For Russell, who earned her master’s degree in Cinema and Media Studies at USC, the archive is not a static repository but an active teaching tool. “I work with an undergraduate class where they use the archives,” she says. “I pull folders—everything from legal debates around Meet John Doe to production files. It makes the studio’s history tangible.”

Faculty and students from across the country regularly visit the WBA. Over the years, USC has mounted numerous exhibits drawn from the collection. “The biggest was on Warner Bros. films during World War II,” says Sandra Garcia-Myers, head of the Cinematic Arts Library. “The relationship between the studio and USC has evolved in a reciprocal way.”

For Russell and Garcia‑Myers, Iron Mountain’s preservation work ensures the archive remains usable for what makes it invaluable: revealing the dynamics of the Hollywood studio system. “Film history is cultural history,” Russell says. “For one of the original big studios, having documents directly from the source is extraordinary.”

Annotated scripts, memos written in moments of conflict, and correspondence shaped by censorship boards illuminate the negotiations that still echo through modern filmmaking. “You see the conversations—when a filmmaker wants something and the studio pushes back, or the Breen Office intervenes,” Russell explains. Garcia‑Myers adds, “We think films will last forever, but sometimes they don’t. The paper footprint—the memos, scripts, production notes—helps scholars understand how films were made, even if the film itself disappears.”

The WBA attracts researchers from around the world. “Graduate students from Europe come here just to see it,” Garcia‑Myers says. As research expands into sociology, business, and cultural studies, the archive’s relevance grows. “It’s not just about stars and films,” she says. “People want to know why audiences went to movies, what they saw, and what it meant.”

Kalas sees emerging technologies expanding that reach even further. “AI opens up entirely new avenues for discovery,” she says. “You can run visual searches—‘Show me a car crash at sunset’—and instantly surface relevant materials.” These tools, built atop Iron Mountain’s cataloging and metadata systems, help connect scholars around the world to items they might never otherwise encounter. But Kalas is clear that innovation only works when the physical foundation is secure. “Digital tools don’t matter if the originals vanish,” she says. “Iron Mountain helps ensure they don’t.”

Russell lights up when she talks about her favorite discoveries. “There’s the fan in me—looking at Bette Davis’s file, her stationery, her handwriting. Holding something she wrote is incredible.” She’s equally drawn to the everyday labor behind the system. “I want to know more about the secretaries tracking all this material. They exist in the archive, but they’re harder to find—it takes digging.”

That detective work is part of the joy. “It’s like being a forensic accountant,” Russell says. Hidden in the paperwork are stories of budgets, casting decisions, shooting locations, and the countless practical choices that shaped the final films.

Kalas emphasizes the need for continued collaboration to ensure public access. “Advocate, advocate, advocate,” she says. “Give institutions the information they need to free up resources so you can care for your archive.” She notes that public–private partnerships—like USC and Iron Mountain—are essential to keeping these materials open, studied, and culturally meaningful.

For both archivists, the Warner Bros. Archives are far more than a cache of studio documents. They are a living record of Hollywood’s imagination—a mirror of American culture across decades—preserved through the ongoing work of USC archivists and Iron Mountain specialists. “Archives don’t generate money; they’re costly,” Russell says. “But they preserve who we are—our conversations, conflicts, and creativity. They protect our collective imagination.”