PR in the Philippines

Over the last ten years, public opinion has notably shifted regarding institutions and traditional authorities. The media sector is a prime example. While our industry has faced challenges, others have experienced greater visibility and impact. Fueled by evolving consumer habits that accelerated during the pandemic, digital creators – entrepreneurial individuals who've established businesses through substantial online audiences – have risen to influence our culture. They are reshaping our viewing habits, leisure activities, purchasing decisions, and voting behavior. We recently broadened the TIME100, our community of impactful figures, to include those shaping the future across various fields. Today, we introduce the inaugural , acknowledging the significant impact these individuals have on how people access information. The evidence of this growth is widespread. In 2024, internet users spent nearly 2.5 hours daily on social media, often engaging with individuals featured on . These creators are part of a global community of 67 million content creators, driving a multi-billion-dollar industry where social media creator revenue is growing five times faster than traditional media revenue. Recognizing these changes doesn't require industry expertise. Simply ask a 16-year-old when they last watched television, and then inquire about . This 23-year-old streamer, with 18 million followers on Amazon's Twitch, exemplifies how creators build strong connections with millions, particularly young people. (In our digital world, many can easily remain unaware of such figures.) As we often say, influence takes many forms, for better or worse. While anyone can make a misstep, creators face heightened risk due to their constant communication. Many on our list must react to news, and criticism arises when their opinions clash with audience expectations. Some are divisive, others are well-liked – at least until they inevitably say something that offends their followers or those who don't follow them. They are aware of this pressure. "Something I'm noticing within myself, that I just discovered, is I have anxiety," Cenat confessed to Andrew R. Chow in our new cover story. "I'm always worrying, 'Oh God, what if things don't go right?' I'm scared, I'm scared, I'm scared." This comes from someone widely considered a top creator. Cenat is among individuals from 15 countries featured in the 2025 TIME100 Creators. They earn a living and connect with billions on platforms like YouTube, Twitch, and TikTok, where especially Gen Z spends considerable time. We also considered leaders on platforms like Instagram, X, LinkedIn, Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and Substack, which attract different demographics. Our primary focus was on English-language creators who built their careers organically through these digital platforms, rather than transitioning from traditional media like television or journalism. Led by Lucy Feldman, our correspondents, editors, and contributors consulted sources globally. We also collaborated with our data and insights partner #paid, a creator marketplace, to analyze the reach, engagement, and businesses these creators have developed. To introduce the inaugural list, we brought together nine creators – , , , , , , , , and — at a New York City studio earlier this summer to create videos for TIME. "We gained a deeper understanding of their thought processes," Feldman noted. "They demonstrated what it takes to stand out." Data and insights powered by #paid ```

For over two decades, a unit of Mexican police officers has quietly operated along the northern border, tasked with locating and deporting foreign fugitives who cross into Mexico to avoid criminal charges in their home countries. Informally known as The Gringo Hunters, this team works out of Tijuana and specializes in finding and removing these escapees—primarily Americans—who enter Mexico hoping to elude the U.S. legal system. Officially, they are designated the International Liaison Unit of the Baja California State Police. Their real-world activities provided the inspiration for Netflix’s new series The Gringo Hunters (Los Gringo Hunters), premiering July 9. The drama is based on a 2022 Washington Post article that offered a rare look into how the unit tracks, arrests, and deports fugitives with speed and discretion. Below is all the key information about the actual "Gringo Hunters" behind the Netflix series. A Unit Largely Unknown Outside Mexico Since its formation in 2002, the unit has deported more than 1,600 fugitives—mostly American men wanted for serious offenses such as homicide, kidnapping, sexual assaults, and drug trafficking. They average approximately 13 arrests each month. Among those apprehended are individuals on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, serial killers, and billionaires accused of securities fraud. The Gringo Hunters operate in civilian attire, drive unmarked vehicles, and depend on intelligence from U.S. agencies like the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, and the U.S. Marshals. They are trained in both Mexican and U.S. legal systems and focus exclusively on high-profile cases. Part of their training involves observing people who stand out in Mexican communities—an essential skill when tracking suspects who often attempt to blend in. For instance, fugitives frequently wear more shorts and flip-flops than locals and speak little Spanish. Officers also watch for erratic behavior and physical characteristics such as tattoos or scars documented in U.S. criminal databases. Instead of undergoing lengthy extradition procedures, the unit utilizes immigration violations to swiftly deport suspects. Most arrests are completed within hours. Since U.S. agents cannot operate independently in Mexico, they rely on Mexican police to carry out arrests. This method is not formal extradition, which requires a court process. Technically, fugitives are deported for breaking Mexican immigration laws. The Case That Brought the Unit to Public Attention Until 2022, the unit was largely unfamiliar outside law enforcement circles. That changed when Washington Post international investigative correspondent Kevin Sieff embedded with the team as they prepared to apprehend Damion Salinas, a 21-year-old American accused of murder in California. Sieff’s report details how officers tracked Salinas in Ensenada, confirmed his identity, and coordinated with U.S. Marshals. The arrest occurred by the roadside and concluded within seconds. Salinas was deported almost immediately. The article offered a rare glimpse into the unit’s daily tactics and discreet operational style. Officers spend hours conducting surveillance in neighborhoods where fugitives are believed to be hiding. They travel in unmarked vehicles and avoid wearing uniforms to reduce the risk of alerting suspects. Subtly Reshaping the Border Narrative The unit’s nickname emerged informally among locals as a shorthand for their mission: finding and detaining foreign fugitives who believe crossing into Mexico places them beyond the reach of justice. While the team does not officially embrace the name, it reflects a reversal of the traditional border narrative. Instead of Mexicans fleeing north, Americans are concealing themselves south of the border, and are being pursued by Mexican law enforcement. Although Netflix’s The Gringo Hunters dramatizes their story, the actual officers perform their duties quietly and effectively. They arrest fugitives and swiftly return them to face justice, often without public attention or fanfare. Their work demands patience, precision, and close coordination with U.S. law enforcement.

I learned about the new Netflix documentary Shark Whisperer when my social media blew up with notifications. People tagged me in posts accusing me of being anti-shark and anti-environment. I was confused until I saw the film. I was portrayed as the bad guy. I was Chair of Hawaii’s House Committee on Ocean, Marine Resources and Hawaiian Affairs, the committee featured in the documentary for holding hearings on shark protection legislation. The film leaves out that I was one of the earliest and strongest supporters of banning shark fishing. I called for a hearing when others were hesitant. I moved the bill to a vote despite resistance from House leadership. I worked hard to get the support needed to pass it. But in the documentary, Native Hawaiians like me—lawmakers, kūpuna (elders), and local researchers—are reduced to obstacles. We are either superficially included or demonized, while a single outsider (social media activist Ocean Ramsey) is presented as the story’s hero. This is more than a misrepresentation. It points to a larger problem in how mainstream documentaries frame their stories: who is the subject, and who is the object? Whose knowledge is valued, and whose is ignored. I grew up freediving off Maui, spearfishing for fish and heʻe (octopus), and regularly encountering manō (sharks). These were not just thrilling stunts; they were sacred experiences. In our tradition, the shark is not something to be made into a human or used for profit. It is our aumākua, a family guardian. We don’t chase them, name them, or treat them as pets. We show respect. We let the manō approach us. Later, as a young lawmaker representing my community, I saw how depleted our waters had become. Fish populations were decreasing, coral was dying, and ocean commercialization was pushing native species to the brink. I didn’t advocate for shark protection because it was easy; it wasn’t. Many commercial fishermen opposed it. Colleagues warned me against it. But I proceeded because the ocean raised me. I owed it that much. Shark Whisperer claims to celebrate marine life, but it often confuses reverence with control. It turns wild, sacred beings into characters in a human-centered narrative, mistaking closeness for connection. But in our culture, true respect often means maintaining a sacred distance. Not everything powerful needs to be controlled. Every creature has its own essence and role in the ecosystem, whether or not it mirrors us. To honor them is to release the need to dominate or display, and simply allow them to be. That’s what makes the film’s focus on Ramsey so concerning. Not only does it elevate her as the sole protector of Hawaii’s sharks, but it also blurs the line between advocacy and exploitation. In a recent Instagram post, Ramsey mentioned the honor of receiving ʻuhi, a sacred tattoo ceremony traditionally reserved for Native Hawaiians. She called it a “symbol of her kuleana and heritage,” claiming a cultural connection that she doesn’t have. Furthermore, her academic background is unclear. Her origins are often vague. What is clear is that she lacks the trust of the local community. Many advocates believe her involvement actually slowed the passage of the shark protection law. Her presence cast doubt on the broader coalition's credibility. And some supporters were hesitant to participate, worried their advocacy would be associated with what many saw as her disrespect towards Native Hawaiians and local fishers. And now, with a bigger platform, her example may be copied. And if others imitate her methods, our voices, rooted in generations of lived experience and cultural knowledge, may be drowned out. The truth is, Kānaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) ocean protectors have been doing this work for generations. They’ve done it with fewer followers, without sponsorships or stunts, and without turning our aumākua into content or cash. Our true Kahu Manō (shark whisperers) may never get a documentary deal or millions of views, but they possess the knowledge that sustains life in our waters and our communities. They are who we turn to. They are who we trust. Netflix had the chance to highlight their voices. Instead, it followed a familiar pattern. In The White Helmets, Western filmmakers created a humanitarian story in Syria that largely ignored local organizing and failed to contextualize the complex geopolitical forces at play. In The Rescue, Thai cave divers were highlighted over the Indigenous local volunteers who led much of the initial effort. And in The Ivory Game, African anti-poaching leaders were overshadowed by European conservationists with camera crews and sponsorships. These films may have had good intentions, but they reflect a pattern: the white outsider as savior, the local or Indigenous people as backdrop or obstacle. This kind of framing doesn’t just distort the truth; it disempowers communities. It reinforces a system in which those closest to the problem are furthest from the platform, and those furthest from the culture are given the microphone. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Good allyship starts with humility. It means showing up in solidarity, not for recognition. It means knowing when to speak, and when to step back and amplify those with lived experience and ancestral ties—especially when the work involves sacred beings, sacred practices, and sacred places. We’re not asking to be centered in every story. We’re asking not to be erased from our own. We are not the villain. And neither is the manō. ```

The relationship between Hollywood and the AI sector is tense. Many filmmakers and industry professionals are wary of AI's use in filmmaking, fearing it will replace human creativity. Disney and Universal sued AI company Midjourney for copyright infringement in June. Despite this, several AI companies are trying to make inroads in Hollywood. On Tuesday, Moonvalley, a startup, made a significant move by releasing a fully-licensed, professional-grade video model to the public. Moonvalley, founded by DeepMind engineers, has strong ties to the film industry. It owns AI film studio Asteria Film Co., founded this year by filmmaker and actress Natasha Lyonne and her boyfriend Bryn Mooser. Asteria has advised Moonvalley on developing its AI model, Marey, now available to filmmakers through subscriptions costing $14.99, $34.99, and $149.99 monthly. Marey could become AI's main point of entry into Hollywood. It's developed with filmmaker approval and trained on licensed data, potentially helping studios avoid the ethical issues and copyright lawsuits plaguing the AI industry. "We must ensure we're building these tools correctly: with the filmmaker and artist at the center, not automating their job away," Moonvalley’s CEO and co-founder, Naeem Talukdar, told TIME. Moonvalley has secured funding from investors like Khosla Ventures and Bessemer Venture Partners. Asteria is using Marey for a new documentary about Carl Sagan, restoring and tweaking footage. Talukdar also states that Marey is in pilot programs at over a dozen "large studios," as well as with major advertising firms. Many AI video models are black boxes: you enter a prompt, and they generate an entire scene. Tweaking one variable can alter others, making it difficult to control everything filmed. Moonvalley aims to create tools that integrate into filmmaking, like CGI and special effects programs in the past. Marey lets filmmakers input storyboards or frames and tweak them, theoretically giving them more control over details like objects, characters, motion, and scene composition. "It’s an iterative process where you start with input guidance and build towards the desired scene, similar to VFX workflows today," Talukdar says. "Even small independent studios without massive infrastructure can create and curate scenes granularly." Talukdar demonstrated Marey, showing video of an actress in a studio turning her head and drawing a gun from under her scarf. He then used the model to create a scene of an AI-generated woman on a train, moving like the actress. He shifted the camera view and added mountains outside the train window. Each generated scene costs creators about $1 to $2 to render, comparable to other AI video generators and cheaper than reshooting footage. The model is trained on footage licensed from IP owners. About 80% comes from independent filmmakers and agencies with B-roll footage. This means Marey is trained on about one-fifth the data of competitors like Google’s Veo 3, according to Talukdar. However, he claims Moonvalley compensates with superior technology created by alumni from Deepmind, Meta, and other leading labs. "If we scraped data, our model would undoubtedly be more powerful," he says. "But we believe you don't need to be the best; you just need to be among the best. This is the first generative, fully-licensed model where you don't have to sacrifice quality." Many Hollywood filmmakers view AI as contrary to their creative process. This tension was a major factor during the Hollywood strikes, with concerns about job losses through automation. Talukdar argues AI tools will create new jobs and allow studios to stretch budgets, not cut them. "There's the idea that you can make a movie for $5 million instead of $50 million, which is partly true," he says. "But studios are thinking that for the same $50 million and 100 people, they can do what would have cost $100 million before. It'll be the same number of people, doing more and better content." Marey’s supporters in the film industry include Ángel Manuel Soto, director of "Blue Beetle" and other films. "I feel like Moonvalley and Asteria heard artists’ concerns about ethical AI, and what they created with Marey is a breakthrough," he wrote in an email to TIME. "From streamlining studio workflows to empowering emerging creators in places like Puerto Rico and Dakar, Marey is the first generative AI that actually gets what we need: a way to move fast, responsibly do more with less, and still protect the people who make this industry human." But many filmmakers are skeptical, fearing a bait-and-switch. "Looking at the larger applications, companies and studios never want to empower artists to make cooler stuff for the same money," Raphael Bob-Waksberg, creator and showrunner of BoJack Horseman, said. "They want to make things cheaper, cut artists out, pay people less, and use these technologies in a way that doesn't improve the work." ```

For the residents of Haren, September 21st holds a unique significance, unrelated to Earth, Wind & Fire. Almost 13 years ago, the town gained international attention when thousands flocked to celebrate a 16-year-old's birthday after the party invitation went viral online. The event descended into chaos, with riots causing injuries to at least 36 individuals and leading to numerous arrests. Netflix's Trainwreck: The Real Project X, premiering July 8, delves into the circumstances surrounding the infamous party as part of its series exploring significant disasters. The documentary features an interview from Merthe Marije Weusthuis, the birthday girl, who is speaking publicly about the event for the first time in 12 years, as well as with individuals who filmed the happenings and local government officials who attempted to control the escalating situation. "Now 28, I've decided to share my story after all these years," Weusthuis announced on Instagram alongside a trailer for the documentary. "Despite anticipating renewed scrutiny and opinions, I'll at least have the chance to tell my story in my own words." Here's how the party invitation spread like wildfire. A public Facebook event Weusthuis created a public Facebook event for her 16th birthday and invited 78 people. As invitees shared it with their friends, it quickly went viral. When 17,000 people RSVP'd, she deleted the event. However, an 18-year-old named Jorik Clarck created a copycat event, presenting it as a surprise birthday party for Weusthuis. It included references to the 2012 film Project X, which depicts a high school party spiraling out of control. "I made her Facebook famous," Jorik claims in the documentary. A mutual friend provided Weusthuis with Jorik's number. Her father contacted Jorik and pleaded with him to remove the event, citing concerns for his family's safety due to people trespassing and photographing their home. Jorik, concerned for Weusthuis's safety, deleted his event. Subsequently, another copycat event emerged. When Weusthuis contacted the administrators, requesting them to remove the event, they ignored her plea. As it became apparent that the party was going to happen regardless, local officials began strategizing ways to manage the situation. Chris Garrit, who oversaw Groningen's nightlife, told TIME that he suggested designating a space outside Haren for the party, complete with music and a stage, but Haren’s mayor rejected the idea, wanting to simply announce that the party was cancelled. Weusthuis tells Netflix she worried the partygoers would burn her house down, like in the movie *Project X*. The day of the party By September 21st, approximately 350,000 people had RSVP'd to the event. Weusthuis sought refuge at her aunt's home outside of Haren. The documentary contains extensive footage of the unruly crowd chanting "Where's the party? The party is here!" and playing music on boomboxes in the street. Police were on high alert and began closing streets near the house. A riot ensued. Some footage shows officers using batons on unruly individuals. People broke car windows and engaged in shoplifting. In the film, a journalist who covered the event recounts returning to his car to find footprints on the windshield, a smashed window, and a brick on the passenger seat. "I've kept the brick as a souvenir," he says. The mayor of Haren, Rob Bats, faced criticism for his handling of the situation and ultimately resigned. Why so many people wanted to go to a stranger’s party At a time when socializing was heavily reliant on social media, people seemed excited about the prospect of gathering in person. Project X, released in March 2012, resonated with and inspired teenagers. It inspired other real-life out-of-control parties, including a 2012 rave in Houston, Texas, that resulted in a fatality, and a 2014 party in Canadian Lakes, Michigan, that led to several hospitalizations. Weusthuis believes that the desire to attend the party stems from a basic human instinct. She understands that many teenagers eagerly anticipate the opportunity to legally drink and attend parties. "I don't believe that most attendees intended to riot or commit crimes," Weusthuis states in the documentary. "I think many people came because they wanted a party. I think it's natural for teenagers to want to rebel, embrace their freedom, and express themselves." The movie concludes with her saying, "I definitely would have gone if it wasn't my party." ```

A peaceful Monday morning in a Los Angeles area recognized as a center for immigrants was interrupted by an unexpected display of power from U.S. immigration and military personnel. Footage of the July 7 event depicted armed federal agents converging on MacArthur Park in Los Angeles’ Westlake district. A portion arrived on horseback, while others utilized armored military vehicles. Federal officials have not clarified the purpose of the operation. However, local authorities suspect its intention was to instill dread as part of an ongoing effort to pressure the “sanctuary city” that has resisted President Donald Trump’s immigration policies. Los Angeles City Mayor Karen Bass issued an appeal for these operations to cease. During a news conference later that day, Mayor Bass confirmed that no individuals had been apprehended. She accused the Trump Administration of “escalating disorder” and sustaining a “full-scale attack” on Los Angeles. “You may interpret it however you wish,” she stated, “but I view it as a political strategy designed to incite fear and terror.” California Gov. Gavin Newsom, who has overtly criticized the Trump Administration’s immigration enforcement activities and the state’s excessive militarization, declared at a press briefing that the events unfolding in MacArthur Park constituted a “disgrace.” In an interview with a local Fox News affiliate, Border Patrol El Centro Sector Chief Gregory Bovino asserted that “the federal government is not departing L.A.” and that the city “should grow accustomed to” their presence, predicting that “this will become standard very soon.” National Guard remains deployed Approximately 90 California National Guard personnel were dispatched to the Westlake neighborhood park, yet they found a largely deserted area due to prior notification of the raid, as reported by the Los Angeles Times. Trump had federalized 4,000 National Guard members and other federal agents in response to demonstrations opposing Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids. Newsom and Bass have criticized Trump’s deployment of military personnel for law enforcement roles in the city, but the Administration has maintained that the deployment was crucial for aiding ICE officials in conducting operations. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth, however, has since recalled some of these troops to help with the state’s efforts to combat wildfires. ICE operations instill fear in immigrant communities ICE operations have persisted in the city, even through the Fourth of July holiday. Officers apprehended an individual at a car wash in West Hollywood, an act the city condemned in a statement, asserting: “On a day intended to celebrate the principles of liberty, democracy, and liberation from oppression, we instead face a profoundly disturbing demonstration of federal encroachment. Independence Day ought to be a period for contemplation and respect, not apprehension and persecution.” The Los Angeles Times reported that some workers have vanished—adversely affecting employment and output at a time when the city’s economic performance is already pressured. Reuters also reported that farms have lost their immigrant laborers amidst the increased enforcement, resulting in unharvested crops vulnerable to spoilage.  Legal challenges persist Two lawsuits have recently been initiated contesting immigration enforcement efforts in Los Angeles. Five individuals and three organizations filed a lawsuit against the Department of Homeland Security in federal court on July 1, asserting that the department unlawfully apprehended and held individuals to fulfill arbitrary “arrest quotas.” The legal action further contended that the raids specifically targeted people based on “their skin color and occupation” and claimed that detained individuals are confined in “dungeon-like” facilities, frequently for several days. DHS spokesperson Tricia McLaughlin dismissed the assertions in the complaint as “garbage” and disputed the alleged substandard conditions in those detention centers. Meanwhile, a U.S. citizen who was apprehended and held while documenting ICE raids is seeking $1 million in compensation from the federal government. McLaughlin, in remarks to NBC News, stated that the individual had assaulted and verbally harassed a federal agent, resulting in his apprehension. A lawsuit Newsom initiated against Trump concerning the President’s deployment of the National Guard also continues.