Let's Play a Game

Billboard just posted this 50 second snippet of a "secret" track, by a mystery artist--specifically a "shape-shifting dance legend". Immediately, that calls to mind the Queen of Pop--they even use the word "vogue" to describe disco's daft-punk inspired resurgance. So what do we all think? I'm firmly in the Madonna camp myself, though I have to say I don't love the beat, except for the fabulous breakdown at the end. It will be only as good as the lyrics sung on top of it, and Madge's voice isn't quite what it used to be. 

But then again it could be Rihanna...no it couldn't. There's no doubt in my mind this is Madge, and I'm, as always, hoping for a return to form, and album that's more "Lovespent" than "Girl Gone Wild," if you catch my drift. Madonna's best songs may be dance-happy club stompers, but in the last decade she seems to have lost touch with hedonism and joie de vivre, such that now she only really excels at weepy, disturbed ballads. I exempt from this the lamentable Gang Bang, which was much, much better in its original demo format, though I suppose its commendable that Madonna actually drastically altered the song to get her writing credit, which we know is not always the case. 

And there's of course Animal, a dance track that could have been a no. 1 for Rihanna, but got left off the Hard Candy album because it just didn't fit the tone. It would have fit just fine on MDNA but I guess that's beside the point.

This is my very longwided way of saying that I'm quite excited, but also vaguely dreading the new Madonna album, as anything with the power to chip away at the adoration I feel for the Queen of Pop.

Cinematic Alchemy: It's as If it had all been imagined for you.

Can a film made by racists, for racists still be a great work of cinema? Gone With the Wind isn't just a classic film. It's the classic. But that label comes with a powerful caveat. It is a film made in the 1930s about the American Civil War, written by an author from the South who, in her younger years, refused to attend a school that would admit black students, and considered D.W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation an inspiration.

It seems, in our more enlightened times, that Gone With the Wind is a time capsule more than a genuinely involving work of cinema. Most of the reviews of the Oscar-winning 12 years a Slave, note that it’s graphic, realistic depiction of the horrors of slavery renders Gone With the Wind all but obsolete as a film going experience, and certainly as a work of history. 12 Years a Slave is undoubtedly the superior work of history, based on a true story of slavery, told by a person who survived it. Apart from its obvious craft and artistry, Slaves’ credentials are unimpeachable. In the face of this big truth, then, can an ugly, antiquated old beast like Gone With the Wind  survive in the popular imagination?

Maybe not. The popular imagination is known to be quite stunted. For myself, though, I will make what I’m sure would be a controversial statement if this blog had more than a few readers: Gone With the Wind is a timeless work of art. I will go further to say that, in the world of cinema, there may not be another film that equals it.  

Allow me to explain. Gone With the Wind was released in 1939, on the heels of a wildly popular best seller and an (at that time) unprecedented amount of anticipation. It went on to sweep the Academy Awards and to this day holds the record for most seen film in history (based on adjusting its gross for inflation). Back then, the world was a different place. There were Civil War veterans still living, the Holocaust was unknown, interracial marriage was illegal, and the Walt Disney Company was close to bankruptcy. A radically different time.

This is the argument that’s made to defend every racist Grandma at Thanksgiving, and it is the argument that Gone With the Wind apologists use to silence its detractors. There’s no denying that this is a film made by racists, for racists, about racists. But, while 12 Years a Slave is explicitly about slavery, the "meaning" of Gone With the Wind has always been a little more fluid.

 Ultimately it's a movie about people who can’t let go, who ruin their lives by clinging to a past that does not want them anymore. This is true, whether we view that past as a hateful hell or rosy paradise.

In 2014, few people mourn the loss of the Old South, but we’re just as receptive to the idea that dwelling on the past can kill you. And that’s the theme of Gone With the Wind, when you cut right down to its heart: The people who thrive are the ones who can let go of the past and take charge of their future, who can change.

For anyone who has remained somehow oblivious to this tale, Gone With the Wind is the story of spoiled Southern Belle Scarlett O’Hara, through the civil war and reconstruction. Scarlett is beautiful, selfish and charismatic, so we don’t mind watching her gossip, pull her sister’s hair and throw herself at a man who doesn’t love her--as long as she gets her comeuppance in the end. To put it kindly, as Melanie Hamilton does, “Sclarlett’s just high spirited and vivacious.”

Sweet Melanie is Scarlett's polar opposite—unfailingly genteel and kind, the film begins with Melanie getting engaged to Ashley Wilkes, an aristocratic gentleman who Scarlett had decided is the only man worthy of her love. To anyone with a brain, it’s clear that Scarlett and Ashley would be a terrible match, but Scarlett clings to him, first, because he symbolizes wealth and class, later because he is a tie to the carefree existence she lost when the war started. 

Melanie characterizes the Old South as “A whole world that wants only to be graceful and beautiful”. Ashley remarks that it seems as it were made for her. If these were our heroes, the movie would be in big trouble. But  Scarlett is the lead, and it is to the films immense benefit that we were never meant to like her. In 2014, our reason for disliking the protagonists may be radically different than it was in 1939, but the film functions brilliantly either way. 

It’s helpful to evaluate this film with its radically different audiences in mind:

A person living in Atlanta in 1939, might believe in Melanie’s lie about the old south as “a world that wants only to be graceful and beautiful.” They may see the tragedy in her death, the nobility in Ashley’s involvement with the KKK (The group is never specifically named in the movie, but students of history should know what they mean when they "clear out those woods".)  And finally, though they enjoyed Scarlett’s exploits, it seems only right that this high spirited and vivacious woman should end up alone. As legendary film critic Roger Ebert put it:

"Of course, she could not quite be allowed to get away with marrying three times, coveting sweet Melanie's husband Ashley, shooting a plundering Yankee, and banning her third husband from the marital bed in order to protect her petite waistline from the toll of childbearing. It fascinated audiences (it fascinates us still) to see her high-wire defiance in a male chauvinist world, but eventually such behavior had to be punished, and that is what “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn” is all about. If “GWTW” had ended with Scarlett's unquestioned triumph, it might not have been nearly as successful. Its original audiences (women, I suspect, even more than men) wanted to see her swatted down--even though, of course, tomorrow would be another day."

But to an American in 2014, Melanie is not so very sweet, while Scarlett gets more and more likeable. She is, after all, an equal opportunity slapper. For eight decades, Scarlett has been getting her comeuppance on screen. Its the sins that we need to reevaluate.

A funny thing happens to Gone With the Wind when you look at it with a keen eye for history. The characters became more complex, less stereotypical—even Mammy and Prissy get a new kind of humanity.

When Scarlett O’Hara hires convicts as cheap labour, honourable Ashley proclaims, “I will not profit from the forced labour and misery of others!”

Scarlett's response: “You weren’t so particular about owning slaves.”

Ashley defends himself: “That was different. We didn’t treat them that way. I would have set them all free when father died.”

12 Years A Slave effectively killed the notion of a kind slave owner—when it came down to the line, they were all profiting off human misery. Yet the lie which Ashley told himself is the same lie than many Americans in the 20^th century chose to believe. Thus, to our modern eyes, Ashley symbolizes not a gallant knight who’s lost his castle, but a pathetic, broken man who must lie to himself to hold his head up.

And what of Melanie? To the 1940s viewer she is the pinnacle of femininity destroyed, first by the war, then by those suffragettes and mangy flappers. As the line goes, she’s too honourable a person to ever conceive of dishonour in anyone she loves. And she just happens to love Scarlett.

Parond my French, but this makes No Fucking Sense. For all her talk about how Scarlett is “just high spirited and vivacious,” Melanie would have to be brain damaged to believe half the things she says about her best friend. She certainly knows about the convicts, and about Scarlett’s stealing her own sister’s fiancée. She’s had a front seat to Scarlett’s scheming in a way that virtually no other character has. But she stands by her, I suspect, for two possible reasons:

1)  Melanie is a closeted Lesbian in love with Scarlett.

2) Melanie is smarter than she looks, resigned to make the most of the role society has cast her in.

Lesbianism is the easiest way to explain Melanie’s doe-eyed forgiveness, and the way she seems to not care overmuch about Scarlett’s pursuit of Ashley. The only time in the whole film where Melanie seems like she might lose her cool is when Scareltt arrives at Ashley’s birthday party, on the heels of town gossip, after she's been caught embracing Ashley in a way that could be considered highly inappropriate. Observe Melanie's face when Scarlett walks in:

She's the one in focus. Sorry about that.

That is not the face of a woman who’s forgiven. It’s not the face of a woman who’s too sweet to see wickedness in others. But its not the face of a woman who feels betrayed, either. Her expression is less "I can't believe you betrayed me" and more "I can't believe you put me in this position, socially"

 Would it surprise you, hypothetical reader, to know that Melanie does not throw Scarlett out of her house? That she welcomes her into her home with a kiss on the cheek, and a request that she help her see to her guests? By the way, this is what Scarlett is wearing:

Even in the 1930s that was some sexy shit.

Melanie Wilkes, strikes me at all times, as a woman who knows a great deal more than she lets on, born into a world that rewards the type of meek behaviour that is her trademark. When that world passes away, her strength goes with it, and she must depend her contemptible, modern counterpart to survive.

There are two ways to view Melanie Wilkes, across two centuries, and the modern one makes her and her husband far more interesting characters—people who lie to themselves to maintain their way of life and have nothing left when those lies go out of fashion. 

But what of the slaves? There’s no sugar-coating it. The slaves are depicted on a continuum from stupid and lucky (Prissy) to contented and lucky (Mammy). Yet the only slave scenes that truly detract from the movie are those where black characters are seen on their own (“Quittin’ tiiiiiiime!” is, and will always be, cringeworthy).

Mammy would fulfill the “Magic Negro” stereotype if the other characters ever listened to what she said. Instead she is left to be the voice of reason (and the audience) that Scarlett ignores. She seems all too fond of the South’s social mores, but then again, look who she’s playing to. The performance by Hattie McDaniel is so good, one gets the sense that she spends any and all personal time talking shit about the O'Hara's to the other slaves, who are certainly smarter than they let on. 

Prissy's annoying voice is the stuff of hell and Rhett’s assessment of her as a “simple minded darky” doesn’t seem totally underserved. And yet, I invite the modern viewer to revisit the infamous "birthin babies" sequence. Prissy dawdles on her way to the doctor and doesn’t seem to care all that much whether Melanie’s baby lives or dies.

But why would she? Once again, the time divides our audience. In 1940, Prissy is an obnoxious idiot who deserves that smack across the face. In 2014, she’s a woman who play’s dumb and sabotages the system in whatever little way she can. If at all possible, rewatch the scene where Scarlett sets out to find doctor Meade and warns Prissy that she'll "whip the hide off you" if she annoys Melanie. It's hard to capture it in stills, but here's the best I can do:

It's hard to tell from stills but she seems to be mouthing the 19th century equivalent of "Fuck You" to her slap-happy overlord. Oh yeah, she knows she’s gonna get a smack later, but its gonna be worth it. 

From this side of the millennium we can’t really blame her. For every character that seems to reinforce the toxic stereotype of the Old South, there’s a moment when we the viewer are made to believe that they are not all that they seem. I chalk this up to great performances. 

I haven't talked much about Rhett Butler, because his behavior seems mostly unimpeachable. He, to our knowledge has never owned a slave, and from the first scene calls the Southerner out on their bullshit. He may abandon Scarlett to fight with the Confederate army, because he’s "always had a weakness for lost causes, once they’re really lost", but that’s a load of horseshit. He went back to so he could steal the confederate treasury and more power to him, I suppose.

Of course, this argument loses a lot of air when we consider scenes of reconstruction, where “black people having fun” is meant to be code for “the decline of civilization.” And even thought they have the decency to have Scarlett O’Hara attacked by a white man during her trip to Shantytown, there’s no disguising Ashley and co.’s act of retribution as a Klan Raid. But at least Rhett wasn’t a member. He would rather cavort with hookers, and if he saves this violent Southern Gentlemen from the oppressive law, it’s understood that he did so for Melanie’s sake, not out of any sympathy for the cause.

Seventy five years ago, maybe I could watch Gone with the Wind and see it as a movie about courage, and survival. To modern eyes, it’s a movie about self-delusion and the ability to change, the way the old South was propped up by lies. The film was always at least a little bit about that, hence Scarlett’s epiphany: “I have loved something that doesn’t exist”. To me, its not Scarlett's single-mindedness that earn her her comeuppance, its her refusal to see the Old South for what it was--a myth, or, in her own words, "something that doesn't exist."

Melanie, Ashley, Scarlett, and even the slaves, I'd wager, put on a false front so they can fit themselves into the phony image of the Old South. Scarlett's aha moment is when she can admit to herself that that world is gone, and she never fully belonged there anyway. It’s her inability to let go to her old life that leaves her alone, but endlessly resilient.

Where an audience in 1940 would see a boisterous woman who finally got what she deserved, we see a character coming to grips with the lie of the past, while those who can’t have melted away.

And that, is timeless cinema. 

When the Best has Come and Gone

What you're looking at is the inside of the Pantheon in Rome, constructed around AD 126 as a temple to all the Gods of Ancient Rome, but what's important is the dome of concrete--poured concrete, a technology that would be lost with the fall of the Roman Empire, leaving generations afterward scratching their heads in wonder at what their long-dead ancestors had accomplished.

I learned about the Middle Ages' serious inferiority complex in history class. For centuries it was widely held by Europeans, that the Greeks and Romans --Godless, sinful heretics that they were-- were the pinnacle of human ingenuity, whose achievements could never hope to be equaled by the modern world. 

This was the general train of thought until the enlightenment--that is, for well over a thousand years Europe was the equivalent of a depressed thirty-something hopelessly yearning for their youth. Most Medieval Europeans were too busy fending of plagues and hunger to really care about art history, and maybe that was why it was so easy to romanticize a bygone era, in the same way a jobless twenty-something looks fondly back at the carefree teenage years, which in reality were a nightmare. 

But in this case, not only had the best has come and gone, it was over before you were even born. I, at least, remember being a child at Disneyworld. Those poor bastards had to look at the Pantheon and accept that they would never know how it came to be there. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself, in the grand tradition of first-world over-thinking. The fact is, I am farsighted--literally- and I have astigmatism. It is a leap that only a privileged occupant of the first world would make, but there we have it. Five years ago I had 20/20 vision, and a lazy eye that was improving. No longer. It seems I have regressed.

And now I know what it means to be "old". I don't mean physically old, but intellectually so. That, is, this is the first time I've been faced with a disability that's not going to get better. Yes, I know blurry vision is not a particularly debilitating disability, but anyway, its something that's only going to get worse over time.

Which is to say, I've crossed a threshold. From the first twenty five years, when thing must only improve, and grow to their full potential, to the next sixty. It's all downhill from here, physically at least.

What does that do to one's state of mind? Unfortunately, we'll only find that out after the fact. In the same way that I now realize how body issues and low self-esteem held me back in high school, I sense that twenty years from now I'll examine how my fatalism has held me back. In the mean time, forgive me if I want to sort this out now before it becomes a crippling psychological condition.

But back to history. The Pantheon did not remain the largest dome in the world. In 1436 the Basilica of Saint Mary of the Flower took that title, but not with poured concrete. That technology was still lost more than a thousand years after it was used to construct the Pantheon, when the Cathedral was designed with a dome in mind. It took nearly 200 years to build. The designers belived that in the next century technology would advance to where it was a thousand years before (if not, they wouldn't be alive to answer for the disaster).   

Their faith was rewarded. Just in time to build the largest dome in the world at the time (still the largest made of brick) Filippo Brunelleschi invented "herringbone" and finished the Duomo. It wasn't poured concrete, but it worked. Eventually Europeans grew out of thier inferiority complex when the Enlightenment came along: It seems the most enlightening thing about that movement was that it forced people to recognize that what they thought they knew (women are just men who lack the "heat" to push their genitals out) was wrong. Thought that was certainly upsetting for some (married women whose husbands no longer believed they had to orgasm to produce children), I like to think it was liberating for everyone else, who now had the option of recreating their reality.

None of that applies to my health. So what does it mean, in my reality, to stare down the fact that you have peaked, physically? Put a lot of faith in your brain, I guess. Work harder and squeeze in as much productivity as you can before that too turns to mush. 

All things must pass. Consider now what will come to replace them.

The trouble with #YOLO

Whether you know it or not, you've been listening the most depressing party jams in history. I was born in 1989. I'm old enough to remember when 90210 was edgy and forbidden, and yet I can still call myself one of the YOLO generation, for which Miley Cyrus has been twerking nine to five.

For anyone not in the know, Grady Smith of Entertainment Weekly wrote this excellent piece about how agressively in-the-moment today's pop music is:

"These days, pop stars don’t just sing about throwing a great party. They sing about throwing a great party because it’s their time to do so. There’s a weirdly reverent sense of duty wrapped up in the whole affair — as if stars must pay homage to the #YOLO (You Only Live Once) mentality that’s so often cited by young people in moments of indulgence or reckless adventure. This is our moment to claim, say pop stars. This is our moment to be crazy. We’re entitled to it because we’re young. "

The think about #YOLO, or "you only live once" to the older set, is that it ought to be read in the opposite direction--if you only live once, it follows that we should all be extra careful about our decision making, eat healthy and plan for the future, because  you have to live with your decisions for a very long time.

So what happened? How is an entire generation simultaneously missing the point? I think we're scared. To think that "You only live once" means "do whatever you want," you have to have no hope for the future.  Our formative years were clouded by the horror of September 11th, the looming threat of "An Unconvenient Truth" all fed by the twenty four hour news cycle and the ever proliferating internet.

 Of course, our parents had The Bomb to worry about. Maybe the hedonistic pop stars of today are the natural successors to the hippies. I hope not...for two reasons. (1) The 60s counterculture were too stoned to accomplish much--at best they ended up conforming to the man, at worst they overdosed. And (2) \the music was better.

And by "better" I don't necessarily mean "classic" (although, yeah, clearly), I mean hopeful: "We Can Work it Out", "All you need is love", dig the words to revolution:

"Don't you know its gonna be all right?"

Somehow in the last fifty years, that notion has slipped away. Now, "let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young"

From Ke$ha to Miley and on, these are the most depressing party songs in history.

Ali Listens: Unorthodox Jukebox

 

I love this album. I appreciated “The Lion The Beast theBeat” and “Boys & Girls”. I have mad respect for “The Archandroid.” But I love Unorthodox Jukebox. Like, I can picture myself ten years from now unearthing this CD, putting it in the player (we’ll still have those in ten years, right?) and being transported right back to this moment in time, with total recall of what it felt like to be twenty three and really messed up.

 

It reminds me of “Little Red Corvette” by Prince. You know the song that starts out sexy, gets dancey, then with one line—“You’re gonna run your body right into the ground!”—injects a hint of melancholy that sticks with us all through the epic play-out.“Unorthodox Jukebox” is a combination of songs that celebrate a good time, and songs that regret what those good times have cost you.  It may take Mars & Co. a whole album to do what Prince accomplished in one track, but still some major credit is due. This interpretation may be a result of my present emotional state—Certainly the years I spent idly doing fuck-all seem less fun now that I’m an (almost) twenty-four year old temp who dearly wishes she never stopped practicing the violin.

Anyway, to business...

1.  Young Girls

 

 

The first ten seconds sound like sunrise after a sleepless night. It conjures up the bleary, “oh my god is it really that time?” feeling. Or maybe it's the "sun-is-rising-and-I-have-no-idea-where-I-am" syndrome, which I personally have never experienced, but for whatever reason I am now picturing Mars waking up on a rooftop like that poor bastard in The Hangover .

The producers hit a bull’s-eye on those opening ten seconds,‘cos sure enough when the lyrics start, our hero is at the start of a new day and the end of a long night:

“I spent all my money/ bought a big ole fancy car / for these bright eyed honeys/ Oh yeah you know who you are / Keep me up ‘til the sun is high / ‘til the birds start calling my name / I’m addicted and I don’t know why / Guess I’ve always been this way / All these roads steer me wrong / But I still drive them all night long.”

He can’t control himself. There’s a sense that in a few years he’ll regret all this, but for now he’s at a loss for what to do instead.  There are certain trappings of success that (I’m guessing) it's hard to say no to. After working his whole life to get to this point, this character has trained himself that this is what he wants, so it’s hard to say no to all the sex, drugs, and parties that are supposedly the reward for all that hard work.

There’s a palpable sadness and weariness in every note of this song. It sounds like a Ronettes classic, slowed down for maximum introspection. All four writers deserve gold stars, while Mars’ voice, with its unbearably adorable little-boy-lost quality to it, sells this shit for maximum emotional devastation.  

 

*If I may veer into the personal one more time, my early life was dominated by endless work that stifled my desire to do anything I didn’t absolutely have to do. Whenever I wasn’t at school or work, I wanted nothing more than to turn up the music and just do nothing. For ten whole years. And while other people went to dances and got boyfriends or jobs or hilarious anecdotes to relate at a later time, I got an uninterrupted evening to myself, which I stupidly believed was all I ever wanted out of life.

There was always a sense that I was missing out on something, but to get it would mean sacrificing the thing that I lived for—a place away from feeling insecure about all the things I was doing wrong, or would do wrong if I tried them. It’s weird, and weirdly comforting to think that someone so far at the other end of the spectrum would grapple with the same feelings—in short, the “what I wanted might not be the best thing for me, but I don’t know how to want anything else,” dilemma.

I would also like to add, that should Bruno Mars die young, we all know this will be released as a single and designated the mass-mourning song. Every artist should have one in their catalogue just in case.

 

2. Locked out of Heaven

 

This song has already been (rightly) praised to death. The four-on-the-floor chorus, the beat-box that actually sounds like a musical instrument and not a sound effect, the lyrics...it’s all perfection. But what takes it over the top is how it all builds to that fabulous musical orgasm at the 2:42 mark, followed by the laid back (post-coital?) repeat of the chorus (3:10), which, for whatever reason, makes me think of Fred and Ginger dancing off the screen in one of their classic movies.

There are but a few perfect moments in cinema history, and Fred and Ginger own at least five of them.

 

3. Gorilla

 

And now it’s time to check in with those Young Wild Girls and just what they’re doing to our poor, set-upon young lover  who has decided that he would rather be Prince than Sting, thank-you-very-much. This is the one point on the album where Mars’ adorable (I swear I don’t mean to be condescending when I use that word) vocals fail him. He can’t quite sell the “body full of liquor with a cocaine ticker” line, even though we all know he’s been arrested for cocaine possession and some youtube commenter informs me he pissed on a stranger who told him he was too drunk (I didn’t look into it because knowing shit like that about a complete stranger never did anybody any good). But I digress. The production is smooth and decadent so that Gorilla sounds like a great song, even though the image of primates humping is, alas, not as arousing as Bruno Mars seems to think it is.

This song also has a dorky wish-fulfillment vibe, with its, “30 feet tall” and “I bet you never ever felt so good,” lines. It’s embarrassing when a man so obviously wants to be assured that he’s THE BEST EVER, but this song is already so weird it’s kind of endearing.  And if Mars’ vocals don’t quite live up to the lyrics he can take solace in the fact that his “OOoohs”  and “Yeah!”s  in the last  minute and a half are perfection. He sounds more dangerous and alluring than Prince or Michael Jackson...though admittedly, the bar for that one was only set about waist high.

 

4. Treasure

 

First off, I love that the official video isn't available in HD, and defaults to 360p. That's comittment.

 

This song sounds like it was assembled from spare parts of Prince's Shallow as it is on its own, “Treasure” is a necessary palette cleanser between “Gorilla” and “Moonshine”.  The “Baby Squirrel” line is a nice wink at the audience, though it makes me feel like there’s a joke I’m not in on, that may be kind of sexist. But whatever. This one’s forgettable.

ONE MORE THING: What is Bruno Mars’s obsession with insecure women? The heroine of “Just the Way You Are” was some a nervous wreck who couldn’t take a compliment and hated her own laugh. This chick “don’t know it but [she’s] fine so fine.” Is this guy seriously that attracted to insecurity or is he just catering to a hell of a lucrative demographic?

 

5. Moonshine

 

Okay, back to the good stuff. How can a song actually sound drugged out? The hazy paranoia of the first twenty seconds of “Moonshine” conjure up the feeling of someone in desperate need of a fix. Twenty seconds! “Evocative” is the word you’re searching for, ladies and gentlemen.

The beat proper doesn’t come in until after our hero has connected with his quarry and they drive off into the night. I don’t know if this is sex as a metaphor for drugs, or drugs as a metaphor for sex. It might be an amalgam of all that hedonistic swill, but boy does it sound great. Evocative.

It might be an even darker track than “Gorilla”, but in this case Mars’ high voice serves him better. He doesn’t have to sound aggressive this time, just equal parts lecherous and lost.

 

6. When I Was Your Man

 

Oh look, another #1 hit. I like to think that means I don’t have to write anything about this one. It’s a song so direct that it’s almost pandering: “I should have bought you flowers / And held your hand / Should have gave you all my hours / When I had the chance.” Congratulations Bruno Mars, you just sang what every scorned woman in the history of Planet Earth has ever wanted to hear, and I hope you enjoy the financial windfall it brings your way. 

This single actually sounds better in the context of the whole album. “Moonshine” answers the question of just what he did wrong when he was her man, and it’s dangerous enough to balance out this tracks gooey sincerity.

 

7. Natalie

 

Let me begin by saying that this song is everything Madonna’s “Gang Bang” wishes it could be. The antithesis to “Grenade,” it’s nasty and cruel but oddly fun to sing along with.

Misogynistic is a strong word, and I’ll entertain the debate over whether this song deserves to be painted with that brush. After all, he’s “digging a ditch for that gold digging bitch.” This allmusic review has very strong feelings about that one. I prefer to hear thsi song as jokey melodrama, the antithesis to the equally over the top “Grenade”.

The biggest strike against Bruno Mars is that on (almost) every other song this guy’s ideal woman is weak and insecure. Ahem, “You walk around here like you wanna be someone else ...you don’t know it but you’re fine so fine”, “Her laugh she hates but I think it’s so sexy,” “They might say ‘hi’/ I might say ‘hey’ but you shouldn’t worry / about what they say.” It says something that the only assertive female in his repertoire is marked for death (working with Chris Brown in any capacity will not get you in with the feminists either).

Two things save this song: One, Natalie isn’t actually the only assertive female in his repertoire—we can’t forget the “Good strong woman” who dumped his ass for not taking her to enough parties. And two—Bruno Mars does not have the voice of a killer.

That’s one sentence  I never thought I’d have cause to type, but there you have it. I know next to nothing about Bruno the man, but the voice that couldn’t sell the line about a “cocaine ticker” sure as hell can’t make this revenge fantasy sound like anything to get too upset about. I have a feeling that when he catches her they’re’ll be less murder and more Gorilla sex. 

 

8. Show Me

Meh,

 

9.  Money Make Her Smile

 

Wow, is this post already 2,000 words? I really do love this album, guys. The best part of this song is its opening “All you get back / coming to the stage is a girl who’s new in town”—ah , the corruption of innocence. Beyond that, the song on its own is only so-so, with overreliance on electronic sound effects rather than real instruments. It sounds just as knocked-off as “Treasure” but even more shallow. But the inhuman chant of “Give ‘em what you got” and even the obnoxious electro sound effects build on the atmosphere of excess that the album has built up so well. The smooth elegance of a song like “Gorilla” is replaced by a manic, insane, obnoxious, electro swell. With its inhuman chant of “Give ‘em what you got! Got! Got!” this is the audio equivalent of the moment when all the excess and filth that was alluded to on previous tracks spills over into something ugly and alienating (Speaking of which,  this song was co-written by Chris Brown).  Which brings us to...

 

10. If I knew

 

Ouch. The last track is the realization of all the creeping doubts raised in “Young Girls.”  “I was a city (silly?) boy / Riding to dangers where I’d always run / A boy who had his fun/ But I wouldn’t have done / All the things that I have done / If I knew one day you’d come.”

This silly boy is damaged goods. The woman he loves can’t deal with his past and he wants a do-over. I can think of a dozen different reasons why this song is so affecting, but what it all comes down to is that everyone has something in their lives that they regret. That feeling creeps up on us in between the good times until one day it overwhelms them.

“I wish we were seventeen / So I could give you all the innocence / That you gave to me.”

He’s actually slut-shaming himself. That gender reversal alone would make this song interesting even if it wasn’t so emotionally devastating. And of course the last song feeds perfectly into the first if you’re player plays in a loop. It makes for a perfect circle, and a vicious cycle.

 ***

 

I’ve done a bit with my life. I survived a tough high school program, got a scholarship to Canada’s top university, graduated with honours and wrote about four novels. They’ll never be published but on optimistic days I like to think that practise will come in handy when I get my big idea. But at seventeen I felt like I was already old and played out, so I stopped trying at anything that wasn’t school. School was the only thing I was ever praised for as child, so I gave up on (or flat out rejected) any feelings that I was attractive or the idea that my own creativity could lead somewhere better. I dug myself into a deep miserable hole from which I’m only starting to escape, all the while (still) worrying that it’s too late, like I’ve missed something crucial you can only learn once.

There is nothing at all like my life on “Unorthodox Jukebox,” and that’s for the best. Reliving a great party will always be more fun than reliving a long study session. But the hangover is the same. “I wish I was seventeen so I could give you all the innocence that you gave to me”. I never ever looked at anything with even a grain of innocence, or optimism. Fatalism is my middle name and has been since I was a teenager. But how I dearly wish it wasn’t. That’s why I respond to this album so strongly, because in between sexy pop songs, it’s all about getting lost and wanting a do-over.

 

The lies we choose to believe: Twilight edition

Great literature will teach you something about the human condition. Poor literature can only tell you about the people who read it. This makes the trashy stuff all the more fascinating, for despite all the ways it fails as a narrative, there will be hordes of people willing themselves to believe in it, like unwashed masses scratching their newest lottery ticket.

A great book stands on its own across centuries, a metaphysical pyramid of Egypt, even if time chipw away at certain elements like religion or sexual politics. Poor literature is fragile. The slightest bit of critical thinking topples it like a house of cards.

But I’m getting ahead of myself:

“Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”

You don’t have to recognize that quote*, or know when it was written or by whom for it to resonate. Great literature has meaning and resonance regardless of who is reading it and when.

Pulp fiction, on the other hand, gives its readers the choice to believe or not. I don’t mean this as a compliment. This means that the characters are so inconsistent, the plot twists so contrived, that for a reader to invest in it, they are choosing to believe the unbelievable.

Enough has been said about how god-awful the Twilight books are as works of literature (This is the place to go for anyone who still needs convincing), but not nearly enough has been said about why they are beloved best-sellers. The short answer is that they play into and play up the worst tendencies of insecure teenage girls, and the women they sometimes become.

Much has been made of how romantic lead Edward Cullen (the inspiration for Christian Gray, who we’ll get to in a later post) fits the abusive boyfriend profile perfectly. In Eclipse he even dismantles Bella’s car to keep her from seeing nice-guy Werewolf Jacob Black.

But that’s okay, because it turns out the adorable nice-guy Jacob from the first two books has become asshole attempted-rapist Jacob, so Edward was right to try and protect her. Adorable Jacob returns** in book four, just in time to fall in love with Bella and Edward’s infant daughter, conceived that magical night when Edward covered Bella in bruises. Jacob “imprints” on the newborn baby, meaning they are destined to be together forever. No one asks what the child thinks of this, because of course she is too young to speak. I like to think that when that when the time comes for that conversation, the words “How old in dog years?” will be uttered at least once.   

I have nothing against perverted love stories. I am an unabashed fan of Clive Barker. But Stephenie Meyer plays all this insanity as the most romantic quadrangle ever.

In short, the kid fell out of the tree house.

These characters don’t make any sense on their own terms, or in terms of the world we live in. But they are perfect for their audience. For those of you who never were an adolescent girl, allow me to explain:

In the real world, lived in by Meyers’ readers, young girls’ self esteem plummets when they hit puberty. This is because when a girl becomes a woman her body is no longer something to be celebrated. It is something to be dealt with. I’m not putting the blame on fashion models here. Boys have to deal with ridiculously proportioned role models too. But they don’t get periods. They don’t have to shave unless they want to.

The earlier menarche hits, the more likely a girl is to be insecure through her teen years. It isn’t just annoying. It’s shameful. It’s gross. We double bag our tampons and hide them at the back of the cupboard.

And then there’s the hair. Shave it! Wax it! Pluck It! Defend yourself against onslaught of follicles that will never stop their siege on your body. Strike them down and they will become more in-grown than you can possibly imagine.

A woman’s body is something that needs to be dealt with, not loved...or at least, not loved until it has been dealt with. I like to think most women grow out of this hysteria as they mature, or at least learn to keep it in perspective.

The rest read Twilight.

Stephanie Meyers’ series indulges every single adolescent insecurity. I’m not saying that it creates them. This book is not capable of sending a message. It can only cater to feelings that women already have: anxiety about sex, the need to feel desired, jealousy towards women who are desired, etcc...it’s all here.  That’s all pretty standard for the kind of young adult literature that sells a few copies and is forgotten after two weeks. Twilight plays into more than just conscious adolescent fantasies. It indulges more insidious feelings. For example,

This series is repulsed by the female body.

Bella is introduced as clumsy, pale and unattractive. Those are standard “Mary-Jane” traits that supposedly make her more relatable. But when I say clumsy I mean she is afraid of cutting her fingers off when she uses a kitchen knife.

It isn’t until after she’s married and becomes a vampire that Bella is cured of her clumsy ugliness. Of course, any woman who is attractive without being in a long term relationship is demonized. Literally. The evil Volturi lure tourists into their underground cavern using a sexy vampire in a short skirt: “She wasn’t just the fisherman,” Bella writes, “She was the bait.” Keep in mind, these tourists aren’t mere frat boys on a Europe trip. They are couples, families, and even an elderly woman clutching a rosary, with no qualms about following a scantily clad woman underground in a foreign country, believing her to be some kind of sexy “tour guide”. These ridiculous scenarios are not Meyer’s attempt to send a message. They are simply echoes of the worst feelings that vulnerable women already have: Only a man can redeem your feeble body. People will do anything an attractive woman tells them to do. Attractive women are evil. Or rather, attractive, unattached women are evil.

Even clumsy, pale Bella becomes a looker when she marries Edward. Prior to that Edward’s affection alone is enough to make her an object of envy. So says Rosalie, in Chapter 7 of Eclipse: “You see, at first, I was mostly jealous because he wanted you and not me.... I don't want Edward that way, Bella. I never did--I love him as a brother, but he's irritated me from the first moment I heard him speak. You have to understand, though...I was so used to people wanting me. And Edward wasn't the least bit interested. It frustrated me, even offended me in the beginning. But he never wanted anyone, so it didn't bother me long.”

The thing that sends Twilight over the top into Pulp Heaven is the combination of this wish fulfillment with the abject horror of being a teenage girl. The fantasy of a beautiful, sought-after man who won’t try to pressure you into intercourse is no doubt a popular one. Twilight pairs that fantasy with a healthy dollop of body horror: Edward refuses to make love to mortal Bella because he’s afraid his vampire strength will tear her to pieces.

Then he changes his mind. This is an EXACT QUOTE from page 617 of Eclipse. If you don’t believe me, please look it up:

“‘We're doing this your way. Because my way doesn't work. I call you stubborn, but look at what I've done. I've clung with such idiotic obstinacy to my idea of what's best for you, though it's only hurt you. Hurt you so deeply, time and time again.’” It almost looks like Edward Cullen is about to turn into a rational, relateable character, but then he keeps talking: “‘We're doing it your way, Bella. Tonight. Today. The sooner the better. I'll speak to Carlisle. I was thinking that maybe if we gave you enough morphine, it wouldn't be so bad. It's worth a try.’ He gritted his teeth.”

Morphine. Sex in this world is so painful that it requires morphine. The obvious solution, to anyone who isn’t living with medieval attitudes about gender, is that Edward ought to be tied down. Chain him up. Surely there is some way to restrain him so that Bella can mount his undead manhood without being torn to pieces? This would be practical and entertaining, but the thought never entered our author’s misogynistic little head, wherein the man is always on top and anything else is unthinkable.

It’s all par for the course, because I’m pretty sure Bella doesn’t even have a vagina. When she goes into labour, “Bella vomited a fountain of blood.” Now I’m no biologist, but I’m pretty sure that, when giving birth, the blood pours out of a different orifice, the same one it comes out of every month to the supreme embarrassment of young girls everywhere. Edward ends up chewing the baby out of her uterus with his teeth. That’s right ladies and gents: cannibalism is sexier than lady parts.

What other warped adolescent fantasies does Twilight cater to?

Well, to begin with, the popular kids are assholes....or rather, the kids that enjoy being popular are assholes. Let’s not beat around the bush. Everyone wants friends. In real life, especially in High School, popularity is a high priority. But of course, not everyone can be popular. Some people are moody, unattractive, passive-aggressive types that no one wants to be around.

Each of those adjectives could be used to describe Bella Swan, yet when Bella arrives in Forks, every boy, and I mean every boy falls for her...except for Edward Cullen, who avoids her for two straight months and even tries to switch classes to get away from her. But in the end, that’s just because he loves her so much.

Every high schooler dreams of being as undeservedly popular as Bella Swan. But that is not the fantasy Meyer is playing into. Because for every person who is as popular as Bella Swan, there are three who wish they were, and one who tells herself that that popular girl is just a shallow slut. Do I need to tell you which one Bella is, or should I just remind you of the sexy, scantily clad woman who lured tourists to their deaths in New Moon?

In that same book, Bella goes to a movie with Jessica, who supposedly is a vapid cheerleader but actually seems like she’d be way more fun to hang around (Maybe because she’s played by Anna Kendrick). At this point, Bella has spent months in bed, shutting out the world and harming herself because her boyfriend broke up with her. I would rather hang out with Jessica any day of the week, but the movie and the book makes it perfectly clear that Bella is way cooler than her. On her date with Jessica, Bella, without a word, decides to take a ride with a complete stranger on his motorbike. When she returns, she rolls her eyes at a frazzled Jessica and gives her an empty apology.

We’re supposed to laugh at vapid, annoying Jessica, because Bella is just so much cooler than her.  She’s so cool that the moment she moves to Forks there are boys asking her to the dance and girls like Jessica wanting to be her friend. She’s so cool that she doesn’t even want people to think she’s cool:

“Mike's puppy dog behavior and Eric's apparent rivalry with him were disconcerting. I wasn't sure if I didn't prefer being ignored.”

I’m not sure if I don’t prefer proper grammar to a double negative. But I’m probably just too shallow to appreciate her pain.

Bella’s disdain for the “popular” kids is the fantasy of every isolated egotist at your local high school—They’re only popular because they’re stupid. And you have no friends ‘cause your just so down to earth, right?

There is an even more disturbing corollary to this that girls with any memory of middle school ought to recognize. In every elementary school, there is (or was, when I was young) a girl who’s really just one of the guys. She plays sports. She rough-houses. And if there’s a guy you have a crush on, you can bet he’s friends with her.

In grade seven, this girl starts getting bullied. Other girls call her a slut, or some variation of that. It never happened to me. But it did happen to two close friends of mine. This mentality underpins a lot of Bella’s haughty self-satisfaction in the novels. It’s troubling enough that social butterfly Jessica is too vapid to deserve Bella’s friendship. How about villainous Victoria who recruits newborn vampires by seducing Riley? Or the aforementioned “fisherman and bait” vampire in Italy?  Indeed, evil-woman-who-uses-sex-to-get-what-she-wants is something of a recurring motif in these books.

This is a transcript from the third movie:

Edward Cullen: Stop trying to take your clothes off.

Bella Swan: You want to do that part?

Edward Cullen: Not tonight.

Bella Swan: You... You mean, you don't...That's fine.

Edward Cullen: Believe me, I want to.

Edward Cullen: I just want to be married to you first.

Bella Swan: You really make me feel like I'm some sort of, like, villain trying to steal your virtue or something.

Edward Cullen: It's not my virtue I'm concerned about.

             I know, it’s all very funny. But the next scene is what really made my jaw drop: In a dark and rainy night,  Victoria surveys the newborn vampires that boy toy Riley has created for her. The contrast between these two scenes is so striking it practically proclaims in all caps: POPULAR GIRLS ARE SLUTS.

             “Now that’s harsh,” you might be thinking, “After all,  you said yourself, Bella is extra super duper popular!”

             But she doesn’t want to be. She’s shy and clumsy and knows her proper place (hint: it’s in the arms of a man). She deserves that popularity. The other female characters, who go shopping and wear short skirts, are, at best, annoying and, at worst, vicious soul sucking harpies who must be stopped.

             Pulp fiction does not proclaim anything. It indulges what’s already there. It’s been established by pretty much every critic on the internet that this series is not well written. So what does it take to enjoy it anyway?

             Disgust with the female body

             Discomfort with premarital sex

             Disdain for people who are friendly

             Disdain for attractive, unattached women

             Disgust with people who, in reality, would be way more popular than you.

            

I hope we all learned something today.

*It’s Great Expectations

**By “adorable” I mean, “still an asshole but no longer a mouth-rapist”

Don't feed it after midnight!

There are gremlins in my system. I really do apologize. Part I of my Barbie doll study mysteriously vanished when I was trying to link it to Part II.But it's been recovered and all is well again. This leads me to believe that either (1) Stripe and the gang are up to something nasty, or (2) I really need to replace my dinosaur computer. I, for one, would rather face off against a thousand Spielbergian nightmares than enter the Apple Store, so here we are:

Part I: The Public Life of a Private Doll
Part II: The Private Life of a Public Icon