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That “slight future” is, astonishingly, here. After all, AI-powered chatbots actually are a real thing now, and people are falling in love with them. It’s remarkable that the 2013 Spike Jonze sci-fi romance about a lonely mustachioed man, played by Joaquin Phoenix, talking to a robot in an earbud proved to be so prescient.

Still, much of our AI-dominated future is still taking shape.

Even in its most rudimentary iterations, the technology has caused us to question our grip on reality. One of the first moments that AI broke through as a cultural force was when a fake image of Pope Francis wearing a white puffy Balenciaga coat fooled the entire internet a couple of years ago (if only because it avoided the common AI mistake of six-fingered hands). On the darker end of the spectrum, nonconsensual deepfake porn created using AI has become nearly impossible to keep offline, prompting new legislation to be enacted banning the practice. As people turn to AI for companionship, just like Phoenix’s character did in Her, some of them are losing touch with reality, becoming delusional, and in one case, an AI chatbot has been linked to a teen’s suicide. These developments inevitably seem to signal that a more seismic shift is on the way.

AI will certainly shape the culture of the next 25 years, but its biggest transformations to our world still remain to be seen.

How will all of that play out? Well, that’s the thing about the future: We won’t know until it’s barrelling down on us. In cultural terms, that could mean we’re watching movies that are all at least partially AI-generated, hanging out with AI friends online, and listening to AI-generated music more than human bands.

It would be incorrect to say that the rise of AI is so far inconsequential. At the very least, it’s minted a few billionaires. But to declare it one of the most transformational cultural happenings of this past quarter-century would be a bit premature. After all, it could take years for us to comprehend exactly how the technology has reshaped who we are — if that even proves to be true. Maybe artificially intelligent software will create an entire movie 10 years from now, and we’ll look back at human actors and laugh. Or maybe we’ll keep looking back at Joaquin Phoenix in Her, wondering when we’ll finally stop being lonely.

This is Sudan Archives’ allow-me-to-reintroduce myself era, a reappraisal after drastic personal overhaul, one that refuses to exploit upheaval for material. Sudan, whose birth name is Brittney Denise Parks, is one of the rare souls who remains real in the spotlight and behind the curtain, disarmingly authentic. Her resultant style, of both dress and music, is edging and transcendent, aloft and full of momentum. She is currently basking in a post-breakup glow mingled with the anchor that is her commitment to honest self-expression.

It’s surprising in the way it’s sometimes unexpected for an artist to return to herself at the exact moment she could have strayed into the wrong kind of reinvention, the wrong climb, for the wrong reasons — careerism, opportunism, fear of her own idiosyncrasies. Instead, Sudan has refined her innate originality in her forthcoming album “The BPM,” which was recorded mostly in Detroit and sounds as carefree and earnest as the new way of life she’s cultivating.

Sudan Archives’ jacket and assorted accessories from thrift stores, Santee Alley and ENIS ARCHIVES.

Sudan’s reinvention, in both her life and art, has found its depth in minimalism. She’s just moved into an open-concept loft with violins mounted on the main wall like tribal masks. A spiral staircase separating the living room from the kitchen leads up to the bedroom, arranged how a set designer might install a backstage for a performer in a show or documentary, just extravagant enough to indicate you’re in the territory of fantasy-building and an artist’s practical magic. Clothing and jewelry are the artwork upstairs; the way the instruments and recording equipment adorn the bottom floor with purpose and function, chic without trying too hard, is elevated without any air of elitism. The entire space is autobiographical and intimate in a way that would make the wrong visitor feel like an intruder and the wrong inhabitant an impostor. It is a real home.

Part of rebirth is the bittersweet mastery of warding off misaligned energy. After ending a years-long relationship with a man she might have married, and selling the home she’d shared with him, Sudan moved into a space that gets so much Los Angeles sunlight it makes it impossible for a tenant to hide from herself. Neither grief nor the sublime can be avoided when everything around you is yours. And you can sense her higher level of accountability and drive. The space demands this focus, it has its own diva-ism — fierce, vibrant, vulnerable in an almost confrontational way, and just as subdued when the curtains are drawn. These rooms sing with Californian lyricism, that casual L.A. bliss that the rest of the word criticizes, envies, misunderstands. An organic kale salad, the faint scent of sativa from days before, the blond best-friend puppies gallivanting as the light turns them golden before they all finally sit together on the anti-inflammatory PEMF mat that is supposed to calm the nervous system and recalibrate the blood. A modest slice of paradise, earned.

The first single on Sudan’s upcoming album, dropping this October, is called “Dead.” The looping refrain “hello, it’s me” haunts and hums scantily and seductively behind a manic pulsing beat and harrowing strings, until the final movement in the song punches rapid-fire as if knocking out an opponent with self-revelation. All of this is accomplished with a staggering of tones, an ecstatic beat backed by subtle melancholy that becomes a resolve in the song, though the single resists that facile air of having something to prove that makes many I’m back anthems mediocre. A hit, homegrown and singular yet universal.

Sudan, wearing her own tour merch top, in her new home.

When I arrive at Sudan’s new place for this interview and photo shoot, having heard the vision months earlier while sitting in her old house after a party, my heart applauds. Her team is there with wardrobe options for the video shoot for her next single. The summer solstice week heat is oppressive but the mood convivial in a West Coast casual way, with everyone acting like close friends and aloof strangers at the same time, as is habit in Los Angeles social life. Having tried on several statement pieces ahead of our arrival, Sudan is back in her streetwear, some baggy Adidas-esque track pants and a white tank with the word “dead” written on it in sardonic all-caps and kitten-heeled sandals, large-framed glasses, her dog dotingly in and out of her lap. We discuss the merits of living alone, and how it changes and expands the aura, but demands resilience and that you become your own best friend.

The new album shifts from the devotional undertones on her previous release, “Natural Brown Prom Queen” (2022), to openhearted lust and yearning for a good time, a reinstating of latent passions that were tempered by sentimentality and fidelity before. In a very literary sense, the opening track on the 2022 album is called “Home Maker,” and the singer declares herself one, and we feel invited into a tradition we’re all supposed to recognize: domestic life, wanting to be both kept and free. Whereas each track on “The BPM” is more emancipatory than the one that precedes it; home means something new, a deliberate renovation of received ideas of how to make a house a home. With “Dead” as portal, we enter a carefree, semi-disembodied afterlife on the dancefloor where not much matters but the beat and the matter-of-fact vocal jolting it into place. There’s a Kafka-esque moment about an anthropomorphized insect in the center of the album’s plot, and the final track promises ascension, Heaven even, the many mansions of a spiritual home.

A Jordan Piantedosi outfit in Sudan’s closet. The artist recently narrowed down her clothes to statement pieces only she can pull off.

Sudan holding her Studio Cult bag.

An assortment of accessories from thrift stores, Santee Alley and ENIS.

Sudan wears her Rick Owens boots.

The photographer Sam Lee and Sudan Archives in the artist’s home.

As is common with a life reset, Sudan explains that she has also reset her closet, getting rid of things, narrowing down her clothes to statement pieces only she can pull off: retro faux fur, dreamy blunted-magenta puff coats, billowing maxi skirts as editorial as they are casual. Though her current evolution is not so much about the clothing as a new frequency, one that channels sovereignty and breakthrough while remaining modest and inviting. You feel this in her new music. At the beginning of a clear rebirth she exudes a relaxed urgency, the kind that arrives when you want to make up for time spent in the limbo of a romantic love that alters and enriches you but cannot last forever; you want to make it last a little longer, just to be sure. Then it’s over.

Each stunning string instrument leaning against the stark white wall is a tally and talking book, marking the value of a period of relative solitude and reflection. The creative mind loosens, there’s no judging or lurking audience, no one to argue or negotiate with, no one to become but the next iteration of herself, exposed and haloed by light in these enjambed rooms of her own. Every woman needs to live entirely alone for at least a little while, especially if she is an artist, in order to meet herself before giving parts of that identity away to accommodate another. It’s a luxury, a quantum leap, one that can save your imagination from a propensity to meek fatalism or received social patterns. You cannot make original work while trying too hard to fit in anywhere for any reason.

Vitaly chain and custom motherboard pendant by Justus Steele, made for Sudan Archives’ music video.

Sudan wears Jean Paul Gaultier top and Anna Bolina skirt for her forthcoming single on the album “The BPM.”

In Sudan’s case, she has outsmarted the risk of succumbing to tradition, and the freedom has raised and mellowed all stakes. One day she might be in costume for a shoot, wearing brutalist platforms and corsets and a face full of exaggerated glam, the next her braids might make the otherwise-understated outfit pop and swoon, another still, a tight dress and loose blazer help her blend in at an overhyped industry function. Sudan is confident and fluid in her styling, but never vain or flamboyant. There’s a mercenary quality to the more ostentatious looks; they please crowds or pacify them for long enough to compel closer listening to the intricacies of her music.

When Sudan styles herself for an afternoon at home without fittings or videos to prepare for, a new glamour emerges, a simple headwrap as cocoon and coronation as her accessories become the story — a pair of black Rick Owens boots, a golden pair of Schiaparelli earrings — glints of the regal and playful energy that you hear in the music. There’s a looming sense that it all could have been so different, so constricted by a one-and-only-love-type romance, that we must gulp the emancipation down before someone notices this new optimism and tries to steal it or woo it back into latency.

Custom body suit constructed by Justus Steele and co-designed with Sudan.

I really hear Soul II Soul’s hook “back to life/back to reality,” like a tapestry making piano-esque shadows against the light in the room. We discuss the panopticon, the lack of walls and how it forces better boundaries. Sudan muses about getting a curtain for privacy when she has guests. And we rejoice a little too candidly about the merits of solitude in creative life. Giddy, renegotiating the meaning of intimacy among friends can be so soothing.

Many people are theorizing the importance of being “a main character” on social media and in life; what’s refreshing and enduring about Sudan is that she does not need theory — she practices, acts, demonstrates her singularity, wears it out and maintains it inside when no one is watching. “I just want it to be real,” she assures me, when I ask if anything feels too personal, too revelatory. The music that comes of her dedication is as radiant, born of her own intentions. There’s something boundless about what’s next, an upward spiral without the density of too much ego to threaten its flow, an album so spot-on, satisfying a craving we didn’t know we had, one for serious joy, and so personal without being tedious, that it feels effortless, a meant-to-be reunion with the best versions of ourselves.

Sudan wears Phlemuns top, H&M swimsuit top, Untitlab boots and Average Citizen necklace.

Emmy voters have loved Uzo Aduba, who brings a special immediacy to comedic and dramatic roles alike, since her breakthrough on Netflix’s “Orange Is the New Black” in 2013. This year, she’s vying for lead actress in a comedy for her performance as an eccentric gumshoe on the Netflix whodunit “The Residence.”

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The age when Aduba, a theater actor who had barely been on TV, wowed viewers and critics as the lovesick, eloquent, unpredictable Suzanne “Crazy Eyes” Warren on “OITNB.”

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Aduba’s nomination for “The Residence” is her sixth in 11 years, across four projects.

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After winning a pair of Emmys for “OITNB,” Aduba added a third for playing Rep. Shirley Chisholm in the 2020 FX limited series “Mrs. America.”

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“The Residence” was canceled in July after one season.

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A substantial number of actors have won Emmys for canceled series, so her show’s fate does not necessarily prohibit another Aduba win in September.

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But Aduba is in an especially stacked category, in which four of the five nominees — Aduba, “Abbott Elementary’s” Quinta Brunson, “The Bear’s” Ayo Edebiri and “Hacks’” Jean Smart — already have Emmys.

5th

Given the competition and her show’s cancellation, Aduba often ranks last in her category on Emmy prognosticators’ lists. But when you’ve already persuaded voters three times, you can’t be counted out completely.

“Butterfly” is actor and producer Daniel Dae Kim’s love letter to Korea and America.

Launching Wednesday, Prime Video’s South Korea-set spy thriller follows David Jung (Kim), a former U.S. intelligence operative who comes out of hiding to reunite with his daughter Rebecca (Reina Hardesty), a deadly agent who grew up believing he was dead.

“It’s been my dream because it represents the two major parts of who I am,” says Kim during a video call in late July. “I’m a Korean who was raised in America, and these are the two countries that I love. Why not try and bridge the two cultures? I’m uniquely suited to do that.”

Based on the graphic novel series created by Arash Amel, Kim describes the show as “a relationship drama” where “the action and the conflicts come out of an emotional place.”

“One of the things that was really important to me about the conception of David is that I didn’t want him to be someone that was not without flaws,” says Kim, who also serves as an executive producer on the series. “A lot of his actions come from a place of pain. A lot of Rebecca’s character arc emanates from a place of pain.”

“Butterfly” includes plenty of action — including hand-to-hand fights and shootouts — but it’s the central family drama, as well as how it is reflected in the action scenes, that the show’s co-creators Ken Woodruff and Steph Cha also tout. Rebecca’s story in particular was one of the elements Woodruff immediately responded to when he first read the original comic book series.

“My parents got divorced when I was young … and my dad moved across the country and started a whole new family within a year or two,” Woodruff says. “There was just this really palpable connection that I felt with Rebecca’s relationship with her father because there’s love there, but there’s also animosity and resentment and jealousy. That really hooked me in.”

Though the graphic novel takes place in Europe and America, Kim saw moving the story to South Korea and centering a Korean and Korean American family as an opportunity to bridge Hollywood and Korean entertainment. This meant advocating for top Korean actors to be cast — like Park Hae-soo, Kim Ji-hoon and Kim Tae-hee — and hiring a Korean director for a block of the episodes.

“Daniel really cared about bridging these two cultures and doing it in a very respectful way and really making sure that we got it right,” Woodruff says. “At times, [in] different circumstances, his feet were really held to the fire and he did not blink. He’d really advocate for the Korean characters, making sure that those actors and their roles were as fleshed out and as interesting as every other character.”

One of the things that stood out for Cha was just how much care Kim took to look after everyone working on the show.

“He is always very good about making sure that people feel included and valuable,” Cha says. “He took it upon himself to make sure that the Korean cast felt welcome and well-integrated, and that the American cast was comfortable in Korea.”

“He has a lot of nunchi,” adds Woodruff about Kim’s care for others, displaying some of the Korean language skills he picked up thanks to the Korean crew, whom the creators also credited for ensuring Korean culture was represented authentically on the show.

Kim is just grateful for the shifts in the industry and mainstream culture that made a show like “Butterfly,” which was shot in Korea and features a significant amount of Korean dialogue, possible.

“I don’t think ‘Butterfly’ could have been made even 10 years ago,” says Kim. “The change in philosophy, I think, is so significant in the kinds of stories that we get to tell now. [And] if we do our jobs right, there’ll be many more just like us.”

In a conversation edited for length and clarity, Kim discusses his new series, his approach to producing and the importance of using his platform.

“I’m a Korean who was raised in America and these are the two countries that I love. Why not try and bridge the two cultures?” says Daniel Dae Kim.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

What was your process of discovering David? How did you come to understand him?

It wasn’t hard because I’m a father myself. I understood how difficult it can be to raise children and how our work often gets in the way of being a good dad. Sometimes we find ourselves in situations because of our work where we have to make difficult choices about our families. David made a choice that he felt was right but it ended up being the absolute wrong choice for his daughter — whether he’s strong enough to face the consequences of that decision is really what the first season is about. How much pain can he tolerate because of the pain he inflicted on his daughter? And, to be honest, how selfish is he that he still wants his vision of a family, even though a choice that he made destroyed it?

That seems like a different kind of father from the one you play in “Avatar: The Last Airbender.”

They’re different. But for me, the core of it is the same: What does it mean to be a father guiding a young life and a young psyche? Ozai makes the choice where he needs his child to follow in his footsteps in terms of leadership and style. And if his child cannot do that, then his child fails. His priority is on the mission. I think for David, it might have been that to a lesser degree, but now he’s realized that that’s not the choice he wants.

Can someone have a second chance at being a good dad? That, to me, is something that is very human. It’s very universal. People say about the show, “Well, it’s shot in Korea. It’s got an Asian lead and it’s about an Asian family. I don’t know if I can relate.” If you have children, or you’ve had parents, you can probably relate to what’s going on in this show.

“Butterfly” captures a lot of nuance that tends to get lost in media where identities get flattened instead of conveying the different shades of experiences that encompasses being Korean, being Korean American, also while being in Korea.

That’s why it was important to me that Rebecca be half Asian because that’s another part of the experience that we haven’t explored fully yet. I look forward to that part of it because Rebecca is someone who’s not only half American, half Asian — she’s also someone without a mother and lost her father, or so she thought. For a lot of my childhood, being Asian American meant that I felt like I was between two worlds and a member of neither. But now I’m in a place in my career and as an artist where I can embrace both of those things and say I actually can speak authentically to both experiences, and not many people can do that. To me, that’s very novel in the way we approach this show. I tried to do it with the amount of respect and love that I have for both cultures.

You mention Rebecca, and that relationship is central to the show. What was it like establishing that dynamic with Reina Hardesty?

We were so lucky to find Reina in the casting process. It’s not easy to ask someone to go to Korea for six months, start training, do a lot of heavy action and find the emotional depths that are required for this character. It’s a very challenging role. When she came aboard all of the producers just breathed a huge sigh of relief and were so excited because we felt, to your point, that now we have a show.

You’re often recognized as one of the people who have been paving the way for other Asian American artists in the industry.

I stand on the shoulders of a lot of people who came before, and they may not have been as successful as I’ve been fortunate enough to be, but that’s the way this works. People blaze a trail so that other people can walk down it without getting pricked by thorns. So for me, it’s a parallel to my journey as a dad. My goal is to create a life for my children so that they do better than I’ve done. That they’d be better people, that they’d be more successful, they’d be better to others. I want that for us as Asian American artists.

Even when we were struggling, there was a generation of us, like Joel de la Fuente and Will Yun Lee and Ron Yuan, who would call each other all the time when there were auditions. There were so few at the time that our philosophy was, if it’s not me, I want it to be you. Quite frankly, given the way our society is today, I think we could all use a little bit more of that feeling — that we’re all looking out for one another a little bit more than we have in the recent past.

Rebecca (Reina Hardesty) and David (Daniel Dae Kim) are reunited in “Butterfly.”

(Juhan Noh / Prime)

What has it been like to navigate these times, where the industry is contracting and people outside of it are increasingly vocal in speaking out against diversity and inclusion?

It reminds me of that quote from Martin Luther King Jr.: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Or, if you’re more financially minded, you’re going to have up days and down days in the market, but what you’re looking for is the trend line. I’m hopeful that what we’re experiencing right now is just a down day, and that we will continue to trend in the right direction.

I really am confident that a lot more people understand what it is to think about our community as inclusive and not just a way where it’s a bad word. But just to seek understanding of experiences other than your own. And that goes for everyone, not just the minority and majority politics. There’s so many things I learn every day from people who are not like me and I just feel like that’s a more interesting way to live, personally.

As far as our community is concerned, we’re better off now than we have ever been in terms of representation. But that doesn’t mean that we are where we need to be. Some would say that that’s a cop-out, this glass half full and half empty. But it is a question of perspective. For me, I choose to acknowledge and appreciate the strides that we’ve made, and also understand that there’s still a ways to go, as you can see in today’s news, when it comes to understanding one another and showing compassion for another’s journey.

If you think thematically about our show, it’s really about bringing people together, bringing a family together, as a metaphor for our larger community. We can all have made mistakes. We can all have done things that we regret. But it doesn’t mean that we can’t try to rectify them and be better people.

One of the biggest movies out right now is “KPop Demon Hunters,” on which you had a voice role, Healer Han. What goes into your decision on joining a project like this? Have you been surprised at the reception?

I always think about what the semiotics of a project are when I take it. What’s the representation like? What’s the character like? Who are the people doing it? What’s the story? All these things go into the matrix of how I make these decisions. And “KPop Demon Hunters” was a project in the same spirit as “Butterfly.” It was taking a form of entertainment that’s Korean but putting it into English to make it for Americans and the world outside of Korea. There were Korean Americans behind it, just like “Butterfly.” I saw that when they asked me to do it, and it was an easy yes.

But no one can ever tell what the impact of a project is going to be when you’re making it. I did not expect this from “KPop Demon Hunters,” but I sure had a good time voicing the role, and that was one of the reasons I did it too. I enjoy comedy, and when I do voice roles I get to do more of it so I leaned into it and thought this was a fun character.

The 4-year-old in my life is obsessed with “KPop Demon Hunters.”

My entire social media feed is “KPop Demon Hunters” right now. And I gotta say, watching the Korean K-pop stars embrace “KPop Demon Hunters” was as meaningful to me as watching non-Koreans embrace it. Because very often in Korea, Korean American stories don’t resonate, but now they’re just starting to. Maybe “Butterfly” can be a part of that, and Koreans will take note of Korean Americans as well as Americans taking note of Korean Americans. We’ve always been that middle group, and hopefully we’ll be able to shine in the spotlight.

What has it been like for you to see the explosive popularity of Korean entertainment — like K-pop and K-dramas — in the mainstream?

First of all, I’m surprised, because I grew up at a time where no one even knew what being Korean was. When I was a kid, people would ask me, “Are you Chinese?” I say no. And they say, “Are you Japanese?” I say no. And they would say, “Then, what are you?” There was that little awareness of Korea. When I was a kid, my friends would come to my house and they would see my mom making kimchi, and they would say, “What is that stink?” But now, not only do people know what it is, but people are eating it, understanding the probiotic qualities that it has. It’s part of our culture. It makes me swell with pride. I’m so happy for my kids that they don’t even know what it feels like to be embarrassed because you’re Korean. That’s a good place to be.

“I choose to acknowledge and appreciate the strides that we’ve made, and also understand that there’s still a ways to go,” says Daniel Dae Kim on AAPI representation in Hollywood.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

We’ve focused more on your acting work, but what does it mean for you to also take on the role of a producer in something like “Butterfly”?

As an actor, you’re only able to participate in the projects that ask for you. We’re always auditioning or hoping that a director likes us or a producer likes us or a studio likes us. But as a producer, you become the job creator, and I love the idea of creating opportunities for people. That’s one of the reasons I started to produce in the first place. There was such a dearth that I thought, well, let me go upstream and figure out why there is such a shortage of roles. Well, it’s because people aren’t creating them, so why don’t I try and start creating them.

People like to think that my company [3AD] is just for Asian Americans, but it’s not. It’s really for all those on the margins. That’s really the story that I want to tell as a producer. We’ve all heard the story of the high school party through the eyes of the jocks and the cheerleaders and the popular kids. But I want to hear the story of that same high school party from the people who snuck in or weren’t even invited, or the ones who are sitting at home not at the party. What are those stories, because to me, they’re the ones that haven’t been told before.

What was it like building the team you’re working with on “Butterfly”?

Being a job creator means that you can identify not just actors that you want to work with, but also writers. I’m very proud of the fact that so much of our writing staff was Asian American, or had some intimate knowledge of Asian culture, specifically the Korean culture. We were able to hire a crew that was 100% Korean and also we achieved very close, if not a 50-50 balance between men and women on our crew. These kinds of things matter to me. I have such a level of respect for our showrunner, Ken Woodruff, because he’s not Asian American but he highlights the fact that you don’t have to be Asian American to be a good ally and to be a good partner. Ken has been incredibly respectful of what he doesn’t know through this whole process, and has been very deferential when it comes to things like the culture of Korea and the way that being Korean affects these characters and the storylines. At the same time, he’s been really good about leading the way in everything he’s learned in his many years as a storyteller guiding the writers room. To me, it’s the epitome of a good partnership. People talk about allyship; this is allyship in action. I don’t know that I’ve ever worked with a better showrunner than Ken Woodruff, and I’ve been in this business for 30 years.

You’ve also been vocal on issues that are important to you. Why are you motivated to speak out in that way?

Because I’m a human being and because I’m a citizen. I think it’s always better when you have an informed citizenry. That’s not meant to say that only one side is right and the other is wrong. But I am a big believer in education. I’m a big believer in asking questions and it’s something I try to do in my real life. Ask, when I see something going on in the world around me that seems unjust or objectionable, “Why is that? How did it get that way?” I think we all are entitled to have our opinion and the more educated it is, and the more well researched it is, the stronger that opinion can be. People say, “shut up and act” the way that they would tell athletes, “shut up and dribble,” but no one says to a plumber, “shut up and fix pipes.” Everyone who has a job also is a citizen, is a human being, is affected by the policies around us every day. Part of being in a democracy means making your voice heard so that we can affect change together.

The journey of our show is how to reconcile two characters and their differences. Open dialogue, continuing to want to learn and being respectful, I think, are things that seem to be in short supply these days and it makes me a little sad. I’m hopeful that some of the stories that I get to tell can bring us together rather than divide us.

Rashida Jones has always been a vocal fan of Netflix’s dystopian anthology series “Black Mirror,” but she never expected it to secure her an Emmy nomination.

“I’m still pretty shocked,” Jones says of her lead actress in a limited series or TV movie nod for the Season 7 episode “Common People.” “I’ve never really been in the award conversation as an actress.”

Jones and I are speaking on the phone on a Friday in late July during her trip to Japan. We discuss how in its seventh season, “Black Mirror” secured the most Emmy nominations in the series’ history.

“I just love this universe so much,” says Jones, who co-wrote the show’s Season 3 episode “Nosedive” after going on a mission to meet creator Charlie Brooker. “There’s something dark and ominous and cautionary about the whole thing, but there’s so much humor in it. The greatest art does that, it reflects back to us where we are and isn’t afraid to make us laugh.”

“Common People” is a particularly bleak episode about a teacher named Amanda (Jones) whose husband, Mike (Chris O’Dowd), saves her from a coma by signing her up for a brain subscription service. Brooker co-wrote the episode with Bisha K. Ali, and it was directed by Ally Pankiw. The episode starts out as a love story but soon morphs into a parable about capitalism, corporate greed and healthcare: Once a persuasive Tracee Ellis Ross convinces O’Dowd’s character to save his wife for a few hundred dollars a month, the couple is stuck trying to make financial ends meet as the subscription service keeps building additional premium levels.

“The whole story is about a lack of agency, the intractable nature of capitalism and healthcare and the things you cannot control,” says Jones. “It’s survival. There are some ‘Black Mirror’ episodes where it’s like, ‘Oh, they missed that turn or made that decision.’ This was not that. This was intended to be two people who are victims of a system.”

“Capitalism is supposed to be this promise of, ‘If you pull yourself up by your bootstraps, you too can have all of the money,’” Jones continues. “But the truth is, we just created a new class system. We obviously are having a giant wealth disparity problem, and the worst place we see it is in healthcare. It’s so criminal.”

On a Zoom call, Brooker tells me “Common People” started out as a lighter, more comedic episode. He thought of the idea while listening to a true-crime podcast when the host segued effortlessly from a gruesome description of finding a body in a canal to talking about a food delivery service.

“My one-line pitch to Netflix was, ‘It’s going to be a comedy story about this guy whose wife dies and he can get her back, but he has to get her back with ads,” says Brooker. “Originally they had kids and she’d start coming out with adverts while tucking them into bed.”

But when Brooker and Ali were talking about where the story ends, they discussed the consequences of how services have to expand infinitely and cause a degradation of everything. “I thought, ‘Oh, there would be a point where your life almost wasn’t worth living,’ and the thought of euthanizing someone who’s spouting adverts at you was darkly comic, but tragic, obviously.”

Brooker said he sees “Common People” as a companion piece to the second “Black Mirror” episode, “Fifteen Million Merits,” which he describes as a “nightmarish cartoon version of capitalism.” He wanted to channel a sense of people “feeling squeezed by everything,” but said he wasn’t initially trying to send a message about healthcare, partially because Brooker is British and doesn’t have the same experience as Americans.

“To use a phrase, it ‘hits different’ in the States, where it’s more overtly aligned with people’s experiences of how the healthcare industry works,” he says. “The fact that there’s a monetary value attached to our basic human survival feels ugly and unpleasant and inevitable.”

“We try to hit you in the gut,” he adds. “At a time when the world is getting more dystopian, I’m delighted that people will still turn up and watch us.”

Jones and I have a similar conversation, and she brings up how Brooker always says the series is not the future. It’s an alternate version of now.

“We have all of these tiny things that make our life more efficient, and we don’t read the fine print,” says Jones. “They’re collecting our data and reading our faces, and we are fully being used for tech to win. The truth is we’re slowly chipping away at our privacy and agency.”

I ask Jones about her relationship with technology and she laughs. “I do really like TikTok, and I know exactly what it’s doing, how it’s gathering data on me, how it’s keeping me there, and I still do it because I’m fallible that way.

“I can convince myself like — look how much I’ve learned about gut health! And the galaxy! Then every month I’ll take it off my phone. It’s an extremely sharp, thoughtful industry that is designed to capture me, and I’m absolutely not above that.”

To unwind, Jones goes back to the basics — spending time with her kid, for instance, or dancing. Jones, who has lost both parents in the last six years, says she’s also been reading books about Celtic mysticism, sorrow and connecting to nature.

“It makes me feel like it’s just all part of a bigger process,” says Jones. “The kids say you gotta touch grass and that’s a real thing. I just came from the forest in Japan, and I’m in awe, like, ‘What are the birds doing? What is the little bug doing on the grass?’ It’s something that was here before us and will be here when we go away.”