After decades of flying just under the radar, the star of 'The Dropout' is ready for superstardom.

Thirty years ago, the biggest celebrities on earth opened a chain restaurant. For a few years, it was the hottest ticket in town. Then it went bankrupt. Twice. The brains behind this pop-culture phenomenon explain how it happened.

He isn’t just “Denzel’s son.” He’s Spike Lee’s leading man. He’s Christopher Nolan’s next action hero. He’s John David Washington, dammit. And he’s moments away from breaking into the stratosphere.

For more than four decades, Page Six has ruled the world of gossip about the famous and powerful. In an era when celebrities control the narrative and “power” is a dirty word, can it survive?

Robert Ballard sits behind the control desk of the E/V Nautilus, his 64-meter research ship. It’s just after sundown in early August and they’re docked near Nikumaroro, a tiny island in the South Pacific halfway between New Guinea and Hawaii. The crew just dropped down the robot ROV Hercules into the black ocean, where it will crawl along 1,000 feet below, transmitting back footage of the still sea floor.

John F. Kennedy Jr. stared out his window overlooking the Hudson River, past the piles of proofs, magazines, Knicks ticket stubs, and take-out containers on his desk. He cracked the faintest smile, as one colleague remembers. It was the summer of 1996; he was the editor of a magazine named George, which was less than a year old and still finding its way; and an idea for the September cover had just occurred to him: Madonna dressed as his mother, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

On December 3, just weeks after being elected President of the United States, Donald Trump escaped the barrage of Cabinet interviews to pay his respects to a family of incredibly wealthy, barely known kingmakers—a family that helped Trump clinch one of the biggest presidential upsets in history. It was one of his first public outings since the election, a lavish costume party held in Head of the Harbor, a tiny Long Island village with a population of just over 1,000. No press was allowed inside

As the sun rises Sunday morning over the Quicken Loans Arena in downtown Cleveland, 100 women stand completely nude, holding large, round mirrors facing the arena. They're on an empty lot in between a fire station and a shipping warehouse, right on the Cuyahoga River. It's the day before the Republican National Convention kicks off, but on this side of the river, it's nearly silent, except for the snaps and pops of a camera. Artist Spencer Tunick stands on a ladder holding the camera focused on

Bill Durden was on a roll. He'd just caught two good-sized groupers and tossed his line back into the water when he felt it snag on the bottom of his boat. The engine, he realized, wasn't in neutral. Durden gave the rod a good tug. It yanked him right back, pulling him straight out of his flip flops, off the back of the boat, and into the Gulf of Mexico—25 miles from shore. As Durden broke through to the surface—gasping for air—he watched his unmanned boat orbit around him on a path that moved

Shannon Conley met a guy online. She was 19, a normal Colorado teen with glasses and a big, toothy smile. He was 32. One day in early 2014, Conley nervously told her father that she had a new boyfriend. She wanted her dad to meet him, so she set up a Skype call on her laptop. During the chat, the couple asked for his blessing to marry. They also told him that Conley would be moving to Syria, where they would wed and start their lives together. Their lives, they told him, would be dedicated to