To The Max

The Future of Hollywood? Or a Brat Who’s Lucked Out? Prolific, Hyperactive Wunderkind Screenwriter Max Landis Welcomes Us Into His World.

- Olly Richards

Max Landis cannot walk into a room unnoticed. The LA house in which Empire meets him couldn’t be more Hollywood if Jerry Bruckheimer were standing in the middle of it smoking a stogie: there’s glass everywhere, white walls, a glittering pool, valley views and furniture that may actually be sculpture. But from the second Landis strides in — well over six feet tall, dressed like a cartoon on a date, half his hair shaved and the rest rainbow-streaked, carrying a little white dog he found on the way in — he pulls focus from everything else, including the dog. “DOES THIS BELONG TO ANYONE?” he enquires, in a voice that will prove not to have an indoor setting. You might guess he was an actor, a stylist or possibly a very young agent. You probably wouldn’t land on writer. Yet Max Landis is currently the biggest noise in screenwriting in Hollywood, and he’s adored and reviled in equal measure.