Paul Thomas Anderson and Thomas Pynchon Steal Spotlight at Scripter Awards

Olivia Bennett, 1/26/2026The USC Libraries Scripter Awards celebrated the intersection of literature and film, with Paul Thomas Anderson's adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's work taking center stage. The night highlighted notable achievements in adaptation, honoring both established and emerging voices in storytelling across media.

There’s a familiar joke in this town: everyone’s got a script tucked away, somewhere between their kombucha starter and their Pilates mat. But the Scripters, unlike so many oxygen-starved pitch-fests, carry a kind of reverent mischief—a night when both novelist and screenwriter get their due, hardware gleaming, egos temporarily satisfied. Maybe it’s one part love letter to stories, another part intellectual duel with tuxedos for armor.

On the cinematic front, Paul Thomas Anderson’s creative waltz with Thomas Pynchon stole the show. “One Battle After Another,” adapted from Pynchon’s labyrinthine 1990 novel, sliced through the competition with all the casual power of a couture-clad A-lister making a late entrance—or was it more like the ghost of Joan Didion quietly slipping through the press line, smiling mysteriously? Anderson, not one for fussy acceptance speeches, offered a brief video missive—he claims to have been chained to his desk by a demanding script. If anything, his absence signaled the ongoing war between creating art and collecting accolades. The work always wins; applause is merely an interruption.

Longtime observers of the Scripter game might’ve registered a little déjà vu here. Anderson and Pynchon were contenders back in 2014 with the gloriously daft “Inherent Vice.” This time around, their collaboration sailed past contenders like yet another reinvention of Frankenstein (admire the persistence), the spectral echoes of “Hamnet” (which, if you listen closely, is just Shakespeare muttering under his breath), “Peter Hujar’s Day” (capturing the art world’s melancholy), and “Train Dreams” (where Cormac McCarthy would’ve tipped his Stetson in approval, had he been the type for public sentiment).

Television, ever the equal in this modern streaming age, gave its own minor spectacle. The gold went to Mike Makowsky and Candice Millard for “Death by Lightning,” a Netflix miniseries excavated from Millard’s unexpectedly gripping “Destiny of the Republic.” Picture this: a U.S. president’s tragic end, transformed from a dusty footnote to a living, breathing drama complete with Michael Shannon’s haunted leader and Matthew Macfadyen’s assassin on the brink. Makowsky credited the universe—and Barnes & Noble bargain bins—for a serendipitous book find. It’s a reminder that in 2025, with its carefully curated algorithmic recommendations and endless sequels, fate still favors the random browser.

The Scripters rarely stop at mere trophies. Legendary status beckons, and this year, it called for crime novelist Michael Connelly. The man responsible for “Bosch” and “The Lincoln Lawyer” received the literary achievement nod, ushered to the stage by Titus Welliver draped impeccably in Tom Ford. If Amazon’s endless detective marathons ever needed gravitas, Welliver certainly delivered it—slow and smoldering, like a noir monologue at midnight.

Yet behind every toast and carefully rehearsed thank-you lurked a subtler story. Howard Rodman, presiding over his final selection committee, took a moment to meditate on libraries and the written word. “Libraries are where I spent my childhood, my youth, my young adulthood…” he began, his words soothing the literary crowd like a familiar refrain. In a time when stories are sliced and streamed at breakneck speed, the event stood as a small act of rebellion—a lavish, highly caffeinated rebuttal to those who say Hollywood’s out of original ideas, that all that’s left are the bones of intellectual property, picked clean.

Best not to ignore the undercurrent of nostalgia—there’s always a ghost at these gatherings, whether it’s Fitzgerald’s wistful longing or Chandler’s hard edge. The Scripters keep their eye on the Oscar race, too; insiders know last year’s “Conclave” rode its Scripter win all the way to Oscar glory. Gossip flutters, but at the heart, there’s this: for a single night, the act of adaptation feels almost holy, the line from book to screen lit softly, as if by candlelight rather than klieg light.

Some might say it’s wishful thinking, that a handful of writers in formalwear can stem the streaming tide. But as the evening faded into California’s velvet dark, programs and statuettes tucked away, it was almost possible to catch a whisper—a nod from Didion or Chandler, perhaps—that in this strange, brilliant city, it’s the stories that illuminate the stars, and never just the other way around.

If there’s a single night in Los Angeles when literature dusts off its finest gown and steps—heels first—onto the same stage as Hollywood’s brightest, it must be the USC Libraries Scripter Awards. Held beneath the golden glow of Town & Gown’s chandeliers, this year’s 38th ceremony shimmered with a peculiar mix of well-honed intellect and glamor, the kind that only happens when academia decides to flirt with the film industry and the result is far more than an awkward prom date.There’s a familiar joke in this town: everyone’s got a script tucked away, somewhere between their kombucha starter and their Pilates mat. But the Scripters, unlike so many oxygen-starved pitch-fests, carry a kind of reverent mischief—a night when both novelist and screenwriter get their due, hardware gleaming, egos temporarily satisfied. Maybe it’s one part love letter to stories, another part intellectual duel with tuxedos for armor.On the cinematic front, Paul Thomas Anderson’s creative waltz with Thomas Pynchon stole the show. “One Battle After Another,” adapted from Pynchon’s labyrinthine 1990 novel, sliced through the competition with all the casual power of a couture-clad A-lister making a late entrance—or was it more like the ghost of Joan Didion quietly slipping through the press line, smiling mysteriously? Anderson, not one for fussy acceptance speeches, offered a brief video missive—he claims to have been chained to his desk by a demanding script. If anything, his absence signaled the ongoing war between creating art and collecting accolades. The work always wins; applause is merely an interruption.Longtime observers of the Scripter game might’ve registered a little déjà vu here. Anderson and Pynchon were contenders back in 2014 with the gloriously daft “Inherent Vice.” This time around, their collaboration sailed past contenders like yet another reinvention of Frankenstein (admire the persistence), the spectral echoes of “Hamnet” (which, if you listen closely, is just Shakespeare muttering under his breath), “Peter Hujar’s Day” (capturing the art world’s melancholy), and “Train Dreams” (where Cormac McCarthy would’ve tipped his Stetson in approval, had he been the type for public sentiment).Television, ever the equal in this modern streaming age, gave its own minor spectacle. The gold went to Mike Makowsky and Candice Millard for “Death by Lightning,” a Netflix miniseries excavated from Millard’s unexpectedly gripping “Destiny of the Republic.” Picture this: a U.S. president’s tragic end, transformed from a dusty footnote to a living, breathing drama complete with Michael Shannon’s haunted leader and Matthew Macfadyen’s assassin on the brink. Makowsky credited the universe—and Barnes & Noble bargain bins—for a serendipitous book find. It’s a reminder that in 2025, with its carefully curated algorithmic recommendations and endless sequels, fate still favors the random browser.The Scripters rarely stop at mere trophies. Legendary status beckons, and this year, it called for crime novelist Michael Connelly. The man responsible for “Bosch” and “The Lincoln Lawyer” received the literary achievement nod, ushered to the stage by Titus Welliver draped impeccably in Tom Ford. If Amazon’s endless detective marathons ever needed gravitas, Welliver certainly delivered it—slow and smoldering, like a noir monologue at midnight.Yet behind every toast and carefully rehearsed thank-you lurked a subtler story. Howard Rodman, presiding over his final selection committee, took a moment to meditate on libraries and the written word. “Libraries are where I spent my childhood, my youth, my young adulthood…” he began, his words soothing the literary crowd like a familiar refrain. In a time when stories are sliced and streamed at breakneck speed, the event stood as a small act of rebellion—a lavish, highly caffeinated rebuttal to those who say Hollywood’s out of original ideas, that all that’s left are the bones of intellectual property, picked clean.Best not to ignore the undercurrent of nostalgia—there’s always a ghost at these gatherings, whether it’s Fitzgerald’s wistful longing or Chandler’s hard edge. The Scripters keep their eye on the Oscar race, too; insiders know last year’s “Conclave” rode its Scripter win all the way to Oscar glory. Gossip flutters, but at the heart, there’s this: for a single night, the act of adaptation feels almost holy, the line from book to screen lit softly, as if by candlelight rather than klieg light.Some might say it’s wishful thinking, that a handful of writers in formalwear can stem the streaming tide. But as the evening faded into California’s velvet dark, programs and statuettes tucked away, it was almost possible to catch a whisper—a nod from Didion or Chandler, perhaps—that in this strange, brilliant city, it’s the stories that illuminate the stars, and never just the other way around.