In many ways, Jeff Nichols’ The Bikeriders and Lana Del Rey x Quavo’s “Tough” achieve the same dichotomous thing: acknowledging the death of what America used to “mean”/represent, while also making one nostalgic for it now that it’s gone. Or at least, that’s the intent. Some, however, are immune to such feelings of nostalgia, knowing full well that America was never anything other than what it currently is: a false promised land built on a literal Native American burial ground. (Hence, all the haunting things that consistently happen on it.)
In The Bikeriders, which was released at the beginning of summer (specifically June 21st—which, not so coincidentally, happens to also be Lana Del Rey’s birthday), the slow then gradual decline of the greatest marketing scheme ever created (read: the United States) is starting to make itself known through the “fringe,” embodied by bikers like Benny (Austin Butler) and Johnny (Tom Hardy). Only the so-called fringe has become the mainstream during the late 60s/early 70s period that The Bikeriders covers. Having increasingly come to represent the disillusioned and displaced everyman in America. Particularly as those who survived the throes of the Vietnam War were starting to come back with all manner of disenchantment when it came not only to the United States, but to the “American dream” itself. The veneer cruelly unmasked by the things they saw “over there” and could not then unsee back at home. Itself a battleground between the rich and the poor, the “normals” and the “freaks.”
This is part of why Johnny’s biker gang, the Vandals Motorcycle Club, started to turn sour as this new “element,” freshly returned from ‘Nam, began to render the nature of the club into something dark and violent. Something that Benny’s girlfriend, Kathy (Jodie Comer), must bear the brunt of in many ways. In fact, she can easily be seen as the “Lana Del Rey figure” of the outfit, all melancholia and style.
Of the sort that finds its way onto “Tough,” yet another ode (whether country or trap or however one wants to bill the genre) to Del Rey’s favorite subject: Americana. More specifically in this case, American resilience (also present on a song like “When The World Was At War We Kept On Dancing”). So it is that she paints the picture in the opening verse: “Tough like the scuff on a pair of old leather boots/Like the blue-collar, red-dirt attitude/Like a .38 made out of brass/Tough like the stuff in your grandpa’s glass/Life’s gonna do what it does/Sure as the good Lord’s up above/I’m cut like a diamond shinin’ in the rough/Tough.” As for the “blue-collar” mention, it’s no secret that Del Rey also likes to play up her “poverty” angle, therefore making herself a stronger representation of the American dream—i.e., pulling oneself up by their bootstraps and creating success of their own no matter what sort of background they come from.
Were it not for the fact that The Shangri-Las’ “Out in the Streets” is the constant (and era-appropriate) refrain of the film, LDR’s “Tough” could have fit in perfectly (though only as a supplement to “Ride”) with the overarching theme and “feel” of The Bikeriders. Which is that, through all the pain and agony of what it is to live in America, Americans still have the uncanny ability to “endure”—mainly by repeating, as though it’s a Jesus Prayer—that America is the “greatest country in the world” (much as New Yorkers like to repeat the same thing about their specific shitty city). Granted, this has become a much more difficult mass delusion to uphold in the twenty-first century. A difficulty that began far sooner than the aftermath of the 2016 election, arguably all the way back in 2000, when George W. Bush actually did steal the election (as opposed to Donald Trump insisting that’s what Joe Biden did in 2020).
As a matter of fact, in 2000, Del Rey would have been fifteen years old, turning “sweet sixteen” in time for 9/11 the following year. Bearing witness to these two indelible political events—the “election” of George W. Bush and the destruction of the World Trade Center—would have been formative to her obsession with a simultaneous elevation of Americana and continuous “hat tip” to American decay. A decay that many baby boomers would, in turn, trace back to the 1960s, when the conservatism and repression of the decade before that had to be blown to bits in order to “deprogram” from the lie of it all, as it were. Hence, Joan Didion famously quoting W. B. Yeats when she pronounced “the center will not hold” in Slouching Towards Bethlehem.
In the American summer of 2024, the same sentiment remains. Especially as the latest fraught election plays out like yet another bad soap opera (except this one has life-altering effects on a global and individual level). Perhaps that’s why the alignment of these two palpable homages to Americana and the decay of America itself (more notably in The Bikeriders) showed up during a season of theoretical “levity.” Alas, there is no such thing anymore in the climate of the U.S. at present. For even “light” fare like Charli XCX’s Brat has to be laden with the analysis that during times of recession, people just want to party to forget their troubles. And by “troubles,” one also means the existential dread of being an American forced to keep living the lie that insists the place is a “dream.”
The thing is, America has long been in a recession…only not the kind that anybody wanted to address until the elephant in the room (no Republican pun intended) became so big, it ended up trampling over everyone. Now no longer able to ignore it. At least not quite so easily. Which is precisely why two pop culture moments like The Bikeriders and “Tough” coincided during the same season. Because when the erstwhile “glamor” of Americana is paraded in the current era, even the suits in charge know that it’s too great an insult to the audience’s intelligence to not include some tinge of the bleak reality that belies it. In fact, such an acknowledgement is all in keeping with the old capitalism-related adage, “The capitalists will sell us the rope with which we will hang them.”
Although Jeff Nichols’ latest film, The Bikeriders, is absolutely correct in wielding The Shangri-Las’ “Out in the Streets” as the constant musical refrain throughout the narrative, one song that feels as though it’s “missing” in many ways is Lana Del Rey’s “Ride.” However, since Sofia Coppola is typically the only director to condone using anachronistic music in a period piece, it makes sense that “Ride,” originally released in 2012, couldn’t be “accurately” used in The Bikeriders. And yet, even placing it in the credits would have been a compromising consolation to those who can’t unsee or unhear “Ride” within the context of a story like this.
It’s possible that Del Rey herself, like Nichols, came across Danny Lyon’s seminal photography book (also called The Bikeriders) at some point before she hit the big time. After all, the book was released in 1968, a prime year within the decade that Del Rey is famously “inspired” by (complete with the Manson Family, Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan and Woodstock). So it’s not unfathomable that Lyon’s work would have crossed her path. And since she describes “reading Slim Aarons” as though he were a writer instead of a photographer, it’s apparent that Del Rey does know how to “read” imagery and repurpose it. One of the key gifts of any postmodern artist. And oh, how Del Rey put her postmodern skills to use in the video (or “short film,” if you prefer) for “Ride.”
Directed by Anthony Mandler, who had spent the better part of the 00s directing Rihanna videos, “Ride” opens with the now iconic image of Del Rey on a tire swing (that looks as though its rope extends all the way to the heavens), swaying back and forth (à la Mariah Carey in the “Always Be My Baby” video) with her dark curled hair billowing in the wind. As though to presage the idea that she would “go country” with Lasso, Del Rey also sports cowboy boots and a fringed denim jacket—emblems of her love for “the country America used to be.” Which, in her mind, was a country where a girl could be “fragile” and “delicate” without condemnation. Where rugged men like John Wayne still existed, and were idolized by other men, as well as sought after by women.
This rugged archetype is present throughout “Ride” in the form of the rough-hewn, usually much older bikers that Del Rey rides with. Whether “playing” (a.k.a. languidly leaning over the machine) pinball while one of the bikers lecherously hovers behind her or letting another man brush her ribbon-bedecked hair, it’s clear that Del Rey yearns for a time when “men were still men,” as it is said. The kind of men that Lyon documented in those years from 1963 to 1967. Men that didn’t fit into mainstream society—whether because of the way they looked, dressed, thought or acted. The kind of men that find community only through “just riding,” as Del Rey would say.
These are the bikeriders that Nichols brings to life onscreen, with Johnny (Tom Hardy) and Benny (Austin Butler) positioned as the embodiment of camaraderie (and yes, even a father-son sort of dynamic) within the outlaw motorcycle club niche. But it is Kathy Bauer (Jodie Comer) that acts as the true anchor of the story, with her character serving as the important feminine/outsider perspective needed. In some ways, Del Rey does mirror Kathy’s role, not merely aesthetically, but in terms of being “taken in” and glamored by this lifestyle she never knew before. At the same time, Del Rey asserts that she’s just as much a rider—therefore a true part of the gang as opposed to just a wifey—as any of the other boys. This is her tribe in ways beyond the romantic or sexual, something that separates her from Kathy, who ultimately finds that she just wants to settle down and lead a normal, quiet life. A task that’s impossible to achieve with a man like Benny. He who refuses to ever surrender to that oh so hideous word and concept: responsibility.
An aversion that Del Rey, in this nomadic “persona,” can certainly identify with. And, in turn, identify with the type of men who pursue this life as the only thing they can really “commit” to. This much is evidenced by the opening of her monologue: “I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer.” Here, too, it’s interesting to note she says “winter of my life” rather than “winter of my youth,” as though she knows that those who embrace the transient, rebellious biker lifestyle are doomed to “live fast, die young.” A small tradeoff, in their eyes, for being able to experience pure freedom.
That feeling is displayed in the “Ride” video as Del Rey sits on the back of a motorcycle with the wind whipping in her face (“I hear the birds on the summer breeze”). This kind of unbridled, undiluted liberty is also shown in a scene from The Bikeriders where Benny guns his bike down the streets and highways in a high-speed police chase. By cutting them off at a red light, he gains ground and takes to the open road, letting out a loud cry of joy as he passes by a signature silo of the Midwest. Of course, that sense of victory and liberation is soon counteracted by the realization that he’s out of gas, and will now have to surrender to the police when they catch up.
For those who can’t fathom taking such risks for the “mere” sake of feeling free—from the pressures of society, family and even so-called friends—Del Rey addresses it best when she also mentions in her monologue, “When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I had been living, they asked me why. But there’s no use in talking to people who have a home. They have no idea what it’s like to seek safety in other people. For home to be wherever you lie your head.” Further explaining that she has “an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about. And pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.”
The same goes for Benny in The Bikeriders (and, to a lesser extent, Johnny and Kathy). He has to be free, no matter the cost. No matter if it means alienating others or alienating himself from anything resembling a “future.” Nothing else matters but the ability to cut and run, to take to the open road whenever he feels the call. Something Kathy can never quite grasp, which is exactly why “Out in the Streets” is so perfect for describing their relationship, for its lyrics speak directly to how stifled and repressed Benny feels now that “he don’t hang around with the gang no more.” As our woeful narrator, Mary Weiss, also describes in the song, “He don’t comb his hair like he did before/He don’t wear those dirty old black boots no more/But he’s not the same/There’s something ‘bout his kissing/That tells me he’s changed/I know that something’s missing inside/Something’s gone/Something’s died/It’s still in the streets/His heart is out in the streets.” A characterization that fits Benny to a tee by the end of the film.
And yet, for as tailor-made as “Out in the Streets” is for The Bikeriders, so, too, is “Ride.” For Del Rey even speaks from a Kathy-esque perspective when she pleads, “Don’t leave me now/Don’t say goodbye/Don’t turn around/Leave me high and dry.” At the same time, she knows that, when you live this life, it’s filled with perpetual goodbyes and moving ons. From her own Benny-centric view of things, that’s exactly why she likes it, can’t get enough of it.
As she says in the closing monologue of the “Ride” video, “Every night, I used to pray that I’d find my people. And I finally did, on the open road. We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore. Except to make our lives into a work of art. Live fast, die young, be wild and have fun.” This might as well be the Vandals’ mantra, too.
At another moment, she declares, “I believe in the country America used to be.” This line unwittingly speaks to an overarching theme of The Bikeriders, which is an acknowledgement of an America in increasing decay, and one that is, accordingly, evermore morally bankrupt. Even so, Del Rey still insists, “I believe in the person I want to become. I believe in the freedom of the open road. And my motto is the same as ever. I believe in the kindness of strangers [as does Blanche DuBois]. And when I’m at war with myself, I ride. I just ride.” Much the same way Benny does. For, even though Kathy and many others outside/on the periphery of the motorcycle club might not understand it, it can best be summed up with the Del Reyism: “I am fucking crazy. But I am free.”
Thus, while the baleful, sustained “ooooh” at the beginning of “Out in the Streets” is a perfect fit as a musical refrain for the film, it has to be said that Del Rey’s almost equally baleful “mmmm-mmmm-mmmm-mmmm-mmmm-mmmm-mmmm” (though some will say it’s an “ooooh” not an “mmmm” sound) opening to “Ride” is as well. Not to mention the fact that the plot of her “Ride” video is très The Bikeriders oriented (well, minus the part where she’s vibing out in a war bonnet a.k.a. “Native American headdress”). And so, it’s hard to say, within this ouroboros of being inspired by Danny Lyon’s photography, if maybe Nichols wasn’t in some way also inspired by “Ride.” Either way, the song’s absence in the film is partially what makes it simultaneously feel as though it’s there, out in the streets like a sonic specter.
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.
