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Tag: Culled Culture

  • M3GAN Is Ultimately A Techno-Horror Version of Baby Boom and Raising Helen

    M3GAN Is Ultimately A Techno-Horror Version of Baby Boom and Raising Helen

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    Although the automatic correlation to make with M3GAN is that it’s a mere pale imitation of the Child’s Play movies (particularly the 2019 one), at the core of the story is “the Baby Boom narrative.” Directed by Gerard Johnstone and written by Akela Cooper, M3GAN wields the same Nancy Meyers trope established in this seminal 1987 film from her oeuvre. One that screenwriters Jack Amiel and Michael Begler would also emulate in the 2004 Garry Marshall-directed film, Raising Helen. In Baby Boom, the career woman at the center of the story who suddenly gets an unexpected child plopped in her lap is J. C. Wiatt (Diane Keaton). As a high-powered management consultant, this is the last thing she could possibly want or need. The same goes for her investment banker boyfriend, Steven Buchner (Harold Ramis), who has as little interest in the burden of a child as J. C. (deemed, offensively, “the Tiger Lady” at her workplace—because any successful woman would be given such a belittling nickname, no?).

    The “bequest” of the child, named Elizabeth, came from a distant cousin. And, as such, J. C. feels no real sense of obligation or guilt about giving her up… at first. Naturally, as this is a Charles Shyer-Nancy Meyers movie, J. C. finds herself growing quickly attached to Elizabeth despite her lack of maternal aptitude, as well as the upheaval this baby is causing in J. C.’s professional life. Not to mention her romantic one, for when she tells Steven she wants to keep the baby (“Papa Don’t Preach”-style), he essentially says, “Fuck that, I’m out.” Nonetheless, it’s an “amicable” split and J. C. goes about the grueling task of balancing the dual roles of mother and supposedly indispensable employee, which is something women have been expected to manage ever since “equality” became “a thing.” A “rock n’ roll, deal with it” attitude foisted upon women by the men who aren’t expected to perform any such feat (except in “comedic” 80s movies like Mr. Mom and Three Men and a Baby).

    Well, J. C. isn’t quite “dealing with it”—not in the way her boss, Fritz Curtis (Sam Wanamaker), finds satisfactory anyway. The same goes for David Lin (Ronny Chieng), the boss of star roboticist/toymaker Gemma (Allison Williams) in M3GAN (a.k.a. Model 3 Generative Android). Except David’s dissatisfaction is expressed before the arrival of an unwanted and unexpected child in Gemma’s life: her niece, Cady (Violet McGraw). While she’s supposed to be perfecting a new prototype for Perpetual Petz (sort of like a Giga Pets concept meets a Furby aesthetic, but far more sinister), she has instead been working on a more advanced project in the form of Megan, an AI-powered doll that blows up right in her face (literally) when she’s caught by David running tests on it with her coworkers and collaborators, Tess (Jen Van Epps) and Cole (Brian Jordan Alvarez). Having secretly spent one hundred thousand dollars of company money to work on it, Gemma drops further down the workplace shit list when her now-deceased sister leaves her only child in Gemma’s care right at this time.

    Indeed, just as it was in Raising Helen, Cady’s parents die in a car crash. In such a way, mind you, that gives one cause to believe that their stupidity in not putting chains on their tires might have been Darwinism at work, if you catch one’s drift. At least in Lindsay (Felicity Huffman) and Paul Davis’ (Sean O’Bryan) case, it wasn’t their fault they were mowed down by another car (minding their own business when another vehicle jumped the center divide and crashed into them). In Cady’s parents’ case, it definitely was, as they chose to remain at a standstill in a snowstorm without pulling over to the side of the road. Cady, who was in the backseat trying to take her seatbelt off to save her Perpetual Pet, remains unscathed. And yes, her unhealthy attachment to an inanimate object is far more disturbing than the one Helen Harris’ (Kate Hudson) youngest niece, Sarah (Abigail Breslin), has to a hippo stuffed animal (named, what else, Hippo). In truth, her clinginess to this simple, “analog” hippo smacks of a far simpler time, when AI wasn’t a factor in the manufacture of “toys.” Now merely tech devices in disguise. That Gemma was the one who gifted the Perpetual Pet (which, as mentioned, she designed herself for Funki, the Seattle-based toy company where she works) to Cady not only indicates that she had no idea how annoying it would be to a parent subjected to it, but also serves as a foreshadowing of the Frankenstein to come. For that’s what Megan is: a monstrous creature of Gemma’s own making.

    And yet, she might not ever have continued focusing on the project were it not for the unwitting urging of Cady, who sees another prototype named Bruce from Gemma’s college-era robotics days and regards its capabilities in awe. When Gemma explains that advanced toys like these are impossible to market because of how expensive they would retail, Cady off-handedly notes, “If I had a toy like that, I don’t think I would ever need another one.” Bring on the “determined” scene of Gemma magically being able to finish her creation anew (no explanation as to where she suddenly got all the “extra” supplies to do it). And voilà, Megan. An Olsen twin-looking creep (though Johnstone stated she was meant to be modeled after a combination of Grace Kelly, Kim Novak, Audrey Hepburn and Peggy Lipton). But Cady seems to like her. Mainly because she’s far more interested in paying attention to Cady than Gemma is—still set in her “selfish” (i.e., liberated) ways to the point where we’re given a scene of Gemma and Cady sitting across the table from one another with the latter totally desperate to be noticed by her aunt as she concentrates on some work through her phone—a total inverse of the dynamic we’ve become accustomed to seeing between parent and child. Or “guardian” and child. But it is Megan who swiftly takes over the role of caretaker for Gemma, who really can’t be bothered. Sure, she had the chance to foist Cady onto her grandparents in Florida (Helen’s nieces and nephew also have grandparents in Florida, theirs in Miami as opposed to Jacksonville), but perhaps we’re supposed to believe something like guilt was too powerful of an emotion for her to do such a thing. So yeah, Megan turns out to be a great unpaid nanny to pick up the slack where Gemma can’t (read: doesn’t want to).

    It is Tess who is the one to point out to Gemma that, if Megan is doing all the parenting, what are the moral implications of this “toy”? What’s the purpose of being a parent at all if you’re just going to have “someone else” do the job for you? Here, the same old guilt trip is reinstated for women who would dare to think they could “have it all.” But, as usual, they must eventually choose. Granted, at least in M3GAN, some sign of “progress” has been shown in that Gemma’s boss seems totally uninterested in Gemma’s new status as “Mom,” so much as the dollar signs the kid is providing by becoming a test subject with Megan, “pairing” with her (like any device does), as it were, so that Gemma can collect as much data as possible before rolling out the product to the public. In contrast, the bosses in Baby Boom and Raising Helen are utterly vexed by the plight of juggling motherhood with work. For, just as J. C. is expected to magically make her situation “work,” so is Helen, with no understanding from her Miranda Priestly-esque boss, Dominique (Helen Mirren). The Dominique in Dominique Modeling Agency where Helen serves as her assistant a.k.a. right-hand woman. A role that has become increasingly difficult to uphold with three kids to consider. Dominique is especially horrified when Helen dares to bring the trio to a fashion show, sucking all the glamor out of the front row. When Helen subsequently causes one of the agency’s top models, Martina (Amber Valletta), to get her face covered in permanent marker by the kids at Sarah’s school, it’s the final straw for Dominique. She cannot fucking deal with this children bullshit anymore. That’s how Gemma herself feels, a sentiment that eventually extends to Megan as she becomes just another “child” to concern herself over—what with Megan interpreting Gemma’s instruction to “protect Cady” as license to kill whoever she deems a threat.

    With the “doll” having transmuted into a serial killer, Gemma accepts that such a “toy” (slated to sell for ten thousand dollars a pop) can’t be released. But her revelations are too little, too late, with David in full-tilt launch party mode and Cady so addicted to her “best friend” that she acts like a heroin addict in withdrawal when Gemma takes Megan away from her to try “troubleshooting.” Having been so focused on not wanting Cady to be sad (therefore, not feel anything at all) by distracting her with Megan, when Cady tells her she needs the “doll” back because she doesn’t feel so awful when Megan’s around, Gemma has the epiphany, “You’re supposed to feel this way. The worst thing that could have happened to you happened.” As it did for the Davis children in Raising Helen. By the same token, these children losing their parents is also the worst thing that could have happened to the free-spirited, independent woman forced to take them on. At one moment in Raising Helen, she demands of her potential love interest, “Pastor Dan” (John Corbett), “Do you have any idea what this has done to my life?” Pastor Dan retorts, “Do you have any idea what it’s done to theirs?” Because no, there is not supposed to be any empathy for the woman in such a scenario who, for all intents and purposes, gets fucked over with this responsibility, but instead for the children who end up “stuck” with her.

    Raising Helen is the only film of the three that wants us to briefly believe that Helen might have actually come to her senses and embraced who she is as a person by forking the children over to her more responsible sister, Jenny (Joan Cusack). Afterward, Dominique “joyfully” (or as much joy as the plastic surgery will allow her to express) welcomes Helen back, noting, “Ibsen wrote, ‘Not all women are meant to be mothers.’” And yet, in Movie World, of course they are. That’s the message that always gets reiterated: no woman is so “heartless” a.k.a. career-oriented that she wouldn’t soon realize that the “reward” of having a child far outweighs any sense of gratification she might have gotten in her job. Even someone as overtly single-minded and self-oriented as Gemma.

    This, too, is why, upon briefly going back to her old life toward the end of Raising Helen’s third act, Helen suddenly fathoms that it doesn’t “fit” her anymore. So we cue the scene of her half-heartedly clubbing while looking completely empty inside before she begs Jenny to let her have the kids back. Similarly, Gemma dips out on the launch David has been planning so that she can keep Cady separated from Megan and reestablish herself as the “dominant force” that Cady should be attaching to in the wake of her parents’ death—not some killer robot. A forced attachment that conveniently comes just in time for Gemma to be spared from getting passed over by Cady in favor of a non-human.

    Now that she’s fully committed to motherhood with no AI help, perhaps we can try to naively believe that Gemma will be able to carry on with her work as before, even getting plenty of useful tips on successful toymaking from an actual child. But, in the end, she’ll sacrifice in the same manner as J. C. and Helen, all while telling herself that this “job” is far more important and worthwhile. Thus, the filmic method for brainwashing the last “holdouts” against motherhood continues. Even in something as ostensibly un-romantic-comedy as M3GAN—for there are now more “covert” ways to sell motherhood to single, job-loving women in techno-horror-comedy.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • On the Arrogance of “The Boy” and the Logistical Nightmare of Boning Two Different Women Who Live Next Door to Each Other

    On the Arrogance of “The Boy” and the Logistical Nightmare of Boning Two Different Women Who Live Next Door to Each Other

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    There are many moments in “The Boy Is Mine” video that require more than just “a little” suspension of disbelief. But chief among them is “The Boy” in question, played by Mekhi Phifer, thinking he can actually get away with balling two women who live right next door to each other. This embodies either peak arrogance or peak stupidity. One tends to believe the latter. And it seems that the song it riffs off of, “The Girl Is Mine” by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney, did well to eschew a video altogether. Even if Jackson and McCartney probably would have had an easier time sharing a woman as neither one shared the same taste in domiciles (Jackson having a very specific flavor indeed with regard to his residences). As such, “The Girl” of their tale likely never would have encountered them living next door to each other the way “The Boy” does in the Joseph Kahn-directed video from Brandy and Monica.

    Evincing the set design aesthetic of Britney Spears and Madonna’s “Me Against the Music” video long before it was released, “The Boy Is Mine” was shot in such a way so that we can see each “cube” a.k.a. apartment that Brandy and Monica inhabit at the same time, with the “strip” of a wall dividing their abodes as they hear different goings-on in the other’s apartment. Though, thankfully, never the familiar moaning sound of “The Boy” orgasming too soon. They don’t even seem to hear the sound of the other girl’s TV as they war for airwave frequencies the same way they do for “The Boy.” Brandy wants to watch The Jerry Springer Show (still endlessly relevant in 1998), while Monica wants to watch a generic black-and-white old movie or show (so generic it seems unidentifiable). As they go back and forth on switching each other’s channel without comprehending their next-door neighbor is responsible, it serves as the symbolic first “instance” of the women fighting over something—in this case, use of their TV. Because we’re evidently to assume that it must be an electrical wiring shitshow in that building.

    Not that it matters, so long as “The Boy” shows up to keep one of them company. When that doesn’t happen, Brandy is obliged to invite over three extremely disinterested friends to sit in her apartment and regale them with her spiel about how “The Boy” is hers, not yet suspecting, for whatever reason, that “The Other Woman” lives right next door. Meanwhile, Monica is also talking to her own trio of friends as she, too, ruminates on how “The Boy” is hers, playing the “McCartney” role in the permutation. And yes, “The Girl Is Mine” is a far milder, “sweeter” song, with Jackson lightly “asserting” in the opening verse, “Every night she walks right in my dreams/Since I met her from the start I’m so proud I am the only one/Who is special in her heart.” McCartney quickly debunks Jackson’s delusions of heterosexuality with, “I don’t understand the way you think/Saying that she’s yours not mine/Sending roses and your silly dreams/Really just a waste of time.”

    Eventually, Jackson is pushed to screaming, “But we both cannot have her/So it’s one or the other/And one day you’ll discover/That she’s my girl forever and ever.” So much for polite declarations like, “The doggone girl is mine.” A cheesy line, to be sure. Which is probably part of why Brandy and Monica wanted to update the concept with a far more believable lyrical display of jealousy as they go mano a mano with, “You need to give it up/Had about enough/It’s not hard to see/The boy is mine.” But when we’re actually first introduced to “The Boy,” it’s clear he belongs to no one as he flashes a winsome smile at each friend set leaving Brandy’s and Monica’s respective apartments. It is in this moment that we must ask ourselves: why wouldn’t one of the friends mention something about this sighting? Only further adding to the incongruity of the idea that Brandy and Monica wouldn’t catch on sooner to the fact that “The Boy” has been visiting each of their apartments regularly (granted, it’s not any more incongruous than Jackson and McCartney being similar enough in their “predilections” to like the same woman). As though the idea of being caught by one of them gets him off all the more. 

    If one was looking for signs of who he actually prefers, however, he seems far more interested in ogling Monica’s friend trio than Brandy’s. So maybe that means Monica is more his type? Who knows? It often feels like men are attracted to anything with a womanly shape, with no discernment regarding face. In that sense, “The Boy”—and all the boys he represents—has something tantamount to prosopagnosia. A convenient excuse for not caring who a person is so long as their vag feels slightly different when fucking.

    The addiction to “experiencing” different pussies for men like “The Boy” is part of what might come across as bravado, but is ultimately as simple as a total lack of concern for the emotions of the woman who’s bought into the yarn he’s spun for her. Believing him when he whispers sweet nothings like, “Without you, I couldn’t make it through the day.” Of course, there’s no mention of the night, when he has manifold punani options. A.k.a. what “The Boy” has in Brandy and Monica. For we soon see him with his arms around each woman in alternating crosscuts. That he’s wearing the same cornball shirt (rife for being worn by Will Ferrell or Chris Kattan in A Night at the Roxbury) in each scene indicates this is all one evening. He’s so out of control that he’s seeing both of them in a single night. Though, again, the logistics of this are highly implausible, for why would the first girl he visited “let him go” so quickly? What’s more, even if he pretended to leave by making a big show of walking down the hall and getting on the elevator, there’s no way Brandy or Monica wouldn’t hear him knocking on a different door when he came back. For they can certainly seem to hear one another during the back and forth that ensues later on that night when they’re both flexing their silk pajama set game.

    As Kahn pans rapidly between the rooms divided by a thin wall, they each appear to be having a conversation with one another through that wall as Monica announces, “What we have you can’t take… I can tell the real from the fake” and Brandy shouts back things like, “When will you get the picture?/You’re the past, I’m the future.” Brandy even makes the universally understood gesture for “crazy” when she says, “I’m sorry that you seem to be confused.”

    In the next scene, however, it’s Brandy who looks confused when she hears the phone ring and goes to answer it, only to realize it was coming from Monica’s apartment (once more, we have to ask: where was this ability to hear everything going on through the paper-thin walls when “The Boy” was yukking it up in the other’s apartment?). After Monica hangs up from her conversation with “The Boy,” he then has the audacity to call Brandy to confirm plans with her as well, with both women having put on their “going out” ensembles. This, too, presents a great risk to being caught. Moreover, wouldn’t the girl who was scheduled for the ultra-early or ultra-late date be suspicious about the timing of the get-together? How does he honestly think he can carry this off?

    The answer is that he clearly can’t as Brandy and Monica finally get wise (way too late in the game, if one considers realism) to his two-timing and decide to have a little fun of their own with the dirty bastard. But not before each woman gets rid of her framed photos and photo albums featuring pictures of them with “The Boy” (as well as any “trinkets” or “tokens of affection” he gave them)—this indicating that the relationships have been going on for at least months, prompting the viewer to continue scratching their head on how he wouldn’t have been caught coming or going from one of their apartments by the other far sooner. Tossing all of the romantic ephemera out at the same time at their front door, Brandy and Monica still want to blame the other one briefly for what is “The Boy’s” fuckery and betrayal—which neither woman is responsible for. And yet, perhaps because of the scarcity of hot straight men, they want to fight just a bit longer over who he really belonged to.

    In the final moments of the video, “The Boy” hints anew at who he might truly prefer (and not just because Phifer would also star with Brandy in I Still Know What You Did Last Summer that year) as he decides to knock on Brandy’s door (Apt. 6) first, only to be blindsided by Monica also answering the door with her. Was he really so deluded as to think this wouldn’t happen sooner or later? Signs point to yes as he appears genuinely surprised to not only see both of them, but then have the door slammed in his face.  

    Nonetheless, the video offers no truly satisfying resolution. One really wants to know, did “The Boy” end up smooth-talking his way into a threesome? Did he choose to home in on one girl and convince her to stay with him? If so, did that result in one of the girls having to move out of her apartment to avoid the awkwardness of such a situation? If not, did Brandy and Monica claim sweet revenge beyond just a slammed door by throwing him out one of their windows? Whatever one’s fan fiction chooses to lean toward, the fact remains that “The Boy” is emblematic of the level of arrogance many “single” straight men still possess because they believe themselves to be “at a premium” for their rarity. Not to mention that no one involved in the video’s concept thought about how daft it would make Brandy and Monica look to not instantly pick up on the romantic con.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Madonna’s “Take A Bow” Video As Harbinger of Technosexuality and Obsessing Over a Simulacrum of a Person

    Madonna’s “Take A Bow” Video As Harbinger of Technosexuality and Obsessing Over a Simulacrum of a Person

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    By the time Madonna’s Bedtime Stories album came out in 1994, the postmodern era was well into effect. Indeed, one might say Madonna single-handedly created its peak in the 1980s (Don DeLillo merely wrote in its style). Not just with her own career being birthed at the same time as MTV (where she became more known for her visuals than her music), but with her unapologetic commitment to “synergistic efforts” that were previously balked at by most musicians who felt their job simply ought to be making music. Madonna, in contrast, was the first truly “multimedia” icon. Even if that Pepsi commercial only did air twice in the United States. A truly profligate waste of five million dollars, which Madonna pocketed without looking back.

    In fact, “not looking back” was her modus operandi for a long time. And when the 90s arrived, she was determined to change her musical and aesthetic tack with the new decade. That meant a mélange of house and R&B “flavors,” which started to manifest on 1992’s Erotica before Madonna more noticeably softened her tone (e.g., no more talk of teaching us how to fuck) on Bedtime Stories. That softness being most marked on “Take A Bow,” the second single from the record (following “Secret”). Co-produced by Babyface, the track remained at number one on the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 for seven weeks, and saturated the culture so much that it was played during the season one finale of Friends. To add to the instant classic nature of the song, Madonna filmed a Michael Haussman-directed video for it in Ronda, Spain. And, being Spain, M naturally thought to incorporate bullfighting. Along with a steamy real-life bullfighter named Emilio Muñoz (Madonna never being shy about parading her enthusiasm for Latin men…or women, for that matter).

    Although the internet became available for public use the year before, in 1993, it was still too “germinal” to consider in mainstream pop culture. That’s why Madonna and most others continued to suck firmly on the TV titty—wielding that as the beacon of modern life more than computers/an “online presence” just yet. Accordingly, in the “Take A Bow” video, Madonna taps into the trend-turned-way-of-life that is obsessing over a simulacrum of a person via television. Even though she might have had a love affair with The Bullfighter in actuality, their botched romance has rendered her into little better than an obsessive ex who scrolls through their erstwhile boyfriend’s social media profiles as we see her watching him on TV and caressing his Screen Face.

    Despite The Bullfighter breaking her heart, she can’t seem to let go of the prototype, as it were, that she fell in love with. The “edition” of him that lured her in the first place. And that’s the trap many fall prey to after a breakup: still romanticizing a relationship by remembering the honeymoon period and wondering where it all went wrong. Why it couldn’t stay as it was in the beginning. But with screens, whether attached to a TV or, now, phones, the simulacrum is able to provide the version of a person that one wants (mainly because the public images and videos that people choose to parade tend to show them at their “best”). Or rather, the version that they want to believe in, for projections can thrive long after being disillusioned in real life by the person in question. So it is that we see Madonna both depressed and aroused in a Ronda hotel room as she touches the screen with her ex on it as lovingly as she would to his actual cheek. Perhaps more lovingly, because he can’t talk back a.k.a. say anything that might break the illusion of his “perfection.”

    The rise of technosexuality in our current landscape was something Madonna foretold as well in this video, slipping under sheets in her lingerie with the TV. Where a pristine version of a person she can project all of her fantasies onto resides. If there is one single image from the twentieth century that embodies the coalescing of (wo)man with machine, it is this. For it is the indelible representation of there no longer being a real distinction between a person and an “apparatus,” with the former having made itself merely an extension of the latter. And since fetishizing the non-real version of people has only ramped up in the twenty-first century, it’s easier than ever to sexualize a simulacrum (see: OnlyFans). This then becomes a fine line between actually wanting to fuck a person versus the very machine they’re being viewed on.

    To that point, Madonna places her crotch near the screen where The Bullfighter goes about his bullfighting pageantry. She wants to fuck him again so badly, that the machine with his image on it becomes an adequate enough substitute. In this fashion, Madonna builds on the so-called sci-fi element of J. G. Ballard’s Crash, which also foretold of the human “fusing” with machinery to the point of seeing it as a viable sexual outlet (this tends to include vibrators, one would posit). To boot, she appears far more satisfied with the simulacrum than the real thing when Haussman finally does cut to a scene of them “consummating” in the flesh toward the end of the video. The tryst is violent and messy—something that would never happen with a screen. Nor would an-all-too-abrupt splooge, as we see The Bullfighter orgasming from Madonna’s perspective beneath him. This shot quickly transitions to him walking away from her as she cries against a wall. Her tangible experience, ruined by his callous, detached approach, was just so upsetting compared to the imagined form of it. For whatever reason (maybe just to feel something), The Bullfighter subsequently walks through a stream of broken glass in response. Pain is pleasure for some people, after all.

    Upon finishing his “glass walk,” the tables are turned on The Bullfighter as he adjusts his head to glance back at the TV where, presently, Madonna’s own image is on it. This reversal infers that it’s his turn, at last, to have no choice but to fetishize the simulacrum—because that was the last time she was ever going to give him any pussy (confirmed by the sequel to this video, “You’ll See”). So he, like her, caresses her Screen Face before the switch is made back to his Screen Face on TV, followed by Haussman panning out to reveal Madonna, once more, leaning against the wall in her room with his bullfighting image still playing on what appears to be a loop. Now, they can both be mere projections that each one can return to whenever they want as a source of pain-pleasure. Because that’s what it is to have access to a simulacrum of a person: constant self-torture thanks to the irresistible option to revisit their onscreen effigy.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Breaking Free of A Friendship Prison Is Especially Challenging on an Island: The Banshees of Inisherin

    Breaking Free of A Friendship Prison Is Especially Challenging on an Island: The Banshees of Inisherin

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    It’s a simple, yet largely unaddressed subject matter: when one friend wants out of a long-standing friendship and the other doesn’t. But now, Martin McDonagh’s The Banshees of Inisherin is sure to become part of the definitive list featuring the scant few films (including Sandra Goldbacher’s Me Without You) that acknowledge the all-too-common occurrence. Even if it’s usually attributed to an era in one’s life when “growing pains” are more palpable (i.e., adolescence). Maybe that’s why it’s more “believable” to see friendship rifts in teen-centric fare such as My So-Called Life and Thirteen. The Banshees of Inisherin nevertheless illuminates how and why it’s only too possible for a friendship at one’s later stage in life to deteriorate. Or, in Pádraic Súilleabháin’s (Colin Farrell) case, to get pulled abruptly from him like a ripcord.

    The one performing the excision, as it were, is Colm Doherty (Brendan Gleeson). As the older (dare one even say “paternal”) of the two friends, he seems to have an epiphany about the way he wants to spend the rest of his time on this Earth. Which is to say: usefully. He no longer wants to endure the mindless, mostly one-sided chatter that he’s put up with for all these years as Pádraic’s best and ostensibly only friend. Not that he can fully be blamed for that, what with Inisherin being a small (fictional) island off the coast of Ireland… making it an especial challenge to ditch someone when you suddenly realize you can’t handle their inferior intellect any longer.

    The time and place of The Banshees of Inisherin is, in McDonagh fashion, as integral to the story as the characters themselves. Setting the year in 1923, at the end of the Irish Civil War that cropped up right after the Irish War of Independence from Britain, the conflict that keeps escalating on the mainland is suddenly being mirrored in the schism between Colm and Pádraic. One that happens instantaneously with the opening of the film, as Pádraic goes to Colm’s house to see if he’s coming ‘round to the pub. Refusing to answer the door, Colm merely sits in his chair in the center of the room smoking a cigarette as Pádraic peers in at him through the window. Despite his pleas about going to the pub, Colm continues to ignore him until he leaves.

    Flummoxed by this cold shoulder, Pádraic returns to his own modest abode, where a woman one might initially assume is his wife is in the midst of hanging laundry. That assumption is soon debunked when Siobhán (Kerry Condon) demands, “What are you doin’ home?” When he doesn’t reply, she adds, “Brother, what are you doin’ home?” So it is that we’re made aware of the Finneas O’Connell/Billie Eilish dynamic at play, with the two sharing a room together and Pádraic being dependent upon Siobhán to act in the housewife role while he tends to the animals. Among them being a precious and too-pure-for-this-world donkey named Jenny. Her sweetness equaling to “dumbness” (much like the eponymous, Christ-like donkey in Au Hasard Balthazar) is yet another foil in the script, designed to represent Pádraic’s own genial disposition. Before Colm ends up twisting and contorting it with his cruelty. And yet, those who might empathize with Colm’s stance on the matter can understand his reasoning in abruptly deciding to jettison a dead-weight friendship. One that, as he says, doesn’t “help” him in any way—more specifically, doesn’t elevate him intellectually in any way.

    Colm, like most creatives living in an era before major signs of full-tilt climate catastrophe served as a portent of human extinction, is of the belief that spending his time making art is more worthwhile. That this will be the key to an enduring legacy. Not just plodding along through life being “nice” for the sake of avoiding hurt feelings. Who has time for such bollocks when they’ve got an artistic output to focus on? His being musical composition via the fiddle (again, this is Ireland).

    But Pádraic truly can’t fathom this about-face Colm has exhibited. Except, as he drunkenly notes one night, maybe it wasn’t an about-face. Maybe Colm was like this (read: an arsehole) all along, and only “tolerated” Pádraic because it’s fairly impossible to avoid someone on a small island. Colm, refusing to give in to that geographical imprisonment any longer, warns Pádraic that every time he keeps talking to or approaching him like some pathetic beaten lapdog coming back for more agony, Colm will remove one of his fingers with sheep shears. The disbelief in Pádraic’s eyes when he says this is quickly mitigated by the appearance of one of Colm’s digits on his doorstep the next time he tries to communicate with him.

    Such commitment to extricating Pádraic from Colm’s life causes great pain and suffering to the former, who had so few enjoyments on the island to begin with—apart from his animals and the company of his sister, who, like Colm, is too learned for a place like this, and it’s starting to kill her inside. That’s why she takes a chance on applying for a librarian job on the mainland—one that she actually gets chosen for, as the local gossip, Mrs. O’Riordan (Bríd Ní Neachtain), informs her after opening her letter. As Siobhán leaves the general store with the letter in hand, Mrs. O’Riordan calls out, “It’d crucify him, you leavin’!” Here, again, the Christ-like nature of Pádraic, reflected in the donkey as well, is highlighted before we see the complete shift in Pádraic’s personality from happy-go-lucky and affable (qualities that are pronounced in the opening scenes of him smiling and waving to everyone he comes across on the island) to embittered, enraged and vindictive. His innocence totally lost by the midpoint of the film, as even Dominic (Barry Keoghan), the island’s supposed “dimmest” resident, regards him as being among the worst—just like every other miserable denizen of Inisherin.

    At the beginning of The Banshees of Inisherin, when Pádraic still has his innocence intact, he hears gunshots in the distance of the mainland, remarking to himself, “Good look to ye, whatever it is you’re fightin’ about.” The wish of good luck is as much for himself and his own defunct friendship as it is for the degenerating relations among Irish people. This also ties into Pádraic’s pub argument about niceness being the best and most enduring legacy. Rebuffed by Colm, who tells him that only art lasts (to reiterate, this is because climate change wasn’t then a fear). That people from centuries ago are only known and remembered for what they contributed in fields like music and poetry. That once everyone who knew Pádraic and Siobhán dies, their “niceness” will be forgotten. What’s the point in being “nice”? A question also demanded by the warring factions of Ireland rowing in the distance.

    As Pádraic grows more and more alienated and disillusioned, he becomes as committed to the cause of his discord with Colm as the IRA is to its own with the Provisional Government of Ireland. Which is why, when Colm notes in an ephemeral moment of kindness, “Haven’t heard any rifle fire on the mainland in a day or two. I think they’re comin’ to the end of it,” Pádraic replies, “I’m sure they’ll be at it again soon enough, aren’t you? Some things there’s no movin’ on from.” He pauses and looks over emotionally at Colm to conclude, “And I think that’s a good thing.”

    Thus, his character has fully mutated into a hardened, unforgiving fear (the appropriate word in Irish for “man”). Who will not rest until he expels the friendship in a far more final way than Colm had imagined. For just as the Irish infighting that began in 1923 has persisted over all these decades—amid illusory periods of “peace”—so, too, will the infighting between Pádraic and Colm. Until someone finally loses their life over it.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Better to Have a Constant Sense of Dread Than Be Dead (Or Is It?): Noah Baumbach Revives White Noise at a Moment We Need to be Reminded of Our Inherent Doom

    Better to Have a Constant Sense of Dread Than Be Dead (Or Is It?): Noah Baumbach Revives White Noise at a Moment We Need to be Reminded of Our Inherent Doom

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    A long-held fear is being dredged up in the artistic output of late. The one that Woody Allen made an entire career out of before everyone suddenly remembered his 1992 sexual abuse allegation. That fear, of course, is death. “The march toward nonexistence,” as Babette (Greta Gerwig) phrases it in Noah Baumbach’s adaptation of Don DeLillo’s 1985 novel, White Noise. It’s a “march” we’re all told we must face, sooner or later. No matter how many advancements in medical care and plastic surgery, or how much money one has at their disposal to stave off Death for as long as possible.

    For a while, it seemed as though our collective society had forgotten about death… at least as a muse for artistic inspiration. Or perhaps it had become too much of a cliché to keep bringing it up in art. Plus, the more recent obsession with the carnival of horrors known as modern politics is what’s been keeping most artists preoccupied with regard to what shows up in their work. Yet that general sense of anxiety always leads back to one core fear: it’s all going to end. Both for the individual and the world at large. To that point, Baumbach is here to remind us of what DeLillo (and every other writer) has been saying since time immemorial—by adapting the author’s most well-known (and possibly most beloved) work. And, although not similar in caliber or subject matter, another recently-adapted novel from Taffy Brodesser-Akner, Fleishman Is In Trouble, evokes the same sense of middle-age-related doom and gloom. As Toby Fleishman (played by Jesse Eisenberg in the limited series) puts it, “This is what our ancestors died for: the right for us to be middle-aged and bored and miserable.” And yet, despite this misery, not seeing death as something to be welcomed, so much as feared. With the ultimate fear always being the unknown—for that allows the human mind to build up fear to a much more intense, debilitating level.

    In the decade when White Noise was released as a novel, the advent of American society’s own sense of “settling into middle-age” was at a peak: Reagan was president, the suburban “dream” was still a sought-after “ambition” and yuppie “culture” reigned supreme. By the same token, the postmodern “affliction” was crystallized by the arrival of MTV, with its “scandalizing” imagery that peddled—in the eyes of such pearl-clutchers as Nancy Reagan and Tipper Gore—sex, drugs and sin. Even though the latter was married to “liberal” Al Gore, she was known for being especially upset by Madonna (then in the height of her “Like A Virgin” vixen days), declaring, “Popular culture is morally bankrupt, flagrantly licentious and utterly materialistic—and Madonna is the worst of all.” Perhaps she took “Material Girl” too literally? A song, incidentally, that ironically mocks the Decade of Excess through a video that finds Madonna rebuffing her male suitors’ promises of diamonds and furs and other assorted trappings of wealth in favor of a simple bouquet of flowers. Appropriately, this song also came out the year White Noise did, a book hailed as the “cornerstone of postmodern literature” (sorry Less Than Zero). As such, it’s only natural that White Noise should exist within the timeframe of the 1980s, when the American population naively assumed the information-action ratio couldn’t ever possibly get worse. Little did they know… The Internet.

    The eighties were also distinct in offering some of the first thoroughly modern instances of just how much technological “snafus” could wreak havoc on the average joe—and the environment (see: the Exxon Valdez oil spill). But more than that, there was an overall aura of contempt for authority spurred by decades of disappointment brought on by the perpetually lying U.S. government (a trend that persisted in the 80s with the Iran-Contra affair). Maybe that’s what stoked a brewing rage within the quiet and complacent. The American ilk that so love their car crashes because they just want to watch something burn, if not the world itself. This could be why Baumbach chooses to commence the film not with the scene of station wagons dropping their kids off at College-on-the-Hill, where Jack “J.A.K.” Gladney (Adam Driver) works as the chairman of the Department of Hitler Studies (this being a dig at the rise of “novelty academic intellectualism”), but rather, with a lecture from his colleague, Murray Siskind (Don Cheadle).

    Echoing the machine-fetishizing themes J. G. Ballard presented in Crash (another novel that’s become increasingly prophetic/relevant of late), Siskind tells his students, “Don’t think of a car crash in a movie as a ‘violent act.’ No, these collisions are part of a long tradition of American optimism. A reaffirmation of traditional beliefs and values… Think of these crashes like you would Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. On these days, we don’t mourn the dead or rejoice in miracles. No, these are days of secular optimism. Of self-celebration. Each crash is meant to be better than the last.” As Siskind’s montage of ever-advancing and escalating car crashes is shown on a film reel to the class, Baumbach offers us a shot of a car exploding and its nuclear-esque mushroom cloud reflecting back in the glasses of a rapt student.

    This hard-on for watching crashes—a.k.a. the suffering and death of others—is part of a unique form of schadenfreude that only materialized in American culture with the dawning of the twenty-four-hour news cycle, itself a type of “white noise” after a while. Indeed, the reiteration of the distinct types of “postmodern” white noise are mentioned often in DeLillo’s novel, replete with phrases like, “There is an expressway beyond the backyard now, well below us, and at night as we settle into our brass bed the sparse traffic washes past, a remote and steady murmur around our sleep, as of dead souls babbling at the edge of a dream.”

    With all the noise and clamoring for attention brought on by media oversaturation and conspicuous consumerism, everything seems and sounds like “dead souls babbling at the edge of a dream.” And every “cataclysm”—rendered so meaningless from constant replays on TV—is reduced to mere “event.” Especially that of the environmental catastrophe variety. This being why, during the segment called “The Airborne Toxic Event,” Jack is quick to dismiss Babette and their children’s (most of whom are from Jack and Babette’s previous marriages) fears of what the “feathery plume”-turned-“black billowing cloud” might do to their well-being. To him, the thought of it actually affecting him and his family is so remote, he assures Babette, “These things [read: negative effects of chemicals wreaking environmental mayhem] happen to people who live in exposed areas. Society is set up, I mean sadly, in such a way that it’s the poor and uneducated who suffer the main impact of natural and man-made disasters.” “It is sad,” Babette replies in her obligatory white guilt manner. Jack adds, “Did you ever see a college professor rowing a boat down his own street in one of those TV floods?”

    Alas, even those formerly comforted by the theoretical cocoon of their white privilege, like the Gladneys, are slowly (oh so slowly) coming to grips with the reality that, since the continued use of 80s-era business and consumer practices, the environment has lately offered us nothing but the same energy we’ve been giving it for too long in return.

    So it is that the fear of death in the postmodern 80s (complete with “incidents” such as the Chernobyl disaster) has been compounded in the present by being among the first generations to see truly apocalyptic climate change phenomena signaling the potential extinction of humans. A double layer of fearing death. And yet, in the face of humans knowing that pretty much everything they do and love is a threat to the very environment that allows them to live, they still engage in the same behavior. Ergo, the simultaneous fear of death combined with constantly engaging in “death wish” activities centered around the American passion for chemical substances in everything they consume is the great dichotomy of the twentieth century, and now, the twenty-first.  

    Talking of consumerism (as one finds practically unavoidable whether discussing White Noise or not), the unspoken additional main character in White Noise is product placement itself (with DeLillo originally wanting to title his novel Panasonic—obviously, the corporation was not inclined to oblige). This is appropriate not only because DeLillo was a former copywriter, but because products are the “great cultural achievement” of the modern era. A reflection of all the choices we’ve been able to forge for ourselves only to become paralyzed by too much choice all signifying the same end. Coke, Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charms, Velveeta, Grey Poupon, Tide—everywhere the eye wanders during a scene of the film, there’s sure to be a recognizable brand. This, too, is the mark of our postmodern panic. Our disaffected dystopia. The fact that the things that consume us (under the pretense of us consuming them) exist in liminal non-spaces only adds to the overarching feeling of constant dread. As though we’ve fully realized how to make life as purgatory-esque as possible before that final step into the abyss. Another polite word for “death.”

    All lives must end and “all plots move deathward,” as Jack remarks to his class early on in the film, which is perhaps why the movie and the book meta-ly attempt to avoid full-tilt plot altogether. Hence, the “montage effect” of White Noise that became the norm with the dawning of the MTV generation. So fond of their “slick” edits and apropos-of-nothing jump cuts. Many likely wish that life itself could be experienced that way. That we could skip over the numerous (and primarily) mind-numbing parts just to feel slightly more alive. But without all that “filler” time (so much of which is occupied by waiting in lines—even online… just ask the Taylor Swift fans who tried to buy Eras Tour tickets), we would be edging closer and faster toward death. The “filler” portions of existence are what we’ve been conditioned to believe elongate the life experience—even if hours spent doing menial tasks like making money and then spending it on grocery shopping hardly equate to living.

    The supermarket as a purgatorial landscape outside of time and space was also something many were forced to reconcile with during the lockdowns of 2020, when the grocery store was the only “legal” outing permitted. Further emphasizing that the supermarket is where “life”—this modern non-life we’ve all agreed to—is at its most manifest. It provides everything one needs to live within the confines of the totally ersatz. Which is why it’s only right for White Noise to end at the giant A&P we’ve come to know so well over the course of the film, with Jack stating of it all, “I feel sad for us and the queer part we play in our own disasters. But out of some persistent sense of large-scale ruin, we keep inventing hope. And this is where we wait…together.”

    And with that, the consumers break out into a music video-worthy dance sequence to the tune of LCD Soundsystem’s “New Body Rhumba” (custom-made just for this movie). James Murphy, no stranger to lyrical depictions of existential dread, accordingly mirrors the increased sensation of anxiety and trepidation that arrives with middle-age by singing, “I need a new body, I need a new party/To represent my needs.” A younger body that might help evade the reaper for just a bit longer.

    The “new body” of the future, of course, could lie within the idea of “uploading consciousness.” As Grimes said, “Baby, you’re not even alive/If you’re not backed up on a drive.” In the meantime, there are plenty of products (and pharmaceuticals) to console you, to make you think you might somehow be delaying the bottom line. Shopping, after all, is a supposed means to avoid death. “Buy or die,” as the American-backed “philosophy” goes. Just as it was in the 80s, so it is now. Which is why it’s still easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • So Daniel Craig (De Facto Hugh Grant) Can Play Gay to Public Delight But No One Else Can?

    So Daniel Craig (De Facto Hugh Grant) Can Play Gay to Public Delight But No One Else Can?

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    Among the most talked-about “moments” from Rian Johnson’s Glass Onion, the latest edition to the Knives Out “saga,” isn’t so much a moment as a revelation toward the midpoint of the film. One spurred by the sight of Phillip (Hugh Grant) answering the door to Benoit Blanc’s (Daniel Craig) abode wearing an apron and with his face covered in flour. It can only confirm one thing, of course: Blanc is gay. Gay! (as Brittany Murphy would say in Drop Dead Gorgeous). And that his domestic partner is the reluctant cook between the two of them. Or maybe he’s only taking on that role at present while Blanc endures a lockdown depression that finds him spending most of his time in the bath (a piece of intelligence Phillip gives to Blanc’s quartet of Zoom-relegated friends, Angela Lansbury, Stephen Sondheim, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Natasha Lyonne). Whatever the case may be, Phillip answering the door to Helen Brand (Janelle Monáe) in an apron is enough of a “subtle implication” to cement Blanc’s sexuality in the viewer’s mind.

    Less subtle, many have argued, was a scene at the beginning of Glass Onion, when those invited to Miles Bron’s (Edward Norton) private island, including Andi (also Janelle Monáe), Claire (Kathryn Hahn), Lionel (Leslie Odom Jr.), Birdie (Kate Hudson) and Duke (Dave Bautista), have an instant gagging reaction to getting a mysterious spray spritzed into their mouth after being told by Miles’ stoic assistant (Ethan Hawke), “Remove your masks and extend your tongue. This will only be momentarily uncomfortable.” Suggestive, to be sure. And it is uncomfortable for everyone. Everyone, that is, except Benoit. Who is only too ready to receive with aplomb after the others choke on whatever the hell was in that spray gun (an exclusive batch of the vaccine just for rich people, one imagines). This, along with his “fabulous” wardrobe (seemingly inspired by Fred Jones from Scooby-Doo) and immunity to over-the-top flirtations from Birdie, are the stereotypical aspects of Being Gay that we’re meant to note in Benoit. And while they might be more “humorous” in the hands of an actually gay actor, with Craig embodying the “trait,” more sensitive viewers will likely be asking themselves the question that’s been posed repeatedly over the past several years: is it ever really “okay” for a straight to play gay? The answer varies depending on who one talks to, and has become a great source of contention vis-à-vis the very Art of Acting.

    In recent years, it’s found the likes of Darren Criss and even bisexual Kristen Stewart (who defended Mackenzie Davis’ portrayal of her lesbian girlfriend in Happiest Season) in hot water. Indeed, Criss announced in 2018 that he would no longer take on gay roles, despite Ryan Murphy clearly having no problem with casting him in them (along with Evan Peters). Of his decision, he specifically noted, “I want to make sure I won’t be another straight boy taking a gay man’s role.” Craig and Grant (who noticeably have first names as last names), in contrast, don’t seem to take issue with such a thing. Both British men, perhaps their inherent “flair” for the twee and fey is something they consider a “natural fit” for possessing homo cachet. The same method of “thinking” appeared to take hold of fellow Brit James Corden when he played a gay role in The Prom, a performance that was branded as being “gayface.” Those who offer the “an actor can play any role if they’re good enough” defense aren’t open to considering that it’s not about “good enough,” so much as it is about representation. That one simple yet long word that has become politicized to the nth degree in the era that has followed the post-#MeToo reckoning in Hollywood.

    Johnson himself being a straight man might also have something to do with the lack of consideration, for, as noted in an article from Refinery29, “Representation and authenticity are inherently impacted by… off-camera positions. The people in higher positions are the ones who can enact actual change.” Johnson, ostensibly, didn’t want to enact that change by casting a bona fide gay man in Benoit’s role. Although it’s not totally clear if Johnson always had this aspect of Benoit’s character “sorted” from the get-go, based on the fact that there was no attempt on his part to be a sleazeball in Knives Out in terms of trying to “romance” Marta Cabrera (Ana de Armas), one can buy that the “gay streak” was there all along. It just got ramped up in Glass Onion (particularly with Benoit’s flamboyant manner of dressing, another gay cliché). Blame Covid causing everyone to let their guard down, do away with airs, etc. Of course, if this were a Bond movie, he would be trying to get Andi/Helen’s knickers off within the first ten minutes of her introduction. And maybe even would have surrendered to Birdie’s “charms,” to boot.

    Instead, he seems more engaged by the sight of Duke’s very large pistol, especially when he sees that he even wears it while swimming, lasciviously commenting, “That is quite a piece.” Another innuendo occurs when Phillip remarks of Helen showing up at the door, “Blanc, there’s someone here for you. With a box”—the word “box” said with a mix of incredulity and slight disgust, as we all know gay men are more scandalized by pussy than even straight ones.

    Though straight men playing homo characters is nothing new, it’s become less and less “brushed aside” by viewers, even hetero ones. Which is why it’s somewhat surprising to find that little backlash has come to roost for Craig, Grant or Johnson regarding Benoit’s unveiled sexuality (of which Johnson noted that he “obviously is” gay). With some even going so far as to write, “Benoit Blanc is definitely obviously gay. And we love that for us.” Do we, though? Because the word “obviously” connotes that a straight portrayal of gay often tends to veer toward too obvious a.k.a. parody.

    Another prime example of two straights playing it gay came in the form of 2017’s Call Me By Your Name. With Timothée Chalamet and Armie Hammer (before his cannibal fetish came to light and he was banished) as Elio and Oliver, respectively, the movie was praised to the extent of being Academy Award-nominated. The same went for another earlier mainstream example of forbidden gay boy love: 2005’s Brokeback Mountain. But these were both films that arrived in theaters before Hollywood was officially supposed to “know better” (2017 truly being the last cutoff point for anything non-politically correct flying past the proverbial censors, though Colin Firth and Stanley Tucci didn’t get the message, as evidenced by 2020’s Supernova).

    While Benoit’s sexuality is presented more as a “comical footnote” in Glass Onion, that’s part of what makes it all the more problematic. And begs the question: how have Craig and Grant managed to slip past the Representation Patrol, while others, such as Scarlett Johansson, have been venomously condemned for even thinking of playing an LGBTQIA+ role? What’s more, it rarely seems to cut both ways with regard to a gay actor’s chance of playing a straight role. As Jasmine Johnson, an SVP of Development at Crypt TV said, “I do not feel like queer actors are given the same opportunity to play roles outside of their queerness that straight actors are given. I don’t want someone to tell me that I can only write stories that are whatever they have deemed my signifiers are… [but] we are not in the sort of world or society yet where there is equal representation, where there is equal opportunity, where all people understand what it’s like to struggle with your gender identity or sexuality.”

    Rupert Everett echoed some of Johnson’s sentiments when he stated in 2010 that, after coming out, “his opportunities dried up. He said the movie business is ‘a very heterosexual business’ that’s ‘run mostly by heterosexual men’ and lamented that straight actors taking gay roles has a stifling effect on gay actors who, like him, are no longer considered.” The likes of Craig and Grant, however, can frequently swing both ways unchecked (Grant having also previously played a repressed gay man in Maurice and a caricature of a gay man in The Gentlemen). As the general delight (thus far) over Benoit Blanc being gay has shown.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • The Emperor Has No Brain: Glass Onion Takes Shots at the Likes of Elon Musk, “Ye” and Even George W. Bush

    The Emperor Has No Brain: Glass Onion Takes Shots at the Likes of Elon Musk, “Ye” and Even George W. Bush

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    Although it’s only been three years since the release of Rian Johnson’s Knives Out, it feels like almost an entire lifetime has passed since that pre-pandemic, pre-Capitol riot era. And yes, in the scant temporal space since 2019, there’s no denying that more contempt for the rich and capitalism itself has arisen. Even if it means still going along with adhering to the system thanks to the wonders of apathetic resignation after coming to terms with the mantra, “No money, no power.”

    Indeed, Miles Bron (Edward Norton), the billionaire at the center of Johnson’s latest Knives Out installment, Glass Onion, is the one to note to Benoit Blanc (Daniel Craig), “Nobody wants you to break the system itself.” Even when it causes increasing discrepancies in the quality of living for two sects of humanity: the haves and the have-nots. Of course, Miles, being an Elon Musk type, doesn’t see himself as a billionaire, so much as a “disruptor.” Along with the rag-tag gang he’s been aligned with from the beginning of his ascent: Claire Debella (Kathryn Hahn), Lionel Toussaint (Leslie Odom Jr.), Birdie Jay (Kate Hudson) and Duke Cody (Dave Bautista).

    The true founder of the tech company cash cow that is Alpha and the erstwhile most central person to that group, however, is Andi Brand (Janelle Monáe). Although Miles sends an invitation to her every year for the lavish group reunions/getaways he likes to host, she hasn’t ever put in an appearance since Miles stabbed her in the back by cutting her out of the company when she didn’t consent to going forward with putting out a hydrogen-based “alternative fuel” called Klear. Johnson’s decision to set the movie at the height of COVID-19’s lockdown period (specifically commencing the film with the date, May 13, 2020), in addition to speaking to society’s obsession with “recent retromania,” is also a deliberate dig at the one-percent/celebrity set who flagrantly flouted the so-called rules that all the plebes had to adhere to. Including not engaging in large gatherings.

    But for people like Miles and his friends, there’s no risk of contagion if they gather together on a private island and, oh yeah, get spray-gunned in the mouth with an ostensible vaccine that no one else has access to. A plot point that feels like decided shade at that time Kim Kardashian took her own entire family/friend group to a private island during a continued peak of the pandemic for her birthday and posted a slew of photos with the caption, “After two weeks of multiple health screens and asking everyone to quarantine, I surprised my closest inner circle with a trip to a private island where we could pretend things were normal just for a brief moment in time.” The reaction she received to such a “humblebrag” was, expectedly, not one of “good for you”-esque joy. Peaches Christ, for instance, replied, “This is your idea of normal? Gross.”

    Most would tend to agree. And, if any of the “commoners” in Movieland found out about what Miles and company were doing/where they were, the same backlash would likely ensue. Luckily, Miles has all the means and resources to keep his whereabouts as privileged information. Plus, in true “eccentric billionaire” fashion, he doesn’t use privacy-shattering smartphones, just fax machines. Making the temptation to post/be tracked much less likely. As for his coterie of loyal lackeys, Birdie Jay has recently hit the jackpot with a line of sweatpants (called Sweetie Pants) just in time for the pandemic; Claire, the governor of Connecticut, is campaigning to run for Senate; Lionel, Miles’ “back pocket scientist,” has to make the hard decision about enabling Miles with the premature rollout of Klear, despite it not being tested thoroughly enough to understand the risks of releasing it; Duke is a “men’s rights” (the most oxymoronic words ever) activist with a following of millions on Twitch.

    Along for the privileged ride are Birdie’s assistant, Peg (Jessica Henwick), and Duke’s Taurus girlfriend, Whiskey (Madelyn Cline—a real Amber Heard circa the 00s type). And then there’s the unexplained presence of a deadbeat stoner named Derol (Noah Segan, who also appeared in Knives Out as Trooper Wagner), seemingly “part of” the island thanks to Miles permitting him to be there. The rest of the staff, however, has been exiled so that it can be just this exclusive “pod” of people. And so that Miles can maximize the intensity of the faux murder mystery he’s crafted for everyone to solve. One that centers on his “death” and finding out who the culprit is. Basically, a more interactive version of Clue (a board game, incidentally, that Benoit can’t stand due to its puerility).  

    The presence of Benoit Blanc, everyone assumes, is all part of Miles’ master plan in terms of this fake little game. Rich people assuming everything they do is “just a game,” as opposed to tampering with real lives. Not unlike Elon Musk when he took over Twitter and not only laid off half of its employees, but also sent many Twitter users running for the hills because of his own “free speech” politics that he wanted to bring to the platform. This included allowing “Ye” a.k.a. Kanye West to return to Twitter after his account was suspended in the wake of a series of antisemitic comments. Antisemitism being Ye’s “philosophy” of 2022. Which is why, apparently, upon returning to Twitter again, he doubled down on his Jew-hating stance by posting an image of a Star of David combining with a swastika.

    Quite frankly, it smacks of Birdie Jay’s own “brand” of controversy-stoking, which is to say, getting a rise out of people for the sake of being talked about. Ergo, dressing as Beyoncé for Halloween (one imagines that would include Blackface) or telling Oprah that the person she most identifies with is Harriet Tubman. The bottom line being, when one possesses the perilous combination of a large ego and bank account (both of which feed the other), there is no longer any grip on what the majority (read: broke asses) would call reality.  

    Nonetheless, people like Miles find a way to complain despite “having it all” (except the soul they sold). So it is that he laments to Benoit of his “lonely life,” “It’s all just fake smiles and agendas and people wanting what they think they’re owed. Hating you when you don’t give it to them because that’s what you’re there for.” He then adds, “I know it’s probably hard to have sympathy for the poor tortured billionaire.” Yes, that is correct. Especially when the “poor tortured billionaire” is actually really stupid. A quality we’re still conditioned to believe goes against the very “requirements” of being rich when, in fact, the number one prerequisite (apart from being born rich already) for “securing the bag” is being, well, not very bright.

    This comes across repeatedly in Miles’ expression of interests and manner of speaking. Eventually called out by Benoit as a bona fide “idiot,” the key to the case, Benoit unearths, is not complexity, but “mind-numbing, obvious clarity.” Which is a huge disappointment to Benoit, who was hoping to exercise his brain during the equally mind-numbing lockdown period (you know, apart from just Zoom calls with Stephen Sondheim, Angela Lansbury, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Natasha Lyonne). Thus his palpable frustration when he almost full-on castigates Miles for being so dumb with the speech, “I expected complexity. I expected intelligence. A puzzle, a game. But that’s not what any of this is… Truth is, it doesn’t hide at all… I realized what had teased my brain through this entire case: ‘inbreathiate.’ It’s not a word. It’s not a real word. It kind of sounds like one, but it’s just entirely made up.” And since those who are poorer than the rich man never dare question their “genius” with regard to something that makes them do a double take (visually or auditorily), Benoit then proceeds to take us back to all the times Miles offered nothing but malapropisms and misinformation. The two Ms of rich boy existence that George W. Bush made an entire political career out of (e.g., “Bushisms” like, “strategery,” “misunderestimate” and “resignate”).

    Miles is right there with Bush as Benoit recalls another word from before: “‘Reclamation.’ That is a word, but it’s the wrong word. This entire day, a veritable minefield of malapropisms and factual errors.” That last comment pertaining to Miles saying they can swim in the Ionian Sea, even though the island is in the Aegean. Isn’t that something the owner of the island ought to be aware of? Of course not. Why bother knowing anything or being educated beyond a surface level when money—not the mind—accomplishes everything you need done for you. Benoit continues, “His dock doesn’t float, his ‘wonder fuel’ is a disaster, his grasp of disruption theory is remedial at best.”

    The affronting obviousness of everything is established from the outset in many ways. From the mockery that Duke’s mother, “Ma” (Jackie Hoffman), makes of the puzzle invitation to arriving at the island to find that Miles has paid homage to the bar (called, what else, Glass Onion) they all once hung out at when they were nobodies by turning the entire structure into a literal glass onion. Hence, another obvious observation: “It’s like an actual huge glass onion.” Even Miles’ minions can’t seem to fully process how grotesque it is in its on-the-nose nature.

    An onion as a metaphor is obvious itself, with the theoretical “layers” Benoit wants to enjoy during a case being stripped away to a straightforward core when he realizes just how basic Miles really is. This extends even to his philistine love of Da Vinci’s “Mona Lisa,” flexing to his friends that he shelled out to borrow it for his glass (onion) house by declaring, “Blame it on the pando, Blanc. The Louvre was closed, France needed money.” And the reason he “needed” the famed painting?: “I wanna be responsible for something that gets mentioned in the same breath at the ‘Mona Lisa’.” That wish will come true in the most delightful of ways by Act Three, but before then, we’re made to suffer through Miles’ delusional self-aggrandizement as much as Benoit and Andi.

    Granted, sometimes it’s a toss-up on who’s the most infuriating of the “rich bubble” bunch. Birdie certainly does her best to win on that front, for one can imagine Ye saying something to the effect of what Birdie proudly tells Benoit: “I’m a truth-teller. Some people can’t handle it.” Benoit replies, “It’s a dangerous thing to mistake speaking without thought for speaking the truth.” Unmoved by his warning, Birdie dumbly asks, “Are you calling me dangerous?” An adjective Ye (and his bestie, Trump) also gets off on being attributed with, for it feeds his narcissism. And that’s the only trait/common ground these people share… other than being strapped to what Andi calls Miles’ “golden titties.”

    Golden titties created by Andi, no less. To be sure, Johnson’s decision to position the white man as having plundered from the Black woman is no coincidence. Symbolism as obvious as Miles’ myriagon-league obtuseness. And yet, because of the armor and prestige that his fortune provides, even Benoit was fooled, declaring, “Like everyone in the world, I assumed Miles Bron was a complicated genius. Why? Look into the clear center of this glass onion: Miles Bron is an idiot.” This brings us back to the current debunking of the myth of Elon right now. Starting with paying twice the value of what Twitter was worth and then sinking it into the toilette with his management “skills.” The “genius” was further questioned more literally when asked by a software engineer to explain why and how the company’s code would need a complete rewrite, and to describe it all “from top to bottom.” Pausing before engaging in a bumbling deflection, Musk lashed out, “Amazing, wow. You’re a jackass… What a moron.” Clearly, Musk was projecting.

    But let’s hope that this real-life “Wizard of Oz” unmasked as being no more than a little man behind a curtain doesn’t throw quite the same tantrum as Miles by the conclusion. Miles, who collects art and the various instruments of artists (including Paul McCartney’s guitar), not because he is an intellectual or even a genuine appreciator of art, but because these are things that are worth a lot of money—and therefore prove that the person who can buy them has a lot of money (this also coming across as “a nod” to Martin Shkreli and the Wu-Tang Clan album). That he is, in short, a Big Man.

    With Glass Onion, Johnson has, accordingly, only confirmed what actual smart (and underpaid) people knew already: to be “successful” in the way that society sets as the standard of such (i.e., having mountains of money and property), you have to be a total dolt to do it. Particularly in the United States, where idiocy over intellect is so patently prized (see: getting a college scholarship based on athletic ability).

    As the credits roll, Johnson appears to dig the knife in one last time in terms of sticking it to both “being obvious” and trying to find complexity in people or things that aren’t. This achieved by having The Beatles’ “Glass Onion” play (Johnson keeps it strictly White Album with regard to the band’s catalogue based on the “Blackbird” nod that came at the beginning). The song itself being John Lennon’s tongue-in-cheek response to The Beatles’ listeners and critics constantly reading too much into the band’s lyrics when some things are, put simply, “plain as day.”

    As Jacob Stolworthy of The Independent once said of “Glass Onion,” Lennon jokingly “designed [it] to trick fans into thinking their songs meant more than they actually do.” Same as Miles and every millionaire/billionaire douchebag he’s modeled after doing just that to the masses with their own “chaotic” persona… the masses who, evidently, want to see complexity where there isn’t. Because that would mean acknowledging that hard work and intelligence really aren’t factors in realizing the “American dream” at all, despite being peddled that way to anybody who still foolishly believes in the idea of being able to change their class station in life with these “tools,” ultimately only banes in a world that rewards cutting corners and viral videos. Perhaps this is why so many are only too willing to look through the glass onion—the distorted vision—to accommodate the “genius” perception the Miles trope wants them to see. To do otherwise might prove too painful a reality.

    Appropriately enough, “Glass Onion” also wields the lyrics, “Looking through the bent back tulips/To see how the other half lives.” Something the rich willfully try to avoid at all costs, even in a time as class divide-highlighting as the (still ongoing) pandemic.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Real Talk: Abby Should Have Ended Up With Riley in Happiest Season

    Real Talk: Abby Should Have Ended Up With Riley in Happiest Season

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    As far as “instant classic” Christmas movies go, the only one to really make a mark in recent years has been Clea DuVall’s Happiest Season (not, as Lindsay Lohan would like to believe, Falling For Christmas). Released in Our Year of the Pandemic, the movie was a rare bright spot in a 2020 pop culture sea of shit. For DuVall, who co-wrote the script with Mary Holland, brought audiences the so-called “first lesbian Christmas movie.” Even if DuVall might have received flak for not only casting non-lesbians as such, but also triggering lesbian audiences with her portrayal of Harper Caldwell (Mackenzie Davis). She being the closeted girlfriend of Abby Holland (Kristen Stewart). A closeted existence that adds salt in the wound of many real-life coming out stories, particularly when the whistle is blown on Harper’s sexuality against her will. Specifically, by her competitive sister, Sloane (Alison Brie).

    Along for the family drama ride is Abby, who accepts Harper’s foolish invitation to Christmas with the Caldwell brood under the false impression that Harper is actually out. Even worse, she gave up her multiple pet-sitting gigs to be at this nightmare. One that doesn’t help her overcome her general disdain for Christmas, a holiday she’s grown to hate after losing her parents to a car accident. Unfortunately for her self-esteem, the only thing Harper’s family members seem to want to bring up is how she’s an “orphan”—especially Harper’s mother, Tipper (Mary Steenburgen, always obliged to play a mom role). Abby finally has to point out that she was never an orphan, as her parents died after she turned eighteen. The awkwardness quotient of spending her holiday with a different version of Harper among the conservative Caldwells is ramped up by her “daffy” (read: weird) middle sister, Jane (played by the movie’s co-writer, Holland).

    But Abby would probably take Jane’s cringe-inducement over the one that arrives when Sloane does with her own family: her husband, Eric (Burl Moseley), and their twins, Matilda (Asiyih N’Dobe) and Magnus (Anis N’Dobe). Despite being a full-time mom who makes gift baskets now (or rather, “curated experiences”), Sloane still has plenty of fuel in her tank to be competitive with Harper as both patently vie for their father Ted’s (Victor Garber) approval. Becoming increasingly invisible among these long-standing dynamics, Abby is made to question her relationship entirely, as well as endlessly regretting having agreed to come at all after Harper blindsided her with the ruse they would have to put on while already driving there.

    The only source of comfort among this den of wolves in sheep’s clothing is Riley Johnson (Aubrey Plaza). The fellow lesbian who just so happens to be Harper’s high school ex. Her real high school ex… unlike the puppet ex-boyfriend, Connor (Jake McDorman), who shows up to dinner at a restaurant the first night Harper and Abby are in town. Although Harper had no idea her mother would be so calculating as to invite him, Abby still feels miffed by the entire situation—rounded out by Riley also showing up to the same restaurant with her family. So that it becomes one big “Harper’s ex party” as opposed to a pleasant evening out. The mood is further dampened when Ted and Tipper are also alerted to Riley’s presence. “Her parents must be proud. And relieved,” Ted notes of Riley pursuing a career as a doctor. Tipper adds, “I know. That lifestyle choice.” “Mm, such a shame,” Ted concludes. As though Riley would be just perfect were it not for her being a lesbian.

    In the meantime, John (Dan Levy), Abby’s best friend and the person she’s ill-advisedly entrusted to take over her pet-sitting duties, counsels her throughout this ordeal from afar. And when she tries to play off the unwanted charade as, “It’s kind of fun having a secret,” John ripostes, “Yeah, I mean there’s nothing more erotic than concealing your authentic selves.” Obviously, he is not Team Hide Who You Are For The Sake of Your Callow Girlfriend. Nor should anyone watching the scene unfold be.

    While, yes, we’re supposed to have empathy for Harper’s intense phobia about being who she really is, in the end, all we really want is to see Abby with someone who doesn’t quite suck so much as she’s treated like a dirty little secret. And, because of all the charged moments we eventually get to see between Abby and Riley as the latter keeps encountering her in a state of distress, there was that faint glimmer of hope that Abby would actually pivot away from Harper and go for the girl that she also stabbed in the back long ago. That would be sweet poetic justice (and a full-circle scenario) indeed. But no, Harper must be cut some slack because of how she was raised—with the fear of “failure” (including being “other”) instilled within her by her own imperfect parents. And of course, Harper’s repressed situation is a foil for DuVall’s, as she spent much of her career in the closet (even despite appearing in the sapphic 1999 movie But I’m A Cheerleader), not coming out until 2016 (a somewhat ironic choice considering who took the presidency that year).

    As for Stewart, who identifies as bisexual, she commented of any potential backlash, “I would never want to tell a story that really should be told by somebody who’s lived that experience. Having said that, it’s a slippery slope conversation because that means I could never play another straight character if I’m going to hold everyone to the letter of this particular law. I think it’s such a gray area [not to be confused with a gay area].” Just as it is to be stuck in the purgatory of being out in “the real world” and closeted among your nuclear family. Perhaps this is why DuVall is sure to include a speech from John, of all people, pleading for more understanding from Abby as he assures, “Harper not coming out to her parents has nothing to do with you.” This said as they take their “breather” walk after Harper’s true identity is harshly unveiled by Sloane in a very public way. By the end of the “outing,” Harper declaring her love for Abby is deemed by the latter as too little, too late.

    But John wants Abby to understand that not everyone gets to have the same pleasant coming out experience that she did, giving her as a “for example,” “My dad kicked me out of the house and didn’t talk to me for thirteen years after I told him. Everybody’s story is different. There’s your version and my version and everything in between. But the one thing that all of those stories have in common is that moment right before you say those words, when your heart is racing, and you don’t know what’s coming next. That moment’s really terrifying. And then once you say those words, you can’t unsay them. A chapter has ended, and a new one’s begun and you have to be ready for that… Just because Harper isn’t ready, it doesn’t mean she never will be, and it doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.” Ostensibly, John’s heart-rending speech doesn’t affect what Abby has decided is her bottom line: “I want to be with someone who is ready.” Hello! Riley. That spark between them being so obvious.

    What’s more, Slate’s Christina Cauterucci also described “the film’s biggest shortcoming” as being how “the central relationship doesn’t seem all that great. Aside from an illustrated opening credits slideshow of moments from Abby and Harper’s history—a romantic picnic, pumpkin carving, moving in together—we barely see them interacting outside the confines of the closet… making it difficult to understand why Abby sticks around.” Especially when someone as fly as Riley makes her presence known. But with the general (though not official) confirmation of a sequel in the works, perhaps there’s a chance yet for Abby and Riley to come together more sexually for another happiest (i.e., gayest) season.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • The Rich Eat: The Menu

    The Rich Eat: The Menu

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    At the crux of every basic class divide is food. It is the most essential unit of life, and yet, it took little time at all after the world became “civilized” for it to become the first source of division between the haves and the have-nots. Over the centuries, especially in America, it created the ironic phenomenon of poor people being, frankly, fat (“unhealthy,” if you prefer) and rich people being thin beacons of wellness. Because rich people can afford to sidestep the overprocessed foods that the broke can actually afford. Shoveling their faces with it every day to sustain themselves. What’s more, they would never dream of paying/wasting top dollar for minuscule portions at a fine dining restaurant, the cost of which is more than they make in a month.

    With this sense of a historically-rooted class war in food, former The Onion writers-turned-screenwriters Will Tracy and Seth Reiss bring us The Menu. And no, it’s not entirely “coincidental” that the fine dining restaurant they use, called Hawthorn, as their backdrop for brutal “satire” (read: unbridled honesty) is located on a remote island. For the idea that planted the seed of the screenplay arrived when Tracy himself took a boat to a restaurant on an island off Norway (it could have been many establishments, but Cornelius comes to mind, though that’s probably too “gauche”). With that herculean effort (by restaurant-going standards), Tracy started to have some paranoid feelings about being on an island with only a handful of other diners, prompting him to wonder if this was the kind of extreme emotion worth writing about with his go-to partner, Reiss. Indeed, it was. Not to mention perfectly-timed for a market that has eating the rich on its mind. But if one was hoping for another cannibal movie (on the heels of Bones and All), don’t get your hopes up. This is not a literal “eat the rich” film, so much as a mock-their-absurd-self-importance-which-extends-into-food film. Timely, to be sure, for if it has been the year of anything in cinema, it has been the year of eating.

    Whether that meant “keeping it down” or not. For there was the now-legendary vomiting scene after the passengers consume improperly-refrigerated shellfish in Triangle of Sadness (The Menu’s less-than-“distant” filmic cousin, complete with a captain that reminds one of our chef in The Menu). Then there was the cannibalistic notion of an “eater” in the aforementioned Bones and All. And, released the same day in U.S. theaters, The Menu. Maybe it’s because, somewhere in the subconscious of the average person, an awareness is dawning about food scarcity. Another food irony (in addition to the poor and destitute often being overweight) is that if this is the year of eating in cinema, it’s also “the year of unprecedented famine,” per the World Food Programme. An organization that also noted of alarming 2022 famine statistics, “The number of those facing acute food insecurity has soared—from 135 million to 345 million—since 2019.” At such a ballooning rate (thanks to climate change, war and a pandemic), the implications of what that could do to further cement class warfare imbue one with Children of Men-esque visions for the future. Visions that no doubt present a certain moral quandary to any chef that caters to an affluent clientele. Just as “celebrity chef” Julian Slowik (Ralph Fiennes, looking his most Liam Neeson-y yet) does.

    Part of that celebrity comes from the fact that he charges thousands of dollars for the “experience” of taking a boat to the island where his restaurant is perched (Norway-style, so to speak). And blowhards like Tyler Ledford (Nicholas Hoult) are only too happy to pay the price. Unfortunately for this “foodie fanboy,” Slowik discriminates against single diners—meaning you can’t just sit at a table alone. So it is that he brings along a replacement “date” named Margot Mills (Anya Taylor-Joy) when Tyler’s original plus-one backs out. This resulting in a flinching reaction from the restaurant’s stoic maître d’, Elsa (Hong Chau), and even more of a grimace from Julian himself.

    Margot’s presence has tampered with his last menu masterpiece. The one he wants to call “egoless” for the first time since he started his career (which commenced with slinging burgers for the plebes, a detail that Margot will use to her advantage by the end). But to do so would be another form of self-delusion, almost on par with the rich telling themselves they worked hard for the money (try claiming that to the actual working class performing their day-to-day job requirement horrors). Which is why Reiss commented that such a statement was about Julian “wanting to say to himself that tonight is completely egoless, but if we take a step back, how could this monumental night that you want to be your masterpiece, how could it not be ego-filled?”

    The only egos that must ultimately be put aside by the end of the night are that of the patrons, including, in addition to Tyler and Margot, food critic Lillian Bloom (Janet McTeer), her sycophantic editor, Ted (Paul Adelstein), Hawthorn regulars Richard and Anne Liebbrandt (Reed Birney and Judith Light), George Díaz (John Leguizamo), a washed-up Hollywood star, his assistant/girlfriend, Felicity (Aimee Carrero), and tech business trio Soren (Arturo Castro), Bryce (Rob Yang) and Dave (Mark St. Cyr). With each part of the movie divided into courses, the food that gets served (or doesn’t… namely, bread—because rich people don’t deserve to enjoy what the poor have no choice but to live on daily) becomes increasingly part of something like performance art. Complete with Julian’s sous-chef, Jeremy Louden (Adam Aalderks), killing himself in front of the patrons to bring them a dish called “The Mess.” What Julian deems, more specifically, as being emblematic of the mess we all make of our lives as we try so hard and so stupidly to please people we’ll never even know (that goes for plebes in addition to famous people) and who will never actually care about all the work we put in to please.

    By this moment in the film, it’s clear Fiennes is having the time of his life in the role, and it’s difficult to imagine anyone else playing it. Unlike Taylor-Joy, whose character was originally meant to be portrayed by the aesthetically and vocally similar Emma Stone. Talking of similarities, The Menu’s kinship with Triangle of Sadness is notable throughout (complete with the idea of filming the bulk in one location; in the latter’s case, that’s on a yacht). Both are an unshrinking attack on the rich, each premise toying with what can happen when that class’ money no longer has clout. In both cases, that transpires within the context of an island, where all “real-world” power can be stripped away. And oh, how Julian is happy to strip it. After all, chefs are the biggest power-hungry control freaks of anyone.

    As for the original director attached to the film, Alexander Payne, Mark Mylod might have been destined to do it instead by sheer virtue of having previously worked with Tracy on an episode of Succession (one that fittingly centered on a dinner party) called “Tern Haven.” Tracy confirmed that reteaming with Mylod assured further seamlessness on set, noting, “…it’s just great to have someone whose tastes I trust and [whose] working process [I knew].” That sense of trust between writer and director is undeniably part of what makes The Menu come across as such a confident serve.

    And what Julian aims to serve up by the end of the night (apart from tortillas etched with some highly specific and incriminating memories of each patron) is a clean, simple dose of karmic balance. With the rich even getting off more than just a little on being abused by the climax. For it’s almost as though they’ve been surrounded by obsequious “yes” people their entire lives and they just want to experience Truth for once.

    To this end, Margot herself is the antithesis of a sycophant for Julian, undermining him at every turn with her “that don’t impress me much” expressions and commentary about the meal. It is through this “tell” that Julian can surmise she is not “one of them.” She bears the mark of someone who serves, not someone who is served; therefore, she is but a spy among the rich’s kind as opposed to being of their kind. And so, by the end of the night, per Julian’s insistence, she must take her rightful place on the side of the “givers,” not the “takers.” Or the cooks and the eaters, as it were.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Harry & Meghan: A Love Story Bogged Down by Family, Media and Racism

    Harry & Meghan: A Love Story Bogged Down by Family, Media and Racism

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    In the fifth episode of Harry & Meghan, the lyrics to Nina Simone’s “Do What You Gotta Do” play (which Kanye “Ye” West unfortunately repurposed for “Famous”). On a side note, the director of the series (save for episode six), Liz Garbus, also brought us the 2015 documentary, What Happened, Miss Simone? In any case, in this particular song, Simone sings, “I just wanted you to know/I loved you better than your own kin did.” For both parties involved in this love story, that’s all too true—but most especially for the way Meghan Markle has loved Harry. Even in spite of his crazy, inbred family. Even so, many still view Markle as a social climber who had only something to gain by “tying herself” to Harry. To that, one must ask: who would want to gain something as famously cold and judgmental as the Royal Family? And all the media smearing that comes with being part of it?

    What’s more, Meghan was already rich in her own right before meeting Harry, making roughly $450,000 a year while starring in Suits. But acting was never Meghan’s number one priority—not compared to social justice issues and using her “platform” (whatever that might be at the moment) to spotlight them. In this regard, Meghan’s connection to Harry was always in the bag, even if she’s very obviously lived more lives than him, from being a calligrapher and bookbinding teacher between acting jobs to a “briefcase girl” on Deal or No Deal. Through it all, she has shown her propensity for reinvention and her willingness to pull herself up by her bootstraps, as it were. Alas, rather than this being seen as an admirable quality, it has been met with quite a bit of venom—to say the least—over the course of her relationship with Prince Harry. The one that commenced in the summer of 2016, when Meghan was determined to be single (“I was really intent on being single”) after having recently come out of a two-year relationship with celebrity chef Cory Vitiello. But, as John Lennon said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

    So it was that Meghan was directed to Harry’s Instagram account by a mutual friend—though some have tried to cast doubt on their credibility because they’ve said they started messaging on Instagram and that they were set up by a mutual friend… why can’t it be both? Per Harry, “I was scrolling through my feed and someone who was a friend had this video of the two of them, like a Snapchat and, um… I was like, ‘Who is that?’” A question that Harry’s family would soon be asking repeatedly. To the point of being “set up” and meeting through Instagram, Meghan being “both”—Black and white—is another thing that people simply can’t “accept.” Can’t “compute.” Especially the whites.

    Indeed, the contempt often directed at Meghan does seem to spring from some form of jealousy, particularly on the part of white women (including Meghan’s own half-sister) who perhaps feel some resentment that a Black girl landed the prince in the end. An outcome that goes against essentially every Disney movie ever hammered into one’s head. And oh, how Harry has committed to this love, serving up the ultimate “fuck you” in every sense by severing ties with his family as a business and as an actual family. Though it’s hard to be the latter when the business side of things so frequently takes greater precedence. And, as Harry notes at one point in the limited docuseries, “If you speak truth to power, that’s how they respond”—with “institutional gaslighting.” Of the very same variety that Diana was subjected to.

    To be sure, Princess Diana is invoked many times—whether by name or via archival footage—throughout Harry & Meghan, it being rather overt that there’s something of an Oedipus complex at play with Harry being so keen to paint Meghan in the same image as his mother, media hell endurance-wise. But Diana undeniably had to go through more strain, simply as a result of the 80s and 90s being a more tactile time, when paparazzi would actually bombard her in the flesh at every turn. Eventually causing her death in Paris as she was pursued in a tunnel (though, no, it didn’t help to have a drugged-out driver).

    While Meghan’s life has been threatened countless times by those odious internet trolls (episode five focusing on how a small group of people coordinating to spread online hate about Meghan amplify it with their determination and obsession to make it seem like far more people actually despise her), it’s apparent that Harry is never going to allow anything to happen to her. Precisely because of what he saw happen to his own mother. Thus, all those exorbitant security costs that did likely help propel making this documentary.

    What’s more, it’s very interesting indeed to note that Harry freely uses the footage from Diana’s Panorama interview that William denounced in 2021 after an inquiry into how the interview was obtained by a Supreme Court judge (John Dyson). William’s statement denounced the BBC for aiding and abetting Martin Bashir in contributing to her “fear, paranoia and isolation” during her final years. Of course, a lot of Diana’s fears and “paranoias” were completely valid. Which is perhaps why Harry’s separate statement on the matter strayed from totally dismissing what she said in the interview itself and focusing more on the unethical way it was obtained. Hence, his assessment: “Our mother was an incredible woman who dedicated her life to service. She was resilient, brave and unquestionably honest. The ripple effect of a culture of exploitation and unethical practices ultimately took her life.” But clearly, he feels that a lot of what Diana said in that interview was truthful regardless of what circumstances she was “made” to say it in.

    That candor appears to have been passed down to Harry, who addresses everything from his father and brother’s colluding throughout the downfall of his and Meghan’s tenure as royals to the fact that the monarchy has continued to thrive, without batting an eyelash, on the generational wealth that was gained by forcible extraction from other nations (a.k.a. former colonies). Accurately stating that the Royal Family already missed a huge opportunity to remain relevant by “using” (instead of abusing) Meghan—the entire reason for the monarchy still existing being because of the excuse of the Commonwealth (“our great Imperial family, to which we all belong,” as Queen Elizabeth II once billed it)—this docuseries makes it all the more obvious that it’s Harry and Meghan who have a far greater chance of surviving and enduring than the monarchy itself. And that chance for survival is, in large part, precisely because they defected from Britain, where the media is, incredibly, far worse and more ruthlessly underhanded than the one in the U.S. (see also: Spice World). This defection was a choice that Harry maintains was ultimately his own, despite caricatures depicting him as being on Meghan’s leash… literally. Something Harry described eye-rollingly as, “Misogyny at its best.” But no, misogyny at its best came in the wake of this docuseries, with Jeremy Clarkson of The Sun commenting on Meghan, “At night, I’m unable to sleep as I lie there, grinding my teeth and dreaming of the day when she is made to parade naked through the streets of every town in Britain while the crowds chant, ‘Shame!’ and throw lumps of excrement at her.” Demonstrably, Meghan must be doing something right to be seen as such a threat to pencil-dicked fuckfaces that likely believe “miscegenation” (as it was once derogatorily called) should still be illegal.

    In the face of all this hate, Harry’s commitment not just to his wife, but to being an anti-misogynist and anti-racist (yes, he brings up that Nazi uniform “incident” from 2005 as one of the most shameful moments of his life) are what makes him stand apart not just from his own family members, but from most white men in general. And there’s no denying that Markle has been a key factor in motivating his education. Just another “thing” that catalyzed his outgrowing of the role he was “born to play”—second fiddle to big bro. But, like Charles before William, the latter didn’t much care for losing the limelight to someone who wasn’t heir apparent. Although William might have possessed some of Diana’s charisma in the past, it seems as though the second he lost his hair, there was a shift. He became stodgy, old guard. Granted, it is the indoctrination every royal is given to remain stoic and “neutral,” namely with regard to political matters. Meghan was never going to be able to do that, having spent her entire life being political, starting from the moment she wrote a letter at eleven years old to Procter & Gamble informing them that their soap ad was blatantly sexist. So yes, you might say standing up for what’s right has long been encoded in Meghan’s DNA (even if some of that DNA came from her sleazebag father).

    With that in mind, another topic (of which there are many) tackled by the couple in this series is the reaction to the “race element” brought up during 2021’s Oprah with Meghan and Harry (a special title that leads one to wonder why the Netflix series isn’t called Meghan & Harry instead of Harry & Meghan). It was yet another example of Meghan thinking that speaking her truth and being candid about the reality of her harrowing few years as a royal would be a useful change of pace, but somehow managed to get contorted into something else. Even her volunteer work with the women who suffered displacement in the wake of the Grenfell Tower fire was turned into her linking up with people with “ties to ISIS.” Needless to say, it’s ostensible that she can’t do anything right because she’s at the mercy of a largely white male media that has done things “a certain way” since time immemorial (in The Sun’s case, that means since 1964). So sure, Meghan being a “breath of fresh air” (to slowly choke out of her) was great for their front page, but never something the media cabal’s political leanings actually wanted for their precious Tory country.

    All the better for Harry, who seems to have suffered his own version of Get Out (cue the famous photo of Diana whispering in Harry’s ear, perhaps something to the effect of, “Leave Britain as soon as you can”). For far more years than Meghan ever had to. And it is undeniably true that she did spare him a life of further imprisonment in that “institution” (one could say Wallis Simpson did the same for Edward VIII [an actual Nazi sympathizer, in contrast to Harry], the former being, like Meghan, a demonized American divorcee). Harry’s gratitude for Meghan throwing a wrench into his so-called Life Plan is most overt when he declares, “I genuinely feel that I and we are exactly where we’re supposed to be” (#CaliforniaLove).

    After watching Harry & Meghan, any viewer with a romantic bone in their body will be inclined to feel the same (though it might be a stretch to fully agree with Meghan when she says, “Love wins”). Regardless of whether the documentary was shot in their real home or a “fake” one. But then, that’s been the jealousy-laden accusation against Harry and Meghan all along: that their love “can’t” be real. That everything about it is phony baloney, posturing, performance, etc. A sentiment so observably rooted in racism that it’s almost too predictable.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Home Alone 2: New York’s Nothing But Fun on Borrowed Dough… Until It Runs Out

    Home Alone 2: New York’s Nothing But Fun on Borrowed Dough… Until It Runs Out

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    Among the many “reassessments” of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York, complete with its implausible representation of realistic geographic proximity, one that hasn’t really been called out is the idea that everyone “hearts” New York when Daddy’s credit card is still working. In fact, the only reason Kevin McCallister (Macaulay Culkin) doesn’t immediately despise NYC is because he “just happened” (thanks to the careful plot device curation of John Hughes) to need some batteries for his Talkboy. The batteries, of course, being located in his dad Peter’s (John Heard) man bag that Kevin ends up holding onto in the midst of getting on the wrong flight. And what else would Peter keep in there but his fully-loaded wallet? Here it bears bringing up that while everyone likes to meme about Peter McCallister being rich—because how else could he afford a house like that and all those vacations with so many mouths to feed?—the McCallister family is decidedly middle-class by 90s standards. The family only seems “rich” in the present because it’s impossible for most people to keep their head above water in this post-capitalist society still clinging to Empire “ideals” of capitalism. That said, money and exuding the appearance of wealth was arguably more important in the 90s—and easier to carry off for “average” people.

    Not to mention faux rich ones like none other than Donald Trump himself, who illustriously cameos at the twenty-six-minute-forty-five-second mark to give Kevin the oh-so-difficult-to-discern information that the lobby is “down the hall and to the left.” And yes, it’s a wonder Trump could manage to complete that scant amount of dialogue without biffing it. The reason for his appearance stemmed from buying The Plaza Hotel in 1988 for 407 million dollars (of money borrowed from banks—because Trump is the epitome of the “American dream”… being secured through shady means and fake money). It didn’t take long for Trump’s lack of business acumen (despite cultivating a reputation to the contrary) to show up in the form of renovating and operating the hotel at a considerable loss… specifically 600 million dollars’ worth of loss by 1992, the very year that Home Alone 2: Lost in New York would come out. Yet Trump, forever concerned with appearances, still had the gall to appear in the movie as The Plaza’s “owner” despite already negotiating a prepackaged bankruptcy deal with his conglomerate of bank creditors, ultimately “led” by Citibank. One that was arranged in November, the very month of the Home Alone sequel’s release. How poetic indeed.

    So it is that Trump’s appearance in the movie is emblematic of a larger truth about America in general and New York City specifically: it’s never about actually having money, so much as radiating the illusion that you do (see also: Anna Delvey). Kevin, too, embodies this with his confidence, the very word giving birth to “con,” which means both to win someone’s confidence and to have the confidence to believe in one’s own lies. As Kevin does when he approaches the front desk at the hotel with a whole backstory ready to provide that allows him to rather seamlessly use the credit card that will secure him so much ephemeral fun on this impromptu Christmas vacation. Sure, “Concierge” a.k.a. Mr. Hector (Tim Curry) is overtly suspicious because he’s probably jealous he never came up with such a scheme when he was younger, but suspicion alone is not enough to make one turn away potential income for their place of business. Proving, as always, that money—even the fake money known as credit—talks.

    Until, of course, it’s reported as stolen. A revelation that brings a Grinch-esque smile to Mr. Hector’s face because, like most broke asses, he gets his jollies from reining in those who might enjoy themselves thanks to money they didn’t earn. It’s from this moment (at approximately the forty-three-minute mark in the movie when the word “STOLEN” flashes on The Plaza’s machine after Mr. Hector does a check on it) forward when Kevin starts to understand just how much New York actually blows without money at one’s disposal. And sure, there have been many attempts, via various localized “free event” websites, to help people delude themselves into believing they can have a good time with little to no disposable income, but, after a while, you’re just that sad poor person who’s clearly only at the place in question because something about it was free or cheap (relatively speaking).

    To intensify the reality that having no money in New York is fucking bleak, Kevin then comes face-to-face with the notorious Pigeon Lady. She, too, has deluded herself into believing that the best things in life are free in the “greatest” city in the world, showing Kevin that you can be cultured even without money by taking him to the attic (where other discarded things are kept) in Carnegie Hall and declaring, “I’ve heard the world’s great music from here. Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie, Frank Sinatra, Luciano Pavarotti.”

    But, as any insolvent person living in NY has found out, the loopholes to enjoy “free” activities have become increasingly few and far between. To boot, you’re never going to be “seen” without scores of dough, even if only on credit. That’s why the Pigeon Lady tells Kevin, “People pass me in the street, they see me, but they try to ignore me. They prefer I wasn’t part of their city.” And why? Because she’s moneyless “riffraff.” Might as well be dead if you’re broke—that’s the takeaway New York imparts on those who can’t manage “the grind.” Those who do find more “under the table” ways to survive are, in turn, met with fear and vitriol, as indicated by Kevin’s telling reactions to the prostitutes and deranged homeless people orbiting the periphery of Central Park (for, again, this was a period in NY history that was seedier, and far less sanitized than it is now, especially by Central Park).

    In the years since this movie was released, even “alternate methods” of moneymaking in the “big city” have become progressively impossible. So it is that in the past couple of decades, the “I ‘Heart’ NY” slogan has given way to “I Can’t Afford to ‘Heart’ NY.” Neither could Kevin, in the end. For the conclusion of Home Alone 2: Lost in New York is for his dad to unearth the amount Kevin charged to his room at The Plaza—a whopping (even now) $967.43 (ballooned to that price by the addition of a $239.43 gratuity). So sure, New York is all fun and wonderment on Daddy’s dime. Until, inevitably, Daddy cuts off the purse strings. For even he’s too broke for New York.

    Ironically enough, the movie’s beloved screenwriter, John Hughes, would end up dying in Manhattan. While taking a morning stroll on West 55th Street… just a stone’s throw to The Plaza. Perhaps he came across an obscene price point somewhere along the way that contributed to his heart attack, and made him realize that even when you’re rich, living in New York is financially untenable. Particularly when considering what one gets in return for all their payments (including the emotional ones).

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Hungry Love: Bones and All

    Hungry Love: Bones and All

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    Despite the alleged increasing “openness” of society to those who are “different,” there remains a paucity of films about cannibals. And even literary tales of such ilk remain scarce… which is why Camille DeAngelis’ 2015 novel, Bones and All, was such a unique revelation. Too unique for someone like Luca Guadagnino to pass up the chance to turn it into a cinematic tour de force, in addition to the opportunity to reteam with screenwriter David Kajganich. Notably, Kajganich also wrote the scripts for the Guadagnino films A Bigger Splash and Suspiria. Both movies being horror-esque (Suspiria obviously more so), Bones and All feels like a natural fit for the expansion of their collaborative filmography. For, while Bones and All is not outright “horror,” there is something altogether slow-burn terrifying about what happens to Maren Yearly (Taylor Russell) in this fantastical coming-of-age narrative. Because, yes, Guadagnino manages to imbue cannibalism with a sense of the fantastical and the Blink-182 adage “I guess this is growing up.” Or maybe “fucked-up fairy tale” is a more appropriate term than fantastical.  

    Flipping the scenario from the book, wherein Maren goes in search of her father, Kajganich adapts the material so that it’s actually her mother that abandoned her and her dad, Frank (André Holland), when she was a child, and who she now seeks out with the information Frank left behind after also ditching her in the end. Yet, “at least” he waits until his parental responsibility for her is legally over, choosing to bounce right when she turns eighteen (in the novel, Maren’s mother leaves the night after her sixteenth birthday—far crueler, no?). For anyone who ever said parental love was unconditional must have been extremely naïve. This latest abandonment doesn’t do much to make Maren feel better about the constant guilt she has over her need to feed upon human flesh. Most recently doing so at a sleepover where she bites the finger off a would-be friend apropos of nothing. It’s so absent-minded as to make it come across as it truly is: like complete second nature to Maren.  

    Among the things Frank left behind for her to help uncover who she really is and how to deal with it includes her birth certificate with her mother’s name and city of birth on it, as well as a tape (because, don’t forget, this is the 1980s) recounting all the victims Maren collected over the years. Per Frank’s rehashing, the first time she ate human flesh was as a baby of three years old. The victim in question was her babysitter, whose face Maren ate. This also marked the first time Frank had to pick up and move them to another state, never using the same last name from that instant forward. In the book, the babysitter, named Penny Wilson, is given far more thought by Maren, who notes of what she did, “I loathed myself even then. I don’t remember any of this, but I know it.”

    And yet, when she happens upon her first fellow “eater,” the ultra-creepy and disgusting Sully (Mark Rylance), after being left to her own devices, she begins to give in more fully to who and what she is. Even though seeing Sully in his underwear eating the dying old woman he “smelled” from afar and preyed upon doesn’t really make her feel all that “great” either. Nor does Sully’s ominous warning of her attempts to quell her urges, “Whatever you and I got, it’s gotta be fed.” So it is that Maren does join in on eating the now-dead old lady, but she doesn’t stick around much longer to engage with Sully, who eerily refers to himself in the third person, indicating some kind of split personality or dissociation technique from what he does. Though, lucidly enough, he assures Maren, “I got rules. Number one is never, never, ever eat an Eater.” Famous last words, as a certain character says in the movie.

    Mercifully, on her Greyhound route (for she’s on her way to the Minnesota town where her mother was born) that stops in Indiana, Maren encounters a far less disgusting (at least physically and aura-wise) eater in Lee (Timothée Chalamet). As the two both rally to verbally defend a woman shopping at the grocery store from being harassed by some dickhead, Lee is the one to lure him outside under the pretense of getting into a garden-variety fight. But what Maren sees later on after leaving the store is that Lee clearly ate this man. Therefore, his own number one rule seems to be: target assholes only. Thereby using his “condition” for some good, one supposes.

    Upon confirming his “predilection,” Maren is quick to join Lee in the truck of the victim, “Barry Cook” (as his ID indicates), and ask if he can help her, essentially, figure out how to “be.” As for Lee’s own “post-eating” ritual, it usually entails going to the home where his victim lived to double-check that they don’t have anyone in their life who might notice their absence. And so, at Barry’s porno poster-filled house, Lee puts on “Lick It Up” by KISS. Just one of the many pointed musical selections designed to remind us that this is the 80s (along with a macabre Americana score from Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross). Not to mention the wielding of politicians like Rudy Giuliani and Ronald Reagan in the background of it all.

    Another moment of overpowering sonic 80s-ness is when Lee and Maren finally succumb to their overt attraction to one another at a carnival, kissing on the Ferris wheel to the tune of Joy Division’s “Atmosphere.” It’s then that Maren confesses, “I’m hungry, Lee.” So Lee does what men have been programmed to do since time immemorial: hunt food for “his” woman. The ensuing experience of eating a carnival worker together is in direct contrast to what Maren felt with Sully, of whom she describes to Lee at a diner as, “…creepy, I guess.” Lee ripostes, “Did that dawn on you before or after you ate Mrs. Herman together?” She corrects, “Mrs. Harmon.” He scoffs, “Does that help? Memorizing their names?” Lee obviously being in total disagreement with Maren’s incessant need to moralize her inherent nature—as though there’s actually something she can do about it.

    The guilt hits her again after realizing that the carnie worker, an on the downlow gay (quite easy for someone with Chalamet’s aesthetic to lure), actually had a wife and child that Maren discovers at his address when they perform Lee’s post-eating ritual. Forced to reconcile every time with this feeling of culpability and sin, Lee’s presence becomes a source of comfort to Maren as they persist on her journey to Minnesota. One that results in yet another heartbreaking epiphany. So much so that Maren feels obliged to go her own way for a while, deserting Lee similarly to how she did with Sully. Except, this time, it’s much more callous because it’s evident the two have fallen in love. Even if that love has formed almost entirely from a bond of profound mutual alienation from society.

    As Guadagnino’s first movie shot in the U.S. (the milieu one automatically associates with the “road movie”), the subtlety with which he conveys the acute loneliness of being in this landscape is only further accented by the duo possessing the added burden of being cannibals. Despite the Shakespearean quality of Bones and All painting Maren and Lee as a pair of doomed “star-crossed lovers,” Guadagnino asserted that it’s also “a very romantic story, about the impossibility of love and yet, the need for it. Even in extreme circumstances” (see also: Badlands).

    Alas, the greatest “sin” of this particular set of Eaters is their reluctant assumption that they can “have nice things,” like love. Which is why, after reuniting in the third act, Lee foolishly inquires of Maren, “You wanna be people? Let’s be people.” Maren agrees, “Yeah, let’s be them for a while.” A.k.a. normies with jobs and a fixed residence. One that turns out to be in Ann Arbor, Michigan, as Maren manages to secure a job at a bookstore. Of course, these attempts to “go straight” are inevitably in vain. Because nothing is going to prevent the tragic fate that awaits them both in the final minutes of a film that may just end up prompting The Silence of the Lambs to step aside as the “premier” book and movie about cannibal life.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Caroline Polachek Channels Circe on “Welcome to My Island”

    Caroline Polachek Channels Circe on “Welcome to My Island”

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    On the heels of the “Sunset” video, Caroline Polachek continues to intensify the anticipation of her fourth solo record, Desire, I Want to Turn Into You (a title that automatically makes The Sandman fans think of Polachek wanting to turn into Mason Alexander Park’s portrayal of Desire). Slated for a Valentine’s Day 2023 release, the record has thus far proven to possess nothing but bop after bop (“Billions” and “Bunny Is A Rider” included), with “Welcome to My Island” being the latest example.

    Co-produced by Danny L Harle, Dan Nigro (presently of Olivia Rodrigo repute), James Stack and Charli XCX favorite A. G. Cook, the capriciousness of the sonic landscape is likely a result of so many “minds” involved. To add to that caprice is a video co-directed by Polachek and her current boyfriend, Matt Copson, as they take us on yet another indelible visual safari. One that mirrors the lyrical buffet Polachek is known for serving up. This time around, Polachek seems to be tapping into the classic narrative from The Odyssey that focuses on Circe. Hence, the opening lines (with more than just a slightly goading tone) of the single: “Welcome to my island/See the palm trees wave in the wind/Welcome to my island/Hope you like me, you ain’t leavin’.” Of course, Odysseus could have left at any time, really. For he was given the magic herb of “moly” (yes, it sounds like something else) by Hermes to stave off any effect that Circe’s “witchery” (/potion) might have on him. While the crew of men from his boat were already turned into swine by the time he arrived at Circe’s Hall, impervious-to-her-magic Odysseus is able to make the enchantress promise not to harm the men and to release them from their porcine form.

    After Circe obeys, Odysseus and his crew end up staying “entertained” on the island for an entire year of their own volition. And Odysseus likely would have kept on staying were it not for the influence of his “friends” telling him to “shake off his trance” and get back to the business of returning to Ithaca. What a fool move that was, for he could have stayed chillin’ in paradise with a woman who was into all the freaky shit. But, of course, Odysseus’ “desire” to leave parallels, in many ways, the Garden of Eden narrative, with human nature constantly leading a person to seek “excitement” when “bored” (often synonymous with being relegated to “paradise”—a word itself that borders on a fine line between heaven and hell).

    In the “Welcome to My Island” video, Polachek is sure to emphasize the Circe connection with a close-up shot on her face during the intro as she sings nothing but sweet notes of luring in lieu of actual lyrics. The manner in which she’s filmed also makes it look as though she’s enjoying orgasm-induced ecstasy, whether being fucked by someone else or simply masturbating. The video then cuts to a scene of Polachek in a coffee shop, sporting a giant black bow in the style of Lana Del Rey on the cover of Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd. But that’s about the only scene of “normalcy” before things get really fantastical, including yet another nod to Greek mythology wherein Polachek’s head is mounted onto the body of the Chimera of Arezzo sculpture.

    Another cut to Polachek running through a construction-laden street reminds one of that whimsical scene in The Worst Person in the World where Julie (Renate Reinsve) is also running—women love to fucking run, and who can blame them when there’s so much scary shit in this life to run from? But, in Polachek’s case, this is a run of joy, freedom and jubilance as she recites part of the album title-alluding chorus, “Desire, I wanna turn into you.” And, if she can’t turn into that, she can always settle for being a walking “quirk monster” as we then segue into a Lascaux-esque cave where Polachek proceeds to make shadow puppets on the wall. Then, she’s walking through a room with pottery-filled shelves before we see liquid bursting out of her mouth against the backdrop of a volcano also exploding. Meta indeed.

    More moments displaying the whimsical and weird ensue when Polachek proceeds to dance on a tabletop decorated with candelabra, followed by her appearance amid a sea of sperm. Something Circe herself could likely relate to, what with constantly being up to her neck in dick. And all from the comfort of her own island, Aeaea.

    Another close-up shot on Polachek’s face (complete with the aforementioned oversized black bow in her hair) emphasizes the importance of her saying, “I am my father’s daughter in the end.” If speaking from Circe’s perspective, that would be Helios. Who, according to Polachek, told Circe, “Watch your ego, watch your head, girl/You’re so smart, so talented/But now the water’s turning red/And it’s all your fault and it’s all your mess/And you’re all alone and can’t go to bed/Too high on your adrenaline.” And residual horniness from all that time spent with easy access to Odysseus, ultimately gone forever because she was foolish enough to adhere to the adage, “If you love someone, set them free.” Though he was “kind” enough to leave her with some sons, including Latinus and Telegonus. But obviously, Circe’s ego being what it is, that’s hardly a consolation. Thus, Polachek, in the paternal tone of the song’s bridge, continues with some more tough love via the advice, “Forget the rules, forget your friends/Just you and your reflection/‘Cause nothing’s gonna be the same again/No, nothing’s gonna be the same again.” How very Harry Styles saying, “You know it’s not the same as it was” in reference to post-pandemic existence.

    And it clearly never will be the same again for Polachek after running along the beach of this island in question as she holds the “hand” of some creature with a hoof. The only point of view we see is from the hoofed being’s, whose “arm” is guided by Polachek through the sand as they frolic and cavort in a way that Dionysus surely would approve of. The video concludes with a contrasting image of normalcy (which was the same way it started): Polachek waiting to get on a subway. The mythological-in-its-own-right L.A. subway. So, in that sense, Polachek never ceases with the motif of myth throughout this particular song and video. And maybe even Circe would deign to ride the subway in Los Angeles if it meant securing some fresh “pork” for her deserted island.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Class and Karma Collide in The White Lotus’ Second Season, Or: STD Party in Sicily

    Class and Karma Collide in The White Lotus’ Second Season, Or: STD Party in Sicily

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    After a long viewer journey meant to cover a mere week in Taormina, Sicily (a.k.a. tourist kryptonite thanks to The Godfather being shot there), the second season of The White Lotus finally came to its predicted conclusion. For it’s not as though Mike White was trying to hide the fact that Tanya McQuoid’s (Jennifer Coolidge) doomed fate was sealed from the moment she arrived on the island. The foreshadowing was already written when Tanya stumbled uneasily off the White Lotus’ charter boat as Valentina (Sabrina Impacciatore), the hotel manager, watched nervously from afar. Clearly, Tanya’s unwieldy body and alcoholic predilections don’t make her an ideal candidate for getting on and off a boat seamlessly. Which, believe it or not, is a very important skill for a rich person to have, being that they’re among the few with regular boat access.

    But before Tanya can become aware of what’s about to happen to her, she’s welcomed by Valentina as an elite member of the “Blossom Circle” (“I was a Petal and I’ve worked my way up to Blossom,” Tanya reminds—as though spending her fortune is “working” to become a higher-level VIP). Using more heavy-handed presaging language, Tanya tells Valentina, “Whenever I stay at a White Lotus, I always have a memorable time. Always.” Along for that memorable time on this edition of the vacation is Tanya’s extremely vexing assistant, Portia (Haley Lu Richardson). Except that, apparently, she’s not really supposed to be there, per the wishes of Tanya’s recently bagged husband, Greg (Jon Gries). Who, in reality, doesn’t want her to be present because he needs Tanya to be cornered alone by the bevy of gays that are going to take her under their wing in her state of abandonment. But without Portia, there is no interconnectedness to Albie (Adam DiMarco), in town with his father, Dom (Michael Imperioli), and grandfather, Bert (F. Murray Abraham), to visit their relatives… who have no idea who they are, nor do they care.

    It is in Portia’s state of distress over being exiled and told to make herself scarce by Tanya that Albie finds her next to the pool. Inherently attracted to “wounded birds” a.k.a. lost souls a.k.a. damaged goods, he asks her if everything’s okay. She’s quick to place her confidence in him, treating him more like a Dawson-esque “bestie” than someone she could actually be attracted to.

    Elsewhere in the fray is the pair of couples, Ethan (Will Sharpe) and Harper (Aubrey Plaza) Spiller (most disgusting last name ever); Cameron (Theo James) and Daphne (Meghann Fahy) Sullivan. Linked together solely because Ethan and Cameron were roommates in college. As far as opposite styles of personality and dynamic go, there couldn’t be a more divergent set of couples. While Ethan and Harper have a sense of gloom about the world (particularly Harper), Cameron and Daphne don’t even bother to watch the news, preferring to remain content in their money bubble. Something Cameron feels Ethan should start to do as well, now that he’s become a very rich man after selling his company.

    The “swingers”-esque vibe put forth by the quartet throughout is initially established by mention of the Testa di Moro, the legend of which is retold to the naïve foursome by an employee named Rocco (Federico Ferrante), who rehashes, “The story is, a Moor came here a long time ago and seduced a local girl. But then she found out that he had a wife and children back home. So, because he lied to her, she cut his head off.” And then turned it into a vase she could plant basil in. Cameron half-jokes that the presence of the head in someone’s garden means, “If you come into my house, don’t fuck my wife.” More foreshadowing indeed. Daphne then chimes in, “It’s a warning to husbands, babe. Screw around and you’ll end up buried in the garden.” When Daphne says her “joke,” however, it later becomes apparent that she’s not as dim and clueless as she comes across on the surface.  

    Tanya, on the other hand, certainly is. And her sense of over-the-top drama seems to be a way to compensate for her vacancy. Much to Portia’s irritation, as she tells someone over the phone by the pool, “She’s a mess. She’s a miserable mess. If I had half a billion dollars, I would not be miserable. I would be enjoying my life.”

    Tanya tries in her own way to do that… mainly by having half-hearted sex with Greg that afternoon, only to throw him off of her as she tells him that, while disassociating, “I was seeing all these faces of men with these very effeminate hairstyles. And then… I saw you! And your eyes were like shark eyes. Like just completely dead. Just like, dead.” A very witchy premonition, of sorts, to be sure. But what Tanya never could have predicted is that Greg would decide to leave just three days into the vacation, informing Tanya of as much at the end of episode two, “Italian Dream.”

    Claiming he has to get to Denver for an Important Work Thing, she tells him that he should quit his job. He reminds her how insecure he feels about that, especially since the ironclad prenup he signed would mean that he’d get nothing if they didn’t work out. She counters that of course they’ll work out. Greg, not in a mood for sugar-coating, reminds, “You change your mind about everything constantly. You drop your friends. You fire people on a dime. I mean, you’ve been through—how many fuckin’ assistants have you been through? You just discard people.” And there it is: the crux of her bad karma. Something she was also guilty of during the first season of The White Lotus, when Belinda Lindsey (Natasha Rothwell), the manager of the spa at the Maui White Lotus, was dangled the promise of financing from Tanya to start her own wellness business. Alas, when Greg came along with his wrinkled dick to distract her, she quickly pulled the plug on Belinda’s dreams, which she hadn’t dared to have in quite some time. She even put together an elaborate business plan that Tanya never bothers to so much as glance at because Greg showed up and expressed an interest in her.

    So it is that the more pronounced class element of The White Lotus’ first season becomes manifest in a subsequent exchange between Belinda and Rachel Patton (Alexandra Daddario), the new trophy wife of affluent real estate agent, Shane Patton (Jake Lacy). After realizing too late that she’s signed on to be a trophy wife, her existential dread amplifies throughout their Hawaiian honeymoon. And although Belinda gives Rachel her card during a moment when Tanya hasn’t totally dashed her dreams in her position as “she who controls the purse strings,” Rachel makes the mistake of calling Belinda to vent after the latter has had her fill of rich white people bullshit. So it is that, as she sits there listening to Rachel complain about not having to work anymore because Shane is loaded, she finally responds, “You want my advice? I’m all out” before walking right out of the room. And Tanya is entirely responsible for her sudden jadedness. For Belinda was always aware that there was a class divide, but never had it been used against her quite so cruelly.

    Thus, Tanya seems to be paying for that karmic slight big time in season two. With Greg being no “gift” at all, so much as a master manipulator. Eerily enough, Greg says to her in the final episode of season one, “Enjoy your life till they drop the curtain.” Little did she know, he was talking about her and not himself. And yes, one has to wonder if Greg ever had cancer at all, or if it was all part of the long con, some kind of “sympathy lure” (even so, he assures her in “Bull Elephants,” “You’ve done a lot for me, you found those doctors. I’m gonna live…because of you”). More uncanny still is that Tanya replies to his comment, “I’ve had every kind of treatment over the years. Death is the last immersive experience I haven’t tried.”

    Thanks to the sudden appearance of a gaggle of gays (Hugo [Paolo Camilli], Didier [Bruno Gouery] and Matteo [Francesco Zecca]) led by Quentin (Tom Hollander), she’s about to get her wish. And it’s no coincidence that they show up in episode three, “Bull Elephants,” right after Greg leaves. Ready to pounce on her with flattery as much as Cameron is ready to pounce on Ethan with propositions of debauchery now that Daphne and Harper have gone to Noto for the day… and night. The plucky prostitutes at the center of it all, Lucia (Simona Tabasco) and Mia (Beatrice Grannò), take advantage of the duo’s temporary “lonesomeness,” especially after Lucia’s sure gig for the week, Dom, decided to back out due to being racked with guilt over all the times he’s cheated on his wife (voiced over the phone by Laura Dern). Not that it matters now, for she refuses to take him back. Nonetheless, Dom suddenly sees fit to make an effort at “being good.” His own self-imposed karmic payment (for the moment, anyway) being abstinence.

    As for Cameron, he starts to act like the devil on Ethan’s shoulder as he insists, “Monogamy was an idea created by the elite to control the middle-class.” Giving in to the peer pressure of yore, Ethan goes along with hiring Lucia and Mia, only to rebuff Mia’s advances out of his “respect” for Harper and their marriage. Harper, meanwhile feels kidnapped by Daphne, who offers her some placating weed so they can get a little more comfortable with one another. Comfortable enough for Daphne to remark that, in order to control the karma balance of Cameron cheating on her probably pretty regularly, she does what she wants so she doesn’t “feel resentful.” This is Daphne’s running mantra throughout The White Lotus, telling Harper, “And if anything ever did happen, you just do what you have to do to make yourself feel better about it” and then similarly telling Ethan, “You just do whatever you have to do not to feel like a victim.” And, in this way, she justifies all of her wrongdoings, from having another man’s child and passing it off as Cameron’s to fucking Ethan on the Isola Bella. This is how she staves off karma—by stating that she’s merely offsetting the bad karma of others with what she does in response.

    It doesn’t work quite the same way for Tanya, whose death is further alluded to when Portia tells Albie, “I feel like if I murdered my boss, I could argue it was euthanasia.” So yes, Greg isn’t the only one who’s had it up to here with Tanya’s self-involved theatrics. In episode five, “That’s Amore,” Tanya’s self-obsession amplifies when she asks of Greg’s abrupt departure, “How did I not see the signs, Portia? Do you think I’m oblivious?” “No,” Portia lies. Ignoring her answer anyway, Tanya continues, “You know, sometimes I think I should’ve started that spa for poor women with that girl from Maui. You know, ‘cause she was like a real healer. The real deal. But you know, sometimes, I think those healers are a little witchy. Maybe she put a curse on me.” Of course, that’s quite the self-victimizing rich person’s thing to say—for the only “curse” Tanya has is invoking her own bad karma with her carelessness. Some might call it “innocent” because she “doesn’t know any better,” but the veneer of Tanya’s spoiled privilege isn’t enough to excuse her reckless actions when it comes to other people. Usually those who don’t have even one iota of her power (read: money) level, Portia included.

    As for those, like Ethan, who have achieved that rare feat—coming into money through hard work—it still feels like they’re somehow never “good enough” for those born into wealth. Something that Cameron made him feel throughout their collegiate tenure. But Cameron is not without his insecurities either, with Ethan explaining to him at one point during a wine tasting, “You have a bad case of something called mimetic desire… If someone with higher status than you wants something, it means it’s more likely that you’ll want it too.” Ah, the competitive nature of the rich and rich-ascending. Their karma ultimately being perpetual dissatisfaction. This is where Belinda’s sarcastic and incredulous “poor you” face comes to mind.

    The discrepancy of karmic repercussions among the two clashing classes (broke ass and moneyed) is the one way in which The White Lotus sustains its season one venom for the rich; a venom that does not necessarily mean justice for everyone, so much as the presentation of the affluent as largely untouchable. For, apart from Tanya, the punishment against the less wealthy always seems more severe. Even the lowly piano player, Giuseppe (Federico Scribani), is subject to his karma, finally ousted from his position by Mia for being a garden-variety lecherous liar.

    Then there’s the more financially flush Dom, who is told by Albie that all he really needs to do to absolve himself in his son’s eyes is make a literal karmic payment… of fifty thousand euros. Money Albie “requires” to give to Lucia, who has been playing her own long con, albeit (Albie-it?) to a less malicious extent than Greg and the gays. Promising that he’ll put in a word with “Mom” about him, Dom can’t resist the exchange. And, much to his shock, Albie speaking favorably about his father results in her actually answering the phone and saying they can talk when he gets back. So much for paying karma back in blood, sweat and, in Tanya’s case, death. In this sense, White appears to be iterating that there’s nothing un uomo bianco can’t get away with (a fitting message considering White’s last name).

    At the same time, there is the unusual curveball of the prostitutes being the real victors of the entire narrative, though who knows when their own debt to karma might come along? Knowing prostitute luck (and profligacy), it will only be a matter of weeks before the money slips through their hands. In any event, if there is one other key takeaway from the second season of The White Lotus—apart from class and karma (including its evasion) going hand in hand—it’s that a lot of people bone with devil-may-care attitudes in Sicily. With Cameron being the only one who appeared to use a condom amid the varying adulterous dalliances and permutations (and the takeaway from that was: condom usage only leads to evidence that will get a person caught). But hey, what happens on vacation stays on vacation… except the STDs.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Madonna Gambles on Rereleasing “Gambler”

    Madonna Gambles on Rereleasing “Gambler”

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    Apropos of nothing—not even some TikTok virality bullshit—Madonna has seen fit to reissue her 1985 single, “Gambler,” for all streaming platforms. Although Madonna has been rereleasing all kinds of remastered and remixed “goodies” lately (especially for Erotica’s thirtieth anniversary) in honor of going through her back catalogue with Warner Bros., “Gambler” is the most arbitrary pick to date. For it’s not as though the single has been reissued for the fortieth anniversary or some such. No, 2022 marks a rather unspecial thirty-seven years since the advent of Vision Quest and its soundtrack, for which Madonna offered up both “Gambler” and the more well-known “Crazy For You.” As for the former, Madonna, ever the ahead-of-her-time feminist, stated of the lyrical composition, “[It’s] really the girl’s point of view, because she’s, like, an unstoppable person… She doesn’t really need this guy.” Yes, it sounds exactly like herself she’s describing.

    Except that, in Vision Quest’s case, it applies to the female lead, Carla (Linda Fiorentino), passing through Spokane, Washington on her way to San Francisco. She ends up boarding at high schooler Louden Swain’s (Matthew Modine) house after his father (Ronny Cox) rents a room to her. Despite coming across as the older, more mature woman (in real life, she’s a year younger than Modine), the attraction between her and Louden develops incrementally, all with the help of “Crazy For You” to soundtrack it. But the flipside to the vulnerability of such a ballad is “Gambler,” filled with the chutzpah and bravado that Madonna herself rose to fame on. Her own backstory, characterized by clawing her way to the top as a New York street rat, easily fits in with lyrics like, “Gambler/Yeah, I know all the words to say/‘Cause I’m a gambler/I only play the game to win, yeah” and “Don’t wanna say this but I think that I should/I’m better off forgotten if you think that I’ll be good/One day you see me, the next day I’m gone/Don’t fight me, baby, I don’t wanna hold on.”

    Had Madonna been keeping a diary circa 1979-1982, these are lines that could surely have been ripped from its pages as she moved on from people like Dan Gilroy and Camille Barbone in her endless bid to break into the fame business. Indeed, “Gambler” couldn’t have been written with as much conviction as anyone except Madonna, complete with all her Leo arrogance as she goads, “You’re not happy with the way I act/You better turn around boy, don’t look back/You’re getting angry, you know I can see/You’re just jealous ’cause you can’t be me.” For a long time, of course, that was true, with every pop singer in the game yearning to have as much success and idol worship as Madonna. As time wore on, and she started to become viewed as more of a caricature of herself (particularly in her social media postings), jealousy has given way to something like “pity.” But of course, Madonna would never allow other people’s negative reactions to what she does stop her (hence, “you can’t stop me now”). Perhaps knowing more than ever that every behavior she engages in is a “gamble.” From rereleasing this little-appreciated single to rereleasing her Sex book in the climate of peak cancel culture.

    No matter, for the theme song of Madonna’s life has been “Gambler.” With every move she’s made being one giant leap of faith starting from the moment she opted to drop out of college and move to NYC on a wing and a prayer. Thus, one can hear the genuineness of her earnest defiance as she makes the final declaration, “Yeah, I’m a gambler/That’s right, baby!” Although the single sounds better than ever, Madonna evaded giving the somewhat lackluster accompanying video an “HD” upgrade, leaving the look of it decidedly “lo-fi.” Which suits the aesthetics of the era perfectly as we see interspersed Vision Quest scenes attached to Madonna’s nightclub performance in the movie. Indeed, she’s billed as “Singer at Club” in the credits, yet another nod to the grind of her early days spent performing in dives throughout the Eastern Seaboard. A grueling slog she was eager to transform into a national tour once she hit the bona fide big-time with her second album, Like A Virgin.

    So it was that “Gambler” managed to make the cut for the setlist of 1985’s The Virgin Tour. Yet, although the tour kicked off on April 10 in Seattle, “Gambler” wouldn’t get an official release as the second single from the Vision Quest Soundtrack until September of ’85. So clearly, Madonna believed in it enough to do some ample pre-promoting throughout the tour, wherein she appears for the only live rendition of the song dressed in simple skin-tight black leggings, a black crop top with a cross cutout at the chest and arm-length black fringe gloves. Relying solely on her raw stripper energy, Madonna dances about in the manner she became known for in early videos like “Everybody” and “Lucky Star” as she asks, “You understand what I’m talkin’ about, Detroit?” (with the sole official recording of the show having taken place in her hometown).

    Not only did she make Detroit understand all about the undiluted ambition emanating off her in “Gambler,” but the entire rest of the world. Produced by then-boyfriend John “Jellybean” Benitez (who Madonna would throw over in 1985 for Sean Penn), this single ultimately needs no “reason” to be rereleased. For it not only distills, but cuts to the core of Madonna’s entire identity—the very one that has landed her where she is today.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • It’s Time to Acknowledge Ellie Goulding’s “Lights” As a Christmas Song

    It’s Time to Acknowledge Ellie Goulding’s “Lights” As a Christmas Song

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    For a while now, Ellie Goulding has been the unsung heroine of an unacknowledged Christmas classic in the seasonal canon. That’s right, 2011’s “Lights,” from Goulding’s 2010 debut album of the same name, has all the hallmarks of a true Xmas beacon. Apart from being the ideal song to play over any video or photo slideshow of various Christmas lights captured about town, the single is a straightforward nod to, that’s right, not being able to sleep without the lights on. And who can better identify with such a sentiment than children?—the very demographic that Christmas is most tailored toward (those overly catered to bastards).

    The very demographic that also becomes most jaded when revelations about the magic of Christmas being nothing more than phony baloney come to light. Accordingly, the lyrics Goulding sings seem to almost perfectly mirror that moment between bona fide wonder and innocence lost. That childlike fear of the dark also going hand in hand with the period in one’s enfance when they still actually believe in entities like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. The chorus in particular paints the picture of someone still hopeful as Goulding croons, “You show the lights that stop me turn to stone/You shine it when I’m alone/And so I tell myself that I’ll be strong/And dreaming when they’re gone/‘Cause they’re callin’, callin’, callin’ me home.” Whoever “they” are (angels, family members, friends, etc.) and whatever “home” is (“the other side,” Dreamland, general unconsciousness, etc.), it sounds rather ominous.

    However, there’s no denying that the comfort of lights, whether Christmas ones reflected through the snow-frosted window or even just garden-variety hall lights to keep total darkness from sinking into one’s bedroom, is the primary focus of the song. Then again, other more poetical interpretations of the single posit that this is an overt “love letter” to suicide and surrendering to the darkness (despite the track being called “Lights”). In which case, that would still make it a Christmas classic as we all know Xmas is the time of year when people become especially prone to “X’ing” themselves out (see: Mixed Nuts and the suicide prevention hotline it centers on). This would tend to add up based on the lines, “And I’m not sleepin’ now/The dark is too hard to beat/And I’m not keepin’ up/The strength I need to push me.” A.k.a. push one to keep going at all during these dark times wherein no amount of light let in can seem to overcome the blackness. And what part of the year is that ever more evident than during the Christmas season?

    The accompanying video, directed by Sophie Muller, even has its fair share of Christmas-themed light aesthetics—when they’re not decidedly rave-oriented. There are also several repeat scenes of Goulding encircled by graphics of houses (that initially look like the sort of Chinese symbols a white girl might gravitate toward). In the spirit of the blue house icon that appears in the Home Alone font. And what do houses (especially middle-class ones in neighborhoods like the McCallisters’) always have on them during Christmas? Lights, bien sûr. That old school telephones also appear as an alternating icon between the houses even lends a certain “E.T., phone home” quality. And yes, E.T. essentially drove most of the Christmas merchandise sold in 1982, despite being released in summer (when most corporations start gearing up behind-the-scenes for Christmas anyway).

    Goulding herself could drive as much business as she wanted toward the purchase of Christmas lights should she ever choose to use this song for such advertising purposes. And, funnily enough, the same year the song was reissued on a beefed-up version of the album, called Bright Lights, it was intended to be the first single from it, but instead, her cover of Elton John’s “Your Song” would end up taking its place after being enlisted for the John Lewis Christmas advert—so go figure. She’s just a pop singer with a lot of Christmas spirit inherently imbued into her non-denominational tracks.

    As for the other simple visuals of the “Lights” video, with Goulding playing the drums (ahem, “Little Drummer Girl” anyone?) and banging on the tambourine (another quintessential “Christmas instrument”), it’s evident she’s trying to give Mannheim Steamroller a run for their money the entire time. And so, beyond just the obvious rationale for “Lights” being a nod to Christmas lights, there are many other “beneath the surface” reasons why this 2010 “sleeper hit” is also a Christmas sleeper hit. Much to Mariah’s dismay. But we all know “All I Want For Christmas Is You” has grown incredibly tired over the years, and not just because it’s much too straightforward for the Christmas canon. “Lights,” on the other hand, is the less apparent, less played choice as a staple of future Christmas playlists with any sense of panache.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Did You Know That Lana Del Rey Wouldn’t Give Us A Song Without A Bit of L.A. History To It?, Or: “Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd”

    Did You Know That Lana Del Rey Wouldn’t Give Us A Song Without A Bit of L.A. History To It?, Or: “Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd”

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    Having recently cited Harry Nilsson’s “Coconut” as one of her all-time favorite songs, maybe it should come as no shock that Lana Del Rey has sampled herself un petit peu Nilsson for the latest song in her repertoire, “Did You Know That There’s A Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd.” Note that it’s not a question, so much as a statement of fact—because Del Rey has little time to endure people without at least some cursory knowledge of L.A. geography (remember, her body is a map of L.A.). So yes, once more turning to her great muse, California, the Ocean Boulevard alluded to is the one in Long Beach. And the tunnel in question is the Jergins Tunnel, built in 1927 to connect to the Jergins Trust Building, in addition to providing safe pedestrian access for those who wanted to get to the beach without being run over by the barrage of cars Los Angeles County is known for.

    Within that tunnel, the amount of foot traffic was great enough to warrant vendors setting up shop there (calling it the Jergins Arcade) to pluck business from some four thousand visitors an hour crossing the intersection of Ocean and Pine on the weekend to get to the beach. But, as is the way with big city infrastructure, some poor decisions were made vis-à-vis preservation and, around 1967, the tunnel was closed. Twentyish years later, in 1988, the Jergins Trust Building was demolished, signaling what many rightly believed was the total demise of Long Beach’s once flourishing Downtown.

    But maybe, with Lana’s Midas touch when it comes to drawing attention to things, the Jergins Tunnel might get its day in the sun, so to speak, anew. Moved by people and architecture of the past, Del Rey combines her nostalgia for both in this first single from her album of the same name (which still doesn’t give “hope is a dangerous thing for a woman like me to have – but i have it” a run for its money in word length). Indeed, an opening line from a 1992 Los Angeles Times article about the tunnel could just as easily fit right into the song—with journalist Suzan Schill remarking, “Waiting to be restored or sealed forever, a long-forgotten Art Deco pedestrian tunnel lies beneath Ocean Boulevard at Pine Avenue.” And yes, Lana also has a song called “Art Deco,” so really, the Jergins Tunnel touches on all her inspirational kryptonite points.

    Plus, her affinity for Long Beach was already established on 2019’s “The Greatest,” which opens with the line, “I miss Long Beach and I miss you, babe.” And apparently, the Long Beach she misses is the one of yore. Just like most of the bygone icons and aesthetics she has tried to keep alive by embedding them consistently into her work. This includes rather regular allusions to The Eagles (as she mentioned on 2015’s “God Knows I Tried”), who come up again in the lyrics, “Thеre’s a girl that sings ‘Hotel California’/Not because she loves the notes or sounds that sound like Florida/It’s because she’s in a world preserved, only a few have found the door.” “The door” to that closed-off tunnel under Ocean Boulevard, a portal to the past. When surfer dudes and dudettes only worried about getting high by the beach and working on their tan as they languished on the sand or even headed to the Pike, an “amusement zone” that Lana would probably liken to Coney Island.

    Alas, in yet another instance of poor decision-making by Long Beach city council, the consensus was reached not to renew the amusement zone’s land leases, prompting total demolishment of the beloved area in 1979. Eventually, it became retail outlets (ergo rebranded as the Pike Outlets) with shit like H&M and a Nike store to numb the memory. Making it very easy to forget about what it once was indeed.

    Which is why the entire concept of this particular time period in Long Beach history is so ideal to make the analogy, “Don’t forget me/Like the tunnel under Ocean Boulevard.” However, now that Del Rey has canonized it in song form, there’s no doubt the Jergins Tunnel will probably, at the very least, finally get an official Wikipedia page (and maybe even some love from LBC hometown hero Cameron Diaz). Shit, it could even galvanize the “China-owned, Seattle-based developer” known as American Life that’s been slated to open a massive hotel on the property since seemingly “forever.”

    As though speaking from the perspective of the tunnel itself, Del Rey demands, “When’s it gonna be my turn?/Don’t forget me/When’s it gonna be my turn?” Of course, she is also talking about herself in terms of finding a real love, everlasting. Prompting her to then get extremely 2012/2013-era Lana with the demand, “Open me up, tell me you like it/Fuck me to death, love me until I love myself.” If that isn’t a line straight out of an L.A. girl’s mouth, then nothing is. To be sure, Del Rey has proven herself a more bona fide resident of that town than even the ones born and bred there (*cough cough* Billie Eilish). This comes complete with the poetic ode, “LA Who Am I To Love You.”

    No stranger to mentioning other L.A.-loving icons, Del Rey adds Nilsson’s moniker to the likes of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Billie Holiday, Dennis Wilson, Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell. All names that have the commonality of twentieth century nostalgia. Nilsson himself gets name-checked when Del Rey croons, “Harry Nilsson has a song [“Don’t Forget”], his voice breaks at 2:05/Somethin’ about the way he says, ‘Don’t forget me’ makes me feel like/I just wish I had a friend like him, someone to give me five.” It all speaks to Lana once saying that everyone she ever looked up to or admired was dead. Dead as the Jergins Tunnel. “Handmade beauty sealed up by two man-made walls,” as Del Rey bemoans (using a similar conceit of herself as a human extension L.A. that she did in “Arcadia”—this time by saying, “Mosaic ceilings, painted tiles on the wall/I can’t help but feel somewhat like my body, mind, my soul”).

    In that aforementioned Los Angeles Times article that could also occasionally double as Del Rey lyrics, Schill concludes, “To the distress of historians, the empty passageway remains neglected, silently awaiting its fate.” One can now add, “To the distress of historians, Lana Del Rey and LDR stans…” to that sentence. Whatever happens to it next, its beauty being perpetually masked from the world feels like an all but assured enduring phenomenon. And yet, thanks to Del Rey’s roving track, even those who have never been to Long Beach can get a sense of this tunnel’s entrancing effect in all its yesteryear glory.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Despite Being A Satire, Drop Dead Gorgeous Accurately Mirrored Kirstie Alley’s Politics

    Despite Being A Satire, Drop Dead Gorgeous Accurately Mirrored Kirstie Alley’s Politics

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    As is usually the case when a celebrity dies, all former political effrontery tends to be glossed over. This certainly held true for the likes of James Caan (who died earlier this year) and Doris Day (who died in 2019). Granted, these might be prime examples of “Old Hollywood Republicans” (because, believe it or not, it used to be much chicer to be conservative than liberal in that town), but the point is, no one brought up the political leanings that formerly made people cringe once these “icons” were dead. The same seems to go for Kirstie Alley, who was, as a Midwesterner, perhaps an unavoidable Republican. A reality that came to harsh light during the 2016 election, when she announced her intention to vote for Donald Trump instead of Hillary Clinton. Backpedaling after her declaration was met with verbal reprisals, she claimed, “I hate this election and I’m officially no longer endorsing either candidate.”

    “Endorsing” him or not, Alley still voted for Trump in 2016 and 2020 (the ultimate sign of a “die-hard” [read: white supremacist] Republican). Being vocal about it again the latter election year when she tweeted, “I’m voting for @realDonaldTrump because he’s NOT a politician. I voted for him 4 years ago for this reason and shall vote for him again for this reason. He gets things done quickly and he will turn the economy around quickly. There you have it folks there you have it.” The pronouncement was met with a swift barrage of venom, including from the likes of Judd Apatow, who replied, “Shelley [misspelled as Shelly] Long was way funnier than you.” Alley went on The Sean Hannity Show the next day to continue to defend her stance, doubling down once more on her position. All of this is to say that, despite the 1999 mockumentary masterpiece that is Drop Dead Gorgeous being a satire, Alley’s role as pageant mother/head of the pageant organizing committee Gladys Leeman wasn’t that much of a reach for her to embody. Not politically speaking, anyway.

    Directed by Michael Patrick Jann and written by Lona Williams, the latter was highly inspired by her hometown of Rosemount, Minnesota (hence, the name of the town in the movie being Mount Rose, MN) for the story. Complete with over-the-top Minnesota accents that Alley was happy to accommodate as she said on-brand conservative things like, “I know what some of your big city, no bra wearin’, hairy-legged women libbers might say. They might say that a pageant is old-fashioned and ‘demeaning’ to the girls…” Her cohort, Iris (Mindy Sterling), chimes in, “What’s sick is women dressin’ like men!” Gladys agrees, “You betcha, Iris. No, I think you boys are gonna find something a little bit different here in Mount Rose. For one thing, we’re all God-fearin’ folk, every last one of us. And you will not find a ‘back room’ in our video store. No, no. That filth is better left in the Sin Cities.” Iris clarifies, “A.k.a. Minneapolis-St. Paul.”

    Gladys’ carefully-curated image as the perfect mother and homemaker is especially crucial this pageant year as her own daughter, Rebecca “Becky” Leeman (Denise Richards), will be competing. Which is why it’s also so important for Gladys to come up with an “original” theme like “Proud to Be An American.” So much different from previous themes like, “Buy American,” “USA Is A-OK” or “Amer-I-Can!” Although mostly confident that Rebecca has what it takes to win, Gladys isn’t so naïve as to discount the potential of someone such as doe-eyed, blonde Amber Atkins (Kirsten Dunst) or even Tammy Curry (Brooke Elise Bushman), the dyke archetype who beat out Rebecca to become the president of the Lutheran Sisterhood Gun Club. This win being precisely her motive for rigging Tammy’s tractor to blow up.

    The explosion turns out to be a foreshadowing of the comeuppance Gladys will get with another big kabluey at the end of the movie—this time of her own daughter on a giant swan. After fixing the pageant so that Rebecca would win (even though Amber was the clear favorite), it’s obvious the Leemans had no intention of ever letting Rebecca lose in that they had pre-purchased this massive piñata-esque float for their daughter to ride in at the celebratory parade. A parade, by the way, filled with scenes that mirror the most grotesque cliches of American stereotypes as perpetuated by Republicans. Ignorance abounding in shit-kicker aesthetics (from army camouflage to oversized khaki shorts) and behaviors (e.g., mocking a mentally challenged person with their overalls caught in a car door).

    At Rebecca’s funeral, reference to the swan being made in Mexico comes back as the pastor notes to God, “Maybe it’s your way of telling us, ‘Buy American.’” Or that Rebecca’s own win-at-any-cost mother epitomizes the sort of tactics that Trump himself would employ to “get the job done.” Ignore reality, ignore what the majority actually wants and just bulldoze your way to “success.” The “anti-wokeness” of Gladys Leeman—which comes out in dialogue like, “I said I’d move if a cripple came” (re: parking in a handicapped spot)—is an additional foil of Alley’s own nature, which would go on to reveal some very pro-MAGA, QAnon-sympathizing sentiments.

    Determined to wield her “blunt” persona as “telling it like it is,” it became increasingly evident over the course of the post-90s years (particularly with Scientology becoming less tenable for many outside observers and defectors alike, including Leah Remini, who clashed a number of times with Alley after leaving the organization) that her brand was less “freedom of speech” and more mumbo-jumbo. Including her response to the war in Ukraine being that she didn’t “know what’s real or what is fake in this war. So I won’t be commenting. I’ll pray instead.”

    Incidentally, Scientologists don’t subscribe to prayer. Something the aforementioned Remini was eager to point out in her back-handed tribute/condolence to Alley and her family when she said, “Although Scientologists don’t believe in prayers, my prayers do go out to her two children, who are now without their mom.” Another thing Scientologists don’t believe in is seeking cancer treatment before it’s too late, told by the Church that they can conquer such “ailments,” particularly someone who was at Alley’s Operating Thetan Level VIII. Yet another reason it feels all too pointed that fellow Scientologists Kelly Preston and Chick Corea also died of cancer in 2020 in 2021, respectively. And both, like Alley, near the Church’s Flag Building in Clearwater, Florida.

    While there’s no denying Alley had many beloved roles, from Mollie Jensen in the Look Who’s Talking trilogy to Diane Barrows in It Takes Two to Veronica Chase in Veronica’s Closet to a caricaturized version of herself in Fat Actress, her death doesn’t deify her enough to dismiss her often problematic politics. Of the same ilk that Gladys Leeman was only too proud to trumpet under the banner of “Proud to Be An American.”

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • “Mouth” As The Soundtrack to Being Infected While Out and About

    “Mouth” As The Soundtrack to Being Infected While Out and About

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    Among Bush’s often underrated oeuvre is a song from their 1996 album, Razorblade Suitcase. Although “Swallowed” was its lead single—garnering the most attention—“Mouth” would later gain traction after being released in 1997 on a Bush remix album called Deconstructed and being featured heavily in the trailer (and the film itself) for An American Werewolf in Paris that same year. The song’s particular suitability for the movie stemmed from, obviously, how one ends up as a werewolf—that is to say, through a bite-filled mauling.

    But beyond that, “Mouth” sounds endlessly well-suited to soundtrack a day out amongst the hordes. Though many continue to act as though the pandemic isn’t still “a thing” (and like a new one won’t come to roost)/it never even happened at all (much as those who endured the 1918 flu pandemic needed to party the next decade away in order to forget), the after-shock of coronavirus, paired with the sudden remembrance that it’s flu season, makes “Mouth” an all-too-relevant song. And, incidentally, it also shares album space with a track called “Cold Contagious.” So clearly, for whatever reason, “spread” was on the mind of Gavin Rossdale in 1996—perhaps it had to do with meeting Gwen Stefani the year before and worrying that their long-distance relationship would get him caught in the act of cheating by giving her an STD.

    With an accompanying video directed by John Hillcoat, the scene opens at ground zero of contagion: a diner. Specifically the now-defunct Jenny Rose Restaurant, located somewhere between Death Valley and Joshua Tree. To play up the tie-in to An American Werewolf in Paris, Julie Delpy, who portrays Sérafine Pigot in the movie, appears out of nowhere to extract Gavin from his languid musing over the menu (despite already having food and coffee). Do they know each other? Is this a stranger’s hookup? It’s all as nebulous as the decision-making behind the werewolf visual effects.

    Maybe, in taking him by the hand and getting him to drive her through the desert, the retroactive point is to accentuate how free one can feel when they’re not traumatized by recently enduring the effects of a pandemic. In other words, the late 90s were a blithe time. Even in the sense that AIDS had “calmed down” (at least in the eyes of the straights) and it was once again a seeming free-for-all. Mouths on mouths, bodies on bodies, whatever.

    Nonetheless, a sense of foreboding lurks throughout the mid-tempo “Mouth,” especially as Rossdale opens with the lyric, “You gave me this.” Something about it smacks of Isabella Rossellini as Dorothy Vallens in Blue Velvet screaming, “You put your disease in me!” That’s what we all do every day to one another, just by daring to go outside. To walk around, ultimately slack-jawed as we cough, touch our noses and then touch something else, talk loudly (in public and usually on the phone) for no good reason and generally radiate carbon dioxide. That’s all a mouth is, in the end. One big carbon dioxide/contagion-emitting hole. The human body a sack of emissions designed seemingly only to harm fellow flesh husks with its propensities for attracting and “giving back” disease. Particularly now that we’ve hit the official eight billion mark in bodies. So, indeed, “nothing hurts like your mouth…” running all over town and breathing whatever old- and new-fangled disease you’ve contracted and seen fit to spread.

    Other accusations related to infection are manifest in the lines, “Pollute my heart-drain/You have broken me/Broken me/All your mental armor drags me down.” Would that one had some physical armor to actually battle contagion, beyond a mask—for, as many vigilant mask-wearers have experienced, it hasn’t kept Miss Rona from sinking in regardless. Especially since mask-wearing isn’t enforceable and not everyone will do it. And, unfortunately, donning a hazmat suit is something that only Tyra Banks appears to be able to pull off.

    Just as “Comedown” from 1994’s Sixteen Stone would become synonymous with Fear, so “Mouth” would with An American Werewolf in Paris. And yet, it’s a song with more newfound resonance in the current moment. The only thing one can hear on repeat in their mind (once they’ve made the correlation) while confronting the public space—seeing all those maws ajar. Utterly uncaring and immune to what they’re taking in or giving out with that gob of theirs, so long as they get to where they’re going and they buy what they want to buy while doing it.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • 2015 Was A Lonely Time For Those Trying To #MeToo Before It Existed: Luckiest Girl Alive

    2015 Was A Lonely Time For Those Trying To #MeToo Before It Existed: Luckiest Girl Alive

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    It’s easy for many to forget how different things were before the end of 2017 when it came to speaking openly about sexual assault. Most have been so conditioned to the witch-hunting evolution of the #MeToo movement (apart from its original 2006 iteration) that it’s probably a struggle to remember that it was born of earnest, fed-up intentions. In this regard, Jessica Knoll’s 2015 novel, Luckiest Girl Alive, was very much ahead of its time. And perhaps the film adaptation (also penned by Knoll) could only come out post-2017. Nonetheless, Ani Fanelli (Mila Kunis), whose experience is based on Knoll’s own, is sure to mention in her voiceover at the beginning of the movie, “It’s 2015 and people still act like marriage is some sort of crowning achievement for women.”

    The significance of the “time period” being just two years before the #MeToo wave broke effectively conveys the “scandalousness” of someone like Ani ever “daring” to speak out about her rape while she attended a prestigious private high school called Brentley in 1999. And, of course, forget about trying to speak out in 1999, when it was a scholarship student’s word against a trio of untouchable prep school boys. So Ani, then going by TifAni, did what the majority of women have always done: buried the incident in an attempt to “move forward.”

    Alas, the addition of a school shooting into the repertoire of trauma didn’t help with “moving on.” Especially since Dean (Carson MacCormac), one of her gang rapists, spreads the rumor that she was in cahoots with the school shooters, Arthur (Thomas Barbusca) and Ben (David Webster)—very Columbine-reminiscent, and not just because the year is meant to be ’99. The accusation is believed because 1) it’s Dean who says it and 2) Ani had been friends with both of them despite managing to latch onto the popular crowd. But her “connection” to them is rooted entirely in the group preying upon her naïveté, her eagerness to please.

    These flashbacks to that dynamic are doled out slowly at first, as we watch Ani live her “successful” life as a senior editor for The Women’s Bible and plan her wedding to the affluent Luke Harrison (Finn Wittrock). Which is why, after mentioning that it’s 2015 and everyone is still obsessed with women getting married, she adds, “That is a trap I did not fall into… I dove in headfirst.” It’s one of the endless dichotomies (or what some might call “hypocrisies”) about Ani. In addition to choosing a fiancé who so closely resembles the douchey type that might have partaken in a gang rape in high school and college and beyond. Even so, a girl has to look at knives for her future together with such a person, as Ani and Luke are doing in the first moments of the film.

    The second Ani touches a knife, she hallucinates that it has blood all over it, tapping into some Lady Macbeth shit as she tells herself to, “Snap out of it, psycho.” A tactic she’s likely been using her entire life to remain the “wind-up doll” everyone wants her to be, including her own highly insensitive mother, Dina (Connie Britton). A woman who truly believes Ani owes all her “good fortune” to her because Dina “got her into” Brentley, even though Ani’s the one that secured her own entrance through a writing scholarship. Her talent being something that her English professor, Andrew Larson (Scoot McNairy), can see immediately, as we’re given a requisite classroom scene that wields a piece of literature as a foil of the main character’s life. In this case, The Catcher in the Rye, with Larson quoting Ani’s essay, “Holden is what we call an unreliable narrator, someone whose version of the truth can’t be trusted.” Clearly, it’s a sentiment that applies to Ani from her own perspective of going up against privileged white boys—but, ultimately, it mirrors Dean spinning his false version of “the truth” to protect himself. And, further still, there’s no denying Holden Caulfield has a school shooter quality that applies to both Arthur and Ben.

    Although Luke is “good on paper,” his treatment of Ani is often undercutting and condescending, dismissing her when she says that her long-time boss and editor, Lolo Vincent (Jennifer Beals), is finally going to take her to The New York Times. Luke throws cold water on the notion by saying it’s not real until there’s an offer in writing, but that his job transfer in London is real. And wouldn’t it be so great if she got an MFA there? Ani ripostes, “You know MFA programs are just for white girls who can’t get paid to write.” Her overt use of barbing humor as a defense mechanism is obviously another side effect from her repressed trauma.

    And yes, Ani’s people-pleasing nature, the desire to fit in and not be othered is what led her down the path of false temptation in the first place, all those years ago. To laugh off her gang rape as some kind of mutual misunderstanding. Not wanting to be further made a fool of. Plus, the headmaster didn’t exactly make the scenario of what would happen if she reported the “incident” sound all too favorable. Even so, Mr. Larson encourages her to tell the police, having run into her at the gas station after she fled there on foot in the wake of her brutalization. Seeing her firsthand, there’s no doubt in his mind about what happened, and yet, he serves as the scapegoat who gets fired for letting any students leave the fall dance that night to go to the party in question. The party that Ani blows her second chance to evade when a popular girl named Hilary (Alexandra Beaton) shouts out that she should leave with them. Too flattered by Liam’s (Isaac Kragten) attention—in that moment—she opts to stay, altering the entire course of her life. And compromising her emotional well-being. But then, it’s not as though it’s Ani or any girl’s fault that they have the “gall” to believe they can get drunk at a party and not risk a gang rape. Or any kind of rape.

    The effects of this violation start to come out more and more in her interactions with Luke as they get closer to the wedding. For instance, an argument over a song to include on the playlist ensues when Ani says, “I do like the song but the guy’s a pedophile.” Luke replies, “You can still like the song though.” And in 2015, that was actually true. There remained a defense around separating the sexual abuser from his work. With #MeToo, all of that changed. It was no longer acceptable for men like Luke to say, “I always thought you had moved on from all this… I thought you were so tough.” In disbelief that men really do think a rape is something that can just be “moved on” from, Ani hits back, “So tough that I try to skip the part where I hurt about this? No. Until I do that, I’m just a fraud.”

    Vexed that this article she wrote is going public in The New York Times, he demands, “Fine, but can’t you work that out privately? Do you have to get into the nitty-gritty details for the whole world?” Trying to spell it out for his daft ass, she answers, “Those guys were going around making fun of the shape of my pubic hair. They were making fun of the sounds I was making so yes, the ‘nitty-gritty’ matters to me.” Defending them (because they’re cut from the same cloth), he offers, “They’re dead, and one of them is in a wheelchair. Haven’t they paid for their mistakes?” “Their mistakes?” “They fucked up, I’m agreeing with you.” “No, no, no. A ‘fuck-up’ is when you take your parents’ car out without permission and scratch the paint. A ‘fuck-up’ doesn’t even begin to encompass what they did to me.” Realizing there’s no way to win his “argument”—the one where she shouldn’t be hurt and traumatized by an extreme violation to her body—he yells, “Ani, it’s our fucking rehearsal dinner, how are we talking about this right now?” Perhaps because rape is always relevant in a woman’s life, even when men don’t want to acknowledge it.

    It also bears noting that, in the background of these unfolding events, signs of Hillary Clinton’s campaign are everywhere, with Ani’s own best friend, Nell Rutherford (Justine Lupe), saying she won’t get married until there’s a woman for president. Which means, naturally, she may never get married. For Hillary’s prevention from winning office in 2016 is, in many ways, what helped set off #MeToo. The fact that a “grab ‘em by the pussy” rapist like Trump was more “appealing” to patriarchal America (read: the electoral college) than a woman with “emails” was undeniably a catalyst for the sudden droves refusing to sit in silence any longer. Just as Ani refuses to by the end of Luckiest Girl Alive. And, unlike Cassie (Carey Mulligan) in the post-#MeToo Promising Young Woman, she opts to do it through words instead of violence. For it was, again, 2015, when we were all still playing at being “civil” to get our message across.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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