A Cinematic Spectacle

The Great Nevada Film Tax Fantasy

It is a truth universally acknowledged—by lobbyists, legislators, and the occasional man of common sense—that no grand scheme involving taxpayer-funde

d money can proceed without a proper parade of confusion, division, and theatrical enthusiasm. And so, nearly two years after Nevada’s last attempt at expanding film tax credits perished from this world, two fresh and shining new bills have appeared, each carried aloft by its own set of champions and each determined to bask in the glow of the legislative limelight.

The principal actors in this production are Sen. Roberta Lange and Assemblywoman Sandra Jauregui, who’ve introduced separate bills with the understanding that they must eventually stitch them together into a single, serviceable garment—provided that their respective allies and benefactors agree upon the cut of the fabric.

Jauregui’s proposal, AB238, is set to make its grand debut before the Assembly Committee on Revenue at 4 p.m. this Thursday. Lange’s bill, meanwhile, lingers in the wings, waiting for its cue.

The stage comes crowded with an ensemble cast of corporations, each whispering sweet nothings into the ears of lawmakers. Sony Pictures Entertainment and Howard Hughes Holdings Inc. are arm-in-arm with Jaurequi, while Birtcher Development and Manhattan Beach Studios escort Lange. Warner Bros. Discovery, ever the elusive suitor, has yet to declare its allegiance but lingers on the periphery, perhaps waiting for an opportune moment to step into the fray.

Naturally, where money flows, lobbyists follow. And so, as of Monday, the halls of the Legislature became the stomping grounds of nine lobbyists representing Howard Hughes, two for Sony, three for Birtcher—including the ever-dutiful Brandon Birtcher himself—and two for a shadowy entity known as Warner Media, whose precise affiliation remains one of life’s great mysteries. Birtcher, never one to miss a well-timed appearance, was even spotted at the Legislature on Friday, reinforcing that a well-placed handshake is worth a thousand well-crafted emails.

Meanwhile, the industry’s heavyweights are not above a little soirée to grease the wheels of legislative goodwill. Tonight promises an event in Carson City, hosted by Sony and Howard Hughes, where guests get to witness “an evening where innovation meets imagination”—which, translated from the language of industry pleasantries, means there will be much talk of jobs, economic growth, and the boundless virtues of tax incentives, all accompanied by an open bar.

As for Nevada’s governor, Joe Lombardo, he remains as noncommittal as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, neither embracing nor rejecting the proposals, instead waiting, one suspects, for the numbers to tell him whether it is better to be remembered as a patron of the arts or as a fiscal watchdog.

The whole affair has one lingering question: If the bills need merging–why not introduce them as one? The answer, as always, lies in money—specifically, in the amount of money each faction believes it ought to receive.

The ghosts of 2023 loom large over Howard Hughes and Birtcher, who joined hands with Sony as a silent partner to seek up to $190 million in annual tax credits over a decade for two studio projects. The proposal collapsed beneath the weight of its own cost, sending the partners scattering in different directions, each now seeking separate deals with differing studio allies and revised financial aspirations.

Adding another plot twist, the Southern Nevada Building Trades Unions announced earlier this month that it had formed a labor agreement with Summerlin Studios—an announcement so conveniently timed that one couldn’t suspect it was to nudge lawmakers in Jauregui’s direction. While some labor groups support the deal, others remain cynical, as Sony and Warner Bros. have not always been friendly toward unions.

And hanging over this entire production like the shadow of a better-funded rival, California has announced plans to more than double its film tax credits, reaching a staggering $750 million annually. In the grand game of cinematic bribery, it appears that the Golden State intends to keep its crown, leaving Nevada to decide whether it can afford to compete—or whether it ought to bow out, acknowledge the carpet-bagger, and invest its dollars in more practical pursuits, like paving roads or ensuring the local constabulary has enough hats.

One way or another, the show must go on. The only question is whether it ends in triumph, farce, or an extended intermission until the next legislative session.