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  • Trap’s Greatest Horror Is Being Confined to a Stadium of Teen and Tween Girls Worshiping the Same Taylor Swift-esque Pop Star

    Trap’s Greatest Horror Is Being Confined to a Stadium of Teen and Tween Girls Worshiping the Same Taylor Swift-esque Pop Star

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    Perhaps the thing that comes to mind as the most blatantly unbelievable—and, to be sure, there are many to choose from—in Trap is the idea that a Taylor Swift-esque pop star would ever use her powers for true (rather than ultimately performative) good. M. Night Shyamalan’s latest movie (the sixteenth one he’s directed, to be precise), however, would like to posit just that. The woman playing such a pop star is none other than Shyamalan’s daughter, Saleka (not to be confused with his other daughter, Ishana, whose movie, The Watchers, he recently produced). Indeed, the Trap Soundtrack serves as her second full-length album, albeit under the moniker of “Lady Raven,” with generically-titled songs like “Don’t Wanna Be Yours” and “Dreamer Girl” performed during the concert that serves as the primary backdrop for most of the film’s narrative. And yes, said concert is very clearly meant to mirror (or troll, as it were) The Eras Tour, not to mention the ilk that it attracts.

    In point of fact, Shyamalan supposedly pitched the idea as: “What if The Silence of The Lambs happened at a Taylor Swift concert?” Well, for a start, it’s a major insult to The Silence of the Lambs to compare Trap to it in any way, shape or form (where film releases of 2024 are concerned, that luxury is reserved solely for Longlegs). And, secondly, the musical style of Lady Raven is far too R&B-infused (circa the 00s) to be comparable to Swift’s typically vanilla stylings. Though one thing that is comparable between the two women is their costume choices, often awash in flowy, ethereal dresses. But, as is the case with Swift, it doesn’t really seem to matter what Lady Raven wears. To her adoring, devout fans, she can do and don no wrong. With that in mind, at one point in the movie, our “anti-hero” (read: murdering psychopath) Cooper Adams (Josh Hartnett), an “all-American dad” who works as a firefighter, remarks to a “spotter” at the concert (played by Shyamalan, who likes to pull Hitchcock-inspired cameos in his own movies) that Lady Raven has a cult-like power over the mostly tween and teenage girls who worship her—that they would listen to anything she said.

    Such a specific way of phrasing something is, of course, foreshadowing for the way in which Lady Raven will turn out to be the primary key in apprehending Cooper a.k.a. The Butcher (a serial killer nickname almost as unoriginal as Trap itself). Even though she’s already done enough on that front—certainly above and beyond what any ordinary “mega star” would do—by allowing the FBI to wield her concert date in Philadelphia as a trap for The Butcher. Who, for whatever reason, left behind a remnant of a receipt in one of his safe houses indicating that he would be at the Lady Raven show.

    The profiler heading up the investigation, Dr. Josephine Grant (Hayley Mills, who was cast literally only because she was in The Parent Trap—get it?), is, in truth, more out of her depth than she realizes once Cooper catches wind of the concert being a full-on sting operation (taking inspiration from the 1985 sting known as Operation Flagship). For, unsurprisingly, a psychopath of this level is fully capable of playing the part-time role of “family man” when he’s not out…butchering people. Hence, being the “dutiful dad” for the night by taking his twelve-year-old daughter, Riley (Ariel Donoghue), to see Lady Raven. Almost as socially awkward and gawky as the Riley of Inside Out, her obsession with Lady Raven is basically the only thing that’s getting her through her ongoing painful ostracism by a group of girls who she once considered her friends.

    Although Cooper tries his best to be “sympathetic” to Riley’s sensitivity to this often teen girl-specific plight, not only does he overtly find the concert and its audience annoying, but his attention is more than somewhat divided by the fact that he keeps noticing police officers escorting away random men at the show. Per Dr. Grant’s statistics, only three thousand men are in attendance among the twenty-thousand-plus crowd of women. On that note, the idea that such concerts, particularly The Eras Tour, are so often viewed as one of the few “safe spaces” where women can “just dance” and unapologetically exist precisely because of how repelled by such music/representations of femininity men are, has become a thing of the past. It first became one at its grandest scale in 2017, with Ariana Grande’s Dangerous Woman Tour in Manchester.

    Then, it almost happened again at The Eras Tour itself, with the botched attempt at another terrorist attack in Vienna designed to kill as many female acolytes of Swift’s as possible. As one concertgoer put it in the aftermath of Swift’s subsequently cancelled Vienna dates, “There’s a feeling of inclusivity at her concerts. There are, after all, not many spaces in the world where women can go and have a drink and a dance and feel safe. It’s mainly women, children and gay men at her concerts. And now, you can no longer guarantee.”

    Lady Raven’s concert, “little did they know,” also presents just such a case of an infiltrated “last bastion” where younger girls and women alike can “feel safe,” unburdened by the fear of a psychologically wounded man’s wrath (and yes, the two-dimensional Cooper character is slapped with cliché mother issues out of the Hitchcock playbook). A concept that is, in reality, the ultimate impossibility, particularly in the United States. What’s more, despite the “hope” presented by a female candidate currently running for president (with infinitely better chances of winning than Hillary Clinton in 2016), the backlash that will inevitably result if she does win is bound to be rooted in radically enacted male chauvinism.

    And so, women in power or not, in an evermore (no Taylor pun intended) misogynistic society, to present, as a horror premise, being trapped in a stadium full of tween and teenage girls screaming and mindlessly mimicking the dance moves and lyrics of their favorite generic pop star, well, it doesn’t exactly do much to bolster the overall female reputation (that Taylor pun intended).

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Review: Steve Carell Is a Lovable Loser in a Fragmentary ‘Uncle Vanya ‘

    Review: Steve Carell Is a Lovable Loser in a Fragmentary ‘Uncle Vanya ‘

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    Steve Carell and Alison Pill in Uncle Vanya. Marc J. Franklin

    It’s Chekhov 101 to say his characters inhabit separate worlds that rarely converge. All those rueful doctors, vain landowners, stoic laborers, and pretentious artists jabber across the samovar without really connecting or changing. Sure, they level pistols at each other (and themselves) or profess undying love, but such flashes of passion smack of solipsistic play-acting. Therein lies the comedy dusted with melancholy. Still, if Chekhov’s people are not in the same play, you hope the actors inhabiting them will be. Such is not really the case in Lincoln Center Theater’s starry but arid Uncle Vanya, staged with noncommittal chill by Lila Neugebauer

    Mimi Lien’s scenic design bluntly underscores the sense that these “Russians” (scare quotes because they’re vaguely Americanized) are planets whose orbital paths do not intersect. Her set pieces crouch at the edges of the Vivian Beaumont’s broad stage, emphasizing psychic distance by maximizing negative space. The first two acts have a backyard, cottagecore vibe—picnic table, folding chairs, bench, and a huge black-and-white photograph of birch trees covering the back wall. (All very wood-ish.) The second act brings us inside the home of agricultural manager Vanya (Steve Carell) and his niece Sonya (Alison Pill), but the tasteful, midcentury decor seems equally repelled to the periphery. 

    The cast of Lincoln Center Theater’s Uncle Vanya. Marc J. Franklin

    If the furniture is having an existential crisis, so are the depressed folks perched on it. Vanya is a middle-aged crank who sacrificed love and happiness for duty, drudging for decades on a farm and funneling money to Alexander (Alfred Molina), a pompous fraud of an art professor. Alexander was married to Vanya’s deceased sister, and the homely, naïve Sonya is the product of that union. Elena (Anika Noni Rose), Alexander’s much younger second wife, is an exquisitely bored nymph after whom Vanya lusts—as does family friend Astrov (William Jackson Harper), a local doctor who moonlights in environmentalism and binge drinking. Oh, almost forgot: Sonya loves Astrov, Vanya hates Alexander, and there’s a non-speaking local youth (Spencer Donovan Jones) who casts sad, smoldering looks at Sonya. The last element is an invention by Neugebauer, yet another iteration of unrequited love in this matryoshka of misery.  

    Uncle Vanya (a new take comes along every few years) is not exactly breakfast—as in, you have to work hard to screw it up—but its performers usually have solid support. Once they’ve polished their patronymics, they can settle into pathos-rich comedy tinged with Chekhov’s prophetic sense that pre-revolutionary Russia was about to crater under the idle protagonists’ feet. One of his signature tricks is musing about the generations to come. “People who are alive a hundred—two hundred years from now,” cynic-idealist Astrov wonders, “what will they think of us? Will they remember us with kindness?” Similar to the way that Shakespeare articulated unseen and unseeable inner life (Hamlet’s inky cloak), Chekhov cultivated anxious futurity in his restless people. Perhaps he was asking himself: Will my extremely specific Slavic material be relevant a century down the road?

    William Jackson Harper in Uncle Vanya. Marc J. Franklin

    The answer is yes, of course. Unless you’re allergic to Dr. Anton’s blend of bleakness and whimsy, the physician-playwright still grabs us with his clinical yet sympathetic dissection of human frailty. So, what are Neugebauer, her design team (including Kaye Voyce on costumes and Lap Chi Chu and Elizabeth Harper on lights), and an A-list ensemble doing to keep us focused on Vanya’s angsty journey from surly bitterness to…well, catatonic despair? The current version by the formidable Heidi Schreck (What the Constitution Means to Me) doesn’t attempt anything too radical. The language is more or less vernacular American with a light dusting of profanity (three shits, a fuck, a few hells and craps). Despite the modern clothing and furnishings, there are no smartphones or laptops in sight. When I first heard that Schreck was translating, I had this nutty hope she might flip the gender of the title figure. Gimmicky? Yep. But it would be something.

    That is, something more than an efficient but lukewarm modern-dress Vanya with fine actors who never quite gel. I’d see Harper (Primary Trust) in anything; he’s a sui generis compound of tetchiness, insecurity and warmth, but I didn’t particularly buy his friendship with Vanya or even his status as doctor. By the third act he has traded hospital scrubs for paint-spattered leisurewear, and you wonder if Astrov’s gone on sabbatical to improve his stippling and brushwork. Carell is the celebrity draw, of course, and it’s neat to see him modulate his movie-star shtick—bashful-teen-trapped-in-middle-aged-dude’s-body—to something rawer and more anguished. For Vanya’s hysterical third-act meltdown, bewailing years of waste, Carell leaps on the kitchen table and crawls across it, screaming at Molina like a plump tabby cat having its midlife crisis. 

    Others onstage seem either miscast (Rose) or under-directed (Molina), but Pill proves to be the evening’s MVP with a painfully yearning Sonya. The gawky spinster-in-training is red meat for young actors, and Pill radiates nervy panic from every pore. Pale and reedy, she scrunches her face into a rictus of pain, yet never tips into overacting. Rendered in English, some of Chekhov’s pet descriptors (not just in Vanya) are “weird,” “strange,” “stupid” and their variants. To be human is to be a freak, and Pill embodies that brokenness with a palpable heat I wish could have ignited everything around her.

    Uncle Vanya | 2hrs 30mins. One intermission. | Vivian Beaumont Theater | 150 W. 65th Street | 212-239-6200 | Buy Tickets Here  

     

    Review: Steve Carell Is a Lovable Loser in a Fragmentary ‘Uncle Vanya ‘

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    David Cote

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