Music video breakdown time by request! Hooray! Anyway, Lady Gaga is a famous individual who has worked very hard to reach her current celebrity status via a two-pronged plan which I imagine went something like this:
1. Sing obnoxious songs.
2. Wear ridiculous things in public.
There may have been another step involving a pact with Satan. I'm not sure on that point. But regardless of possible demonic involvement (Welcome to my blog, hardcore Christian crazy conspiracy theorists!), I think we can all agree on one thing: If she didn't have the word 'lady' in her stage name, no one would be entirely sure. Come to think of it, I'm still not.
If you care, here's a link to the video. I will not be embedding it due to the fact that I have some standards. If you care about this sort of thing, be forewarned that it features some naughty language and very minimal amounts of clothing.
0:01 - It begins in a room from THE FUTURE. Said room features the entire cast of 'A Clockwork Orange' made over by the flamboyantly gay guy on America's Next Top Model. Not that I've seen that show. Let's move on.
0:06 - Zoom in on our heroine, wearing a glittery failed origami project and a pair of square sunglasses which have eaten her entire face, which is really for the best.
0:12 - She has part of a screen window on each fingernail. Of course she does.
0:32 - Oh god, the sounds! Please make them stop!
0:44 - Oh wow. Five or so people who seem to be David Bowie from Labyrinth wrapped head to toe in opaque white plastic have climbed out of pods in the Gaga Bath Haus and are now dancing or having seizures or something. This is simultaneously slightly disturbing and rather hilariously terrible. The video, I mean. Not the song. The song is solely the latter, but with only one adjective. I'll let you pick which one. Also, no word yet on how many transmittable diseases the Haus features. I'll let you know when I do.
1:29 - The lights in the Haus have been turned on. Any time they'd like to turn them back off is fine with me.
1:40 - And someone just ripped off Gaga's shirt. I need a beer. And to unsee all this. Sweet, sweet alcohol. Nectar of forgetting.
2:00 - And now she is evidently an extra from Where the Wild Things Are.
2:03 - Her clothes got torn off again. Can they stop doing that, please? I volunteer to staple them onto her, if that will help.
2:05 - MY CHIN IS MADE ENTIRELY OF METAL
2:33 - Please make her wear something. And I don't mean the lampshade she has on her head. Please. Anyone.
2:43 - Hairless cat. More or less terrifying? Hmmmmmm......
2:50 - The glasses have been replaced by eye makeup of equal volume. How I miss the glasses.
3:06 - Now she is an underwear model surrounded by hovering diamonds. This makes less sense than Eraserhead.
3:12 - Seizure dance! Seizure dance! No, in all seriousness, it doesn't look like a seizure. It looks like they're trying to do a modern interpretation of how a Tyrannosaurus Rex grabbed onto anything with its tiny arms.
3:20 - Human shiny gyroscope thing in her underwear. I wonder why that superhero never caught on. At least she has large sunglasses on again. Life is about the small victories.
3:30 - Time for the breakdown! So of course she is wearing a sparkly bodysuit made of lizard skin that puffs out around her hips for no apparent reason. Somewhere a fashion designer is thoroughly blotto on her coin laughing hysterically.
3:37 - Also, her hair seems to be modeled on SNL's own 'Coneheads'.
3:45 - I AM WEARING A POLAR BEAR! SUCK IT, PETA!
4:13 - Polar bear-wearing woman and metal chin man. A match made in heaven. Please say everyone involved in the production of this music video is sterile. Please. I'm begging you.
4:26 - Fire! Take two steps to your left, please.
4:30-4:57 - I just... I don't... No.
4:58 - Lights out! Hooray!
5:05 - And her bra is shooting sparks while she lies strung out and smoking on a cemetery plot next to a skeleton. This is actually an improved look for her.
In conclusion, I would like to ask a question: Amy, why do you evidently hate me?
Showing posts with label By request. Show all posts
Showing posts with label By request. Show all posts
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, October 2, 2009
I Am Racist Jesus
Prelude - This post is a review of the movie Gran Torino, which came out last year. Now, if you're interested in the movie, you've had plenty of time to see it. But in deference to anyone who hasn't while secretly harboring the desire to do so, allow me to warn you that this is going to contain spoilers. In fact, now that I think about it, it's more a short essay on the movie than it is a review. Too bad my delete key is broken.
Gran Torino supposedly is Clint Eastwood's swan song, and the movie shows it. Eastwood is present in every scene, dominating the movie with his craggy visage and the rasp that age has left of his voice (He is officially in contemporary Cohen territory at this point). And while the movie itself is fairly good, it winds up seeming a bit self-indulgent as a result of this. Then there's also the fact that the ending is so over-the-top ridiculous that the phrase 'ham-handed' does not even begin to do it justice. But we'll get to that.
Eastwood plays a man at the end of his life. His wife has died, and he has strained to nonexistent relationships with his children and grandchildren. So what's a man to do? Well, why not sit on the porch with his dog at his side, drinking PBR all day, observing the downfall of the neighborhood? This is how he spends his time, using his personal definition of 'downfall of the neighborhood', which can be nicely translated as Asian people moving in. That's right, Clint plays a racist character, obviously still haunted by his experiences in the Korean war and unwilling to attempt to befriend (Or even acknowledge) his new neighbors. That is, until the presence of a totally non-stereotypical Asian gang sets off a chain of events involving Clint slowly coming out of his shell in a fairly predictable, drawn-out fashion. The movie addresses the sensitive topic of racism with a sense of humor, the highlight of this being two seperate scenes set in a local barbershop featuring Eastwood and the barber hurling ethnic slurs at each other (Maybe if more people had a bit of humor about things our society would be less sensitive and angry, and then rather than dying of heart disease, people would die two years later from type-2 diabetes. I have a dream). There's a running dialogue between Clint and the priest at his local Catholic church based around Eastwood's wife's request that this priest gets Eastwood to go to confession. And that's 90% of the movie. It's fun in a slightly offbeat yet predictable way. Now let's get to a very detailed discussion of how it ends.
By this point the gang violence hits a point where it needs to be stopped. Clint being the local war veteran who has gradually stepped up to become pretty much the neighborhood patriarch by this point (As well as having the coveted title of Guy In Every Scene), it is apparent that this will fall to him. So he goes at night to confront the gang. We are now at the point when I am going to be stating massive spoilers left and right. Let's start with one in a parenthetical, all caps (NOTE TO CINDI: HE DIES). There then is a lengthy confrontation on a front lawn between Eastwood and the gang members that ends when he quickly reaches inside his jacket and is shot approximately 5,000,000 times. He dies, with his hand opening to reveal that he was going for his lighter to fire up a cigarette, and was actually unarmed. The gang is arrested, and the neighborhood is saved. Yay! Heavy-handed ending? A bit. But we haven't got to the best part. After Clint is riddled with enough bullets to supply a third-world military coup, he (Totally coincidentally, I'm sure) falls to the ground in the exact shape of the cross (Yes, he took confession earlier). I AM RACIST JESUS is not proclaimed, but would be about the only thing that could make this more ridiculous.
At least, that's what I thought at the time. Little did I know that the ridiculous factor would shortly be turned to 11. After this we have a scene of the reading of his will, which features some more humor in the form of ethnic slurs (It was funny. That sentence makes it sound like it wasn't. Again, stupid delete key). The titular item is given, not to a family member, but to one of the Asian kids from next door who Clint de facto adopted. And then the movie gradually fades into the credits over a minute-long shot of this kid driving the car, listening to a faux lounge-jazz number on the stereo. But what's that? The vocals! Dear god, it's 956-year-old Clint Eastwood rasping out a lounge number (Dear Heather joke goes here)! And cut to black. Yes, that's the ending. I did not think, upon viewing the climax of the film, that the denouement would be able to up the comedic ante. But dear lord, it certainly did. For a film that attempts to take a serious-yet-light approach to a heavy topic, the fact that I have tears of joy in my eyes remembering it probably is a result the production team would be proud of. However, I'm not so sure they'd be happy about the reason.
Gran Torino supposedly is Clint Eastwood's swan song, and the movie shows it. Eastwood is present in every scene, dominating the movie with his craggy visage and the rasp that age has left of his voice (He is officially in contemporary Cohen territory at this point). And while the movie itself is fairly good, it winds up seeming a bit self-indulgent as a result of this. Then there's also the fact that the ending is so over-the-top ridiculous that the phrase 'ham-handed' does not even begin to do it justice. But we'll get to that.
Eastwood plays a man at the end of his life. His wife has died, and he has strained to nonexistent relationships with his children and grandchildren. So what's a man to do? Well, why not sit on the porch with his dog at his side, drinking PBR all day, observing the downfall of the neighborhood? This is how he spends his time, using his personal definition of 'downfall of the neighborhood', which can be nicely translated as Asian people moving in. That's right, Clint plays a racist character, obviously still haunted by his experiences in the Korean war and unwilling to attempt to befriend (Or even acknowledge) his new neighbors. That is, until the presence of a totally non-stereotypical Asian gang sets off a chain of events involving Clint slowly coming out of his shell in a fairly predictable, drawn-out fashion. The movie addresses the sensitive topic of racism with a sense of humor, the highlight of this being two seperate scenes set in a local barbershop featuring Eastwood and the barber hurling ethnic slurs at each other (Maybe if more people had a bit of humor about things our society would be less sensitive and angry, and then rather than dying of heart disease, people would die two years later from type-2 diabetes. I have a dream). There's a running dialogue between Clint and the priest at his local Catholic church based around Eastwood's wife's request that this priest gets Eastwood to go to confession. And that's 90% of the movie. It's fun in a slightly offbeat yet predictable way. Now let's get to a very detailed discussion of how it ends.
By this point the gang violence hits a point where it needs to be stopped. Clint being the local war veteran who has gradually stepped up to become pretty much the neighborhood patriarch by this point (As well as having the coveted title of Guy In Every Scene), it is apparent that this will fall to him. So he goes at night to confront the gang. We are now at the point when I am going to be stating massive spoilers left and right. Let's start with one in a parenthetical, all caps (NOTE TO CINDI: HE DIES). There then is a lengthy confrontation on a front lawn between Eastwood and the gang members that ends when he quickly reaches inside his jacket and is shot approximately 5,000,000 times. He dies, with his hand opening to reveal that he was going for his lighter to fire up a cigarette, and was actually unarmed. The gang is arrested, and the neighborhood is saved. Yay! Heavy-handed ending? A bit. But we haven't got to the best part. After Clint is riddled with enough bullets to supply a third-world military coup, he (Totally coincidentally, I'm sure) falls to the ground in the exact shape of the cross (Yes, he took confession earlier). I AM RACIST JESUS is not proclaimed, but would be about the only thing that could make this more ridiculous.
At least, that's what I thought at the time. Little did I know that the ridiculous factor would shortly be turned to 11. After this we have a scene of the reading of his will, which features some more humor in the form of ethnic slurs (It was funny. That sentence makes it sound like it wasn't. Again, stupid delete key). The titular item is given, not to a family member, but to one of the Asian kids from next door who Clint de facto adopted. And then the movie gradually fades into the credits over a minute-long shot of this kid driving the car, listening to a faux lounge-jazz number on the stereo. But what's that? The vocals! Dear god, it's 956-year-old Clint Eastwood rasping out a lounge number (Dear Heather joke goes here)! And cut to black. Yes, that's the ending. I did not think, upon viewing the climax of the film, that the denouement would be able to up the comedic ante. But dear lord, it certainly did. For a film that attempts to take a serious-yet-light approach to a heavy topic, the fact that I have tears of joy in my eyes remembering it probably is a result the production team would be proud of. However, I'm not so sure they'd be happy about the reason.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Wrens and Creed
Firstly, let's note that this is completely unverifiable. Frankly, I'm not even sure where I heard it. Probably Pitchfork. Back when I read about music, they were often the source. Yay pretension! Anyway, here we go.
So in 1996 a wonderful band named The Wrens had just released their second album, Secaucus, on Grass Records. As happens when money changes hands, they began to get a bit of airtime on the radio, with 'Surprise, Honeycomb' getting some push behind it. Things were looking fairly good. Then they were called into the office of the head of their record label. He told them that he wanted to sign them to a million-dollar contract. However, they had to make a few changes to their sound so that they would be more radio-friendly. As a good-faith negotiation tactic to help ease the shock of this demand, he ordered that they decide on the spot. Faced with this strong-arming the band chose integrity (Some people actually do! They are poor and get no airtime) and rejected the deal. Their label executive took it well, ordering them out of his office and pulling all publicity for the album. He announced that the next band through the door would be made famous at any cost. Grass Records was closed and rechristened Wind-Up, and the next band to walk in, much to the world's chagrin, was Creed. The Wrens went off to obscurity (They also wrote a great song about this, entitled 'Everyone Choose Sides'), and Creed became famous. As a sort of postscript, once the label had won, they decided that they best way to patch things up with the band would be to refuse to print anymore copies of either of the first two Wrens albums once the stock was sold, and to refuse to sell the copyrights to the albums The Wrens had written back to the band for 7 years, preventing them from making any money from, or even distributing their work. The music industry is a nice place. May it burn to the ground.
So in 1996 a wonderful band named The Wrens had just released their second album, Secaucus, on Grass Records. As happens when money changes hands, they began to get a bit of airtime on the radio, with 'Surprise, Honeycomb' getting some push behind it. Things were looking fairly good. Then they were called into the office of the head of their record label. He told them that he wanted to sign them to a million-dollar contract. However, they had to make a few changes to their sound so that they would be more radio-friendly. As a good-faith negotiation tactic to help ease the shock of this demand, he ordered that they decide on the spot. Faced with this strong-arming the band chose integrity (Some people actually do! They are poor and get no airtime) and rejected the deal. Their label executive took it well, ordering them out of his office and pulling all publicity for the album. He announced that the next band through the door would be made famous at any cost. Grass Records was closed and rechristened Wind-Up, and the next band to walk in, much to the world's chagrin, was Creed. The Wrens went off to obscurity (They also wrote a great song about this, entitled 'Everyone Choose Sides'), and Creed became famous. As a sort of postscript, once the label had won, they decided that they best way to patch things up with the band would be to refuse to print anymore copies of either of the first two Wrens albums once the stock was sold, and to refuse to sell the copyrights to the albums The Wrens had written back to the band for 7 years, preventing them from making any money from, or even distributing their work. The music industry is a nice place. May it burn to the ground.
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