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  • Kylie Minogue Serves Her Version of Britney Spears’ “Lucky” Video With “Lights Camera Action”

    Kylie Minogue Serves Her Version of Britney Spears’ “Lucky” Video With “Lights Camera Action”

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    Proving that female pop stars only get better with age (even if Madonna already did that starting as early as 1998), Kylie Minogue is having a very productive year. It started with an underrated summer anthem called “My Oh My” featuring Tove Lo and Bebe Rexha, then continued with a feature on The Blessed Madonna’s “Edge of Saturday Night.” With her latest single of 2024, however, Minogue is officially paving the way for the release of Tension II, her follow-up to 2023’s Tension. Although an “addendum” to the latter, Tension II is sure to have enough additional bops in the vein of “Lights Camera Action” to make the record worth “buying” (tangibly or otherwise). As for the phrase itself, while Lana Del Rey might have been known to repeat it a few times in partial Spanish (“lights, camera, acción”—a phrase originally taken from a demo called “Put Me in A Movie”) during “High By the Beach,” it is Britney Spears who Minogue channels the most in terms of the video’s meta concept, directed by Sophie Muller.

    For, just as it is in Spears’ Dave Meyers-directed “Lucky” video from 2000, Minogue is merely playing a character in “Lights, Camera, Action”—though viewers are initially made to believe that she really is some kind of espionage mastermind as we see her sitting in a “Madame X” type of environment, complete with a map of the world hung up behind her. One that she approaches with her “obey everything I say” pointing stick to indicate to one of her lackeys what she plans on dominating next (by design, presumably, she aims her stick in the direction of her native Australia). So it is that we’re initially lulled into this “world of international intrigue” (complete with the black and white film used for this part of the video) led by Minogue until, at the thirty-five-second mark, she breaks character and yells, “Cut!”

    Minogue then appears flustered and dissatisfied with her performance (probably much the same way Taylor Swift does while self-directing her videos) as she demands to reshoot the scene. It’s an instant that immediately recalls the actress version of Spears in “Lucky” breaking her own character after the director shouts, “Cut!” at which time the actress allows herself to go back into diva mode by seething, “Finally! We’ve done it fifty million times.” After this audible irritation, viewers are allowed to see the behind-the-scenes of everything and everyone that goes into making a set such a believable “reality.” The same goes for “Lights Camera Action,” as the camera pans backward away from Minogue and then whips around at the forty-nine-second mark to reveal the innerworkings of the sound stage in color. By this part of the song, too, the rhythm has picked up even more (courtesy of producer Lewis Thompson), augmenting the rapid-fire intensity of the flashing lights of the various cameras, further amplified by the presence of photo umbrellas.

    “Lights Camera Action” then majorly serves “Lucky” again in terms of Minogue playing two versions of herself (as opposed to, say, Halsey trying to create an ersatz shot-for-shot remake of the video). In this case, the photographer and the photographed subject. Observer and object. In the next segment, Minogue the Actress/Object appears in a robe and curlers (somewhat reminiscent of a certain Taylor Swift look in “You Need To Calm Down”) as she sits in her director’s chair studying lines. This, too, is in keeping with the style of Spears the Actress’ busy, harried state in between takes during “Lucky.” Minogue takes it one step further by staring at herself in her vanity mirror and practicing her fake cry.

    In the next scene, Minogue, all dressed in espionage-ready black again and looking like the “sexy spy” she was playing in the first part of the video, proceeds to walk down a track as massive, industrial-grade fans blow wind behind her. The continued message? All glam is manufactured, everything is artifice. But, unlike Britney in “Lucky” (with such resigned lyrics as, “It’s time for makeup/Perfect smile/It’s you they’re all waitin’ for”), Kylie isn’t sad about that. Indeed, she seems ready to own her fame in a way that Chappell Roan would never “deign” to do. As both star and director of her own career. This much is played up again when the same Minogue we saw walking down the track is also shown behind the camera that’s set up for the tracking shot that will follow her.

    Thus, although Minogue might be referring to the dance floor as usual when she sings, “And this place is the space where I let it go” (how very “I know a place where you can get away/It’s called a dance floor”) it is the act of performing itself that she highlights in the video with these lyrics. Elsewhere adding, “And I hate to be waiting, so hold the door/I got shades on my face and I’m looking like Lagerfeld’s in Vogue.” Here, the “in Vogue” part may very well have a double meaning. For while Lagerfeld might literally be “in Vogue,” there was also a time when he was more “in vogue,” before his insufferable qualities were deemed too cancellable by modern standards (though Anna Wintour never got the memo).

    No matter to Minogue, apparently, who also makes another Madonna allusion (apart from “vogue”) by name-checking Jean-Paul Gaultier via the lyric, “I look stellar tonight/My armor is by Gaultier/It’s one hell of a ride/Make sure you know you wanna play.” In this moment, Minogue could just as easily be addressing anyone (like the aforementioned Roan) seeking fame at all. Because, if the “Lucky”-esque video is anything to go by, one has to be willing to be pushed and pulled in a million different directions—many of which prompt an inevitable difficulty with deciphering the real from the fake.

    To that end, Minogue gleefully acknowledges a kind of willful detachment from “reality” (whatever that means anymore) as she belts out in the chorus, “Here I go/Tuning in, tuning out/All I want is the noise/Turn it up, turn it loud/Till you ain’t got a choice/We’re turning sinful tonight/It’s about to go off/Tell me, can you feel it?”

    So it is that she saves one of the most fanfare-laden scenes for last—dressed in a caution tape-inspired dress (with caution tape all around her as part of the set design, naturally) while a mound of glitter falls ostensibly “from the sky” (this also being another very “Lucky” sort of image). Minogue’s pièce de résistance in terms of lending the same kind of meta cachet that Spears does to “Lucky” is finishing the video with a scene of her actress self in a “watching the dailies” type of movie theater as she appraises her performance—the one shown in the very first part of “Lights Camera Action.”

    Needless to say, she’s quite pleased with it. Probably far more than the eponymous Lucky was with her own…despite winning an Academy Award. This being, perhaps, the mark of a fundamental difference between overconfidence and insecurity when it comes to how certain celebrities deal with fame.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Love Is An Invisible String In Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” Video

    Love Is An Invisible String In Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” Video

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    For someone who is often seen as an “anti-Taylor,” the motif presented in Billie Eilish’s latest visual offering from Hit Me Hard and Soft, “Birds of a Feather,” is all about something Swift dissects in “invisible string,” from her 2020 folklore album. That something being, more specifically, that everybody has “their person” that they’re inextricably bound to, whether they know it early on or not. And while Swift might have written “invisible string” with Joe Alwyn in mind, it doesn’t change the fact that, even after someone’s gone from your life, whether literally or metaphorically, their influence on and connection to you remains.

    To highlight this point, Eilish’s video for “Birds of a Feather” features her alone in a deserted office building setting (after all, this is the girl who loves The Office enough to have sampled extracts of dialogue from it for 2019’s “my strange addiction”) as an invisible presence pulls her in every direction. Like “Chihiro” (both the song and video), there is a haunting, otherworldly quality to the “narrative.” On that note, Eilish has undoubtedly been in a “way existential” mood for this record, with the video for “Chihiro” being more exemplary of that than, say, the ultra no-frills look of “Lunch”—though, to be fair, the technical aspects of that video are nothing to balk at.

    As is the case with “Birds of a Feather,” which might be ostensibly “simple” in terms of its concept, but was “intricate” enough for Eilish to concede to actually letting someone else direct her—which hasn’t happened since 2021’s “Lo Vas a Olvidar” with Rosalía…and that was ultimately because it wasn’t entirely Eilish’s song. Just as it wasn’t with the remix for Charli XCX’s “Guess.” In that scenario, the director who managed to break through Eilish’s trust issues in terms of giving creative control to someone else (which stemmed from some ideological clashes while making 2019’s “when the party’s over”) was Aidan Zamiri, who Eilish had no choice but to work with on the “Guess” video, since Charli XCX was running the show on that one (side note: Zamiri also directed XCX’s “360”).

    Zamiri apparently did such a good job that Eilish tapped him for “Birds of a Feather,” yet another very physical video (since, like Madonna, Eilish believes you need to suffer for your art). A physicality that begins at the twenty-four-second mark, when her arm is pulled violently upward, almost as if to match her own form of violent love, the kind elucidated in the opening verse, “I want you to stay/‘Til I’m in the grave/‘Til I rot away, dead and buried/‘Til I’m in the casket you carry/If you go, I’m goin’ too, uh/‘Cause it was always you/And if I’m turnin’ blue, please don’t save me/Nothin’ left to lose without my baby.”

    The intensity of those words is summed up by Eilish (during an AmEx segment called “Story of My Song”) saying that she wanted the first verse to feel “a little toxic” and “lovebomb-y.” And yet, if one can get through the so-called lovebombing phase of the honeymoon period and realize that such passion can still not only endure, but also give way to a deeper kind of love the more that time goes by, then perhaps they really are birds of a feather with this other person. Even in the wake of their death. So connected by this “invisible string,” as it were, that they can still reach the object of their affection from beyond the grave.

    As the ghostly presence in the office building keeps making itself more known to Eilish, a breeze whips her hair before her arm is grabbed even more severely and the chair she’s sitting on raises itself so that it’s only standing on two legs. Zamiri then furnishes viewers with an overhead POV shot of Eilish, almost as though we’re meant to experience what her spectral lover is as they whip her around in a circular motion on the chair.

    After the ghost from beyond seemingly gets bored with treating Eilish’s body like a ragdoll in this particular setting, it drags her, still in the chair, across the room, at which time the force of the movement becomes so strong that she falls out of the chair and slams right through the wall and into the next room while (totally unfazed) singing, “I’ll love you ‘til the day that I die.” In the new part of the office setting, Eilish’s hand is still extended as though she’s holding onto someone else’s. This before falling to the ground in a pile of glass shards, at which time her own eyeglasses shatter. Clearly, this is a savagely passionate love.

    But that doesn’t stop Eilish from picking herself up off the ground and ending up in another part of the office. In fact, this whole office theme is enough to make one believe that Eilish is secretly talking about the toxic relationship between employee and employer, with the latter having a forever hold on the former. Which is definitely one possibility considering that Eilish herself has said, “With music, my whole thing is that it’s for the listener to decide what it means. And it doesn’t matter what I wrote it about, what Finneas wrote it about, it really doesn’t matter as long as you interpret it however you need to.” This includes “Birds of a Feather” as an “ode” to corporate slavery dynamics within the context of the video.

    As Eilish delves into the second verse, one is also reminded of Ariana Grande’s “pov,” during which she sings, “I wanna love me/The way that you love me/Ooh, for all of my pretty/And all of my ugly too/I’d love to see me from your point of view.” In Eilish’s version of that sentiment—the one about how the people who love us see us in a far better light than we see ourselves—it goes, “I want you to see, hm/How you look to me, hm/You wouldn’t believe if I told ya/You would keep the compliments I throw ya.”

    In another moment that gives Ghost a run for its money, Eilish is positioned in one of the rooms filled with fluorescent light (as all offices are) while the darkened room next to it, presented almost like part of a split screen, seems to accent the divide between life and death. That those we’ve lost are not ever really gone, but simply in another dimension. One that only the greatest of loves can ever truly transcend. Just ask Orpheus. Or Beetlejuice. Toxic or not, their love for the person they obsessed over was strong enough to traverse the realm that divides the living and the dead.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Bayou Bride: Lana Del Rey Delivers The Biggest (Yet Most On-Brand) Shock of Her Career By Getting Married to a Swamp Tour Guide

    Bayou Bride: Lana Del Rey Delivers The Biggest (Yet Most On-Brand) Shock of Her Career By Getting Married to a Swamp Tour Guide

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    If Lana Del Rey is known for anything besides her melancholic melodies, it’s dating “working-class,” salt of the earth men. Indeed, the most famous men she’s been with were more “fringe famous” than anything. This includes James-Barrie O’Neill, Francesco Carrozzini and, yes, G-Eazy (increasingly fringe famous with each passing year). It was after G-Eazy that things started getting more obscure, both in terms of musicians and everymen she dated. Take Clayton Johnson of The Johnsons, for example (who Del Rey was also engaged to for a brief period). Or Jack Donoghue of the band Salem.

    But the blueprint for the type of man she was really looking for came in the form of Tulsa-based police officer Sean Larkin, who provided plenty of muse cachet for Chemtrails Over the Country Club, Blue Banisters and Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd. Evan Winiker briefly cushioned the blow from that sour romance before Del Rey was ostensibly led back to Jeremy Dufrene, a swamp (de facto, alligator) tour guide who operates near New Orleans.

    Her latest pick, of course, remains more on-brand than ever, with Del Rey insisting she’s a simple, down-home country girl. In fact, holding off on releasing her supposed country-fied album, Lasso, until after she got married to a country boy can only lend more cachet to the record. Surely. As for how long Del Rey has actually known Dufrene, well, there’s an image of the two of them from March of 2019 after Del Rey took one of his tours (a phrase that sounds ripe with innuendo). She captioned the photo, “Jeremy lemme be captain at Arthur’s Air Boat Tours.” At that time in Del Rey’s career, she had released three singles from the still-unreleased Norman Fucking Rockwell: “Mariners Apartment Complex,” “Venice Bitch” and “Hope Is a Dangerous Thing for a Woman Like Me to Have – but I Have It.” Considering the themes of these songs—all three mixed with a tinge of melancholia and hope vis-à-vis relationships—it seems retroactively ironic that Del Rey would meet the man she was going to marry that year.

    However, instead of starting a relationship with him then, Del Rey ended up with Sean Larkin by September of ’19—perhaps a benefit to fans who would get the subsequent albums that were so clearly inspired by him. Not to mention the A+ for Petty moment when Del Rey chose to only put up one billboard for Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd in Larkin’s town.

    This particular moment also brought up something unique to Del Rey’s Notting Hill-esque dating selection. And that is: usually, the pressure of being famous and dating/getting married to a “civilian” is something that goes “easier” (like most things) for men. More specifically, famous men who want to date “normal” women. Take, for example, fellow Ocean’s Eleven cast members George Clooney (married to Amal Alamuddin, now Clooney) and Matt Damon (married to Luciana Barroso). No one is half as interested in doing an informational deep dive into these women/their past as they are in assessing who someone like Dufrene “is” because he’s now married to one of the biggest female pop stars in the world (even if she’s always billed as part of the “alternative” genre).

    The same went for Britney Spears when she married the civilian that was (and remains) Kevin Federline (despite his likely insistence that he was “famous” in his own right for being a backup dancer) in 2004. Indeed, there are certain parallels to Spears and Del Rey here, not just because Spears herself is from Louisiana, which Del Rey will now likely make her honorary home, but because both men seemed to come out of nowhere and the “courtship” was very short before a wedding ensued. But as Del Rey herself says on “Margaret,” “When you know, you know.”

    In Del Rey’s case, however, there appears to be no gold digging involved, with one “source” telling the Daily Mail, “Her friends and team did some digging on him over fears he could be using her, but his business is lucrative and he doesn’t need or want Lana’s money. They can see he treats her right and he’s very, very low maintenance. He gives her what she is seeking in a man and is romantic.” And also much older—fifty-six (born in one of the decades often referred to in her songs) to Del Rey’s thirty-nine. Though, obviously, it’s no secret that LDR has a fetish for older men, proudly announcing it on 2012’s “Cola” when she sang, “I gots a taste for men who are older.” And yes, a large portion of her visuals have been centered on paying tribute to “Daddy” figures (see: “Ride”). To the point of age, it’s additionally worth nothing that Del Rey also sings on the aforementioned “Margaret,” “When you’re old, you’re old/Like Hollywood and me.” Calling herself out as “old” in this instance leads one to believe that perhaps her own age/“ticking clock” was a factor in this seemingly “impromptu” life decision.

    Either way, Del Rey seemed to be fulfilling her long-standing bridal dreams (having often posed as a bride for various magazine photoshoots, as recently as this year for Interview). Not just in the dress she wore and the type of man she walked down the “aisle” (or rather, grass) with, but in terms of having the wedding next to a swamp (location is everything), therefore embodying the “everywoman” spirit she’s been veering toward in her work ever since the year she first met Dufrene. Her manifestation of this wish on 2021’s “Let Me Love You Like A Woman” came in the form of: “I come from a small town, how ‘bout you?/I only mention it ‘cause I’m ready to leave L.A./And I want you to come/Eighty miles north or south will do/I don’t care where, as long as you’re with me/And I’m with you, and you let me/Let me love you like a woman.”

    While Louisiana might be a lot farther than eighty miles (and to the east) from L.A., Del Rey has been hinting at a retreat from Hollywood life for a long time now. Right down to her frequent random-ass visits to places like Alabama, where she went viral for “waitressing” at a Waffle House in 2023. Or telling the audience at the 2024 Ivor Novello Awards, “I decided not to do a stadium tour this year because I wanna go to McCreary County in Kentucky, I wanna go meet the people, I wanna say hi and have breakfast with them, it’s not always about just going north and going to every island straightforward and picking up money in stadiums.”

    Del Rey has apparently held fast to those desires, swapping out McCreary County in Kentucky for Lafourche and St. Charles parishes in Louisiana. Trading in her erstwhile “persona” for that of bayou bride. Though that doesn’t mean this new phase of Del Rey’s life won’t still invoke plenty of inspiration. Just please, no songs about swamps or bayous. That should remain strictly Creedence Clearwater Revival territory.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Janet Jackson Is Presented as Sinner and Saint in the Span of a Week

    Janet Jackson Is Presented as Sinner and Saint in the Span of a Week

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    “Janet Jackson saved my life” is a far cry from some of the other digs lobbed at the singer this past week, after an interview conducted by Nosheen Iqbal for The Guardian, published on September 21st, revealed Jackson to be skeptical of presidential candidate Kamala Harris’ Blackness. It was Eve whose statements about Jackson’s saintliness somewhat counteracted the backlash/“sinner” narrative surrounding the Queen of R&B (but not Pop) for her ignorant and hurtful comments that seemed to be in line with those of a MAGA supporter. Eve’s quote comes from her new memoir, Who’s That Girl? (again trying to co-opt that title from Madonna, who will always have the monopoly on it, and is supposedly calling her forthcoming biopic as such, repurposing the name of her 1987 movie and accompanying lead single from the soundtrack).

    But before the excerpt from Eve’s book started widely circulating in time to vaguely mitigate Jackson’s unexpected comments about Harris, Jackson’s rhetoric had already resulted in a major backlash from fans and ordinary observers alike. Especially considering Jackson’s unique responsibility as a highly influential Black woman. Alas, she seems to be one of those Black women who deems certain other Black people not “Black enough” (sometimes known as: colorism). Except that Jackson continued to double down on her comments that Harris isn’t Black at all, just Indian. So vehement about her stance, apparently, that she was sure to have her “actual” team publicly decry the apology issued by a man claiming to be her manager, Mo Elmasri. In the aftermath, Jackson opted to skip issuing a “real” apology of her own, which of course speaks volumes.

    Whoever he really is, Elmasri’s statement attempted to do damage control, while Jackson sought to undermine his mea culpa by speaking out against the false apology. Meanwhile, fellow famous Black entertainers like D.L. Hughley lashed out at Jackson by saying, “Janet Jackson’s interview sounded like a Trump rally! FYI!! It’s a little ironic to question whether someone is black while you’re breathing through the nose of a white woman!” This jibe at her plastic surgery also harkens back to her brother, Michael, who seemed to spend the majority of his adult life trying to turn completely white (oh the fucked-up psychology this racist society can wreak).

    As for the exchange that has so many people (Black and otherwise) enraged with Janet, it went as follows:

    “America could be on the verge of voting in its first black female president, Kamala Harris. ‘Well, you know what they supposedly said?’ she asks me. ‘She’s not black. That’s what I heard. That she’s Indian.’ She looks at me expectantly, perhaps assuming that I have Indian heritage. ‘Well, she’s both,’ I offer. ‘Her father’s white. That’s what I was told. I mean, I haven’t watched the news in a few days,’ she coughs. ‘I was told that they discovered her father was white.’ I’m floored at this point. It’s well known that Harris’s father is a Jamaican economist, a Stanford professor who split from her Indian mother when she was five. ‘My mother understood very well that she was raising two black daughters,’ Harris wrote in her book, The Truths We Hold. The people who are most vocal in questioning the facts of Harris’ identity tend to be hardcore QAnon-adjacent, Trump-loving conspiracy theorists. I don’t think Jackson falls into that camp, but I do wonder what the algorithms are serving her. I start again. Harris has dual heritage, I say, and, given this moment, does Jackson think America is ready for her—if we agree she’s Black? Or, okay, a woman of color? ‘I don’t know,’ Jackson stage whispers. ‘Honestly, I don’t want to answer that because I really, truthfully, don’t know. I think either way it goes is going to be mayhem.’”

    That last statement is the only one Jackson made that had any sense to it. For she’s not wrong that America’s political and racial divide is so intense that there will be bedlam no matter who wins. And let’s not kid ourselves that the extremist white supremacists won’t come out of the woodwork to cause a stir if Harris does win. Or kid ourselves that Trump doesn’t still have an eerily good chance of keeping her from the presidency. Despite his own racist comments at the National Association of Black Journalists convention during which he indicated that he felt Harris suddenly “became Black” for more political clout and appeal. Though, if he knew anything about what it is to be Black in America, he might understand that such a characteristic isn’t usually touted for benefit in a The System setting.

    Jackson’s repetition of this sentiment might be shocking to some, but, at the same time, she isn’t exactly known for being super “lucid” these days with all her mumbo-jumbo religious bullshit. To boot, many have dredged up an old comment of Harris’ circa 2004 that weighed in on Michael Jackson’s then latest child abuse trial, speculating that Jackson secretly still harbors resentment about it.

    One person who holds no ill will toward from something that happened back in the 2000s is Eve, who rehashed the miraculous way in which Jackson came to her aid on the night of the 2007 VMAs (you know, the one best known for Britney Spears’ trainwreck performance of “Gimme More”). This from an excerpt from her new memoir that’s been making the rounds. In it, she recalls how she had the misfortune of drinking a drugged beverage (maybe it was Diddy who was responsible) at an afterparty and how “Missy [Elliott] came in to check on me, but I was just unable to collect myself. Then who walks in, Janet Jackson. I had never met her before, and so her first introduction to me was seeing me hysterical. None of that mattered to Janet; she actually just sprang into action and told people to get aspirin, water, hot sauce and a piece of white bread. That concoction knocked me right out of my hysteria. So basically Janet Jackson saved my life.”

    A declaration that many others would probably echo…up until her Harris comments. Because there’s no doubt that the racist whites will glom onto them so that they can say, “See? Even a real Black person knows that Kamala isn’t Black, just pretending to be.” And yes, Jackson’s controversial comments with regard to this election are far more offensive than Chappell Roan’s (though, in her case, “offensive” should be put in quotes). Nonetheless, it would be nice to think of Jackson in the same “saintly,” “angel from above” way that Eve did in ’07. But it’s going to be hard to if she continues to repeat these false claims about Harris’ ethnicity.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Mondo Ironico #9: Trying to Experience “Luxury” At a Bridgerton Themed Ball in Detroit, Or: Is Eating Kit Kats and Watching A Stripper on a Portable Pole Not Enough For You?

    Mondo Ironico #9: Trying to Experience “Luxury” At a Bridgerton Themed Ball in Detroit, Or: Is Eating Kit Kats and Watching A Stripper on a Portable Pole Not Enough For You?

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    In a series called Mondo Ironico, let us discuss how fucking antithetical something in pop culture is.

    Detroit might have come a long way since the days of being called the “Murder Capital” (or just “Murder City”), but a little gentrification probably hasn’t gone far enough to throw a so-called Bridgerton Ball that was anything other than, well, jank. Although the organizers of the event, er, Uncle N Me LLC, positioned the would-be “elegant affair” as a chance to “step into the enchanting world of the Regency era” and enjoy “an evening of sophistication, grace and historical charm,” none of those descriptors could be used (at least not reasonably) to classify what went on the night of Sunday, September 22nd in Detroit.

    And yes, what went on has already drawn numerous comparisons to Glasgow’s illustrious “Willy Wonka Experience”—which was more of a trauma than an experience for the children and parents who attended. Perhaps those who bought into the Detroit Bridgerton Themed Ball (note that the word “themed” is ultimately meant to read like fine print) at anywhere between one hundred fifty to one thousand dollars a head naively believed that, surely, something so atrocious and ghetto could never happen in the United States…which, despite many residents’ denial, just so happens to be the Earth’s capital of atrocities and ghettoness. Much as Detroit was once the U.S.’ murder capital, lately usurped by St. Louis and Baltimore.

    Unfortunately for the attendees’ senses, the phrase “it can’t happen here” has never truly applied to America. And, thus, a scam-y, horrific presentation of what a Bridgerton Ball theoretically is (at least when it’s Netflix’s official The Queen’s Ball: A Bridgerton Experience) ensued. The images thus far unleashed from the so-called event still don’t quite outdo the “Willy Wonka Experience,” mainly because it seemed as though that event actually tried to put more effort in to pulling a fast one over those who were lured in and betrayed. First and foremost because the “organizer” of the event, Billy Coull, at least offered up some fantastical AI images to present “Willy’s Chocolate Experience” (so no, it wasn’t even called the “Willy Wonka Experience”) to his marks.

    All the Detroit Bridgerton Themed Ball could offer was a picture of a real person holding a copy of Lady Whistledown (see below). Whoever that person was, she likely wasn’t in attendance to see a stripper standing in for what was supposed to be “Regency-era dance.” And, sure, Bridgerton might be known for mixing in contemporary elements (mainly musically), but it would be more than slightly far-fetched to imagine a stripper on the scene at one of Queen Charlotte’s balls (regardless of how sexually liberated the series is).

    The lone, dubious image on the Detroit Bridgerton Themed Ball website

    Nor would food and drink options be such a travesty on Queen Charlotte’s watch. As one attendee reported, “Food apparently ran out after an hour, and some was raw. No one was there to pick up plates, so you had to deal with strangers’ leftovers yourself.” This report included an image of a sad, empty table with an array of mangy-looking plates sporting pecked-at leftovers on them. Not exactly “high society.” Nor were the additionally pictured pair of “queen’s chairs” (or “royal”/“regal” ones, if you prefer) splayed out in front of two windows with a shitty view and “complemented” by some hastily strewn-about fake flowers and a red cloth, of sorts, with a rose pattern, which one supposes is meant to mimic a red carpet effect.

    Alas, there are more regal red carpets at certain strip clubs. And yes, the attendees of the Detroit Bridgerton Themed Ball might have had a more elegant time at one of those venues than what they were subjected to at the Harmonie Club, which has a new reason to be part of the National Register of Historic Places thanks to this ultra-busted (non-)event.

    Like the abovementioned Billy Coull, who organized the “immersive experience” through his House of Illuminati company (again, another red flag in terms of the name), Uncle N Me LLC also faced so much public vitriol that it released a public statement/apology that read: “We understand that not everyone had the experience they hoped for at our most recent event Sunday night at The Harmonie Club, and for that, we sincerely apologize. Our intention was to provide a magical evening, but we recognize that organizational challenges affected the enjoyment of some guests.” Let us pause here to note that they likely thought a stripper and some Kit Kats would be all the magic any true Detroit resident really needed, not taking into account the high expectations fortified by the city’s “bougie-fication” of late.

    The statement then continued, “We take full responsibility and accountability for these shortcomings. Please know that we are working diligently to address all concerns [a.k.a. working diligently to not get slapped with a lawsuit] to ensure that all guests have the enjoyable experience they deserve…we are committed to doing everything in our power to make this right.”

    But, as it was with “Willy’s Chocolate Experience” (a.k.a. the “Willy Wonka Experience”), the damage has already been done to those who suffered the awkward, highly disappointing plight. And they may never be able to watch a Bridgerton episode quite the same way again.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Naturally, Imposter Syndrome Is Tackled Through the Lens of “Being A Screenwriter” in Only Murders in the Building’s “Adaptation” Episode

    Naturally, Imposter Syndrome Is Tackled Through the Lens of “Being A Screenwriter” in Only Murders in the Building’s “Adaptation” Episode

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    When it comes to wanting to emulate a certain screenwriter, the biggest “douchebag cliché” veers toward Charlie Kaufman worship. In the screenwriting world, it almost amounts to the same thing as a literary writer worshipping David Foster Wallace—who, yes, is mentioned within the first two minutes of Only Murders in the Building’s fifth episode in season four, “Adaptation.” (Specifically, “I can quote David Foster Wallace AND Ace Ventura.” Which is not exactly something to be proud of.) Obviously named as such in honor of Kaufman’s grudging homage to the masochism of screenwriting in the 2002 film of the same name.

    To convey the masochism and imposter syndrome that’s particularly unique to screenwriting, Marshall P. Pope (Jin Ha) opens the episode with the age-old question, “What makes a writer a real writer?” For most, whether writers or not, the answer, tragically, remains: being paid for it. Because being paid for things is what’s supposed to make you feel like a “real person” in general. But that sensation magnifies tenfold when you’re a writer—and, unfortunately, just one of many in the competitive cesspool of overall mediocrity that often actually allows only the mediocre to rise to the top.

    After selling his script to Paramount (with producer Bev Melon [Molly Shannon] at the helm), Marshall fears that he might be just that sort of “success story” as he applies a fake mustache and beard in front of the mirror (an Antonioni poster looming in the background for added pretentious, pseudointellectual flair) to make himself appear more “writerly.” More “worldly,” as he calls it. And, as most people in New York will maintain, “It’s about convincing the world and, honestly, yourself that you have the goods.” The old “fake it till you make it” chestnut. A vexing platitude that was much easier to execute back during a time when absolutely every embarrassing and/or compromising detail about your past couldn’t be dredged up somewhere on the internet and used against/to discredit you.  

    Even so, Marshall tries his best to evoke the “Kaufman look” (a picture of Charlie tacked to the mirror, in what could be called Single Asian Male-style) in the hope that said screenwriter’s own “brilliance” might rub off on him. Because, as Marshall also adds, “The look only gets you so far.” Theoretically, you’re supposed to have some talent, too. But that theory seems quaint now, rooted in the days before the Kardashians landed onto the scene. Marshall then instructs, “It comes down to what’s on the page.” Alas, if that were truly the case, movies like Madame Web would never be made.

    While OMITB’s “Adaptation” never bothers with getting meta in quite the same intense, envelope-pushing way as Kaufman’s movie (though, on a related note, Meryl Streep was in Adaptation just as she’s in season four of OMITB), the episode’s own writers, Steve Martin, John Hoffman and J.J. Philbin, are sure to drive home the meta aspect that stems from Charles-Haden Savage (Martin), Oliver Putnam (Martin Short) and Mabel Mora (Selena Gomez) being forced by the studio turning their podcast into a film (rather than the movie-within-a-movie genre, OMITB seeks to embody the less-trodden movie-within-a-TV-show genre) to be photographed with their so-called doppelgangers: the actors playing them. For Charles, it’s Eugene Levy; for Oliver, it’s Zach Galifianakis; for Mabel, it’s Eva Longoria (who tells Mabel she’s been “aged up” to make her relationship with two old men seem less creepy). This serves only as more creative fodder for Marshall as he delves into additional rewrites on the script after spending more time with the trio (thanks to being questioned by them as a suspect).

    As Mabel and Charles wrap up their questioning of their “suspect,” Mabel can’t resist the inclination to ask, “Is your beard…fake?” An embarrassed Marshall replies, “Oh god, is it that obvious? This is supposed to be costume-grade human hair.” When Mabel continues to probe about why he has it, Marshall admits, “I can’t really grow facial hair and… I wanted to sell myself as a ‘real writer.’ This is the look, right?” Charles and Mabel both regard him as though he’s the saddest creature in the world before Charles gently inquires, “How could a writer of your talent have imposter syndrome?” Mabel, however, can immediately relate to knowing what it’s like to be good at what your passion is, yet still not really believe in that talent even after being accepted by the Establishment. Indeed, for Mabel, Establishment acceptance seems to be another sign, to her, that she’s an imposter. Particularly after Bev laps up every half-cooked idea she offers as Bev’s next adaptation-from-a-podcast movie.

    As for Martin (even if playing Charles while saying it) asking the abovementioned question, he’s no doubt speaking from his own experience in the screenwriting field, a métier that makes most of its pursuers feel like a fraud. Especially if they’ve never even sold a script. That one-in-a-million chance befalling only so many aspirants—and it’s typically only the most annoying, least talented ones who are willing to openly say, “Yeah, I’m a screenwriter” despite having no evidence other than an ego and a spec script to back it up.

    But what this episode of OMITB aims to do (apart from introducing a pair of new lead suspects) is assure those billed as “amateur” artists that said word is not a bad thing. That, in fact, it proves one is doing it for the love of the art rather than the quest for commercial “glory.” Marshall initially serves as a representation of both sides of that coin, albeit one who only really wants “success” because he’s been conditioned his entire life, like everyone else, to believe that art has value solely if it’s being in some way corporately subsidized. Therefore, “sanctioned” by a “higher power.”

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Even Paris Hilton Has Managed to Release an Album That’s More Listenable Than Katy Perry’s 143

    Even Paris Hilton Has Managed to Release an Album That’s More Listenable Than Katy Perry’s 143

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    If one wanted to know just how embarrassing a musical “comeback” can be, the new benchmark is Katy Perry. Although expectations for 143, her seventh album (if one counts her debut Christian rock effort, Katy Hudson), were already low after “Woman’s World,” “Lifetimes” and “I’m His, He’s Mine,” 143 has managed to surpass all the worst fears of just how bad bad can be. While some have tried to offer the “consolation” that it’s not “bad,” but it’s also not “good,” the truth is that such a characterization is 1) overly kind and 2) also the worst form of criticism. To be just “mid” is the mark of someone who is an utterly banal “artist.” In her time and place, Perry at least pushed some aesthetic boundaries, even while embodying the trope of a 1950s pinup.

    Indeed, it can be tragically argued that with the loss of her “looks,” Perry has not so coincidentally continued to lose clout despite once being described as the “most beautiful woman in the world by Maxim in 2010 and being voted as “sexiest women of 2013” in Men’s Health. As was the case for Britney Spears, it was after Perry shed her signature locks that things started to take a noticeable downturn. (Incidentally, Perry had the audacity to shade Britney for her 2007 head shaving incident at the 2017 Grammys.) Changing her hairstyle into a short blonde coif for the Witness album, this became the first record to signal a waning interest in Perry’s brand of so-called kitsch (which seems to borrow heavily from the Zooey Deschanel playbook, meaning it’s often more annoying than “quirky”).

    In fact, Perry even admitted to experiencing “situational depression” after that record failed to achieve the same level of success as Teenage Dream and Prism. For it usually takes much longer for interest in a pop artist to decline (at least five albums). But if she was depressed over that album’s reception (and, in comparison to 143, Witness presently comes across as a “masterpiece”), then she should definitely be on suicide watch post-143.

    Perhaps the greatest initial indication of how atrocious the album was going to be didn’t come in the form of “Woman’s World,” but in telling Zane Lowe, “I am creating from a place of happiness and wholeness, which is super rare, I think, and scary for artists because I think that biggest lie that we’ve ever been told is that we have to stay in pain in order to create great art…” Needless to say, 143 is never going to be classified as “great art” in any way, and seems only to further prove the antithesis of what she also parroted in a slightly different manner back in 2017 after Witness’ release: “The biggest lie that we’ve ever been sold is that we as artists have to stay in pain to create.”

    Clearly, though, people must want Perry to be back in pain again based on their reactions to 143, with one of the most brutal reviews being one from Slate that summed it up best with the line, “Katy Perry [is] an invasive species pushing into environments where she doesn’t belong, namely the 2020s.” This being especially noticeable when comparing her to 2024’s “grittier” musical successes: Charli XCX and Chappell Roan.

    And while Perry could have gone the route of making a post-maternity record with as much experimentation as Halsey’s If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power (which has since given way to shittier fare in the form of singles like “Lucky”), she’s instead relied solely on a bid to recapture the height of her 2010 glory. Hence, her inexplicably horrible decision to tap Dr. Luke to cowrite and coproduce every song on the album save for “Wonder” (arguably the cheesiest offering on 143). This being an especially poor choice for a song called “Woman’s World,” the track Perry chooses to kick off the record. Of course, since everyone is aware of its terribleness by now, it’s the one to immediately skip in the hope that maybe “Gimme Gimme” featuring 21 Savage will be better. Spoiler alert: it’s not. And though 21 Savage’s lyrical contribution isn’t the most offensive thing about it (though he does have the audacity to rap, “I’m like Amazon ‘cause I got what you need”), it does little to buttress Perry’s embarrassing chorus, “Gimme, gimme, baby, stop wastin’ my time/Kitty, kitty, wanna come party tonight/Trippy, trippy, daddy, take me on a ride/If you want my body, gotta blow my mind.” And all with the entire song set to an insipidly repetitive beat that smacks of the 2010s.

    The following track, “Gorgeous,” also suffers from the same musical problem, while additionally serving as Perry’s only attempt at “modernizing” herself with a feature from Kim Petras, who herself is in Dr. Luke’s back pocket for whatever reason. To be sure, Petras’ endlessly affronting Slut Pop felt like a cruel parody of the type of music Dr. Luke used to make with Kesha. It’s also not lost on any Swiftie that the song shares the same name as a Taylor track from Reputation. Something Perry keeps losing as the album progresses into the ultra-retro “I’m His, He’s Mine,” which speaks to some fifties-level heteronormativity and possessiveness. Doechii, too, must suffer the humiliation of being linked to this album as 21 Savage, Kim Petras and JID do, but apart from these features, Perry is going it alone on tracks like “Crush,” placed at number four on 143.

    Like most of the other fare, “Crush” hopes that a danceable (enough) beat will distract from “lyrics” like, “My heart goes/La, da-da-dee/La, da-dee/La, da-da-dee/My heart goes/La, da-da-dee/La, da-dee/La, da-da-dee” and “Is it a crush?/Makin’ me blush,” the latter of which feels far too puerile for someone who has been prattling on about how much she’s changed and matured since having a baby. (And, by the way, Britney singing, “Stop, you’re making me blush/People are looking at us” constitutes a far better lyric.)

    To this point, saying that giving birth to her daughter has “formed and shaped and completed” her, it’s a shame that the effect it had on Perry musically is certainly not anything like what happened to Madonna after giving birth to Lourdes and making Ray of Light soon after (though Perry does use the word “frozen” at one point on “All the Love”). For there is no depth here, not even of the shallow variety. “Crush” transitions into the “similarly house-y” “Lifetimes,” her failed second single that often feels grammatically incorrect (“I love you for lifetimes”?)—and not in a good, Sabrina Carpenter-esque way (i.e., “That’s that me espresso”).

    Her maudlinness only ramps up on “All the Love,” yet another ode to Daisy, her four-year-old. As such, she declares, “Feels like I’m floatin’/The colors so bright when I look in your eyes, oh yeah/I needed you to set me free/Now everything’s golden/Since you arrived, I’m higher than high, oh yeah/Still can’t believe that you found me.” As far as 143 lyrics go, however, these are probably among the most varied—except when she starts repeating, “Back to me”—which also happens to be the name of a Lindsay Lohan song that’s actually more of a bop.

    “All the Love” does another “seamless” musical transition into “Nirvana,” which feels ill-timed as a name considering no one likes Dave Grohl right now. Of course, “Nirvana” is yet another dance “banger” (it wishes) during which Perry spits out lyrics devoid of emotion despite wanting so badly to convey it. Instead, it comes across as yet another track that seems to have been written for a movie version of a pop star (think: Cora Corman from Music and Lyrics) as Perry coos, “Breathe me in, another dose/Take a ride on my rainbow/Keep it up, I’m gettin’ close/‘Bout to hit kaleidoscope.” Hmm, a euphemism that doesn’t quite land, but one gets the picture—along with Perry urging the object of her desire to “show me that you’re gonna (ah-ooh)/Take me to Nirvana.” Though that seems unlikely with Orlando Bloom being her “same penis forever” (because no, his dick isn’t as big as it looks in those 2016 paparazzi photos).

    Though he could always afford to get some “Artificial” endowment if necessary. As for the song of the same name that follows “Nirvana,” “Artificial” is clearly meant to be an “updated” version of “E.T.” (complete with the presence of a Black man [JID] on the track to lend supposed “cachet” to this white girl’s “tale”) that tries to incorporate some sense of “modernity” into it by altering the alien metaphor into one pertaining to AI. With Perry’s love object (no longer, oof, Russell Brand since the time when “E.T.” was penned) addressed as follows: “Are you real or artificial?/So what’s the deal, huh?/Tell me, are you fake or are you real, huh?/How do I connect if I can’t feel ya?/Sooner or later, I will reveal ya/Artificial, so what you’re thinkin’?/Do you put emotions over reason?/Are you gonna love me like a human?/Can you touch me in a simulation?” Perry likely didn’t make the connection between “writing” a song like this and the fact that many a critic would compare her 143 lyrics to something generated by AI. And the comparison is certainly not untrue. Case in point, she has the audacity to “belt out,” “I’m just a prisoner in your prison.” As is any listener with the stomach to get through this album (which is tantamount to the viewer with the stomach to get through Emily in Paris).

    With regard to this level of scathing truth from critics, it seems as though Perry set herself up for still more disaster by titling the next song “Truth” (another generic banality in name and content). Because, although Perry claims, “I wanna know the truth/Even if it hurts me,” she definitely doesn’t want to hear it about how utterly and torturously insipid this record is. To be sure, that’s part of the reason why she insisted at this year’s VMAs, “One of the biggest reasons I’m standing here now is I learned how to block out all the noise.” But it would be impossible—nay, completely narcissistic—to block out this much noise regarding the caliber of shittiness permeating 143. Even fellow millennial Paris Hilton didn’t manage to do worse/remain as stuck in the past (specifically, the one where it’s still the 2000s) with her own recently released album, Infinite Icon.

    Granted, it is not without coincidence that the album covers of Katy Perry’s 143 and Paris Hilton’s Infinite Icon bear similar aesthetics—that is to say, wannabe “futuristic” ones that look spat out (or shat out) of an AI app. An irony that seems lost on two women who have no idea they’re hopelessly trapped in the era of their respective peaks (sort of like cheerleaders in high school who will never quite grasp that was their zenith—the exception, as usual, being Madonna, who switched personas even then, flitting from the thespian group to the cheerleading one). However, Hilton, in contrast to Perry, has used her “representative of the 00s” brand to keep miraculously staying relevant in the present. Or at least more likeable than Perry. And the release of Infinite Icon, eighteen years after her debut, Paris, at the behest of Sia (who executive produced the album), seems to be further proof of that.

    Surprisingly, Hilton has “pithier” statements to make on Infinite Icon, even if they’re just as saccharine in theme and tone as what Perry “provides” on 143. As a matter of fact, these two albums feel like unspoken companion pieces in what will become the annals of “bad pop” (specifically, bad pop by female anachronisms). More to the point, both women embody a certain kind of “millennial cringe,” except that Perry is far less adept at parlaying that into something enduringly bankable. She continues to drive that point home on the album’s final track (which can’t come soon enough), “Wonder.” Cashing in on this whole “mother image” she seems intent on shilling, it serves as a sort of “how-to” for her daughter, with Perry urging, “Stay wild, beautiful child/Don’t let the weight of the world be heavy on your wings/Stay pure, beautiful girl/Don’t let the fear in the world burn out what you believe.”

    Some might have thought that Perry was trying to to pull a Beyoncé with Blue Ivy by enlisting Daisy to sing in her child’s Auto-Tuned voice, “One day when we’re older/Will we still look up in wonder?” at the beginning before it melds into Perry’s own Muppet-y voice asking the same thing. But no, it’s the voice of one of the cowriters’ son. Not that Daisy’s presence on the song would have done much to help it. Besides, Perry name-checks her anyway by requesting, “Stay free, little Daisy/Don’t let the envious ones say that you’re just a weed.” The ones envious because, why, she’s a nepo baby? Any who, although it’s Perry’s best attempt at sincerity, she doesn’t carry it off (much like the rest of 143). Not like, say, Lily Allen writing about her daughter on 2018’s “Three,” and singing it from said daughter’s perspective. Or Madonna singing “Little Star” on Ray of Light. Or even Halsey singing “Darling” on If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power.

    While “Wonder” is technically the final track, Perry makes the additional mistake of contributing to the environment’s downfall by offering two other versions of 143 with separate bonus tracks: “Has a Heart” on the Target edition and “No Tears for New Year’s” (which sonically seems like an attempt at remaking “The One That Got Away” with a pinch of Taylor Swift-aspiring “intimate” songwriting) on the “exclusive purple vinyl.” If she had been slightly shrewder, Perry might have considered swapping out “Wonder” for “Has a Heart,” for the latter actually does feature Daisy announcing at the beginning, “I want kindness.” But even getting a child to ask that of 143 isn’t “endearing” enough to spare Perry from the critical venom regarding this album.

    In the same abovementioned Slate review of the album, Carl Wilson notes, “… this album makes it seem like Perry’s past decade isn’t just a case of bad luck and poor decisions. It makes one question how good she was in the first place, or how much was just being in the right place at the right time. Nothing wrong with that—luck and ephemerality are part of how pop works, even part of its magic. The bubbles that burst fastest glisten brightest, or some such. It might be more appropriate to think of Katy Perry as the equivalent of a one-hit wonder, only an outlier at seven or eight hits instead.” Not exactly “loving” or “kind” words, which is what Perry sought to put out in the world in the hope of getting them back, with “143” being shorthand for “I love you”—something many picked up while watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. But what does it say about Perry that she’s ultimately getting her creative inspiration these days from an increasingly outdated children’s show?

    If the well idea is this dry, maybe it is better to surrender to being a “legacy act” and just do a residency in Vegas where she centers a show strictly on her lone two hit albums. Except, wait, she already did that with Play… Begging the question, where can Perry really go from here if not further into the depths of irrelevancy?

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Chappell Roan’s “Unwitting” Charli XCX Shade

    Chappell Roan’s “Unwitting” Charli XCX Shade

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    Move over, Billie Eilish, there’s a new environmentally-conscious Gen Z pop star in the mix, and it’s none other than Chappell Roan. Despite her classification as a “geriatric Gen Zer” (born near the very beginning of the generation’s “hatching” in 1998), there’s no denying Roan as being, these days, perhaps even more influential on her age group than “zygote” Gen Z pop stars like Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo. The latter two, although often vocal about various “do-gooding” endeavors (for Rodrigo, it’s less about the environment than her Fund 4 Good, which aims to “support community based non-profits and girls’ education, support reproductive rights and prevent gender-based violence”), have never been quite as upfront and vehement as Roan is in the October issue of Rolling Stone for which she serves as the cover star (complete with the title, “A Star Is Born”—the Lady Gaga allusion being rather over-the-top, but hey, no one ever said that subtlety sells).

    Among other quotable chestnuts found in the article, Roan announces, “All the money [I make] goes to the world-building [oy, that phrase]. That’s why I am saying no to every fucking brand deal right now, because I’m like ‘Does it fit in this world?’ No, H&M does not fit in this world. Also, fuck H&M.” While Roan could have simply stopped at “every fucking brand deal,” she opted to call out H&M in particular. A pointed choice considering Charli XCX’s highly-publicized, fresh collaboration with the fast-fashion juggernaut. A collab that has many declaring that Brat summer is effortlessly poised to become Brat autumn (with a remix edition of the album coming out in October to further emphasize the seamless transition). And why not? When there’s still so much more money to be made off of this particular “femininomenon” for Charli? Indeed, like Chappell, she’s been frequently mentioned as one of the three most celebrated pop stars of the year—and all of whom have been slogging at it for roughly a decade only to finally be met with insane, Taylor Swift-level obsession in 2024 (though one wonders if any fans can truly be as obsessed [and willing to spend as much money to prove it] as a Swiftie). Charli, of course, has actually been in the spotlight since at least 2012, when Icona Pop’s “I Love It” (which Charli wrote, but didn’t feel was right for herself as a “solo” effort). Well over ten years. It’s just that, as with everything, Gen Z isn’t aware of shit prior to their own “era” until and unless it becomes a trend.

    Which, one supposes is why it’s good that Roan is trying to use her own “trending” nature to make a big, politically and environmentally-conscious statement while she can. Apart from already insisting that fame can be repurposed from toxic to tolerable, Roan is focusing in on a cause that’s supposedly near and dear to Gen Z, despite their greater addiction to fast fashion than any previous generation. Particularly with ultra-cheap online outlets like AliExpress, Temu, Shein and Romwe (and, quelle surprise, Shein owns Romwe, hence the very similar prices and products) “tempting” them with their shitty but attainable wares. Compared to those entities, H&M seems almost “saintly” (though its latest offense is continuing to operate its many store locations in Israel amid the ongoing Palestinian genocide).  

    Thus, Roan’s open vitriol toward a fast fashion player that is hardly all that influential to Gen Z compared to the abovementioned ilk comes across more like shade. Which is also odd when considering that, per Roan’s gushing account, Charli XCX was the first of the “pop girls” to reach out to her after she went on that previously mentioned tirade about fame and posted it to TikTok. It was during a soundcheck in Dublin that she stated, “I love Charli so much. She was like the first girl to reach out and check on me. She was like ‘Hi, this is about to get really hard and if you need a friend, I’ll be here for you’. So it’s just so sick to see her just ruling the fucking world and doing it her way.” But if being a spokesperson for H&M—even allowing the company to adopt her signature Brat green backdrop for its logo—is “doing it her way,” maybe Roan isn’t entirely convinced of XCX’s artistic genius.

    Then again, perhaps Roan really doesn’t have that much room to talk/get on a soapbox. For, even though she might make a big production about being seen with her own reusable water bottle at an awards ceremony or bringing her own carpet to the red carpet for that same awards ceremony (the VMAs), she’s also the same “artist” willing to allow her hit, “Hot To Go!,” to appear in a Target commercial for the “Cuddle Collab.” (Perhaps she thought that because the commercial centered on dogs and cats, it could eke by the proverbial “watchdogs” [no pun intended] of environmental causes.) And it probably will, for there is little that Roan can do wrong at the moment, whereas Charli has already started to lose cachet for being “too corporate,” what with the H&M collab and Kamala Harris’ campaign using Brat for its own “marketing” purposes, ergo a much older, wider range of demographics becoming aware of her.

    And while Roan might not have been cognizant that Charli was doing the campaign when she made those anti-H&M comments for the Rolling Stone feature, it seems as though her comments underlyingly constitute more Gen Z knife-digging aimed into the backs of millennials like Charli, who was at least spared from Roan name-checking Skims, too (otherwise known as: XCX’s other sellout collab of the moment). That would have been really pointed. But also, a necessary pushback against the inexplicable reign of Kim Kardashian as some kind of “high-minded businesswoman.”

    In any case, it’s not as though Eilish is much for really backing up her sentiments either, what with participating in XCX’s underwear-laden “Guess” video. Because, regardless of insisting that all those mountains upon mountains of “unused” panties would be donated to an organization that supports survivors of domestic violence, the “fast fashion-chic” look of the video’s key backdrop is enough to bury that message—literally. Meanwhile, Roan wants to resurrect it in a manner, “unwittingly” or not, that puts a glaring spotlight on how “anti-Gen Z” in sentiment XCX ultimately is despite her newfound resonance with the generation that supposedly finds most millennials to be inherently cringe. And not just for their environmental practices (that actually aren’t worse than what Gen Z does with its own China-based fast fashion obsession).

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Mondo Ironico #8: Britney’s Formerly “Too Sexy For Children” Looks Suddenly Being Distilled Into Toy Form

    Mondo Ironico #8: Britney’s Formerly “Too Sexy For Children” Looks Suddenly Being Distilled Into Toy Form

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    In a series called Mondo Ironico, let us discuss how fucking antithetical something in pop culture is.

    For anyone who witnessed the rise of Britney Spears that truly began in 1999 (though her illustrious debut single, “…Baby One More Time,” was released in 1998), it’s impossible to forget that the number one criticism lobbed against her was being “too sexy” for the demographic she was theoretically “geared toward”: little girls, tweens and teenagers. As many pop stars after her would learn (including the likes of Miley Cyrus and Olivia Rodrigo), the pressure to remain “Disneyfied” was constant, even after Spears herself was no longer in her teenage years.

    The condemnation surrounding what she wore as her success amplified got so out of hand that, after the 2000 VMAs—during which she wore one of her then most scandalous outfits to date (a sheer bejeweled bra top with matching low-rise pants that made for a shimmering nude effect [with help from a coordinating nude thong, naturally] which presaged her literally nude look in the “Toxic” video)—MTV thought it would be a cute idea to make her sit down and watch some of the hot takes from people on the street about the way she dressed.

    Some of the comments included, “If I had a little girl, I wouldn’t want her to emulate Britney Spears, you know, if she’s like twelve, thirteen, anything like that,” “Think about those twelve-year-olds that listen to your music and think about the twelve-year-olds who saw you on the VMAs. Think what they’re thinking. They’re probably thinking that it’s okay to dress like that, which it’s not.” To this particular criticism, Spears responded to the screen, “I’m not their parent, man.” Another commenter added, “She’s a role model to little kids and she doesn’t need to dress like that.” The furor surrounding Spears’ body and how much of it she chose to reveal as the 00s went on reached another crescendo when, during her now infamous 2003 interview with Diane Sawyer, the latter knife-diggingly mentioned how Kendel Ehrlich (the wife of then Maryland governor Robert Ehrlich) said, in reference to the way she dressed/was a “bad” role model for her young fans (not the male ones, mind you), “You know, really, if I had an opportunity to shoot Britney Spears, I think I would.” Naturally, it came as no surprise that Ehrlich would later serve in the Trump administration.

    Conversations around Spears’ body and being “too sexy” gradually began to taper off after 2008’s Circus, when, conveniently, a new batch of pop stars began rising to prominence—including Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift (even if then still in “country” form) and Katy Perry (who didn’t know her peak would cease with Teenage Dream). This wasn’t just because the media was trying to be “nicer” to her after contributing to her very public breakdown in 2007 through early 2008, but because, by pop star standards, she was finally considered day-old bread (she turned twenty-seven the year Circus came out). In the time since then, it has also become less acceptable to make comments about a woman’s body or how she dresses—and now, perhaps even unacceptable to be anywhere near the realm of what Eminem would call a “stan.”

    By the same token, female pop stars have seemingly decided to “cover up” in general (with Billie Eilish being one of the first to set this trend during the teenage years of her initial stardom). This phenomenon was crystallized in a 2021 Salon article titled, “From Britney to Lorde: Young women shift from embracing body positivity to body neutrality as teens.” Which, of course, only adds further insult to Spears’ injury—as she seems to be positioned as some “relic” of what pop stardom used to mean when, in fact, she was arguably the last great show(wo)man.

    All of this is to say that, after everything Spears endured in terms of the venomous rhetoric about what she chose to wear (or not wear) during the first eight-ish years of her career, some of those formerly salacious looks are now being deemed perfectly suitable to be turned into Fisher-Price Little People. Specifically, Britney Spears is becoming part of the Little People Collector editions that have also extended to the likes of The Beatles and E.T. Obviously, compared to those two, Spears’ Little People renderings are patently more “controversial.” Except that we’ve now entered an epoch where there is really no such thing. In fact, it’s more controversial to be conservative in the present climate than it is to be “liberal” (mind you, if you tear the mask off a liberal, you’re likely to find a conservative). Thus, the ease with which Fisher-Price opted to make miniature versions of Spears in some of her most “notorious” looks is but par for the blasé-about-sexuality course.

    Among the looks selected to immortalize in “Little People” renderings is a version of Spears in her “…Baby One More Time” schoolgirl outfit, her “Oops!…I Did It Again” catsuit, her 2001 VMAs “I’m A Slave 4 U” costume and the flight attendant getup from “Toxic” (apparently, they had to stop short at choosing her naked-save-for-some-glued-on-diamonds look from that video)—and yes, these variations of Spears have already been rendered in Funko Pop! form. Her “toy-ification” knowing no limits, which of course has plenty of symbolic implications.

    Another irony about the whole thing is that it is precisely because of the decreased interest in sex (all in keeping with George Orwell’s 1984 predictions) that Spears’ formerly “overly provocative” looks are no longer a source of such frenzied “hullabaloo.” In short, no one is really “that interested” in the voyeuristic sensibilities Spears once stoked at a time when the internet’s sexual scope was far more limited. Thus, the sudden “no big deal” aura surrounding Fisher-Price’s decision (or rather, the millennial in charge of said department who likely made it) to turn these erstwhile “scandalous” instances in Spears’ career into toys suitable for “children ages three and up” (a very big range, obviously) is not just a sign o’ the times, but yet another slap in the face to Spears.

    Though, hopefully, at the very least, she 1) sanctioned the use of her image for this product and 2) will receive the majority of the money it rakes in. Though that still feels like a small token of “justice” for all the suffering she underwent for her “too sexed-up” persona before it was deemed suitable for distilling into a collectible toy.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Mondo Appropriato #8: Another Male Kennedy Scandal Involving Philandering

    Mondo Appropriato #8: Another Male Kennedy Scandal Involving Philandering

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    In a series called Mondo Appropriato, Culled Culture examines how “on the nose” something is in the pop cultural and/or political landscape.

    Where once it was easy to bill any Kennedy “tragedy” as merely part of the “Kennedy curse,” it seems that, more and more, the overshadowing word is “scandal” rather than “tragedy.” And most of it is less a “curse” than largely being the making of the (often depraved) Kennedy men. The latest to outshine some of his forebears’ former “glory” in that department is Robert F. Kennedy Jr. While, sure, one might have thought that his brand couldn’t possibly be more damaged after years of anti-vaccine rhetoric, a bid for president in 2024 that has almost been as embarrassing as Donald Trump’s and admissions to two separate incidents of “bizarre” (to say the least) behavior with dead animals (specifically, a bear cub and a whale), it turns out, they were wrong. There was so much more damaging to do in 2024.

    The latest scandal in the Kennedy arsenal in general and the Robert F. Kennedy Jr. arsenal in particular is Olivia Nuzzi’s admission to having a “personal relationship” with the presidential hopeful earlier this year while on the campaign trail. And yes, the vagueness of the term “personal relationship” leaves far too much to the imagination. Described as a “star reporter” for New York Magazine, Nuzzi was suspended from the publication after “acknowledging” her close dynamic with RFK Jr. (evidently, close enough to risk her entire career on this confession), though she was certain to stress that the relationship wasn’t physical. Even so, as any woman who has ever had to deal with a boyfriend or husband’s “best friend” in a female form, there is obviously such a thing as an emotional affair (which is oftentimes even worse than a physical one). And it’s likely just as grating to Cheryl Hines as it is to any other woman.

    Per a statement released by NY Mag,

    “Recently our Washington Correspondent Olivia Nuzzi acknowledged to the magazine’s editors that she had engaged in a personal relationship with a former subject relevant to the 2024 campaign while she was reporting on the campaign, a violation of the magazine’s standards around conflicts of interest and disclosures. Had the magazine been aware of this relationship, she would not have continued to cover the presidential campaign. An internal review of her published work has found no inaccuracies nor evidence of bias. She is currently on leave from the magazine, and the magazine is conducting a more thorough third-party review. We regret this violation of our readers’ trust.”

    Alas, it’s unlikely that RFK Jr. would ever apologize for the violation of Hines’ trust. Then again, the Kennedy men are more than somewhat known for their penchants for having affairs and doing a very shitty job of being discreet about it. Leaving the door open for people to say that Hines should have “expected” it/“known better.” Especially considering his ex-wife, Mary Kathleen Richardson, killed herself after discovering a journal of RFK Jr.’s detailing how he slept with thirty-seven women in 2001 alone (which means who knows what the total number of women he had affairs with really added up to in the years before and beyond that). In other words, while RFK Jr. was usually in a non-marriage bed, Hines should have seen that she was making her own to lie in. But those who would try to fault her with “I told you so” logic, well, they clearly haven’t been subjected to “the heart wants what it wants” phenomena.

    In the male Kennedys’ case, however, that saying has always been “the dick wants what it wants.” And damn the aftermath. Perhaps that’s what makes the Nuzzi “incident” one of the more unique ones for Kennedy shame in that RFK Jr. didn’t even “go all the way,” despite probably knowing somewhere deep down that there would be an inevitable fallout (so why not make it all slightly worth it with an orgasm here and there?). And, apparently, plenty of email/sext exchanges showcasing the nature of his and Nuzzi’s emotionally intimate rapport.

    As for Nuzzi, it will be for her just as it has been for every woman that has suffered at the hands of a Kennedy scandal: her reputation will still end up being more tarnished than his (which is, quite simply, the patriarchy in active motion). Particularly because she’s a journalist now facing an extreme loss of credibility, even more so due to the fact that she’ll be billed as some kind of Jezebel in future dealings with male subjects. Indeed, her behavior is liable to be met with plenty of contempt from fellow journalists of the belief that the last thing the industry needed was another reason for the public to doubt it. And the last thing the Kennedy “dynasty” needed was yet another (cum) stain on it thanks to a man who couldn’t resist a flirtation that turned into something far more unseemly.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Rae Gives Del Rey: The “Diet Pepsi” Video

    Rae Gives Del Rey: The “Diet Pepsi” Video

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    Although Addison Rae might be Charli XCX’s number one fan (though it sometimes seems like the other way around), it is Lana Del Rey who she most closely mirrors on her latest single, “Diet Pepsi.” If the title alone wasn’t a dead giveaway of that similarity (echoing Del Rey’s 2012 track, “Cola”), then the music video itself is sure to emphasize the LDR influence on the song. Not just lyrically, but also aesthetically.

    Directed by Sean Price Williams (who also recently directed Sabrina Carpenter’s “Please Please Please”), the video follows Rae in the front seat (and sometimes the back seat) of her boyfriend’s car. Played by Drew Van Acker, who Rae said reminded her of Tyler Durden a.k.a. Brad Pitt from Fight Club when she first saw a picture of him, his James Dean thing is definitely what one could call “Del Rey-approved” (she, too, secured her own version of Dean via Bradley Soileau in the “Born to Die” and “Blue Jeans” videos). Along with the entire “riding in Daddy’s car” visual that “happens to be” très “Shades of Cool.” Because, while Charli XCX might be known for constantly offering up songs about wheels of some sort (hear: “Vroom Vroom,” “Dreamer,” “White Mercedes,” “Crash,” “Speed Drive,” etc.), it is Del Rey who imbues them with a “quintessential American” meaning (which, alas, XCX is incapable of due to her Britishness). Emphasizing that the car is the thing in the U.S. The place where everything happens, including, of course, a budding romance-turned-carnal sex act. Particularly during the fifties and sixties era that Rae gravitates toward in this video (and that Del Rey gravitates toward all the time).

    The black-and-white “time capsule” (especially for someone so “TikTok-oriented”) is further lent its mid-twentieth century Americana feel by commencing with Rae opening a tape case and slipping it into the car’s tape deck as an I Love Lucy-adjacent font appears onscreen to tell us the song’s name: “Diet Pepsi.” Which is fitting since Rae can, in this scenario, be called the “diet” version of Del Rey in that she’s Gen Z to her millennial, therefore far more diluted in artistic value and originality. And while Del Rey iconically opened “Cola” with the declaration, “My pussy tastes like Pepsi cola,” Rae chooses to mention Diet Pepsi in the second verse with, “Sitting on his lap, sippin’ Diet Pepsi.” And yes, like Del Rey, she also mentions this cola just once despite naming a song after it.

    In the intro verse, Rae also immediately sets the Del Reyian stage via the lines, “My boy’s a winner, he loves the game/My lips reflect off his cross gold chain/I like the way he’s telling me/My ass looks good in these ripped blue jeans/My cheeks are red like cherries in the spring/Body’s a work of art you’d die to see.” Del Rey, in fact, uses one of those exact terms on “Black Beauty”: “I keep my lips red/To seem like cherries in the spring.”

    As for the visual nods to fifties and sixties-era car culture, wherein many teenagers (read: teenage girls…since boys never have to bear the same “stain” after having sex) would lose their “innocence”—this includes the common term of “necking” in the back seat—it’s also present in Rae’s chorus, “When we drive in your car, I’m your baby (so sweet)/Losing all my innocence in the back seat/Say you love, say you love, say you love me.” Of course, the girl in question would likely only do these “dirty” acts in the back seat in the hope that the object of her desire would say just that: “I love you.” As for Rae’s illicit tryst with the boy she speaks of in the song (a boy who, if the casting choice is anything to go by, is much older [also Del Rey-approved]), it’s additionally highlighted in the lyrics, “Break all the rules ’til we get caught/Fog up the windows in the parking lot/Summer love (ah, ah), sexy.”

    With regard to describing, euphemistically, “losing all [her] innocence in the back seat,” not only does it channel Del Rey on “Gods and Monsters” repeating, “It’s innocence lost, innocence lost” (herself riffing on John Milton, who famously declared in Paradise Lost, “Innocence, once lost, can never be regained”), it also harkens back to the Sandy Olsson (Olivia Newton-John) and Danny Zuko (John Travolta) dynamic in Grease. While Zuko is the proverbial leather jacket-wearing bad boy with a convertible, Sandy is the virginal girl he tries to “defile” in it while the two are at the drive-in movie theater (the car, again, being like a “bedroom on wheels,” particularly for teenagers back then). Unlike Rae, however, Sandy isn’t amenable to losing her innocence in the front or back seat, berating Danny when he keeps trying to “do sex” with her, “You think I’m gonna stay here with you in this sin wagon?” before running off and leaving Danny “stranded at the drive-in” (even though he’s the one with the wheels to leave).

    Rae, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to stay in Van Acker’s “sin wagon” all night. Only getting out, at one point, to showcase some scenes of herself in a bikini as an American flag materializes to drape over herself—again, Lana Del Rey-style. In fact, it was Barrie-James O’Neill, Del Rey’s ex-boyfriend, who succinctly stated, “You American girls walk around as if your pussies tasted like Pepsi-Cola [yes, he inspired the lyric], as if you’d wrap yourself into an American flag to sleep.” Del Rey speaks of “sleeping” in something entirely different on “Fucked My Way to the Top,” commanding, “Lay me down tonight in my diamonds and pearls.” The motif of diamonds is often present in her lyrics; case in point, “National Anthem,” during which she speaks in the same kind of baby voice as Rae on “Diet Pepsi” by cooing such “isms” as, “Um, do you think you’ll buy me lots of diamonds?” and “Everybody knows it, it’s a fact/Kiss, Kiss.”

    Rae also gives the “Daddy’s girl” aura Del Rey perfected in the “Ride” video by describing, “Sitting on his lap, sippin’ Diet Pepsi/I write my name with lipstick on your chest/I leave a mark so you know I’m the best.” Here, too, one can’t help but think of Del Rey assuring, “Baby, you the best” on “Summertime Sadness.”

    What’s more, in the spirit of Del Rey, the imagery that Rae wields throughout the limited location video is a postmodern parade, from the image of a hand wiping steam away from the window (Titanic-style) to Rae going wide-eyed over a banana split (innuendo indeed)—while doing the splits, naturally. To boot, no nod to Del Rey, ergo Americana, would be complete without draping the aforementioned American flag over herself at some point. Or, for that matter, finding herself in a convenience store (another favorite milieu of Del Rey’s in both song and photoshoot output) where she pulls a Diet Pepsi out of the refrigerator section and sips on it—which, obviously, leads everything to turn into color (sort of like how it did for Betty Parker [Joan Allen] in Pleasantville when she had her first orgasm).

    During one of these final color moments, Rae is also shown biting on a pearl necklace “Lana-style,” which, in reality, is Marilyn Monroe-style—with one of her most famous photoshoots by Bert Stern finding her posed on the beach with pearls all around her and, in one photo, biting the necklace.

    But Williams doesn’t cite Monroe or Del Rey as influences on his aesthetic choices. However, his eye was key to assembling the necessary “collage of homages” that gives “Diet Pepsi” its Del Rey feel (particularly “Shades of Cool” and “Music To Watch Boys To” [namely, when Rae dons headphones…even if the earpieces aren’t crafted in the shape of flowers]). But at the base of that is what Williams characterizes as: “Visually, Russ Meyer, plus the driving sequence in Fellini’s Toby Dammit, plus Bruce Conner’s Breakaway equals ‘Diet Pepsi.’” And, of course, like any adept payer of respect to postmodernism, Rae also weighed in on one of the most important sartorial decisions: wearing a cone bra. For, as she herself mentioned, “I love Madonna so it only felt right to include a cone bra in the video.”

    However, while Madonna’s influence always ends up creeping into every subsequent “pop girlie’s” music and videos, it is Del Rey that outshines all other influences on “Diet Pepsi.” Which works out since the world is apparently in need of a new “sultry soda song” after Del Rey has said she will no longer perform “Cola” after the whole Harvey Weinstein thing…

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Mondo Bullshittio #51: Katy Perry’s Medley at the VMAs Being Called A Serve

    Mondo Bullshittio #51: Katy Perry’s Medley at the VMAs Being Called A Serve

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    In a series called Mondo Bullshittio, let’s talk about some of the most glaring hypocrisies and faux pas in pop culture…and all that it affects.

    In what was sadly her “best effort” to prove her worth in the music industry game of late, Katy Perry was counting on the receipt of a Video Vanguard Award at this year’s MTV VMAs. Not just because the award is meant to signify “greatness,” but also because of the chance it afforded her to perform her hits a.k.a. refresh people’s memory on why she’s famous in the first place (not that anyone needs a “talent” or “cause” to be anymore). Perry’s reliance on this appearance at the VMAs was particularly heavy because it seemed to be the only positive acknowledgement anyone was willing to give her after the disastrous single that was “Woman’s World.” And, knowing full well it was a disaster despite trying to bill it as “satire” in the wake of the venomous criticisms, Perry quickly released the supposed real “banger” from 143, “Lifetimes” (which Zane Lowe will forever live in shame for dancing to during this interview). That, too, was met with a lukewarm reaction, along with more condemnation for filming the video in a protected area without permission. Oh dear, imagine fucking up a UNESCO World Heritage Site just a little bit more for the sake of some lackluster visual accompaniment (we’re definitely not talking anything on the grand, earth-shattering scale of, say, the “Express Yourself” video).

    In any case, Spain’s Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and the Natural Environment released a statement about the video that declared, “In no case had the production company requested authorization from the Regional Ministry to carry out the filming.” So, to be sure, there has been little enthusiasm on many fronts for 143 and/or Perry’s career in general this summer, hence her clearly jumping (literally) at the chance to prove herself at the VMAs when the opportunity arose. To remind people that, if nothing else, she’s still a “good” performer. Even if the Video Vanguard Award itself has been diminished in value in recent years thanks to being bequeathed to the likes of P!nk and Jennifer Lopez. With whom Perry is on par. Though she’s apparently seen fit to compare herself to Chappell Roan’s “authenticity” and avant-garde stylings in an interview for the BBC (further proof that one’s ego only gets bigger the more they lose their clout).

    In any case, Perry kicked off her ten-minute(ish) medley with “Dark Horse,” perhaps wanting to send the message that she’s currently a dark horse in the pop music game who will end up coming out ahead (ha!). It was an odd choice in terms of not being chronological and immediately reminding audiences of her apparently steadfast devotion to Dr. Luke, who co-produced said song. And the only person more controversial Perry could have chosen to allude to from her previous singles is Kanye West a.k.a. Ye. While his vocals didn’t appear on the song she chose next, “E.T.,” its use instantly conjures his memory (not to mention Russell Brand’s, who she wrote the song about [insert vomit noise here]). Her flip-flopping in the timeline of her musical releases also does little to highlight much in the way of “artistic growth,” with her shtick rarely changing. Least of all thematically. That much was also reiterated when she debuted yet another new single from 143 called “I’m His, He’s Mine” (featuring Doechii, who joined her onstage for this portion). A track that sees fit not only to prove Perry’s lack of originality, but decimate the untouchable “Gypsy Woman” by Crystal Waters thanks to using its signature backbeat as a sample. Worse still, Perry actually dares to use the “la-da-di, la-da-da” refrain throughout this inferior schlock.

    Perry then tries to keep pleasing the crowd with arguably her most quintessential hit, “California Gurls,” during which a reaction shot to her husband, Orlando Bloom, looking as though he is in genuine physical agony while watching her rivals Jack Antonoff putting earplugs in during this specific medley of a performance (perhaps secretly wanting to start another Taylor-Katy feud in so doing). But still, the show rolled on, with “Teenage Dream” and, then, “I Kissed A Girl,” at which time Perry donned giant Mylar butterfly wings. Even though such an accessory is meant to be symbolic of “metamorphosis,” that obviously hasn’t happened to Perry if she’s still singing this early hit despite knowing how triggering it is for many people who detest queerbaiting. And Perry herself has admitted to finding the lyrics regrettable, yet still she parroted them for this performance, later having the audacity to thank the LGBTQIA+ community in her acceptance speech with: “The LGBTQ community who I recognize I would not be here without, and who show me that you can be both kind and cunt.” Considering she can’t even add the “IA+” for the complete acknowledgement of said community, well, it only adds to her reputation for being the antithesis of a queer icon. In fact, she was never clinging to this “queer icon” shit until now, when things have gotten “desperate enough,” and she needs to feign having some form of a “built-in audience.”

    One that includes those who still cling to Teenage Dream a.k.a. “her version of the Thriller album” (because it yielded five number one singles on the Billboard Hot 100 just like that seminal Michael Jackson record). Indeed, it’s no coincidence that the songs she performed during this medley were primarily from Teenage Dream, including “Firework.” And yes, the lyric, “Come on, show ‘em what you’re worth” felt particularly pointed in this instance, with Perry attempting to do just that throughout the medley.

    Her desperation to be “recognized” after losing major cachet this year (along with J. Lo) further shining through when she concluded with “Lifetimes” instead of “Woman’s World.” Obviously pandering to the criticism about it by choosing to evade it altogether in a career-spanning retrospective. This despite also adding in her acceptance speech, “One of the biggest reasons I’m standing here now is I learned how to block out all the noise.” But no, it would seem that, demonstrably, she hasn’t. Otherwise the medley wouldn’t have been so “pick me” (including the ultra-retro sentiments of “I’m His, He’s Mine”). Because, alas, Perry is still pandering to the male gaze regardless of her insistence that she’s a “gay icon” now (sure, maybe for Republican gays). To boot, she gave her “hetero relationship dream girl” status away by announcing (with Bloom next to her onstage), “To Orlando, for keeping me grounded, celebrated and doing the dishes.” Oof.

    Also noticeably missing from the setlist was anything from Witness and Smile, the albums that commenced her ongoing “flop era” after Prism. Needless to say, Perry doesn’t want to remind anyone of those albums right now. Yet, according to some, playing only her biggest hits from over a decade ago made it all the more apparent how lacking her present so-called repertoire is. While others still had the total loss of mind to say that Perry served (see: Saint Hoax’s slides on the matter). But many of the comments in response to that declaration weren’t exactly in agreement. For example, “Props to Katy’s PR team! They’ve been working overtime ever since she released that (self-proclaimed) feminist anthem produced by a rapist!,” “How much did Katy’s pr team you?????? I hope it was a lot” and “When your new album is so bad you have to perform old songs on the rollout.”

    And then, of course, there was the bizarre (read: rigged) affront of throwing Perry yet another bone by giving her the award for Most Iconic Performance (a newly-minted offering for this year) at the VMAs. This for a performance no one remembers (“Roar” during the 2013 VMAs) and when pitted against the likes of Madonna, Britney and Xtina’s 2003 VMA performance (not to mention Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” performance at the very first VMAs in 1984). In short, it all seemed like the most overt “bread and circuses” maneuver Perry could have pulled to attempt salvaging (and distracting from) her damaged “brand” in time to sell at least a few copies of 143. Who knows? Maybe it will work. Though there’s only so much that money can buy in terms of a good PR/celebrity crisis management team.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • FKA Twigs Reminds: Don’t Ever Fucking Work In An Office…Because You Might Not Experience “Eusexua” Long Enough to Escape It

    FKA Twigs Reminds: Don’t Ever Fucking Work In An Office…Because You Might Not Experience “Eusexua” Long Enough to Escape It

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    In the annals of “office music videos,” there are very few. In the recent past, there have been the likes of Britney Spears’ “Womanizer” and Fifth Harmony’s “Worth It,” but these played with the idea of “office aesthetics” more than trying to “make a statement” about office work and its soul-crushing nature. And, in its way, that’s what FKA Twigs’ music video for her eponymous first single from Eusexua does. Except that it also incorporates the kind of message that Avicii and Nicky Romero’s 2012 hit, “I Could Be The One,” does in its own music video, where an office worker (played by Inessa Frantowski) endures the daily drudgery of her life—dominated mostly by the banal tasks she’s “required” to do for eight hours a day—until she gets the wake-up call to abandon it entirely (resulting in an ironically tragic denouement).

    In a similar fashion, we see a frantic FKA Twigs running into the generic office where she works at the outset of the Jordan Hemingway-directed “Eusexua.” Clearly, she’s dangerously tardy and doesn’t want to get caught. “You’re late,” the drag queen-esque co-worker who looks like Eartheater tells Twigs as she scurries into the fluorescently-lit space (and maybe it is Eartheater—after all, “Alexandra Drewchin” has a co-songwriting and co-producer credit on the track). Plopping down in her seat and taking off her glasses, Twigs barely has time to get her bearings before the boss man materializes to demand, “Have you got a second?” Reluctantly, Twigs says, “Yeah.” “Have you seen the new comments?” “I…haven’t. Were they on GroupSpace?” “No, TeamZone Chat.” Automatically, Twigs seems to be trolling the ridiculous names that get used in a corporate setting, all under the guise of “improving communication.”

    Frantic to accommodate her boss, Twigs tries to log in on her computer to see what’s what, only to keep getting an error message that makes checking her latest emails impossible. Meanwhile, her boss drones on, “We’re phasing out GroupSpace. Everything’s on TeamZone now.” “I’m really sorry.” “It’s fine. Loads have missed it. That’s why I’m standing here physically right now.” Before she can keep engaging in this banal conversation, the phone on her desk rings. Telling her boss “one second,” she answers it, ostensibly receiving some sort of hypnotic message that leads her into a state of what she calls “eusexua.” This being a term Twigs created to describe the feeling of transcending time, space and your body when you find yourself in a euphoric moment that can turn into hours passing without realizing it (this inspired by her clubbing period in Prague while filming The Crow—disastrous for her acting career, but great for continuing to spur her musical one). Indeed, that definition and the events that take place also recall Avicii’s video for “Levels” (he obviously understood how soul-sucking office [non-]life was, despite enduring the different kind of soul-sucking lifestyle entailed by being a world-famous DJ).

    And, evidently, whoever is calling her wants her to remember what that feeling is after she’s so clearly gone numb as a result of spending most of her time in an office setting (and for a company called “CroneCorp” no less). Her boss initially regards her with a strange look at the sight of her own bizarre expression while she listens to whatever is on the other side of the phone (an alien race seeking to remind humans that they’re wasting their potential on “busy work” for the sake of pay?). But then, he, too, is overtaken by eusexua, along with the rest of the office as they get into formation to perform what is sure to become among Twigs’ most iconic choreography—courtesy of Zoi Tatopoulos, “best known for her extraterrestrial approach to creative direction and movement choreography” (so maybe that alien theory holds weight). The accompanying Janet Jackson-y backbeat does not yet let us hear the actual song. Instead, we’re given a preview of “Drums of Death,” which is to be the fourth track on Eusexua. Thus, as though Twigs is speaking from the “head alien” perspective, we hear her voice command, “Listen, girl, drop your skin to the floor/Let your clothes body talk/Shed your skin/Rip your shirt/Flesh be torn/Feel hot, feel hard, feel heavy/Fuck who you want/Baby girl, do it just for fun.”

    It is after this mantra that everyone in the office really has shed their “skin” (a.k.a. work clothes) in favor of wearing solely their skivvies. The lyrics to “Drums of Death” then continue to play as Twigs asks, “Hello, what you like?/Do you wanna meet later?/Relax and ease your mind ‘cause you work so much/I know what you like, and you’re my main character/I’m here anytime, you can call me up.” And with the shedding of her “work skin,” as it were, Twigs is also the only one to be given what will now be known as her “Eusexua era haircut.” Which means a “semi-2007 Britney,” as only half of her head is shaved (the front part).

    Before Twigs and her fellow (erstwhile) office workers cease their dance, Twigs concludes it with the sound lyrical advice, “Crash the system, diva doll/Serve cunt, serve violence.” It is then that Hemingway focuses the camera on a computer keyboard with someone’s hand repeatedly tapping the same button before then panning downward to reveal the office in topsy-turvy mode, with its ceiling now showing signs of dirt and decay infecting the space—almost like a commentary on how fucking antiquated this type of work setup is. At the same time, it’s also a means of remarking on how humans need to literally get back to the earth. Away from all the trappings of so-called modernity that have turned them into automatons. At the “bottom” of the dirt-caked ceiling, Twigs is suddenly outfitted in a black, extraterrestrial-chic “ensemble” (mainly a pair of tights) just as the setting switches entirely and she’s pulled upward (or downward, depending on how you look at it) into an earthen backdrop—this moment somewhat mirroring her being pulled up into a new surreal setting during her famous “cellophane” video.

    Writhing in sexual unison with the former office workers who have joined her in this “state of being” (eusexua), they, too, look as though they’ve been ejected—birthed—from out of the dirt that was spilling into the office ceiling. And yes, this type of sexual writhing is something Madonna perfected during The Girlie Show via a performance of “Deeper and Deeper” that concludes with plenty of orgiastic flair (she perfected this writhing, once again, during her performance of “Justify My Love” for The Celebration Tour).

    Channeling the lyrics of Olive’s 1996 song, “You’re Not Alone” (during which Ruth-Ann Boyle assures, “You’re not alone, I’ll wait ’til the end of time/Open your mind, surely it’s plain to see/You’re not alone, I’ll wait ’til the end of time for you”), Twigs sings, “You’re not alone (under the stars)/Do you feel alone?/You’re not alone.” A statement that, although seemingly “simple,” still has plenty of importance and meaning to the many people who feel perennially lonely—even more so in this increasingly dehumanized world (and that sort of dehumanization was arguably refined with the advent of the office space).

    By the end of the video, Twigs has somewhat left the height of eusexua long enough to realize she’s still in the office (now back in her “professional” attire) as other co-workers appear to remain in a state of feral bliss. Seeming to remember where she is, Twigs also remembers that she probably shouldn’t stay in this hellhole another second…because she might not get the “eusexua call” again. The one that shook her out of her coma in the first place.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Sabrina Carpenter Does Dress Homage Right—By Not Wearing the Original

    Sabrina Carpenter Does Dress Homage Right—By Not Wearing the Original

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    Despite the numerous reports that, for her red carpet appearance at this year’s MTV VMAs, Sabrina Carpenter wore the original Bob Mackie dress famously showcased by Madonna at the 1991 Oscars (where her ensemble was complemented by a white stole and an almost white Michael Jackson), it was actually an identical sample gown from the Mackie archive. Which is just the first step in how to succeed in the art of “paying respect” to an iconic look without offending. Unlike Kim Kardashian, who remains the “gold standard” for how to decimate the integrity of a dress originally worn by someone far more legendary.

    And we’re not just talking about Marilyn Monroe’s scandalous Jean Louis number (made more scandalous by seductively singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to JFK while wearing it), but also the very Marilyn-inspired gown that Madonna paraded in ’91. Because, yes, Kardashian additionally sought to ruin not only said Mackie dress in AHS: Delicate (by going on about a dress that looks nothing like it to her character’s client, Anna Victoria Alcott [Emma Roberts]), but also the song Madonna performed at that Oscars ceremony, “Sooner or Later” (which won the Academy Award that night in the category of Best Original Song). This by repeatedly singing it with Anna as the two look at themselves in the mirror and fantasize about Anna’s eventual big Oscar win.

    As for Marilyn being patently more “icon” than Kim, Madonna, too, is more legendary and influential than Carpenter ever will be. Even if the duo has occasionally been aesthetically compared to one another—with Madonna’s “curtain bangs” look at the LadyLand 2024 event for NYC Pride getting her linked to Carpenter more than the other way around. And yet, the VMAs is hardly the first time that Carpenter has paid tribute (sartorial or otherwise) to the Queen of Pop. For she also stepped out earlier this year (at Vogue World in Paris) in another dress that Madonna wore for the purposes of gracing Glamour’s cover in December of 1990. Specifically, a Michael Kors (that’s right, Madonna “High Fashion” Ciccone once deigned to wear Kors) beaded rhinestone slip dress.

    Indeed, it seems that Carpenter has a certain fondness for M’s early 90s (but pre-Erotica) fashion era. Perhaps because M herself was heavily embodying the look of Marilyn Monroe at that time (again, without fucking up one of the icon’s dresses like the abovementioned Kardashian did). And yes, obviously Carpenter is tapping into both women for her “effortless pastiche” purposes (something that also extended to emulating Britney Spears while she performed a medley at the 2024 VMAs).

    However, Carpenter was also deft in her tribute because for two key reasons: 1) she didn’t try to exactly replicate it with the same jewelry, pearl-studded handbag, fur stole and satin heels and 2) it was sanctioned by none other than the original wearer herself. Even if, like Blake Lively donning Britney’s Versace butterfly dress from 2002, the gown was reportedly acquired through Tab Vintage. According to Carpenter’s stylist, Jared Ellner, “Madonna still has the custom gown Bob Mackie made for her in her archive, but the other sample piece is the [dress] I believe we have.” And, for those wondering how the dress managed to “fit” Carpenter, whose height is notoriously short (“five feet, to be exact”), a closer look at where the gown falls shows it pooling around her ankles, bolstered by extremely high platform heels (in white, of course).

    Though, to be fair, Madonna isn’t much taller, with her average height being cited at around five-foot-three or five-foot-four. Which is precisely why she once said, “I’ve always wanted to be taller. I feel like a shrimp, but that’s the way it goes. I’m five-foot four-and-a-half-inches—that’s actually average. Everything about me is average.” This sentiment, in turn, also prompting her to declare, “My drive in life is from this horrible fear of being mediocre.” To be sure, if Madonna wasn’t a much “bitterer” person than Carpenter, she might have called one of her own albums Short n’ Sweet long before the former Disney star decided to. But no, Madonna’s not really bitter, once quipping during her 1993 The Girlie Show tour, “Life’s too short to be bitter…I’m too short to be bitter!” And besides, how could she be when considering the ongoing, far-reaching influence she still so clearly has on each new generation of pop stars?

    For, yes, despite Carpenter’s inherent Gen Z limitations in terms of having good pop culture taste, she still understands the meaning of Madonna. That much was made apparent when she performed a cover of “Like A Virgin” during several dates on her Emails I Can’t Send Tour. In a June 2024 interview with Rolling Stone, Carpenter would also mention Madonna as an essential lesson for any “Intro to Pop” class she might teach, commenting, “Those were some of the first pop songs I ever heard and they raised me when I was five and helped me find my own version of that. This would be a really long course. I should never teach a course.”

    But, actually, maybe she should. Not only Intro to Pop for the daft Gen Z ilk, but also Intro to How to Properly Pay Tribute in Someone Else’s Iconic Dress. Kardashian really could have used that class before the Met Gala in 2022. Or even before she decided to dress like Madonna at the ’91 Oscars herself for one of her many Halloween costumes in 2017.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Mondo Bullshittio #50: Madonna Not Winning VMAs Most Iconic Performance

    Mondo Bullshittio #50: Madonna Not Winning VMAs Most Iconic Performance

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    In a series called Mondo Bullshittio, let’s talk about some of the most glaring hypocrisies and faux pas in pop culture…and all that it affects.

    In yet another one of many (seemingly infinite) examples in this world of how everything is rigged, the winner of MTV’s so-called “Most Iconic Performance” award—freshly added into the mix this year—was bequeathed to the least deserving nominee: Katy Perry’s “Roar” performance back in 2013. One that, by the way, absolutely no one remembers (and if they say they do, they’re definitely lying). However, considering that Perry was the 2024 recipient of MTV’s “coveted” Video Vanguard Award (decreasingly referred to by its full name: the Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award), it seems more than a little bit “political” that she should be the one to claim the award for “Most Iconic Performance” when, in fact, what she offered back in 2013 was one of the least iconic performances in VMA history (which also extends to someone like Bryan Adams singing “Do I Have To Say The Words?” in 1992).

    Indeed, of the seven nominees, the performances that people are likely to most immediately recall (even if solely by an image alone) include Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” at the 1984 VMAs, Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady/The Way I Am” at the 2000 VMAs, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Madonna and Missy Elliott’s “Like A Virgin/Hollywood” at the 2003 VMAs and Beyoncé’s “Love On Top” at the 2011 VMAs. The three other options—Perry doing “Roar,” Lady Gaga doing “Paparazzi” at the 2009 VMAs and Taylor Swift doing “You Belong With Me” at the 2009 VMAs—are hardly memorable at all.

    But one supposes that, of the three least memorable out of those seven, Lady Gaga’s 2009 performance of “Paparazzi” was more “iconic” for how horrible her vocals were (not to mention how retroactively offensive her “disabled” shtick was) and the fact that “the fame” killed her at the end—with the fake blood pouring down her body to prove it as she was suspended in midair for the big finish. With regard to Swift, the only thing that people will ever remember about her appearance at the ’09 VMAs is her illustrious encounter with Kanye West, who incited their now lifelong bad blood by bum-rushing the stage when Swift won the award for Best Female Video, declaring that it was, instead, Beyoncé who had “one of the best videos of all time” (which is definitely not true of “Single Ladies [Put A Ring On It]”).  

    And, if one is really going to try to make the claim that the “Roar” performance is “iconic,” let it be noted that Perry’s boxer costume and the boxing ring backdrop that was set up in front of the Brooklyn Bridge look like a bad knockoff of Madonna’s boxer persona from the Hard Candy era, which she also took on the road for the 2008-2009 Sticky & Sweet Tour. It was on that tour that Madonna incorporated her boxing aesthetic in a major way for the “Die Another Day” video interlude. And yes, it was in a manner far more, let us say, “hardcore” than what Perry offered “live from Empire-Fulton Ferry Park.”

    In any event, the fact that Madonna had two nominations in the Most Iconic Performance category also might have led one to believe the odds were easily stacked in her favor, with both the 1984 and 2003 performances being the pinnacle of iconic. But no, clearly not. Because apparently people think that Perry bopping around in a shitty boxing costume and singing a Black Mirror-level type of “inspirational” song is much worthier for icon status than Madonna changing the fucking game on sexual and ironic performances with “Like A Virgin” or being the first theoretically hetero woman in the mainstream to make lesbianism chic in the twenty-first century (just as she also did in the twentieth with her Sandra Bernhard friendship/Erotica era [among other things]).

    The question of who ought to have won this award should have been utterly undeniable. Thus, to give the “honor” to Perry just proves that not only is everything political, but also that the masses (or maybe just the MTV VMAs in this instance) prefer to reward inferior trash. Because, objectively, there is absolutely no argument in favor of Perry dominating in this category. We’re talking about Madonna in one of the most signature fucking looks not just of her career, but in modern pop culture as we know it. A moment so iconic that it was riffed on again in 2003 for yet another performance that would turn out to be equally iconic in its own way (even in terms of cutting away from the Christina Aguilera beso for the sake of getting Justin Timberlake’s peeved reaction). And this time with Madonna making the then-latest generation of pop princesses into her brides, while she played the big dick energy groom.

    Incidentally, it was less than a year later that Madonna and Perry would pose together for a V Magazine photoshoot (taken by none other than Madonna’s favorite, Steven Klein). Although it was technically meant to “star” both of them, Madonna also stood out as the dominant force among the Bettie Page-inspired images. But at least being styled and photographed by the same people put them on a more level playing field—for when it comes to VMAs performances, there’s no fucking contest. Regardless of the grave error made at the 2024 VMAs.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Mondo Bullshittio #50: Madonna Not Winning Most Iconic Performance at the 2024 VMAs

    Mondo Bullshittio #50: Madonna Not Winning Most Iconic Performance at the 2024 VMAs

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    In a series called Mondo Bullshittio, let’s talk about some of the most glaring hypocrisies and faux pas in pop culture…and all that it affects.

    In yet another one of many (seemingly infinite) examples in this world of how everything is rigged, the winner of MTV’s so-called “Most Iconic Performance” award—freshly added into the mix this year—was bequeathed to the least deserving nominee: Katy Perry’s “Roar” performance back in 2013. One that, by the way, absolutely no one remembers (and if they say they do, they’re definitely lying). However, considering that Perry was the 2024 recipient of MTV’s “coveted” Video Vanguard Award (decreasingly referred to by its full name: the Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award), it seems more than a little bit “political” that she should be the one to claim the award for “Most Iconic Performance” when, in fact, what she offered back in 2013 was one of the least iconic performances in VMA history (which also extends to someone like Bryan Adams singing “Do I Have To Say The Words?” in 1992).

    Indeed, of the seven nominees, the performances that people are likely to most immediately recall (even if solely by an image alone) include Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” at the 1984 VMAs, Eminem’s “The Real Slim Shady/The Way I Am” at the 2000 VMAs, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Madonna and Missy Elliott’s “Like A Virgin/Hollywood” at the 2003 VMAs and Beyoncé’s “Love On Top” at the 2011 VMAs. The three other options—Perry doing “Roar,” Lady Gaga doing “Paparazzi” at the 2009 VMAs and Taylor Swift doing “You Belong With Me” at the 2009 VMAs—are hardly memorable at all.

    But one supposes that, of the three least memorable out of those seven, Lady Gaga’s 2009 performance of “Paparazzi” was more “iconic” than “You Belong With Me” or “Roar” for how horrible her vocals were (not to mention how retroactively offensive her “disabled” shtick was) and the fact that “the fame” killed her at the end—with the fake blood pouring down her body to prove it as she was suspended in midair for the big finish. With regard to Swift, the only thing that people will ever remember about her appearance at the ’09 VMAs is her illustrious encounter with Kanye West, who incited their now lifelong bad blood by bum-rushing the stage when Swift won the award for Best Female Video, declaring that it was, instead, Beyoncé who had “one of the best videos of all time” (which is definitely not true of “Single Ladies [Put A Ring On It]”).  

    And, if one is really going to try to make the claim that the “Roar” performance is “iconic,” let it be noted that Perry’s boxer costume and the boxing ring backdrop that was set up in front of the Brooklyn Bridge look like a bad knockoff of Madonna’s boxer persona from the Hard Candy era, which she also took on the road for the 2008-2009 Sticky & Sweet Tour. It was on that tour that Madonna incorporated her boxing aesthetic in a major way for the “Die Another Day” video interlude. And yes, it was in a manner far more, let us say, “hardcore” than what Perry offered “live from Empire-Fulton Ferry Park.”

    In any event, the fact that Madonna had two nominations in the Most Iconic Performance category also might have led one to believe the odds were easily stacked in her favor, with both the 1984 and 2003 performances being the pinnacle of iconic. But no, clearly not. Because apparently people think that Perry bopping around in a shitty boxing costume and singing a Black Mirror-level type of “inspirational” song is much worthier of icon status than Madonna changing the fucking game on sexual and ironic performances with “Like A Virgin” or being the first (theoretically) hetero woman in the mainstream to make lesbianism chic (thus, normalized) in the twenty-first century (just as she also did in the twentieth with her Sandra Bernhard friendship/Erotica era [among other things]).

    The question of who ought to have won this award should have been utterly undeniable. A proverbial no-brainer. Thus, to give the “honor” to Perry just proves that not only is everything political, but also that the masses (or maybe just the MTV VMAs in this instance) prefer to reward inferior trash. Because, objectively, there is absolutely no argument in favor of Perry dominating in this category. We’re talking about Madonna in one of the most signature fucking looks not just of her career, but in modern pop culture as we know it. A moment so iconic that it was riffed on again in 2003 for yet another performance that would turn out to be equally iconic in its own way (even in terms of cutting away from the Christina Aguilera beso for the sake of getting Justin Timberlake’s peeved reaction). And this time with Madonna making the then-latest generation of pop princesses into her brides, while she played the big dick energy groom.

    Incidentally, it was less than a year later that Madonna and Perry would pose together for a V Magazine photoshoot (taken by none other than Madonna’s favorite photographer, Steven Klein). Although it was technically meant to “star” both of them, Madonna also stood out as the supreme force among the Bettie Page-inspired images of the duo in various S&M-y poses. But at least being styled and photographed by the same people put them on a more level playing field—because when it comes to VMAs performances, there’s no fucking contest. Regardless of the grave error made at the 2024 VMAs deeming Perry the “winner.”

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Chappell Roan’s VMAs Performance: A Nod to How We’re Still in Medieval Times

    Chappell Roan’s VMAs Performance: A Nod to How We’re Still in Medieval Times

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    There’s no doubt that Medieval Times is still a major institution in the Midwest, with one of its precious few locations being in Chicago (more specifically, Schaumburg, Illinois). And, of course, being a “Midwest princess,” one would like to think that Chappell Roan was vaguely aware of her Medieval Times aura as she took the stage at the MTV Video Music Awards for the first time (on the now always inauspicious date of September 11th). That’s right, like many other celebrities (despite Roan’s continued claim that she’s just “a random bitch”), she schlepped all the way to Long Island for this big debut at the UBS Arena—even going so far as to cancel other scheduled performance dates in Amsterdam and Paris in early September (perhaps not wanting to “overextend” herself while rehearsing for the VMAs) for the sake of making “icon history.”

    And that she did, confirming her increasing comparisons to Kate Bush (mainly on the vocal intonation front, but also embodying the “queer energy” Bush gave off despite being a straight woman…not to mention her ultra-camp sensibilities) as Roan opted to dress as a knight in shining armor for her live rendition of “Good Luck, Babe!” (a standalone single that was released months after The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess). As a matter of fact, there’s an immortal image of Bush dressed as a knight during a photoshoot for a 1980 edition of Melody Maker. But “maybe” Roan didn’t know about that before running with this particular concept and visual.

    In any case, to set the tone for this poignant costume during her performance, Roan arrived on the red carpet in what can best be described as a “Maid Marian getup” (courtesy of a sheer dress by Y/Project) and coordinating cape. Roan, for good measure, additionally packed a sword (how innuendo-laden) in hand as a prop to round out an aesthetic intended to convey that just because she’s a woman, it doesn’t mean she’s a “delicate flower.” Indeed, wielding that sword was in keeping with her snapping back at a press member (that reportedly told her to “shut the fuck up”), “You shut the fuck up! …Not me.”

    Later “explaining” her outburst, Roan remarked, “[The red carpet] is quite overwhelming and quite scary. I think for someone who gets a lot of anxiety around people yelling at you, the carpet is horrifying. And I need to—I yelled back. I yelled back! You don’t get to yell at me like that.” Such “bravado” was an ideal match for her knightly image as she defended her own honor—a theme that goes hand in hand with her entire “brand.” That is to say, women don’t need rescuing—they can ultimately save themselves (as Carrie Bradshaw, of all people, once tried to explain to Charlotte York in a season three episode of Sex and the City called “Where There’s Smoke…”). They just need a night on the town (ideally at a drag bar) to recover from almost any slight. Emphasis on the word almost.

    Alas, Roan is finding it more and more difficult to enjoy such therapeutic nights out on the town as her fame level eclipses her ability to do “normal person things.” Thus, dressing up as a knight also seems to speak to Roan wanting to take back her power by “valoring up.” However, that’s not the only subtext one can take away from the costuming and misleadingly “intricate” set design (modeled after, what else, a medieval castle). There’s also the undeniable message being sent that, despite Kamala Harris running for president, the U.S. (in particular) is still living in some very Dark Ages—complete with the overturning of Roe v. Wade in 2022 that has led to numerous states outright banning abortion. And while Roan claims her costumes aren’t that “deep” and that, most of the time, she thinks she just “looks hot” in them, the decision to don medieval garb doesn’t exactly feel like a coincidence in the current climate. Especially one in which Donald Trump (despite everything about his inherent nature and varied illegal activities that have been revealed to the public since 2016) still has almost half of the country’s vote as of September 2024.

    As for Roan’s Medieval Times energy, it bears noting that, in 2017 (the year of #MeToo, incidentally), the franchise changed the show (as they’re known for doing about every six years) to include a queen at the center of the event rather than a king. With Roan’s medieval interpretation, however, the “lady” herself becomes the “man.” Or at least one butch-ass bitch. Bedecked in her armor and faux chainmail, the performance begins with Roan standing behind the gates of the castle wielding a crossbow with a fiery arrow. She soon struts outside of the gate (opened for her by a bevy of “lackey knights”), approaches the center of the stage, turns around and then aims it directly back toward the gates, which, in turn, light up into a fiery pattern on select bars. The lackey knights then dance and preen around her with swords in hand as Roan boasts about how she “told you so.”

    As the fire burns in a glorious blaze behind her (including over-the-top explosions on the spires of the castle itself—courtesy of a screen, [un]naturally), the chaoticness of everything around her echoes the ways in which Roan is seeking to “burn it all to the ground.” From conventional pop stardom to the ongoing political “safeness” of most everything in pop culture—even in spite of all the insistence about how much “things have changed.” Of course, whether she “intended” to say all of this isn’t the point. It’s right there, between the lines displayed by those spiky, oppressive gates.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • September 11th Is Nothing But a Meme to Gen Z

    September 11th Is Nothing But a Meme to Gen Z

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    Unlike the infamous December 7th date that baby boomers would forever be conditioned to remember and respect by their forebears, September 11th is becoming less and less of a date to “revere” and more and more of a “thing” to meme. And, although the attack on the World Trade Center hasn’t even yet reached its twenty-fifth anniversary, it’s already but “fodder” for a generation that was barely coherent, if even born at all, when the calamity occurred. Thus, it’s easy to find “levity” in the incongruous images from that immortal day (including a screen grab of an advertisement for Mariah Carey’s doomed movie, Glitter, against the backdrop of the smoking towers).

    And oh, how Gen Z has found quite the substantial amount of levity in 9/11. As a recent article from Rolling Stone characterized this phenomenon, “To be on social media in 2024 is to be swimming in jokes and memes about 9/11. Things that might once have been whispered among friends are now shared by meme accounts with hundreds of thousands of followers. On TikTok, videos contrasting the year 2024 with 2001 (often ending with someone reacting to the planes hitting towers) frequently went viral.” An Instagram account called always_forget_never_remember (a “tasteless 9/11 Meme Dealer”) describes the latest glut of memes about the tragedy as having “the effect of exorcising the event from America’s collective consciousness.” While some might view that as a “positive” form of “healing,” others are aware of the long-term damage it can cause to “forget” (hence, the long-standing 9/11 urging to “never forget”—especially if you still have the non-presence of mind to live in New York).

    Germany didn’t make the mistake of “forgetting” about World War II and Adolf Hitler’s dangerous, life-destroying demagoguery. Ergo, the reason why its ratio of neo-Nazis is actually far smaller than the one in the United States, where the history taught in schools is often not exactly “on the level.” Therefore, making it easy to forget the lessons that are theoretically supposed to be imparted by history. If 9/11 was meant to impart any such lesson, it’s that hubris will be the U.S.’ ultimate undoing. And yet, Gen Z has instead seen fit to take up allegiance with Osama bin Laden in the matter after his “Letter to America” went viral on TikTok. Mainly because part of his “logic” for killing thousands of people stemmed from the U.S.’ de facto support of Israel’s occupation of Palestine. But, as the aphorism goes, “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” Especially Gen Z—blind to the severity and unprecedented nature of this event that has continued to negatively impact people’s lives to this day.

    And not just the lives of those who lost loved ones in the most brutal and unfathomable manner, but to those still living who were subjected to the toxic materials of the aftermath. As the CDC phrases it, 9/11 “created massive dust clouds that filled the air and left hundreds of highly populated city blocks covered with ash, debris and harmful particles, including asbestos, silica, metals, concrete and glass.” Consequently, many people, young and old alike, were subjected to toxins that would result in ongoing health issues or even death.

    Indeed, according to the Mesothelioma Center, “more people have now died from this toxic exposure than in the 9/11 attacks [themselves].” But that is of no importance to Gen Z, who could give a goddamn about anything (except looking young and excoriating those who don’t). Perhaps Rue Bennett (Zendaya), the ultimate numb/disaffected Gen Zer in Euphoria, puts it best when she narrates in the series’ pilot episode, “I was born three days after 9/11. My mother and father spent two days in the hospital, holding me under the soft glow of the television, watching those towers fall over and over again, until the feelings of grief gave way to numbness.” In a sense, she’s not just talking about her parents’ numbness, but also referring to the osmosis of those images—played ad nauseam until they meant nothing anymore—contributing to her own eventual numbness. Not just to 9/11 and its “weight,” but to life itself.

    While there are those who would take up the defense of Gen Z (including Gen Z itself) by saying it’s not their fault they didn’t live through the catastrophe in order to be “appropriately sad” enough about it (therefore not make totally callous memes about it), others are aware of the growing sociopathy that exists within each new generation—and yes, it arguably started with baby boomers themselves, the generation first accused of being selfish and sociopathic via an illustrious 1976 article by Tom Wolfe for New York Magazine called “The ‘Me’ Decade.” And yet, while boomers might have been quick to join cults and indulge in many a bad acid trip, one can’t imagine them ever creating content that eradicated the entire emotional meaning of December 7, 1941.

    Undoubtedly, Gen Z, in contrast, comes across as particularly sociopathic because they are the first generation to “forget” about 9/11. Not, however, the first generation to have the internet-oriented platforms to mock it. That would be millennials. But millennials were in the trenches when it happened, affected by the news coverage and anti-Middle East rhetoric that followed in such a way as to not even dream of poking fun at such a serious moment in the culture. After all, this was when people were still even taking Rudy Giuliani seriously. As for previous generations that were made aware of somber historical events, baby boomers didn’t have the means to mock Pearl Harbor (the event consistently likened to 9/11 because it was the only other large-scale attack on U.S. soil), nor did Gen X didn’t have the means to mock, say, the Kennedy assassination or the Vietnam War. At least not in a manner that could be disseminated to so many thousands of people.

    The irony, of course, is that Gen Z is known for being the most “sensitive” generation yet—even though everything about them and their reactions to things connotes the exact opposite. Treating 9/11 like nothing more than a “trend” or meme to fill the internet space is, thus, but part and parcel of this generation’s highly limited capacity for empathy. Oh sure, there’s using humor as a coping mechanism, as many did try to in the wake of the events of September 11, 2001 (which meant being “canceled” before that was a term). But that’s not what it’s about with Gen Z, who has no emotional attachment whatsoever to that day. Nor do they seem to have much of an emotional attachment to anything (again, except to looking hot). Leading some to ask the question: can you blame them? After all, they live in a post-Empire world—how can they trust that it’s even worth it to attach to something, knowing how ephemeral it all is. The decimation of the Twin Towers certainly proves that, if nothing else, to Gen Z, so overexposed to tragedy and trauma at this point that their desensitization can be “justified.” As anything can be when it suits a purpose…sort of like bin Laden justifying the attacks.   

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • The “About Fucking Time!” Tank Top Is Becoming The New “Jesus Is My Homeboy”/“Mary Is My Homegirl” Shirt

    The “About Fucking Time!” Tank Top Is Becoming The New “Jesus Is My Homeboy”/“Mary Is My Homegirl” Shirt

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    As with most impactful trends, it began with Madonna. Or at least got kickstarted by her (see also: vogueing). More to the point, the pop culture tastemaker spotlighted the “About Fucking Time!” shirt by sporting it at the August 24th birthday party she threw for her twins, Stella and Estere. Soon after, Charli XCX posted a “chest shot” photo of two unidentified people (though it looks like her and Sweat Tour co-star Troye Sivan) wearing the same tank tops with the increasingly familiar phrase. Though, in truth, the t-shirt goes back much further than its current “it” moment, created by one of Madonna’s long-standing besties, Stella McCartney. The latter, in fact, appropriately donned a “prototype” at the 1999 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony when her dad (you know, Paul) was finally inducted.

    Not so coincidentally, McCartney was also present at the aforementioned “high-brow, who’s who” of a twelfth birthday party—pictured next to Madonna as the two held a cluster of balloons in each hand. Only Madonna wasn’t wearing the tank top in this image, but rather, saved it for a photo of herself sandwiched in between Stella and Estere. Thus, the shirt often tends to be worn during instances when something has been “long overdue” (like, apparently, Estere and Stella entering their final preteen year). Which also appeared to be the case with Paris Hilton wearing one for her September ’24 Nylon feature, “From Paris With Love.” Because, after all, she thinks it’s “about fucking time” that she released a sophomore album (though there aren’t that many other people who feel quite the same). Her newly unleashed Infinite Icon record being the topic that the majority of the article focuses on.

    And, talking of that particular “2000s icon,” it seems that “About Fucking Time!” is fast becoming the “20s” version of one the 00s’ biggest t-shirt trends: “Jesus Is My Homeboy.” Later, “Mary Is My Homegirl” would also take celebrity closets by storm, reaching a zenith in 2004, when, yes, Madonna was spotted in arguably one of the most 2000s ensembles ever captured by a paparazzo: track pants, trainers, a Von Dutch hat and a “Mary Is My Homegirl” tee.

    Like “About Fucking Time!,” the “Jesus Is My Homeboy” shirt went back much further than when it experienced a sudden uptick in sartorial cachet thanks to a clothing company called Teenage Millionaire (oft touted by the likes of Ashton Kutcher and the abovementioned Hilton)—which once boasted a store on Melrose. But long before that brand cashed in on the design, thanks to Teenage Millionaire’s Doug Williams coming across the original version of the t-shirt (the rest of the stock was lost when the screenprinting shop that the OG creator used was looted during the 1992 Rodney King riots), the story began sometime in 1980s L.A.. Specifically, when a man named Van Zan Frater was mugged and beaten by a bevy of street gang members. According to Frater, one youth’s urging to “kill him, homeboy!” inspired Frater to say, “Jesus is MY homeboy. And he’s your homeboy, and your homeboy.” This, apparently, got them to gradually scatter, leaving a bloodied Frater to recover only briefly before being mugged a second time in about as little as ten minutes (oh certain parts of L.A. in the 80s).

    When the discarded shirt Frater created to commemorate the “event” was unearthed years later (some accounts say in a vintage store, others in a dumpster), Williams and his Teenage Millionaire partner, Chris Hoy, came up with a backstory about the shirt’s “origins,” claiming “they created the ‘Jesus is My Homeboy’ t-shirt while talking one afternoon about [Hoy’s] Irish Roman Catholic upbringing in a largely Latino community in Hollywood.” It didn’t take long for the shirt to absolutely blow up, appearing on the chests of everyone from Britney Spears to her number one celebrity crush, Brad Pitt. Indeed, that shirt practically was the 2000s.

    Cut to twenty years after its cultural peak and now it seems there’s a new shirt with a similar kind of celebrity cachet making the rounds: “About Fucking Time!” And, in keeping with the gentrification of everything, it of course comes from the runway rather than the streets of L.A. What’s more, although McCartney’s shirt has a much less scandalous and fraught backstory, it does speak to “the trend” of the moment—especially in fashion—to make a big performative to-do about preserving the environment. Hence, McCartney’s fashion show during Paris Fashion Week centering around the theme of “Messages from Mother Earth” (in other words, what MARINA already did by writing “Purge the Poison” from Earth’s perspective). Among those messages, “Gaia’s” most ominously exhorting missive is none other than: “it’s about fucking time”—that humans paid her some respect. She is, after all, the source from which we’re all derived and sustained (the double meaning, to be sure, is that humans are running out of time to amend their behavior, which is why everything, as usual is all about [fucking] time).

    To pay her respect, apparently, means buying clothes from Stella McCartney and, as a sidebar, following her lead on “sustainability.” Alas, while McCartney has been a long-standing proponent of environmentalism and animal rights, there is an almost willful naïveté (that can perhaps only come from being born into wealth) in believing that anything about the fashion industry can ever be sustainable (regardless of McCartney touting, “the sequins are plastic-free”—okay, but they’re still sequins that are probably going to end up in some fish’s mouth—and besides that, what else in the collection couldn’t avoid using plastic?).

    Which is why it’s so ironic that someone like Charli XCX, recently tapped to do a campaign with one of fashion’s biggest offenders of fucking up the planet, H&M, and Paris Hilton, down to wear whatever makes her look “hot,” should have the audacity to wear these “statement” tank tops designed to “advocate” for Mother Earth. When, in truth, the biggest favor anyone in fashion could do for said mother is declare that wearing one outfit per season made out of hemp or recycled cotton is permanently chic. Either that, or come out and say that everyone should only shop at thrift stores going forward. But then, that would put every designer out of business, wouldn’t it? Thus, the idea of “overhauling” the industry instead of eradicating it altogether is the best way that people like McCartney can soothe themselves about their chosen moneymaking endeavor.

    In this regard, there was a greater honesty to the backstory behind the “Jesus Is My Homeboy” t-shirt (which was also completely inauthentic when worn by any celebrity). Because even though it, too, was ridden with the kind of exploitation unique to the fashion industry (read: stealing a design), at least the original creator’s mantra was “purer” and more believable in terms of motive (not to mention more accessible by way of price range). However, contrary to McCartney’s supposed intentions, many people will have no idea that the “About Fucking Time!” shirt refers to Mother Nature (voiced, for McCartney’s purposes, by Olivia Colman). And her demand that humans treat her with more kindness before she punishes them in a way that means “looking stylish” will be the last of anyone’s concerns.

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    Genna Rivieccio

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  • Beetlejuice Beetlejuice: Not Quite “Twice As Nice” As the Original (Mainly Because of a Tonal Shift From Bona Fide Weird to Corporate Weird), But Good Enough

    Beetlejuice Beetlejuice: Not Quite “Twice As Nice” As the Original (Mainly Because of a Tonal Shift From Bona Fide Weird to Corporate Weird), But Good Enough

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    In 1988, the movie releases of the day were something of a mixed bag. From titles like Killer Klowns from Outer Space to Who Framed Roger Rabbit, it was an “anything goes” sort of year for film. Maybe that’s why Beetlejuice managed to “get past the censors,” so to speak. Released on March 30, 1988, it was hardly expected to be the commercial success that it was, raking in seventy-five million dollars on a fifteen-million-dollar budget. Unsurprisingly, getting it made was something of an uphill battle, with one executive at Universal telling Beetlejuice’s co-writer and eventual co-producer Larry Wilson that trying to put it into production was a waste of time. Wilson, in fact, recalled the unnamed person’s naysaying as follows: “‘This piece of weirdness, this is what you’re going to go out into the world with? You’re developing into a very good executive. You’ve got great taste in material. Why are you going to squander all that for this piece of shit’ was basically what he was saying.”

    Soon after, the Beetlejuice script was sold to the Geffen Company (because, needless to say, gays have taste). Perhaps because, at that time, it had made something of a name for itself in the genre of “weird,” “off-kilter” movies like After Hours and Little Shop of Horrors. Cutting to 2024, not only is the Geffen Company no longer around (it became defunct in 1998), but all of its content (save for Beavis and Butt-Head Do America and maybe Joe’s Apartment) now belongs to Warner Bros., which Geffen had originally distributed its films through. Perhaps that’s part of why Beetlejuice Beetlejuice has a noticeably different tone that has less to do with “the current climate” and more to do with being under the thumb of a major corporate juggernaut.

    And, talking of the current climate in film, it’s obviously vastly different from the abovementioned mixed bag/almost anything goes vibe of 1988. Indeed, 2024 has been an especially marked year for remakes, reboots and various forms of sequels—including Twisters, Deadpool & Wolverine, Alien: Romulus and The Crow. All of which is to say that, as most already knew, Hollywood is notorious for playing it safe. In other words, the suits controlling the purse strings rarely, if ever, take a gamble on anything that isn’t “existing IP” that already has a built-in audience. Which is the category that, “kooky” or not, Beetlejuice definitely falls into—making it right at home among the movie release climate of 2024.

    That said, the obvious tonal shift of the sequel is a direct result of not just the “corporate-ification” of the movie thanks to Warner Bros. being entirely at the helm (complete with cross-promotional products like the Fabergé x Beetlejuice Beetlejuice® fine jewelry collection and the Limited-Edition Fanta Haunted Apple x Beetlejuice Beetlejuice® drinks), but the corporate-ification of all aspects of the movie industry in general. Even when it comes to what would have once been deemed more “indie” fare (which usually tended to be a euphemism for “offbeat” [a.k.a. unclassifiable by Hollywood executives]). Tim Burton’s own film evolution provides no better example of that, showing a stronger predilection for corporate-ifying his now “signature style” over the years (see: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Alice in Wonderland, Dark Shadows and Dumbo). In branching out to TV (for the first full-blown time) with Wednesday, Burton also revealed his increasing inclination toward “softcore gloom,” a byproduct, perhaps, of too many years working with major studio backing. And yes, collaborating with Jenna Ortega on the series led to her being “thought of” for a major part in the sequel.

    In it, Ortega plays Astrid Deetz, daughter to Lydia (Winona Ryder), who has herself gone totally corporate by hosting a sham-y supernatural reality show called Ghost House. Granted, Lydia can actually communicate with the dead—as her rapport with Adam (Alec Baldwin) and Barbara Maitland (Geena Davis) showed audiences back in ‘88. Unfortunately for Astrid, however, Lydia has never been able to wield her gift for the purpose of seeing Richard (Santiago Cabrera), Astrid’s father whose cause of death was a boat accident in South America. And no, his body was never recovered (which seems like it might a detail that’s brought back later, but it isn’t).

    Lydia and Richard had already divorced before his death, which speaks more to Ryder’s original vision for the character in a sequel: “I never thought about Lydia ever being a mom. I thought she would just be this spinster by choice in that attic…” Turns out, corporate-ification makes such a thought an impossibility, with Ryder also adding, “…but I think that’s where the incredible Jenna Ortega comes in. She answered a ton of those questions, and it felt so right.” Some might even say it “felt so right” that it was the true reason “destiny” made it take this long to put together a sequel—well, that, and “destiny” also needed to align Monica Bellucci romantically with Burton to give her a part that, once upon a time, probably would have gone to Helena Bonham Carter. (Side note: the role is an undeniable aesthetic nod to Sally in The Nightmare Before Christmas.)

    In any case, some might like to see Lydia and Astrid as a “macabre” version of Lorelai and Rory Gilmore, with their relationship mirroring the latter’s more during their estrangement in season six—until they finally get close once Astrid realizes her mother’s medium abilities are the real deal. Before that pivotal moment though, Astrid’s initial resentment-filled dynamic with Lydia is established via the plot construct of an important funeral. Thus, her rage toward her “Alleged Mother” is exhibited in all its complex glory when screenwriting duo Alfred Gough and Miles Millar bring them together against Astrid’s will for the funeral of Lydia’s father/Astrid’s grandfather, Charles Deetz (Jeffrey Jones, who might as well have “died” in real life after being cancelled for child pornography/sex offender charges). And yes, as some have accurately pointed out, Charles a.k.a. Jones enjoys way too much screen time for someone that’s not actually in it—in addition to pointing out that having a children’s choir sing “Day-O” at the funeral of an IRL sex offender is a bit…ill-advised. (On the plus side, however, his death allows Catherine O’Hara many opportunities to shine as Delia Deetz.)

    What’s more, while Burton has also claimed that the Maitlands aren’t featured in the story because they’ve “moved on,” the fairer assumption (apart from Davis admitting, “Our characters were stuck the way they looked when they died forever, so it’s been a while, it’s been a minute”) is that Baldwin isn’t without his own controversies of late (*cough cough* killing someone). And, if corporate-ification is capable of anything, it’s steering clear of any controversies that might prompt a dip in sales. Except no one seemed to consider the potential of Brad Pitt’s inevitably fledgling reputation in the wake of Angelina Jolie’s lawsuit claiming the actor has a “history of physical abuse.” Nonetheless, he serves as a producer on the project, which, whether intentional or not, found him working with Jennifer Aniston’s other ex, Justin Theroux (who plays Lydia’s annoying user of a fiancé, Rory).

    Elsewhere, the addition of Willem Dafoe to the cast as Wolf Jackson—a B-rate actor who died while playing a detective, therefore also acts as one in the afterlife—feels a bit overstuffed and out of place, contributing to some of the issues with being able to effectively service all the storylines and characters (especially Bellucci’s Delores) without making everything feel somewhat rushed at the conclusion. Granted, there is at least a satisfying-to-OG-fans wedding ceremony between Lydia and Beetlejuice reserved for Act Three (during which Lydia, in her “updated” [read: post-woke] state, makes a joke that comments on their unsettling age gap—and just in time for age gap autumn, too).

    But even during these moments that cater to the original fanbase, the shift in tone from Beetlejuice when it was a “low-budget,” underdog affair is night and day when compared to the over-the-top, trying-as-hard-as-possible-for-laughs posturing of Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. And don’t even get one started on the hooey final scene that leads to coming across as a totally non sequitur nod to A Nightmare on Elm Street. Even so, there are worse “bad dreams” than this sequel, and many others have failed miserably in trying to achieve a follow-up to such a beloved movie (see: Speed 2: Cruise Control or Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps). Besides, it’s almost impossible to make a sequel better than the original (save for rare exceptions like Die Hard 2 or The Dark Knight).

    But, as best as it can, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice stays true to the wonderful weirdness of Beetlejuice (even if that wonderful weirdness is a little too manicured now). Alas, there’s no denying that the scrappy, rough-hewn nature of the original is something that can never be recreated in the present landscape…regardless of Ryder keeping the exact same coif as Lydia when she was sixteen (in a maneuver that smacks of Briony Tallis’ never-changing hairstyle in 2007’s Atonement).

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    Genna Rivieccio

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