early 1960s. Then, the theater burned down in a fire, the company disbanded, and ten years later, it was resurrected under a different name by somebody else who founded a Methodist chapel. My father put on his architect hat and helped convert it into a small theater. When he died, they named the theater after him.

When I was a little boy, the theater was something that was always happening in the background. My first role was at five years old, as one of the children in a production of The Doll's House. It was my one and only stage appearance for the next 20 years. I had only one line: "A big black dog ran after me." I was very pleased to be there, and I wasn't nervous. Nerves came later.

Acting and art were the only two things I was good at. The drama wasn't very good at my school, but we did a lot of comedies. I was always up for being on the stage in front of an audience. After I left school, I thought I'd look into being a theater designer. I went to art school for a year, and I took a job as a student assistant stage manager at a big repertory theater in Liverpool for six months. I wasn't quite good enough, though.

Since both my parents were of an artistic nature, they not only encouraged but almost assumed that I would do something creative. When I was at art school, my father and I went out for a meal and sat next to a table next to some loud drama students. He said, "How about you go to drama school?" He probably knew I was probably more interested in acting and drama and probably might be better at it than art. I realized all I really wanted to do was act, so I went to drama school, too. I was immediately happy in that world—it was the one thing I wanted to do, but I'd discouraged myself up until that time. Acting was the only unstable profession in those days—the archetypical profession where you're likely to be out of work. Now, there are a lot of them.

My first film role was in The Go-Between in 1971, during the summer holidays when I was at drama school. I was an extra and didn't have any lines. One of the actors who was in it, Michael Goff, was a family friend. I absolutely loved the summer in rural Norfolk, and I loved seeing films being made—how everyone worked together in this very effective way. It was a while before I had any sort of role in a film again, though—Jerzy Skolimowski's The Shout, in 1978. I was doing lots of fringe theater work in London—provincial repertory work on short contracts. I was always working more than I wasn't, and it was about four years before I got an agent and started getting recognized.

For many years, the theater was the center of my life. I loved the community aspect, the friends I made, and the nomadic quality of the work. You didn't know where you'd be working in the country; you might be on tour. The romance of being a traveling player—a rogue, a vagabond, a troubadour—was very exciting for me as a young man. The excitement of getting on the stage and making people laugh is thrilling.

I met my wife when she was doing freelance costume design work for a TV play I did. She also had a costume company, but later on, she sold the company and became a painter, which is what she always wanted to do. We're not doing the same thing, so we're not in competition—if anything, we complement each other, in a good way. She understands actors and what they're like, and I understand the art world to some degree. We don't question what each of us are doing because we know what it's about.

I first met Mike Leigh in 1978 or 1979. I did two plays with him—Ecstasy and Goose-Pimples—within two years of each other at Hampstead Theater, and then I did one of his workshops, and we got on well. We ended up working together nine times after that. Topsy Turvy was my high point with him. I knew it was going to be about Gilbert and Sullivan and that I was going to be playing Gilbert, but I didn't know what the story was going to be or how it was going to play out. That was one of the most thrilling jobs in my life. I didn't do Mike's last film, and even though you never say never, I've probably done enough [of his films]. His process is effective, but it's very time-consuming, and it's not as interesting when you've done it nine times. There are other things I want to do.

I was asked to be in Shaun of the Dead, but I hadn't wanted to do it, or I was busy with something else—I can't remember. Then I saw it and loved it. I saw Simon Pegg at a BAFTA event, and I told him how I regretted not being in it, and if he was doing anything else, please get in touch if he still felt inclined. I schmoozed him, and it worked. Hot Fuzz was a wonderful job—a real meeting of contemporaries and young, bright, comedic actors. I had a lot of fun. I'm always on the lookout for doing something different and new—something that I haven't done before. I generally do jobs because they're films that I'd like to see, and I think I've been really lucky.

As told to Larry Fitzmaurice

In the highest-level face-to-face meeting between the U.S. and Chinese governments since President Donald Trump took office, Secretary of State Rex Tillerson and Chinese President Xi Jinping publicly avoided thorny issues and stressed the importance of cooperation.

Xi called the talks in Beijing "productive." Tillerson, who was there for his final stop on a six-day Asia tour, said that Trump looks forward to visiting China and places a "very high value on the communications that have already occurred."

In addition to navigating tensions over China's aggressive stance in the South China Sea that began during the Obama administration, the two countries have endured a rocky relationship since Trump took office in the wake of his criticism of China on issues ranging from monetary policy to the South China Sea to its dealings with North Korea.

And predictably, North Korea did not pass up the opportunity to amplify its own saber rattling, announcing shortly before the meeting in Beijing that it had successfully run a

Read the rest of this article on VICE NEWS.

In the days after Donald Trump's election as president, Americans suffering from chronic health conditions began to worry that they might be left for dead. Republicans had spent the past six years hammering Obamacare, and now that they controlled the White House and both houses of Congress, it seemed like only a short matter of time before they would axe it once and for all. Those fears were soon given voice by increasingly mainstream left-wing favorites like Bernie Sanders, who tweeted about a week before the inauguration that 36,000 people would die annually if Obamacare were repealed.

Of course, all that panic emerged before anyone had concrete information about what, exactly, Republicans were planning to pass in Congress. At the time, there were five competing GOP plans floating around. (A version of repeal had actually passed in previous years, albeit mostly as a symbolic gesture, since President Obama was never going to sign a death certificate for his signature domestic achievement.) Republican leaders were finally in a position to kill their least favorite law ever, but strangely decided to hide the repeal legislation in a basement, where no one could find it. Once it did see the light of day, the non-partisan Congressional Budget Office (CBO) had a chance to score the American Health Care Act (AHCA), the official Republican plan. But the CBO analyzed the law almost entirely for its effect on the budget, rather than life and death.

Although every think tank that works on health policy has taken a crack at guessing how many people could end up without health insurance if Obamacare went away, the CBO report gave us a go-to number of 24 million over the course of the next decade. That figure includes several broad categories of people who probably would have insurance ten years from now under current law, but are much less likely to have it if the AHCA passes. They include people who would receive less generous subsidies to purchase insurance through insurance exchanges, people whose employers will no longer be incentivized to provide plans, lower-income individuals who benefitted from a more generous Medicaid program, and risk-takers who probably won't buy a plan once the law stops requiring it.

David Himmelstein is a physician who teaches at the City University of New York and Harvard Medical School and has spent decades studying the connection between health care and mortality. He told me that while it's impossible to reach a single definitive figure before a new law like this is finalized, we can get pretty damn close.

His method comes from tweaking data in an authoritative 2012 study in the New England Journal of Medicine (NEJM) that focused on those who benefitted from expanded Medicaid programs in New York, Arizona, and Maine. By applying the percentage change in that report to the average adult death rate, he came up with the estimate that for every 455 people who gained healthcare coverage, one person's life was saved.

"That's probably not a bad rough estimate for the population that would lose coverage with the replacement of the ACA because there'd be a lot of young people who'd lose Medicaid and also a fair number of older people who wouldn't be able to afford the coverage through the exchanges," he told me. "It's not an unreasonable assumption."

Meanwhile, Benjamin Daniel Sommers, a Harvard-based health economist who co-authored the NEJM report Himmelstein used for his calculation, suggested a different approach. He published a paper two years ago in the Annals of Internal Medicine on how death rates changed in Massachusetts after the state implemented health care reform in a program not too different from what Obamacare does nationally. Sommers says that data is more applicable to this hypothetical since it speaks to both public and private health insurance.

Although he hedges that—obviously—it's a messy extrapolation, Sommers gave me a number from that paper to make a back-of-the-envelope calculation anyway. In Massachusetts, at least, one life was saved for every 830 people covered by the state-wide expansion, according to his research.

Two more things to note here: Death from Obamacare repeal might be concentrated in states carried by President Trump in the election, and some liberal state governments might try to plug the coverage gap as best as they can. But it's unlikely that Democrats in any given state will be able to quickly pass something similar to what's already in place in Massachusetts––a plan Matthew Fiedler at the Brookings Institute calls "the exception that proves the rule" when it comes to the tricky politics of healthcare.

He says that much of 'Romneycare'—as the state's health law was dubbed, after the Republican governor who signed it—was financed through a Medicaid waiver given by the federal government, and that it now relies heavily on Obamacare funding streams to keep plugging along. Places like New York and California have (relatively) high tax rates already, so it may not be viable for them to raise state income taxes to foot the bill for such a costly program. Perhaps more likely, if Medicaid expansion is clawed back by the feds, some states will fight back with lawsuits.

But assuming the CBO score is on point, Himmelstein's death estimate is 52,747 and Sommers's is 28,915—which is to say, these are the experts' estimates for the number of deaths that would likely be avoided if Obamacare remained in effect. These are wildly different numbers, obviously, and it should be noted that there may be a difference in death rates when it comes to gaining insurance versus versus losing it. Still, two of the most prominent experts on the relationship between health insurance and morality stand by these figures, rough though they may be.

"Neither of these data points are identical to the current circumstances, so both extrapolations are somewhat imprecise," says Sommers. "That said, I think it's a fair statement from our studies that tens of thousands of lives could be at stake with the ACA repeal debate and the proposed replacement."

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Keke Palmer is a creature of Los Angeles. When she arrives at the headquarters of ShoeDazzle, a subscription-based shoe service that she is currently paid to endorse, she's wearing a pink sweatsuit covered in glittery stars. Keke settles in a small white office space with three publicists and a photographer. She recognizes her as one of several camerawoman who have shot her on red carpets since she was a child actress in films like Akeelah and the Bee, and hugs the photographer. (As much as conservatives whine about Hollywood elitism, stars regularly interact with working-class paparazzos.) Within a few minutes, Keke says the phrase she has claimed as a catchphrase: "That's the gag."

She has acted for over a decade in Los Angeles, but Keke has finally decided to ditch town. Later this year, she will move to Atlanta, where she plans to record more music. Although she has quit Scream Queens, she will continue to act in the CIA spy series Berlin Station in Germany. The move is more about re-centering herself—and who can blame Keke after her hectic few months in Los Angeles?

Fans have criticized Keke for outrageous social media posts. After attending a party, she learned singer Trey Songz had filmed her without her consent. "You cannot use someone's 'likeness' without their permission," she tweeted. "Casing point of female disrespect in the industry." ("Babygirl buggin. Point blank period," he tweeted in response.) Wendy Williams told Keke she should have known better, and Keke responded to her face: "The gag is you wasn't there!"

Continue reading on Broadly

In their video for "Alligator," Canadian singers Tegan and Sara are basically wearing as much clothing as humanly possible, but apparently, for YouTube, that's a little too racy for a child's eyes.

The video was flagged as containing "sensitive matter" and restricted by the online video platform, and it wasn't the only one. YouTube is now scrambling to fix the company's "restricted mode"—which works as a voluntary filter to weed out inappropriate and unpleasant videos for a user—after it appeared to target LGBTQ+ videos.

Restricted videos include Tyler Oakley's newly uploaded "Eight Black LGBT Trailblazers Who Inspire Me," several music videos from Tegan and Sara, Rowan Ellis, advice platforms like "Everyone is Gay," videos discussing bisexuality, and videos discussing trans issues.

And people are pissed.

Read more: YouTube's Restricted Mode Is A Disaster for Queer Youth

"Our videos for Alligator, That Girl + U-turn still restricted," tweeted Tegan and Sara. "None have 'sensitive content' in them unless us dancing is 'sensitive'."

Rowan Ellis, an LGBTQ vlogger made a video where she states that 40 of her videos have been pulled and asks if "YouTube is anti-LGBT." In the video Ellis says that YouTube is one of the only places queer and trans youth can find advice and support and that by limiting their access to videos like this is dangerous—she also questions the underlying reason why the videos were targeted.

"I think it's really important to look at why LGBT content has been deemed as inappropriate," she said. "This is something that goes far beyond just a mistake that YouTube might have made, that they're going to draw intention to and fix later. This is something that's getting me really, really angry."

The restriction has also hit videos that do not include LGBTQ topics, nor have all LGBTQ videos have been restricted—some of the videos that were flagged on social media are now not restricted. After being dragged online for the past week, YouTube released a statement through Twitter in an attempt to clarify what occurred.

"The intention of restricted mode is to filter out mature content for the tiny subset of viewers who want a more limited experience," it reads. "LGBTQ+ videos are available in restricted mode but videos that discuss more sensitive issues may not be."

"Sorry for all the confusion with Restricted Mode," reads a follow up. "Some videos have been incorrectly labeled and that's not right. We're on it! More to come."

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The "friend zone": a nice catch-all that evokes the picture of a sweet, sensitive, ginger-haired lad looking forlornly out to sea whilst you, the lady he loves, gallivants around town with another. All he wants to do is make you mix tapes of his favourite indie bands and show you his rare collection of first-edition Dylan Thomas hardcovers, but NO. You just want to be "friends" (you bitch). You just want to enjoy his company without also wanting his dick.

The term "friend zone" has become so entrenched in our culture that it's almost never questioned. A quick search for self-help articles aimed toward men shows that the "friend zone" is a regular focus: how to avoid the friend zone; how to know you're in the friend zone; what to do if you're in the friend zone. It's almost as if no one is stopping to think what this term is saying to women, or how it affects us. It's almost as if women aren't the problem.

When men use the term "friend zone," they are explicitly attempting to shame women for hurting their feelings. "Friend zone" shames women for exercising their right to say no, just as "slut" shames women for exercising their right to say yes (and "bitch" attacks women for their right to call you out on your horseshit).

By using "the friend zone," men are telling women that we owe them something. It tells us we don't have autonomy over our own lives, and that that should be decided for us. We owe them sex or a romantic relationship because we should be grateful that a dude—any dude—is being nice to us. Even though being nice is literally the bare minimum. You don't get a cookie for passing the lowest possible bar of humanity. That's great that you loudly proclaim you're not sexist or racist or shallow or self-involved or abusive, but there's no gold star for listing a bunch of faults you don't have, or for doing what you're fucking supposed to do.

"I'm a nice guy, I don't do that," you might say. OK, but do you stand up against men who do? Or do you sit there and watch while you think about how nice you are?

Women are constantly told that our instincts and feelings aren't as important as those of men. Don't like being hit on at work? But how is he supposed to meet romantic partners? Don't like it when strange, greasy guys at the club say you have fuckable titties? Maybe you should learn to take a compliment! It's funny how often "You need to learn how to take a compliment" is said by fully-grown men who still have not learned how to take rejection. If a woman tells you she fears for her safety because of street harassment, and your main concern is that you now can't hit on strangers on the street, then I would reconsider your fucking priorities. If you think women are crazy for not accepting your compliments, you've never had the unique experience of being hit on by a man, then the same man threatening to kill you in the time it takes you to say, "no thanks."

Read More: I Asked a Psychopath How to Stop Caring About Rejection

Often, the love-stricken friend in this non-existent "zone" launches into a volley of romantic gestures: he sends you little hello texts every morning, he comes to all your house parties, he likes everything you post on Facebook and he tells all his friends about you. Sweet. Charming. Harmless. Because he just *knows* you're meant to be together, and if society has taught men anything, it's that persistence pays off! Of course when women perform the same sweeping romantic gestures to men who clearly say they're not interested, it's seen universally as desperate and sad. Stage 5 Clinger! Stalker. Bitches be cray.

But if a woman tells you she's not interested, she's not speaking in code. When she says, "I'm fine," what she really means is: She's fine. Just like when she says "no," it's not a yes in disguise. Or a "yes if you pursue me." Stop believing that women don't know how to accurately express themselves. And stop believing that you can claim a woman because you saw her first, or because you're positive you are exactly what she needs.

The argument that men can also "friend zone" women has been put out there, but it ignores one universal truth: women don't see men as binary options like fuckable or friend. Women have complex, nuanced, confusing, fulfilling, tumultuous relationships with women, men and non-gender-binary persons. Naturally, men can as well, but the type of man who claims he's been put in the "friend zone" is explicitly telling you he is categorizing your worth on whether or not he wants to stick his dick in you.

"Friend zoned" men need to grow the fuck up and handle rejection like adults. Because the "friend zone" isn't actually a thing.

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It only took about six months, but finally something sort of interesting is happening in the Conservative party leadership race.

Reality television mogul and famous angry man Kevin O'Leary took to Twitter on Thursday night to warn the public that "backroom organizers may be vote-rigging in this election." He then spent St. Patrick's Day furiously tweeting at his other 13 competitors about it, and somehow managed to wring an absolute ice burn out of Saskatoon-based leadership hopeful Brad Trost. O'Leary never mentioned suspected front-runner Maxime Bernier by name in his vote-rigging accusation, but Bernier took it personally anyway and sent out an email blast arguing that Kevin O'Leary is a loser and a bad candidate.

(Andrew Scheer and Chris Alexander had also raised concerns about backroom shenanigans with the party brass, but preferred not to air the CPC's dirty laundry in public because I guess they care more about partisan loyalty than TRANSPARENCY and the TRUTH. Sad!)

Then, the first turn of the screw: An internal investigation by the CPC actually turned up evidence of sketchy memberships. The rules stipulate that every party membership has to be purchased and paid for individually, but 1,351 had been paid for with anonymous prepaid credit cards through two IP addresses and had to be purged from the rosters. So far, the party hasn't found any evidence these were connected to a particular campaign, precisely because they were all purchased anonymously in predominantly Sikh- and Tamil-Canadian communities in the Greater Toronto Area.

READ MORE: We Asked the Conservative Leadership Candidates to Make Us Playlists

But then—another twist of the screw. Bernier's campaign sent the Globe and Mail an affidavit on Sunday signed by six people alleging that Ron Chatha, president of the Conservative Brampton East Riding Association and a member of O'Leary's campaign, had approached them to participate in a mass membership-buying prepaid credit card scheme. Chatha is also the person who first reported the anomalous memberships to the party's attention in the first place, and claims that he's now being unfairly targeted by rivals.

Go figure that the first major battle of the campaign has more to do with backroom backstabbing over technicalities than anything substantial or relevant to Canadian voters.

It may be impossible to ever definitively tie the membership irregularities to one of the campaigns, precisely because of the anonymous credit cards involved. Even if the allegations against Ron Chatha turn out to be true, there is no way to establish that was working at the behest of O'Leary's campaign or was just so absolutely jazzed at the prospect of selling Senate seats or whatever that he had to game the system on his own.

If it is true that O'Leary is up to his entrails in shenanigans, though, it would be both a hilarious self-own and also totally consistent with all his other self-owns so far this campaign. Say whatever you will about his political fitness to be prime minister, O'Leary is sort of a dumbass at campaigning. He skips debates where he might potentially have to speak French, has an abysmal sense of timing, and can't even properly fib about missing a flight.

Not that Bernier is any less sloppy—there was that whole biker thing. But hey, a lot can change in nine years, right?

The real meat of this membership thing (the stakes seem too low to constitute a proper scandal) is Lisa Raitt's call that anyone caught cheating or otherwise fudging on the technical stuff should be disqualified from the race. It'd be a fantastic way to thin the race a little bit—there is no reason to still have 14 candidates in this race—even if it meant (likely) ejecting the only two interesting and sort of likable candidates from the campaign. (Sorry, Michael Chong.)

Of course, without Bernier or O'Leary, then we're stuck with… the rest. I'm not sure even the Conservative party deserves that fate.

Follow Drew Brown on Twitter.

Ten minutes into my conversation with Y.K. Kim—the star of the 1987 film Miami Connection, which chronicles five friends pitted against a gang of nefarious cocaine dealers and was featured on last week's episode of VICELAND's Outsiders—I'm handed over to Kenneth Pelt, a charming, steady-voiced associate of the taekwondo master. Pelt told me, quite simply, that his boss helped saved his life.

"I was extremely overweight—I was obese—and because of that I fell into a huge depression and I had no confidence," he explained. "Master Kim's philosophy allowed to me to take charge of my health. I lost over 70 pounds. I'm strong. I'm fit. I'm happier and more confident and I live my life with passion."

At 70, Y.K. Kim is still best known as Miami Connection's Mark. The film (which Kim also wrote and produced) famously flopped upon its release and nearly bankrupted him as it languished in obscurity for 25 years. That is, until two guys from the Alamo Drafthouse discovered it in 2012. Since then, Kim's movie has become one of America's weirder cult classics and beloved by many for its heartfelt message of friendship and over-the-top synth-rock soundtrack.

Over the phone, Kim is exactly what you'd hope Mark would be two decades later: He's intense, sincere, and self-assured. In the years since the film's release, he's kept busy writing books, leading self-help seminars, working on another movie, and touting his own guided meditation videos, which he describes as "a mental exercise that's also like a mini vacation." (Kim is currently running a contest to win one of these meditation videos; head here to find out more.)

We spoke to Kim about his taekwondo empire and how he's using positive thinking to help fix America.

VICE: How did you first come to find martial arts?
Y.K. Kim: I grew up very poor. I lost my father in the Korean War. I grew up with a single mother, who was really great and raised me, but I still felt an unbalance because I had no father. I took to martial arts and that was the turning point in my life. Martial arts gave me infinite strengths. I became a very confident person. I'm smarter. I'm strong. I wanted to improve myself even more, so I moved to the USA to achieve the American Dream. I was a very lucky person, and I feel like I owe so much to America. Nowhere in the world is like America. It's because of the USA that I am where I am today.

What motivates you to pass your teachings on?
Seventy percent of Americans are overweight and overworked. It's a national crisis. More than 36 million people are addicted to cigarettes. [More than 20] million people are addicted to drugs and alcohol. Kids don't want to eat vegetables and aren't getting any vitamins. It's a disaster, and it all comes back to stress levels. Eighty percent of modern sickness is from stresses. I love America, but too many people are getting sick. Why? Because technology grew like crazy and now too many people are [spending their days] sitting down, just using their fingers. Our bodies are designed for moving and nobody moves! If we don't change it, we're going to be in big trouble.

Why did you start meditating?
Everywhere I go, I ask people what they think success is, and they all have different answers. People are unhealthy and stressed because they cannot define success. [But I believe] anyone can create a successful future. With my teachings, people can be healthier, wiser, and smarter, and they can have confidence and peace of mind. Almost nothing works in our lives without harmony and balance. For example, without water and fire, nothing can survive. Without males and females, we would have no children. Unfortunately, we've become a slave of high-tech, and too many of our friends and family are suffering because of it. After 39 years of research, I've determined this is the right answer for millions and millions of people. It will revolutionize our life, to start, and together I believe it can change the world.

Follow Aly Comingore on Twitter.

You can catch Outsiders on VICELAND. Find out how to watch here.

Hot take: Living at home with your parents isn't all that cool when you're an adult. Even less cool: Doing so while sharing a bedroom with your fellow adult sibling. And yet, it was from a small, working class home in East Kilbride, Scotland, that Jim and William Reid formed the coolest band that ever lived™. Unlike most adults living with their folks, the Reids used the family residence as a rent-free headquarters to help launch their band. When they weren't literally writing down how they would achieve their dream of pop stardom, they were working some of the oddest jobs imaginable. Jim used to cut sheet metal for Boeing airplane engines at the Rolls-Royce Aerospace building. William, on the other hand, picked cockroaches out of Parmesan cheese in a factory. It wasn't long before they realized that signing on for unemployment would offer them all the time they needed to get their band off the ground.

The Reids were known in their small town as a couple of misanthropic outsiders who kept to themselves and rarely made eye contact with anyone. But on the rare occasion that they did make friends, they made it count. Their first friend was a younger kid named Douglas Hart, who co-founded the band and played bass. The next was Bobby Gillespie, the JAMC's first official fan and second drummer. (Gillespie, of course, would leave the band in 1985 to achieve his own success fronting Primal Scream.) And finally there was Alan McGee, the band's first manager, who released their debut single on his label, the soon-to-be legendary Creation Records.

When they released that single, "Upside Down," it was unlike anything ever released before. The band barely knew how to play their instruments, yet they had inspiration. They were punk rock kids who followed the DIY methods of the Sex Pistols, the aesthetic of The Velvet Underground, the brooding lyricism of Joy Division, the blatant disregard for eardrums demonstrated by The Stooges, and the throbbing, hypnotic use of rhythm (and chaos) by Suicide. Their initial goal was to create something that somehow contained the heartbreaking pop harmonies of the Shangri-Las and the remorseless noise of industrial boffins Einstürzende Neubauten. But "Upside Down" was so much more than that—a three-minute cyclone of whirring feedback, a crashing rhythm and a dreamy melody that had no business coalescing. It's one of the most perfect songs ever recorded.

Continue reading on Noisey

In the United States, most people who see Louis Theroux would likely look right past him—a lanky brown-haired brown-eyed guy donning a beard, glasses, and a warm smile. But after our interview at a NYC restaurant concluded, a quiet British couple sitting next to us jumped out of their seats to take a selfie, later gushing to me about their unbridled excitement having actually seen Louis Theroux. He may be a documentary filmmaker, but in England, he's practically a rock star.

For Theroux's new film, My Scientology Movie—the latest in a career that's found him profiling Nazis, the Westboro Baptist Church, porn stars, and late British TV personality Jimmy Savile—he had to take a different approach, knowing he wouldn't be able to use his typical strategy while covering the elusive, journalist-hating Church of Scientology. He had to be creative. So he told the story of the church's controversial leader David Miscavige by having actors recreate some of the more disturbing anecdotes offered by ex-Scientologists. Along with footage of being stalked by Scientologists, Theroux is able to give his audience a glimpse into the life of church members without infiltrating their lives outright.

VICE: What made you decide to film this movie in such a unique way?
Louis Theroux: That was one of my inspirations. When I realized I wouldn't be able to do my normal thing, we had to rethink and strategize. One of the most fascinating things about Scientologists is the way they attack people they perceive as enemies. If you're trying to depict yourself as a normal or ethical group, you've got to realize that turning up to film any reporters trying to cover you looks really odd. So I figured we could rely on the idea that they'd be filming us—but beyond that, we needed something else to wrap the film around. Then, the idea of reenactments came up—a film within a film. When I saw The Act of Killing, it made me realize how reenactments could work as emanations from the contributors themselves. They weren't my reenactments—they were the reenactments of the ex-Scientologists, and they needed to drive them.

The film not only comments on Scientology's relationship with Hollywood but on filmmaking in general. It reveals the raw side of making a documentary, from talking openly about filming b-roll to Marty Rathbun constantly complaining about repetitive questions.
One of the scenes I like is when we do the drill [the iconic Scientology "tech" practices]. Marty seems to enjoy the whole process of taking charge of this flock of young actors and imparting the bits of Scientology practice that he still regards as valuable. He thinks that he's really doing something that will be psychologically useful for them.

In the end, when I say, "Can we applaud L. Ron Hubbard?"—because in my head, we're doing a slight reenactment—he stalks off. You get that feeling—which is some of my favorite material in documentaries in general—that the wheels have come off. Someone says, "Fuck you," the set wobbles, and the mic drops down. You hear them on the mic: "I'm fucking done with this shit. Go join the cult of Louis Theroux if you want to." There's an electricity to that kind of material, where it's slightly going awry. When [Rathbun] is like, "Your questions are fucking insipid and repetitive. Ask me a real question," he's basically saying, "You're a bullshit journalist, and I'm sick of you." That crackles with the quality of real life.

After filming this movie, you made a BBC documentary revisiting your relationship with Jimmy Savile. What inspired that decision?
I made this documentary [profiling Savile] in 2000, which, at the time, was highly watched and well regarded. I felt like I did a good job. I stayed in touch with him and continued to check in with him occasionally. Then, after he died, to find out he'd been a serial sex offender of such a prolific sort for so long was a huge realization. It was very upsetting. Almost as soon as I heard about what he'd been doing secretly, I began thinking, How do I deal with this both personally and in a professional way? Do I owe it to myself, and also to his victims, to attempt to figure out how I was unable to see it?

On a personal level, do you think it was difficult to make?
Yes. I would say so. I was having to look into the worst kind of acts—child sexual abuse. You're grappling with material that's upsetting, but also the guilty party was someone I knew and had some affection for. It's one thing to keep that at arm's length—I've done documentaries about pedophiles before a couple of times—but it's so different when it's someone you know.

Are there any subjects that you want to take on next?
Loads. I think R. Kelly would be a fascinating documentary. I'm a fan. I think he's a brilliant musician, singer, songwriter. I find his whole style and sense of humor very appealing. Obviously he's had his share of ups and downs... I don't know if he'd ever agree, though.

You do a lot of work in America. Why do you choose the United States specifically?
I think there's so much going on here. There's this interesting dynamic between the two countries, where British people slightly look down on and then slightly look up to America, as having more money and more glamor, but maybe, in their view, being less sophisticated. There's a shared language; there's enough shared culture to create rapport and even be a slightly exotic friend that's visiting from overseas. But there's enough difference to make these really interesting—it's the world's only superpower at this point. It's a cradle of freedom and opportunity, but in other ways, also nearly ravished by crime and dysfunction and filled with extremes. It makes for good stories.

Follow Sarah Bellman on Twitter.

A Mennonite man accused of smuggling 16 kilos of coke across the US-Canada border in 2012 is finally in court today. Jacob Dyck is facing charges of conspiracy to import $2 million worth of cocaine and possession for the purpose of trafficking.

By now the horse-and-buggy riding blow-smuggler has essentially earned its own Heritage Moment, pushed deeper into Canadian pop culture consciousness by the CBC drama Pure. But back in 2013, when I first spoke with US Drug Enforcement Agent Jim Schrant, the idea of a "large-scale marijuana and cocaine distribution group" run by Mennonites with connections to a notorious Mexican cartel still seemed genuinely bonkers.

"We started investigating a large-scale marijuana and cocaine distribution group in 2010, which was operating out of Mexico and shipping large amounts into the United States and then subsequently to different points in Alberta," Schrant told me at the time. "We learned there were individuals who identified as Mexican Mennonites involved in the transportation and distribution."

Read More: Mennonites in Southern Alberta Have Connections to a Notorious Mexican Drug Cartel

Dyck is facing trial alone, after charges against co-accused Abram Klassan were stayed due to "unreasonable delay" mostly caused by Dyck's defence. But Dyck and Klassan weren't the only ones caught up in the DEA's international sting.

Two other Mexican Mennonites, Hector Chavez-Anchondo and Javier Batista-Cervantes, were extradited from Calgary to the US in 2015. "This case was worked in conjunction with RCMP and other local Canadian authorities and led to further investigations/seizures by Canada into Mennonite associates in Alberta," a DEA agent wrote to VICE in an email. Both men pleaded guilty to felony drug offences and were sentenced to four years in prison in January 2017.

Jacob Fehr was also sentenced to seven years in prison in 2014 after hauling coke from Chihuahua, Mexico into Calgary.

Credit where it's due: the smugglers' cover was pretty airtight. Mennonites have a history in Canada and Mexico, and migration between the two settlements has been going on since the 1920s. According to DEA intel, Mennonites were stashing massive amounts of weed and coke into "sophisticated compartments" built into farming and construction equipment.

While the trial is just beginning in Alberta, the DEA seems to have moved on from the Mennonite smuggler story, saying those cases are "resolved" and "old news" in the US.

Lead image via screencap from CBC's Pure.

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Republicans who tried to ram a slipshod replacement for Obamacare through the House unveiled a set of amendments to the bill Tuesday, and they're hoping against hope that lawmakers originally opposed to the legislation will now vote for it, CNN reports.

Those pushing to pass the American Health Care Act (AHCA)—a Republican alternative to Obamacare that nearly everyone agrees is total garbage—have about 48 hours to drum up as much support as they can get for the bill before the House votes on it Thursday. With these new tweaks to the AHCA—plus Trump's support, House Speaker Paul Ryan's charm and gusto, and a little luck—the thinking goes that they might be able to get the bill to the Senate.

There's a score of changes that've been tacked on to the AHCA, which Politico outlines in depth, but the big alterations have to do with tax credits and Medicaid funding. Some Republican legislators wary of the bill complained that it would screw over the elderly. It's since been amended to provide older Americans with $85 billion in tax credits, which could offset that group's healthcare costs.

Other lawmakers wanted their states to have an option to receive federal Medicaid funding as a lump sum, which wouldn't change if more people sign up for the program (or ditch it). Now, states have more freedom to choose that option, and will also have the right to require able-bodied Medicaid recipients to work if they choose.

The AHCA—drawn up in a span of weeks by right-wing leadership, then literally hidden from representatives in a basement, then torn to shit by elected officials on both sides of the aisle—looks fated to forever smolder on the ash heap of history. Conservatives hate it. Not a single Democrat plans to vote for it. Hospitals don't want it. Even Ann Coulter called it a "piece of crap." All these contingents take different issues with the AHCA, but the crux of the issue here is that Trump promised to repeal and replace Obamacare with something that would cover everybody in the country and that every American could afford. And the AHCA, even with these new amendments, fails to deliver on that promise.

There's a recent history of genre shows featuring the type of female characters that fans want to see more of: Orphan Black's Tatiana Maslany finally received an Emmy for her brilliant portrayals of multiple clones, while Mr. Robot's sharp women characters—hackers Darlene (Carly Chaikin) and Trenton (Sunita Mani), and FBI agent Dominique Dipierro (Grace Gummer)—played a part in the show receiving critical acclaim. However, these breakout shows do still mostly feature white actors—but a few of them are working hard to remedy this lack of diversity.

Over the past few months, fantasy and science-fiction TV shows have gifted viewers with three new leading heroines whose ethnicities are fiercely underrepresented in Hollywood. There's Sleepy Hollow's new lead, Indian American actress Janina Gavankar; Emerald City has cast a Latina Dorothy with Mexican American actress Adria Arjona; and SyFy's The Expanse has established a fan favorite in its Martian character Bobbie Draper, played by Polynesian actress Naren Shankar.

When FOX's Sleepy Hollow first graced screens in 2013, it had one of the most racially diverse casts on television. At least half of its characters were portrayed by actors of color, including Orlando Jones, John Cho, and Nicole Beharie as co-lead Lieutenant Abbie Mills. However, over the last few seasons, Mills has become more of a sidekick to Ichabod Crane (Tom Mison), the storylines focusing more on Crane's past while leaving Mills out of the loop. During the show's third season last year, she was stuck in a sort of purgatory for several episodes, and behind-the-scenes tension ultimately led to Beharie's departure.

Many fans were angry, and there was concern that the most recent season would essentially become "The Ichabod Crane Show." But Gavankar's Diana Thomas has proved herself the show's real star. The character—an agent from the Department of Homeland Security—has become essential to the show's narrative, and Gavankar's emotional acting has added depth to the show itself.

NBC's Emerald City had a rougher start than Sleepy Hollow did, but Arjona's Dorothy is far from the version of the character that Judy Garland played: She's a little older than previous iterations (at the ripe old age of 20), and in her previous life, she was a cop, which means she can handle herself in dire situations. (In this latest The Wizard of Oz retelling, the Witch of the East's death was no accident, as Dorothy used her wits to help her escape the witch's wrath.) The show has gone as far as to directly acknowledge Dorothy's Hispanic background, instead of leaving her ambiguously brown.

The Expanse, on the other hand, had already featured actresses of color in its first season, including Iranian-American actress Shohreh Aghdashloo and black actress Dominique Tipper. This season, the writers introduced the Martian faction through the eyes of Roberta 'Bobbie' Draper, a strong and smart Gunnery Sergeant in the Martian marines. The character is Polynesian in the book series the show is based on, and actress Frankie Adams is of Samoan heritage. Within the first few episodes of the season, we see her not only as a leader of a group of testy marines, but also as the one questioning the higher-ups of the Martian military.

Each of these roles given to women of color help normalize the idea that anyone can be a hero. The entertainment industry as a whole is becoming more diverse, but it still has a long way to go—so it's good to see that television is taking extra steps to be more ethnically diverse. Over the last few years we've seen the realness in familial comedies about people of color like Black-ish, Fresh off the Boat, and Jane the Virgin, but seeing women of color as heroines is inspiring in a different way—especially to those who feel like their representation is severely lacking.

Hannington Mugisha knew he needed to leave Uganda when his father threatened to kill him for being gay, but hesitated. He wasn't sure where to go or how to get there. Then one day, while doing chores in the yard, his father walked up behind him with a rope and dragged him to the giant Acacia tree that stood in front of their home. Mugisha hung from the tree struggling to breathe while his father went back in the house without looking back. As he lost consciousness, his sister, who had been watching from afar, ran up and cut him down. She told him to run. He did.

Mugisha took money he had saved from his small business selling mobile phone credit to pay to get to Ethiopia, where he had been told by a friend a refugee camp would be the safest place for him. By a combination of buses and bush taxis, it took him five weeks to arrive at the Sherkole refugee camp, one of seven run by the United Nations High Commission on Refugees (UNHRC) in the East African country. After being processed, he was given a blanket and some food, and was assigned a bunkmate. He disclosed his sexual identity to UNHCR, but it remained confidential to his new community.

While his new neighbors—from the African Great Lakes region, places like Burundi, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Kenya, Rwanda, Tanzania and his own Uganda—shared similarly tragic stories of having to leave their home countries to save their own lives, fleeing civil war or claiming political asylum, they were safe from those things inside the camp.

But for Mugisha and every other African LGBTQ person who seeks sanctuary in a camp like Sherkole, there is one big distinction that sets them apart: what they flee is cultural ideology, and laws that perpetuate it. Being gay is illegal in 33 of Africa's 54 countries, including Uganda, where it was outlawed in 1962. In others it's punished socially, and mob justice can end a life with little to no consequence. While not legally punishable to be gay inside the camp, most of Mugisha fellow refugees were raised in cultures where it is.

UNHCR has a high ethical code towards marginalized populations and guidelines on how to deal with LGBTQ populations that they implement globally. Sixty four percent of their participating offices have at least one LGBTI-specific measure in place—having gender neutral options on registration forms or "safe space" waiting areas for LGBTQ people to be processed through, for instance. While they cannot comment on individual cases, its camps have "specific programs in place to address the needs of persons who are at specific risk," says UNHRC senior press information officer Jenifer Fenton. Also, as appropriate, the UNHCR can make referrals for resettlement.

Regardless, a year into his new life at the camp, Mugisha woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of a machete splintering the wooden door of his one room hut. Just days earlier, word had gotten out among his fellow refugees that he was gay. The harassment started as verbal shaming, escalated to having feces being smeared on the doorway and windows, and now this.

"Once they found out, it was like Uganda all over again," Mugisha says on a recent Skype call. "I couldn't move on the street, I couldn't leave my home without fearing my safety. It's so hard to understand that these are people who fled from war and violence, and yet they want us to suffer."

Mugisha reported the incident to the UNHCR office, telling them he feared for his safety and wanted to be moved to another camp. He was told to return in six weeks, the time it would take for his case to be reviewed by the Administration for Refugee and Returnee Affairs, a group run by Ethiopian government. His claim was denied.

When he returned home that night, he heard music nearby where people were gathering for what looked like a makeshift party. He asked about the cause of the celebration. "The homosexual is leaving," someone told him. "They said 'He has been deported.'"

The unfortunate truth is, despite the high standards organizations like UNHCR place on themselves, for those seeking sanctuary from cultural values often perpetuated by inhumane laws, the guidelines don't address the real issue. These camps exist to protect vulnerable populations, but often cannot offer a safe space for Mugisha and others like him.

Homophobia in Africa is a complex problem with deep historical roots, and changing behaviors shaped by both law and society take time. While there may not be a short term fix that would leave people like Mugisha free to be themselves in a refugee camp, change is happening.

The state of human rights in each country is different and there is no uniform "African culture" around being queer. The reality is that most of the laws against homosexuality in sub-Saharan Africa were imposed or inspired historically by colonial powers, in particular Britain. In recent years, a new wave of homophobic rhetoric heavily funded by anti-LGBTQ conservatives in America has fortified hate, inspiring powerful documentaries revealing the impact, like God Loves Uganda. Melanie Nathan, Executive Director of the African Human Rights Coalition, tells me, "The only way to change this is to correct lies and myths that have been perpetuated by religious and political leaders. Finding ways to teach that homosexuals are not pedophiles, nor promoters of homosexuality."

Innovative efforts on the ground do exist, but it takes time for them to have enough influence to make a measurable impact. Nathan recently attended the United Methodist Western Regional "Rise Up" conference in Portland Oregon, where religious leaders organized around various human rights issues, from mass incarceration to human rights abroad. Nathan noted that "various Church groups are starting to reach out for consultation in their efforts to try and mitigate homophobia on the continent through approaching leadership and Bishops to influence change. The idea being to focus on love and acceptance rather than the aspect of sin."

Proof of change is already evident in some areas. Namibia, known for being more progressive than many other African countries, had an inaugural gay pride parade last year. Archbishop Desmond Tutu in South Africa and Bishop Christopher Senyonjo in Uganda have spoken out against the persecution of LGBT people, as has the former Botswana president Festus Mogae. "There is still a long way to go, most leaders are silent or overtly hostile to LGBT civil rights," says Peter Tatchell, an international LGBT campaigner for the last half century, over email. "Change will come eventually," he says. "No tyranny last forever."

But for now: In Mugisha's last days in the Sherkole refugee camp, he stayed indoors, only leaving to get food from the mess hall that was run by fellow refugees. They stopped feeding him. "They told me I don't deserve service. That I shouldn't come back." He stayed in his barracks for five days before acknowledging he could no longer survive in his current situation, ultimately traveling to UNHCR headquarters in Addis Ababa 400 miles away. He slept in front of the gates for two weeks, eventually being arrested for loitering before securing an appointment to get help. UNHCR placed him at a camp in Tonga, but he was soon outed to campers by, he believes, a UN security officer. The harassment began again.

From there he traveled to Kenya, where Mugisha says he has found a small, tight-knit gay community. His future is uncertain, but he knows one thing for sure. "You can start over in a camp, but don't expect to be free there," he says. "I won't go back to a camp again."

Follow M. Syambra Moitozo on Twitter.

On Monday, a suspect faced federal charges in a Dallas County court for allegedly sending a strobing GIF that triggered a seizure in Kurt Eichenwald, a Newsweek writer with epilepsy, late last year.

Light-induced seizures have been fought with lawsuits and TV bans in the past. But like something out of Black Mirror, they've had their day in what's likely the first criminal trial over a seizure induced via the internet.

The case has similarities with previous complaints over videos, often with bright flashing lights, that triggered seizures. For example, a scene from a 1997 episode of Pokémon, in which Pikachu launches a lightning attack, reportedly hospitalized some 685 children.

Continue reading on Motherboard

I stood there, in London's Tate Modern, looking at Wolfgang Tillmans's photograph 17 Years' Supply, feeling a shared intimacy with a man I've never met. The piece depicts a container filled with HIV-medication bottles. I thought I would start to cry.

I am a 48-year-old, HIV-positive, polyamory-oriented gay man. And while none of these words actually describe who I am, each is a construct used to limit me and define me.

I was in London visiting my 30-year-old lover, Noah.

That morning, we had laid in bed in his Shoreditch apartment, watching TV. With his head on my belly, I was awestruck by his absolute beauty, the way the light and color of the room hit him just so, the way his head moved with each breath I took, the curve of his body under the blankets, a glimpse of a butt cheek, his foot sticking out. It all combined to create a moment that was nearly flawless, and I laid entranced by him and the wonder of what we became without outside constructs and limits on whatever our young relationship was.

I ran my hand through his hair, feeling the shape of his head, and I was stunned by the potential of this person: his whole life still ahead of him, everything he had left to experience, all the ways he would grow and change, the man he was becoming and would one day become.

Before leaving, a friend had asked if I ever worried about the fact that I am so much older than so many of the men I date. I am 18 years older than Noah. I am 17 years older than my husband, Alex, and 16 years older than our boyfriend, Jon.

The answer is simple—yes, I worry. I like to torture myself with a particular game of math, and I did it that morning in bed with Noah: When I am 60, he will be 42. When I am 70, he will be only 52. Will he still want to fuck me when I'm no longer sexy, when I'm just an old man? Will he still want to go on walks with me, talk to me, kiss me and hold me and tell me I'm beautiful? Will they still love me when I'm old?

If I'm feeling particularly cruel, I will remind myself that I am HIV positive, too, and I'll imagine how that might play out as I age. Will I live a normal life (modern medicine and science seem to indicate that I will), or will I die ravaged by illness, alone and sick?

Illustration by Petra Eriksson

I remember my grandmother Irene telling me how strange the experience of getting older was. She was 91 at the time, and she told me that on the inside she still felt like a 16-year-old girl. It was only her body that changed, and the way the world treated her.

I'm at a point in my life when I am neither young nor old, where I am leaving behind one experience and entering into a new one. This May, I will turn 49. For much of my early life, I was a heroin addict. I spent my 20s and 30s struggling with addiction, with finding a way to exist, but by the time I reached my 40s, especially my later 40s, that struggle changed—I found myself finally becoming comfortable with who I am. Liking who I am, even. Age made me stronger. I was happy. Life became beautiful. All the wasted potential of my youth suddenly focused into something with meaning. I had hope.

My numbers game is just another construct, like those who would deny me my capacity to love all these beautiful men. It's just another way to limit myself. If they love me at 48, why won't they love me at 78? The only reason to think that is because I'm afraid—of being left behind, of being abandoned, of that day when I'm suddenly no longer enough.

I will get older and my body will fail. I will be covered in wrinkles and my chest will sag, my dick will stop working, and I will no longer look on the outside the way I feel on the inside. One day I will die.

And so I have a choice: I can sink under the weight of it, or I can rise and flourish and grow from within. Instead of being limited by my age or HIV status, I can allow those things to make me stronger, to allow myself to become a man who will be loved as much at 98 as he is at 48.

We are much more than those constructs used to define us, than our age and body type and gender. We are only defined by those things that we allow to define us. I am a 48-year-old HIV-positive poly-oriented gay man, but I am more than any of those things.

I remember that morning with Noah's head on my belly—the way he turned to look at me, smiling, and the sheer amount of potential contained in that moment.

After we made our way through the Tillmans exhibit, I went to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and cried. Noah stood outside, talking to a friend we had run into. I couldn't control it. I was overwhelmed by feelings of gratitude and hope and joy.

"I don't mind it, though," I remember my grandmother saying to me. "This feeling, getting older, knowing that soon I will die—it changes how the world looks. Suddenly, from this perspective, I can't escape the truth: Everything has meaning. Everything has a purpose."

Follow Jeff Leavell on Twitter.

The Trump campaign's alleged ties to Russia have spiraled out into a story that's birthed a thousand conspiracy theories about how and why Donald Trump teamed up with the Kremlin to "hack" the 2016 election. Many Trump supporters dismiss the allegations as a liberal ploy to undermine the president, even as the FBI continues to investigate communications between Trump's associates and people linked to Russian president Vladimir Putin.

What often gets lost in the sometimes paranoid, always partisan debates over Russia is the underlying questions beyond the controversy of the 2016 election. Why would Putin favor Trump over Hillary Clinton? What does Trump's relatively friendly attitude toward Putin mean for US foreign policy and the world? How did we reach this place where Russia is once again seen as America's leading accuracy—and is that impression even accurate?

To sort through those questions, I called up Timothy Frye, professor of post-Soviet foreign policy and the chair of the political science department at Columbia University, and got him to to separate fact from wild speculation and explain how Bush- and Obama-era decisions led to what's happening today.

VICE: What's at the root of the conflict between Russia and the United States today? Is it a sort of Cold War hangover?
Timothy Frye: This view that it's a new Cold War is very misleading. The Cold War was global between two blocs of countries where it was ideological; there were two global political systems that were in conflict. None of those things are true today—the US's military budget is about eight times what Russia spends, so there's no sense of military parity apart from the nuclear sphere. So to think of it as some extension of the Cold War is not particularly helpful. But President Putin has been very successful in legitimating his rule in last four or five years by reasserting that Russia is a major player on the world stage, which was a common theme in the Soviet period. Soviet leaders would implicitly say, "We're not as rich as the West, we have a lot of problems, but we are a global player, and that's why you should support us." Whereas President Putin has been much more explicit about that in the last five years as the Russian economy has gone down. That narrative plays well even today, and part of that is a hangover from the Cold War period.

What has brought about this current era of tension between Russia and the West that led to this interference in the US election?
In the last five or six years, or even further back, there has been a sense within Russia that the international system is not reflective of Russia's position in the world and is biased against Russia, and that international organizations like the IMF and the World Bank are not representative of Russia's interests. There's a sense that the rule-based international institutions are biased against Russia, and Russia would much prefer an international system that goes back to the 19th-century spheres of influence model, where Russia is allowed to do what it wants in its own neighborhood.

Europe and the US pushed back against that idea, saying that countries should be able to decide who they want to ally with and that national sovereignty shouldn't be abridged. The second notion is that for Russia, national sovereignty is a paramount concern, so they're especially critical of Western comments about lack of free speech and lack of democracy within Russia. The Kremlin's view is that countries should be able to decide how they run themselves internally.

In 2009, Obama put Clinton, the newly appointed secretary of state, in a charge of his administration's "Russian reset" policy. Could you describe what happened there?
In the last few years of the Bush administration, US-Russia relations had really soured. The Iraq War was something that the Kremlin took very badly. Right after 9/11, President Putin was the first foreign leader to call President Bush, and there was the initial period of good relations between Bush and Putin. That was really spoiled by the invasion of Iraq, which the Russians opposed for a number of reasons. They had an economic interest in trying to develop Iraq's oil. They had some relationships with Saddam Hussein. But they were also concerned about the principle that foreign countries should gang up on an autocratic country and essentially foment a change in regime.

When Obama comes into power in 2008, it's right after the conflict between Russia and Georgia. Relations are really not good, and most people expect Obama not to pay much attention to Russia. He's much more interested in Asia, in the Middle East, in Africa, so the "reset" was an attempt to say: We recognize the relations have been bad, but there are several areas of common interest that we can work on, including arms control, cooperation on defeating the Taliban in Afghanistan, and on the Iranian nuclear program. In those areas, there was a lot of progress made in the Obama administration. There was no great fundamental readjustment in relations between the US and Russia, which would be unlikely to occur under any circumstances given the basic conflicts of interest between Russia and the US, and the conflicts in values between the Putin administration and the Obama administration. On areas where there was some common interest, it was impressive for the first few years.

Watch a VICE News Tonight segment on the Trump-like rise of Marine Le Pen in France:

But things got worse?
Then a number of things really soured in the relationship—and this is where Hillary Clinton comes into play. There were anti-government demonstrations in Russia following a parliamentary election in December 2011, and many observers think there was a lot of electoral fraud. Shortly after the elections, Hillary Clinton made a statement saying—and I'm paraphrasing here—every citizen should have the right to have their vote counted and elections should be free and fair. Shortly thereafter, there were demonstrations in Moscow, the biggest demonstrations since the fall of the Soviet Union, and President Putin accused Hillary Clinton of fomenting this protest, in part because of her remarks about the election. Of course, she wasn't the only foreign leader to make these sorts of remarks, but the notion that this was being done in the service of the US State Department became a consistent theme for the Kremlin.

I'm curious about 2008–2012, the four years when Putin's protege Dmitry Medvedev was the president. Could you tell me about that?
President Putin was elected in 2000 in what many people regard as a relatively free and fair election for a relatively corrupt and middle-income country. He was reelected in 2004, to another four-year term. Then in 2008, he runs up against the term limits in the Russian constitution. He steps down and basically nominates Dmitry Medvedev to become the president. President Putin becomes the prime minister, the head of government, which is also a powerful position, but not as powerful as the president. There's a lot of speculation that the real power in Russia in this time was still Putin, and it complicated relations with the US a little bit in that US presidential representatives had to meet with the Russian presidential representatives according to protocol, even as Putin was more powerful behind the scenes.

So the move was made purely because of term limits?
It's an interesting question—they could've tried to rewrite the constitution, they could've done a number of things. There were some people who thought Putin was grooming Medvedev as his successor, and that had Putin been happier with Medvedev, and Medvedev would've been able to give him assurances that he would be protected after he stepped down from power, Putin might've given up. But that turned out not to be the case.

I recently interviewed Trump supporters about why they didn't believe or care about the Russia conflict. Most of them didn't understand Putin would want Trump to be president instead of Clinton.
There are two levels on which this works. The clear one is the policy level, where Hillary Clinton's policies toward Russia were rather on the hawkish end, and she was determined to stand up (in her mind) to Putin. She was much more willing to support, for example, the sending of defensive weapons to Ukraine, to help the Ukrainian army in the fighting in eastern Ukraine. She was much more willing to speak out on the domestic political situation in Russia. She was a staunch supporter of NATO, a staunch supporter of the sanctions [against Russia], and criticized Putin's annexation of Crimea.

"The personal history between Clinton and Putin is remarkably bad."

Donald Trump took completely opposite positions on all of these issues. He never talks about domestic policy within Russia, except to praise Putin. He argued that his administration would be willing to review the imposition of sanctions on Russia and said that NATO was obsolete. He said that his administration would be willing to review opposition to the annexation of Crimea.

The second layer is the personal history between Clinton and Putin is remarkably bad. It goes back to her time as secretary of state, her comments around the demonstration in December 2011. She was also in office when the Magnitsky Act was passed, which enacted sanctions on high-level Russian officials who were involved in the death of a Russian whistleblower. This was one of the very few times sanctions had been targeted against specific individuals. The Russians thought they were being singled out by this act. After the Russian annexation of Crimea, Hillary Clinton also said that this is something that Hitler would do, which is not a very solicitous thing to say, particularly given 20 million Russians died in World War II.

"I think a lot of people would like to have better relations with Russia, the question is just on what terms."

When Trump says that he can work with Russia, what would that even look like? What are the mutual goals the US shares with Russia?
There aren't really any easy issues Russia and the US can cooperate on—there's no low-hanging fruit. There's not much trade between the two countries. The political systems are incredibly different, so there's not a common set of values to rally around, which is another way countries build good relations. The basic problem is that there are areas where we can help Russia, such as lifting the sanctions and helping with the exploration of oil and natural gas in very challenging ecological environments, like the far north and the Arctic. In theory, there could be cooperation against terrorism in the Middle East, but neither side is willing to make any concessions to have a real joint effort. I think a lot of people would like to have better relations with Russia, the question is just on what terms. If there'd be a deescalation in fighting in Ukraine, I think it would be much easier to build better relations. That is a real sticking point.

What people are worried about with Mr. Trump is that he really wants to make a deal with Russia and he's not very concerned about what those terms may be. He's floated the idea of lifting economic sanctions on Russia in return for some vague promise to cooperate on terrorism, and most experts think that's not a very good deal. The sanctions were put in place to resolve the fighting in eastern Ukraine, and the situation in Crimea. To lift the sanctions without addressing those problems would not be a very good deal for the US.

So what about the 2016 election?
You know, I think Russia was surprised when Trump won. I think they had a preference for Trump winning, just because his policy positions were so compatible with theirs. According to the intelligence community, Russia was cooperating with WikiLeaks to ensure they only released emails from the Democratic side, not from the Republican side. That gives us some sense of what their preferences were. I think it's going to be difficult to show active collusion [between the Trump campaign and the Kremlin] because people who study this say that the Russian government often works with groups that they have very arms-length relations with. It's unlikely these groups have an easily verifiable link either to the Kremlin or to the Trump team. It could also be that they really wanted to see Trump in office, so they did these things without active collusion.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Follow Eve Peyser on Twitter.

The story behind the Sunwing pilot who was too drunk to fly on New Year's of 2016 became a little clearer Tuesday morning after he plead guilty to having care and control of an aircraft with a blood alcohol level over .08 (he was apparently three times over the legal limit).

Thanks to the proceedings, we now know the details of just how Miroslav Gronych got to that point.

According to an agreed statements of fact reported by the CBC, Gronych had polished off a 26er in his hotel room before he even made his way to the plane. When the man finally got into the cockpit of the Sunwing plane set to fly to Regina, his co-workers had already contacted his first officer about how he was stumbling about and slurring his words.

Read more: An Illustrated Guide to Sunwing Very Bad Month

Once inside the cockpit, it apparently took him 30 seconds to hang his coat—which is fine if you've just come home from, say, a St. Paddy's Day party but not when you're about to take control of an aircraft with 105 people in it. The foreign national, originally from Slovakia, was confronted by his first officer and was told he was in no state to be on the plane.

"OK, if that's what you feel," Gronych responded nonchalantly.

However, when the co-pilot was making a call to update his superiors on what had happened, Gronych returned and passed out in the pilot's chair, his face smushed up against the window. He was woken up and again ordered off the plane. This time Gronych finally complied and was promptly arrested once in the boarding area. Sunwing, for their part, told their passengers that the pilot was ill—the plane eventually took off an hour and a half after it was scheduled with a new pilot.

During the court case, Gronych said that he was planning on calling in sick for work but when he woke up he polished off his vodka, headed for the airport and cannot explain why. The Calgary Herald reported that the crown's lawyer is none too happy with Gronych.

"He put the lives of 105 people in jeopardy," Rose Greenwood told provincial court Judge Anne Brown. "This was a crime of dramatic proportion."

Even though Gronych plead guilty, the case is proving to be a little difficult for those involved, it is an exceedingly rare scenario and no one really knows what Gronych should get as a punishment. The prosecutor is asking for the judge to sentence Gronych to one year of prison time, while his defence lawyer is asking for a three to five month sentence.

Gronych's lawyer said that the man is an alcoholic and that he is actively seeking treatment for the condition.

Lead illustration by Adam Waito.

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