Newsom’s Big-Money Machine: California Values Crash Onto National Stage

Paul Riverbank, 12/11/2025Gavin Newsom's rise: Hollywood money, progressive politics, and presidential buzz beyond California's borders.

And where there’s momentum, there’s always money not far behind. The numbers are striking. Newsom’s campaign apparatus now boasts over 100,000 new contributors—a sea of small donors, many nowhere near his home turf. “It’s a massive list, and it’s not from 10 years ago. It’s current,” longtime strategist Garry South remarks, clearly a bit in awe. Not many politicians, even among D.C.’s heavyweights, can claim that kind of grassroots pull, let alone anyone with Hollywood’s platinum Rolodex on speed dial.

To be fair, Newsom’s connections to the nation’s entertainment capital aren’t incidental. When he doubled down on film and TV tax breaks—it’s now a $750 million pot, up from roughly half that—he wasn’t just shoring up industry jobs. He was also solidifying ties with a donor class that loves both headlines and heroics. If you scan campaign finance disclosures, you’ll see checks coming from movie moguls and tech veterans alike.

But it’s more than fundraising and redistricting wins. For Democratic donors from Malibu to Menlo Park, he’s increasingly “the only game in town,” as one moneyed backer put it, only half in jest. Not everyone shares that enthusiasm; some, like donor John Morgan, warn that speed isn’t everything in presidential politics: “His issue will be speed horses rarely win.” And among Republicans, there's no shortage of critics who cast Newsom as a poster child for every excess and idiosyncrasy they see in California’s governance—“Everything that people in the United States hate about California and hate about politicians is embodied in Gavin Newsom,” said one particularly pointed donor. Yet the resentment often sounds like respect in disguise; if he weren’t a threat, they’d barely mention him.

The scrutiny, predictably, follows the spotlight. Newsom’s no stranger to hot-button topics, but these days his willingness to tackle divisive social issues places him at the heart of America’s most charged debates. On an episode of The Ezra Klein Show, Newsom addressed transgender rights, sidestepping no landmines. “We didn’t get into trans sports. That’s an issue no one wants to hear about because 80 percent of the people listening disagree with my position on this,” he said, opening up about his own family ties—a “trans godson”—and his record: “There’s no governor that’s done more pro-trans legislation than I have.” The candor’s not calculated, or so he insists. “It comes from my heart, not just my head. It wasn’t a political evolution.”

He’s aware, too, of the double bind: the challenge of advancing civil rights while acknowledging concerns around issues like fairness in school sports. “You have to accommodate the reality of those whose rights are being taken away as we advance the rights of the trans community, in terms of the fairness of athletic competition.” For many politicians, these are talking points. For Newsom, the conviction seems, at least in the moment, unforced.

Meanwhile, there’s another kind of recalibration going on, less headline-grabbing but no less significant, and it’s happening among Democrats eyeing the next presidential stage. Newsom and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz—both at times comfortable in a flannel shirt or a neatly tailored suit—recently chewed over one of their party’s more complicated problems: how to reach male voters without falling back on old stereotypes. The conversation isn’t theoretical. Democrats have been bleeding support in rural and working-class male demographics for years.

Newsom’s take is careful: “I think this notion of toxicity in masculinity needs to be separated, and I think it’s been conflated, and I think we’re gonna have to work on that a little bit.” Walz, who likes to remind folks back home he can fix a truck, interjects, “I think some of us scare ‘em… because I can fix a truck, they know I’m not bulshitting on this.” But he pushes back at typecasting, too—“My identity is not hunting. My identity is not football coaching, my identity is not, you know, a beard and a truck.”

This tension—balancing a push for cultural change with an understanding of tradition—frames much of the challenge ahead for ambitious Democrats. “It’s not just about what we say on policy,” one strategist told me recently, “it’s whether we look and sound like the America we want to win over.”

So where does this leave Newsom? The California bubble is comfortable, that’s certain. He’s popular, deft at navigating the Sacramento machinery, and never far from the cameras. But the national stage doesn’t much care for comfortable. Audiences outside the Golden State tend to demand something more—someone who can take a punch, adapt, and still stay standing.

The 2028 race remains a mirage for now, but the groundwork is unmistakable. If you check your inbox, you might already have a message from Team Newsom. “I’d be lying otherwise. I’d just be lying. And I’m not—I can’t do that,” Newsom admitted last fall in a CBS interview when pressed about presidential ambitions. For now, the question isn’t whether he’ll run. It’s whether his newfound energy and broad network can weather the turbulence waiting beyond California’s borders. Hollywood money, redrawn districts, swelling poll numbers—they count for something. But in American politics, the real test always comes when the comfort zone gives way to the unknown.

When California’s Gavin Newsom steps into a room lately, people lean in. The governor, never shy about taking the spotlight, isn’t just flattening local headlines anymore—he’s pushing into the national conversation with a speed and visibility unusual even for a figure as polished as he is. Recent months tell part of the story. While Newsom was touting victory in California’s contentious redistricting saga—a tangle of maps and demographics that kept most strategists up at night—he was also riding a surge in approval: from a middling 46 percent up to a resounding 56, according to one reputable poll. In politics, that’s not momentum, that’s liftoff.And where there’s momentum, there’s always money not far behind. The numbers are striking. Newsom’s campaign apparatus now boasts over 100,000 new contributors—a sea of small donors, many nowhere near his home turf. “It’s a massive list, and it’s not from 10 years ago. It’s current,” longtime strategist Garry South remarks, clearly a bit in awe. Not many politicians, even among D.C.’s heavyweights, can claim that kind of grassroots pull, let alone anyone with Hollywood’s platinum Rolodex on speed dial.To be fair, Newsom’s connections to the nation’s entertainment capital aren’t incidental. When he doubled down on film and TV tax breaks—it’s now a $750 million pot, up from roughly half that—he wasn’t just shoring up industry jobs. He was also solidifying ties with a donor class that loves both headlines and heroics. If you scan campaign finance disclosures, you’ll see checks coming from movie moguls and tech veterans alike.But it’s more than fundraising and redistricting wins. For Democratic donors from Malibu to Menlo Park, he’s increasingly “the only game in town,” as one moneyed backer put it, only half in jest. Not everyone shares that enthusiasm; some, like donor John Morgan, warn that speed isn’t everything in presidential politics: “His issue will be speed horses rarely win.” And among Republicans, there's no shortage of critics who cast Newsom as a poster child for every excess and idiosyncrasy they see in California’s governance—“Everything that people in the United States hate about California and hate about politicians is embodied in Gavin Newsom,” said one particularly pointed donor. Yet the resentment often sounds like respect in disguise; if he weren’t a threat, they’d barely mention him.The scrutiny, predictably, follows the spotlight. Newsom’s no stranger to hot-button topics, but these days his willingness to tackle divisive social issues places him at the heart of America’s most charged debates. On an episode of The Ezra Klein Show, Newsom addressed transgender rights, sidestepping no landmines. “We didn’t get into trans sports. That’s an issue no one wants to hear about because 80 percent of the people listening disagree with my position on this,” he said, opening up about his own family ties—a “trans godson”—and his record: “There’s no governor that’s done more pro-trans legislation than I have.” The candor’s not calculated, or so he insists. “It comes from my heart, not just my head. It wasn’t a political evolution.”He’s aware, too, of the double bind: the challenge of advancing civil rights while acknowledging concerns around issues like fairness in school sports. “You have to accommodate the reality of those whose rights are being taken away as we advance the rights of the trans community, in terms of the fairness of athletic competition.” For many politicians, these are talking points. For Newsom, the conviction seems, at least in the moment, unforced.Meanwhile, there’s another kind of recalibration going on, less headline-grabbing but no less significant, and it’s happening among Democrats eyeing the next presidential stage. Newsom and Minnesota Governor Tim Walz—both at times comfortable in a flannel shirt or a neatly tailored suit—recently chewed over one of their party’s more complicated problems: how to reach male voters without falling back on old stereotypes. The conversation isn’t theoretical. Democrats have been bleeding support in rural and working-class male demographics for years.Newsom’s take is careful: “I think this notion of toxicity in masculinity needs to be separated, and I think it’s been conflated, and I think we’re gonna have to work on that a little bit.” Walz, who likes to remind folks back home he can fix a truck, interjects, “I think some of us scare ‘em… because I can fix a truck, they know I’m not bulshitting on this.” But he pushes back at typecasting, too—“My identity is not hunting. My identity is not football coaching, my identity is not, you know, a beard and a truck.”This tension—balancing a push for cultural change with an understanding of tradition—frames much of the challenge ahead for ambitious Democrats. “It’s not just about what we say on policy,” one strategist told me recently, “it’s whether we look and sound like the America we want to win over.”So where does this leave Newsom? The California bubble is comfortable, that’s certain. He’s popular, deft at navigating the Sacramento machinery, and never far from the cameras. But the national stage doesn’t much care for comfortable. Audiences outside the Golden State tend to demand something more—someone who can take a punch, adapt, and still stay standing.The 2028 race remains a mirage for now, but the groundwork is unmistakable. If you check your inbox, you might already have a message from Team Newsom. “I’d be lying otherwise. I’d just be lying. And I’m not—I can’t do that,” Newsom admitted last fall in a CBS interview when pressed about presidential ambitions. For now, the question isn’t whether he’ll run. It’s whether his newfound energy and broad network can weather the turbulence waiting beyond California’s borders. Hollywood money, redrawn districts, swelling poll numbers—they count for something. But in American politics, the real test always comes when the comfort zone gives way to the unknown.