Tag: Lana Del Rey Jon Batiste

When an artist reaches a certain point in their career, self-reference can’t be avoided. In Lana Del Rey’s case, that tends to become quite a quagmire in terms of how most of her music and aesthetics were already referencing other people to begin with. This includes not only “paying homage” visually to the “classics” of Americana and 50s-era icons like Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Elvis Presley, but also more esoteric fare, including instrumentation and intonation from Eleni Vitali’s “Dromoi Pou Agapisa” for “Video Games” (though some have tried to push back on that theory). Then, of course, there’s her signature of randomly throwing in the lyrics of musical heroes like David Bowie (“Ground control to Major Tom” in “Terrence Loves You”), Patsy Cline (“I fall to pieces” in “Cherry”), Bob Dylan (“Like a rolling stone” in “Off to the Races” and “Lay-lady-lay” in “Tomorrow Never Came”), Beach Boys (“Don’t worry baby” in “Lust for Life” and “California dreamin’” on “Fuck It I Love You”) and Leonard Cohen (“That’s how the light gets in” in “Kintsugi”), to name a few. And let’s not forget her tendency toward weaving literary quotes into much of her work, to boot (which is much easier to sneak in and have people assume is one’s own because nobody’s all that well-read anymore, are they?). Many of which take from Nabokov’s evermore problematic tome, Lolita. Hence, the Del Rey songs “Lolita,” “Carmen” and “Off to the Races.” There’s also Walt Whitman in “Body Electric,” T. S. Eliot in “Burnt Norton” and Oscar Wilde in “Gods and Monsters.” With so many people to “inspire” (read: take from), it’s no wonder Del Rey is so prolific.

But it all makes sense because of how much Del Rey has always represented the millennial gift for pastiche. Themselves having experienced it on overload from the day of conception, thanks to being “cultivated” in a postmodern world. Where society is at now leaves potential for many more “posts” to be placed in front of that “modern” (just how many might depend on who you ask). And maybe that’s why the love of all things meta has taken root so deeply in pop culture ever since Scream came to theaters. Del Rey herself has never much favored playing with the concept too overtly, perhaps deciding it was time to do so after all this talk of her various “personas” throughout album cycles—though mainly the “Daddy”-loving one that sucks on lollipops, sips “cherry cola” and still insists, “He hit me and it felt like a kiss” (another lyric borrowed from someone else: The Crystals). So it’s only right for director Rich Lee (who previously teamed with Del Rey on videos for “Doin’ Time” and “Fuck It I Love You/The Greatest”) to commence “Candy Necklace,” the first single from Did You Know That There’s A Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd to receive a video accompaniment, by opening on a klieg light. Everything about such an emblem signifying the grandeur of Del Rey’s music, as well as her ongoing commitment to presenting Old Hollywood glamor as a lifestyle choice people can still choose to make.

Lee zooms into the shot of the klieg light and then cuts to the man wielding it behind the back of the truck Lana is “driving” on set. One with a screen backdrop that plays footage of trees on a loop to make it seem like she’s actually driving though some woodsy area (“You can find me where no one will be/In the woods somewhere,” as she says on “Sweet”) when, obviously, she’s not. But it’s all part of the “put-on,” innit? That razzle-dazzle that only Hollywood—de facto, Del Rey—still knows how to achieve better than anyone. And where is she driving to but L.A.? Some small-town girl bound for the big city to do “big things.” Much like the woman Del Rey visually emulates in the video, Elizabeth Short. Better known as the Black Dahlia. Like Del Rey, Short shares a name with Elizabeth “Lizzy” Grant and also spent much of her youth on the East Coast (with some stints in Florida, also like “Lizzy”) before ending up in L.A. after various boppings around between her father and some Army and Navy men.

Rumors of whether or not Short was a prostitute began to crop up in the wake of her murder, tying right in with another favorite topic of Del Rey’s, as explored on “A&W.” Indeed, after so much rejection in her life, it would be easy to imagine Short callously thinking to herself as she prowled the streets of L.A., “It’s not about having someone to love me anymore/This is the experience of being an American whore.” Regardless of whether or not she did prostitute herself at one time or another, there was an innocent aura about her. Which then, of course, brings us to the flowers—dahlias—Short wore in her hair. As Del Rey used to adorn her own hair with a “sweet” flower crown despite talking of subjects like cocaine, older men and being born bad.

The dichotomy of a woman when viewed through the myopic lens of men—particularly men controlling Hollywood and the narratives that were churned out of it—is embodied by Del Rey as the vixen, the vamp and the lost little lamb throughout the video. Cutting from her in the truck as “Lana” to her as the Black Dahlia sometime in the 40s as she’s guided out of a car by a John Waters lookalike (maybe the real deal wasn’t available), Lee sets the stage for something sinister to build—only to keep taking us out of the moment with constant behind-the-scenes “asides” from Del Rey herself who, as usual, helmed the concept. As she walks into the stately mansion she’s led to by this older gentleman (Johnny Robish), she reminds one of Lana (quelle coincidence) Clarkson being led to the slaughter by Phil Spector. Eerily (and perhaps intentionally) enough, Robish actually did portray Spector in a TV series called Silenced. And yes, one could imagine Del Rey moonlighting as a hostess at the House of Blues and ending up in such a man’s abode had things gone in an alternate direction for her. In fact, one of her chief defenses against those calling her portrayal of the Black Dahlia insensitive (since, by now, everyone is desensitized to Marilyn’s image being habitually plundered) is that, “It’s not insensitive when you started the same way and you could’ve ended up that way, but that hasn’t been how the story played out and no one knows how it will. So, leave if you don’t like the idea.” But obviously, plenty will like it, for Del Rey is not without her devoted legions, even if they aren’t able to move mountains in quite the same way as Swifties or Beyhive members.

But Taylor and Beyoncé don’t tend to go quite so niche (at least not in ways deemed as polarizing) with their visual brainchilds. In this video’s instance, a key part of the concept is highlighting “what it’s like for those in front of the camera, behind the smokescreen of fame.” Almost like what Britney Spears was doing in the video for “Lucky” as a matter of fact. But, as usual, Brit doesn’t get much credit for her profundity. Del Rey also follows the tradition of movies that serve as a “film within a film” designed to debunk the supposed perfection of it all—totally manufactured by those behind the camera as much as those in front of it. For someone mired in the debate about “persona,” it couldn’t be a more on-the-nose notion. Almost as on the nose as the various “rundowns” of the video that have come out, offering only such reductive “commentary” as, “Lana Del Rey Transforms Into Marilyn Monroe in New Video.” No shit. But, as with most Del Rey videos, there’s much more to it than the surface.

Considering her collaboration with Lee on the merged videos for “Fuck It I Love You” and “The Greatest” (clocking in at nine minutes and nineteen seconds to make it a length contender with the videos for “Ride,” “Venice Bitch,” “Norman Fucking Rockwell”/“Bartender”/“Happiness Is A Butterfly” and, now, “Candy Necklace”), he actually alludes to it when making mention of her skateboarding down an alleyway in Long Beach for that shoot. An alleyway will factor in during this video as well, but not with such a “fun-loving” tinge. What’s more, it’s worth noting that the lyrics to “Fuck It I Love You” encapsulate the “everygirl”—like Elizabeth Short—who moves to L.A. with “big dreams” (“said you had to leave to start your life over”). Only to fall into the trap of “fast living” (yet again). This apparent in lyrics such as, “Maybe the way that I’m living is killing me/I like to light up the stage with a song/Do shit to keep me turned on/But one day I woke up like, ‘Maybe I’ll do it differently’/So I moved to California but it’s just a state of mind.” And that state of mind can often lead to a dark destiny, hidden behind the oft-repeated phrase: “the myth of California.”

Del Rey as Black Dahlia starts to slowly uncover it as we see her atop a grandiose staircase, in the home of the creepy older man who takes her there. Another camera cut shows Del Rey overlooking the scene with Jon Batiste, her trusty piano player on the song and also, of course, a Grammy-winning dynamo in his own right. But in this context, the two both appear as outsiders looking in, heightening the meta concept of us as the outsider audience watching them look like outsiders, too. When Del Rey then descends the staircase while “acting the part,” it feels like a callback to Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard doing the same thing after retreating entirely into her delusions.

Whatever is happening throughout the video, Lee is always sure to keep our eyes on the varying necklaces Del Rey is wearing, with the term “candy necklace” being symbolic of a lure itself. Something women use to “ensnare” by drawing the male gaze to her vulnerable neck and then up to the mouth as she sucks on the candy. It’s also a metaphor for something sweet and disposable—the way most young women are viewed, particularly by men in “the industry” who see such women as mere “perks” of being in it. Ergo, Del Rey’s dissection of yet another disappointing man who she thought she was madly in love with echoes a sentiment expressed in “Shades of Cool”: “I can’t fix him/Can’t make him better.” But by the time she—or rather, the Black Dahlia version of herself—realizes it, it’s too late.

At the two-minute, forty-eight-second mark of the video, Del Rey is up to her old “National Anthem” tricks again by portraying Marilyn Monroe, but this time with the full-on re-creation of her blonde coif (as opposed to just wearing a replica of the Jean Louis gown that Kim Kardashian felt obliged to destroy for the sake of her vanity). Shot from a movie-within-a-movie perspective again, we hear the “real” Del Rey tell Lee, “I just don’t know, like, how to not be, like, a robot. I just need to shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot.” And shoot she does…in the persona of Marilyn holding a book in her hand (there’s also a book in the background appropriately titled Handbook of General Psychology). While some would write Del Rey’s portrayal of Marilyn off as yet another tired trick in her usual playbook, it bears remarking that her putting on this particular “character” has more significance at this moment in time, with Del Rey currently being thirty-seven—a year older than Marilyn was when she died (or committed suicide, if that’s the theory you’re going with). This meaning she survived past a “scary age” for those who pay attention to the women slain by the Hollywood machine. Which harkens back to Del Rey’s mention of how when she started out as Lizzy Grant taking on the big city and finding herself in precarious situations with men-wolves, her fate might have gone down just as dark a path as Short’s or Monroe’s.

After talking about being like a robot, Del Rey adds, “I’m not, like, it’s not, like, working anymore for me.” There are two interpretations of this line: 1) the concept isn’t working for her anymore or 2) doing the shoot no longer feels like work to her because she’s so “in it.” In this manner, as well, there is a layer of duality to everything. Transitioning back to Black Dahlia mode, Del Rey offers another behind-the-scenes soundbite in the form of, “‘Cause the whole thing about the video is, like…why it was all supposed to be behind-the-scenes is because all these women who, like, changed their name, changed their hair, like me and stuff [correction: her like them], it’s like they all fell into these different, different, like, snake holes, so the whole point is like how do you learn from that and not fall into your own thing?” Del Rey grapples with that question as she puts on another wig—this one more Veronica Lake-esque. Along with a Red Riding Hood-style cape in white. The Red Riding Hood vibe being undeniably pointed, per the mention of the men-wolves above—the ones that still run most industries. And still make them all a rather scary place to be a woman. Especially a “fragile” one (as Del Rey so often likes to remind people that she is—something Jewel was doing quite some time ago).

Walking down a darkened alleyway in this glam-ified Red Riding Hood getup, Del Rey finds herself singing—performing—yet again in a club (as she has also done so many times before in videos such as “Blue Velvet,” “Ride” and “Fuck It I Love You”). One where the seedy Phil Spector-reminiscent character waits and watches. A wolf in no sheep’s clothing. As Batiste plays the piano next to her, Del Rey locks eyes with this foreboding male presence…yet another “Daddy” figure in her music video canon (see also: “Ride,” “Shades of Cool” and “The Greatest”). The one to lead her into the proverbial woods, rather than out of them, as she would like to believe.

Back in the alleyway with this man who will serve as her “date” for the rest of the “evening,” Del Rey rips off the wig she’s wearing to reveal Black Dahlia curls again…or are they Del Rey’s own? As usual, she toys with viewers’ perception on the matter, with wig-snatching as yet another bid to break down the wall of artifice created by Hollywood glamor. Subverting the “real” goings-on “behind the scenes” again by flashing a middle finger at the camera in her dressing room and demanding, “Get out. Seriously.” But is she being serious, or is this a sendup of the difficult diva persona? Once more, the decision is at the discretion of the beholder.

Close-ups on Del Rey’s necklace become more pronounced after this scene, though it’s been accented the entire time that each “character” she plays wears some kind of ornate necklace. The one lured (whether aware of the lure or ultimately uncaring that it is a lure) into the backseat of “Daddy’s” car keeps caressing the “candy” necklace she’s wearing as Lee cuts to Batiste repeating the phrase like a narrator who can only communicate her fate through this ominous pair of words. All at once, there’s a moment when it seems as though the necklace feels to her like a choking hold that she tries to remove before looking around frantically out the window. Is it too late to escape what she herself walked into? As necklaces both candy and jeweled fall against a black backdrop and into blood, we find out what the answer is…and what we knew it to be all along: she can’t escape the gruesome outcome that awaits. This shown dramatically by a shot of the car door open and her white cape strewn from the seat to the floor, covered in blood. The camera pans to the back of the car, where a trunk is attached. The perfect size for fitting a mutilated body. Partially open, the camera closes in on its blood-spattered exterior, zooming into the blackness of the trunk only to then reflect back the POV from within: a bevy of reporters letting their flashbulbs go off in a frenzy, ready to splash the horrid tale all over newspapers across the country. The girl is just a story now. Another cautionary tale. One that tells women: don’t be “loose,” don’t “ask for it.” And suddenly, among the fray of “paparazzi” (a word not yet coined in the Black Dahlia’s time), there’s Jon Batiste, who presently comes across as the A$AP Rocky of the narrative, for Del Rey does so enjoy to portray herself as the romantic fetish of Black men. And the fetish of bad men.

Another cut made through the flashbulb and into the reality where Del Rey is just a star who was playing a tragic dead girl concludes the video. Or was this the alternate reality Del Rey wants to offer up for all the girls who didn’t survive the wolves of Hollywood? Whatever the case, she poses with her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (one that doesn’t actually yet exist, but maybe it will soon) with that shit-eating grin of triumph. The black-and-white scene then segues into color, indicating the falseness of it. A few close-ups on some more neck shots of Del Rey wearing her various necklaces are followed by the final frame being Del Rey’s smiling face as seen through the camera monitor. This concluding the meta blending of fiction and reality, with Del Rey happier than ever (to use an Eilish phrase) about confusing the two. For to live in the twentieth century and beyond is to never really know the difference anymore. Just ask Gloria Swanson/Norma Desmond. Or Norma Jeane/Marilyn. Or Elizabeth Short/the Black Dahlia. Or Lizzy/Lana.