Movies

The September Issue

R.J. Cutler’s documentary The September Issue opens with a close-up of the longtime Editor-in-Chief of Vogue magazine and notorious Ice Queen of the past quarter century, Anna Wintour. Anna’s face, sans sunglasses, is a somewhat jarring and unexpected visual for an editrix so elusive that people in the fashion industry joke about her glasses being glued to her face.

This first scene promises a tantalizing experience, one that will penetrate the mystique of the woman who has been at the helm of the fashion world since 1989 and who has rarely given extensive interviews or information about herself to the public. Pin-thin and feline, Wintour remains nervous in front of the camera, cautiously piecing together sentences. “On the whole… people who say demeaning things about our world…I think it’s because they feel in some way excluded… or…not part of the ‘cool group,’” she croaks in a British English that tends to waver and trail off. “Just because you like to put on a beautiful Carolina Herrera dress…or a pair of…J Brand blue jeans instead of…something basic from Kmart…doesn’t mean you’re a…dumb person…” While Wintour may be decisive in her work and quick to kill 50,000 dollar photo shoots that just don’t do it for her, she seems to be much more economical with her words (as questionable as some of her calculated statements may be), especially when talking about herself. When asked at what moment she decided to make it her goal to edit Vogue, she can only come up with a response that suggests it was an arbitrary decision that her father made for her. In the end, very little about Wintour is revealed, which is disappointing for people who would have liked to hear the importance of fashion intelligently articulated by the person who both represents and helps drive the prolific global fashion industry of today.

What is perhaps the most frustrating aspect of the film is that none of the characters fully managed to achieve that articulation, although the person who comes the closest to doing so is Grace Coddington, the magazine’s Creative Director who was hired at Vogue at the same time as Wintour. Physically and intellectually, Coddington is portrayed as the antithesis to the magazine and its brand. She staggers around the twelfth floor of the Condé Nast building in frumpy clothing, flat sandals, and a thick mane of permanently unkempt red hair. The photo shoots she coordinates produce hazy, ethereal images woven together by a fairytale story thread that look nothing like the sharp, modernist editorials that Wintour favors for the magazine—decisions that Coddington never fails to contest. She is the romantic of the magazine, and the true aesthete. In one instance of the film, the camera and crew follow her to a quiet area in the Tuileries where she has a private moment of inspiration and reflection. While the scene may creep onto the border of cheesy, at least the viewer appreciates that Coddington strongly believes in the editorials she puts together. Cutler exaggerates Coddington and Wintour’s differences and pins them up against each other as embodiments of the classic art versus commerce duality—probably in order to spice things up, since innumerable shots of Anna front row at different fashion shows or nixing entire clothes racks of prospective outfits for stories would not have made for a very rich or insightful documentary.

All in all, it seems that no one in the film is capable of providing a very compelling broad analysis of fashion and its industry. While André Leon Talley’s outlandish (or better yet, Zoolander-ish) scenes pepper the film with comic relief and reveal clever editing, overall, the movie fails to answer any questions about Wintour or fashion conceptually. If you are a fashion lover and were hoping for Cutler to dispel critiques of fashion and its head honchos as a vacuous construct, this is probably not the movie for you.

 

by Sofia Cavallo

 

Is nothing holy? The death of the classic film.

A classic film is a classic film because it is a classic film. This is obvious. But sometimes people like me watch you and ask why you’re a classic film if you’re not actually that great a film. There is always a dialogue, filled with extensive pros and cons, but the more important thing is to step back from the argument and define what exactly a classic is. For one, a classic is permeable; it addresses and defeats its detractors through the validity of its timeless statement and its beauty, while exemplifying the standards of technical excellence. Casablanca, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and The Godfather constitute rich and diverse examples of American classics.

I find that it always helps to speak to a film, ask it a question: “Will I remember you, Film, and do you have something to say about the human condition?” Usually the industry types who vote in the festivals and the big award shows have pretty good taste, can distinguish the bad from the good, the great from the classic, but too easily do people lose sight of the meaning of an award. For instance, having an Oscar—in fact, any prize—does not conclusively assert your worthiness, especially for more than that one year of reception. In other words, Jamie Foxx is not Marlon Brando. This is a simple truth, but it’s worth delving into.

When I first saw Shakespeare in Love, I was maybe 14, a home-shackled obsessive filmic type who would ride his scooter to the Blockbuster, blocks away, and come back with a film. I’d repeat this ritual every two hours. This meant three or four films a day, too many a week, and far too many a month. This sort of lifestyle did not reinforce the values of a physically or emotionally healthy existence, but it did form in me what I still believe is a shocking prescience (an amicable companion to my natural loquaciousness). I think the turning point was when I saw Shakespeare in Love. In 1998 it was nominated for 12 Academy Awards, won seven, including Best Picture, but I thought it sucked. The only thing I remembered was a hurt Ben Affleck—I was surprised he was good.

When the movie was released to video in 1999, it was marketed as a “Modern Classic.” In fact, the praise for the movie is as ubiquitous as sand in a desert. A writer for the Northwest Herald called it a “tale of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” Christopher Null, referring to 1998 said, “Easily the best comedy of the year”—a startlingly fatalist claim. Rottentomatoes.com attested to the film’s scaldingly warm reception: 93% on the Tomatometer. Amidst this climate of hyperbole, one of the few voices of dissent is blogger Martin Scribbs of the “Low-IQ Canadian,” who states crabbily: “[Shakespeare in Love is] a nothing movie. Gossamer-thin, the slightest breeze will blow it from our collective memories.” Though Scribbs delightfully gave Casablanca a bad review, he is onto something: If we remember Shakespeare in Love for any reason (which we won’t), we’ll remember it because of its embarrassment of riches: a stellar cast and stellar writers who have all at some point done stellarly better. This film is not a modern classic. But I don’t believe that there is any such thing as a classic film. Turner Classic Movies shows 15 films a day—are they all classics? In a similar vein, is Kevin Smith, who stopped making good movies 15 years ago, a genius, like my brother says he is? Of course not, but smart people say stupid shit like that all the time. Hyperbole is a major crisis of the Internet age, the blogosphere its insufferable symptoms. Now everything is classic, now everything is genius. You just opened my soda—you’re a genius. We laughed during Shakespeare in Love—it’s a classic, duh.

An object’s status as “classic” or “genius” differentiates a work, catalogs it into the blessed realm of the memorable—that which is holy and defies time, that which defies organized marketing as it is marked unconsciously by those who have been touched by its singular light—but when everything is classic, nothing is classic; when everything is beautiful, nothing is beautiful. Democratization of opinion is a critical crisis—when everyone has a say, no one has a say.

Too many people are losing sight of the value of words, the walls that compartmentalize categories. Sloppiness has destroyed the classic, not the movie industry. The disregard for definitions, for taxonomy—this is what we really have to review.

By Kenneth Reveiz

 

 

 

MUSIC

 

Fiery Furnaces- I’m Going Away

In a promo video for their latest album, I’m Going Away, Matt and Eleanor Friedberger of the Fiery Furnaces act out a charming little scene in which Matt pretends to guess at the album’s name and concept. Eleanor corrects him each time, until she finally gets frustrated and storms off, saying, “I’m going away.” Matt turns, does a little Jim from The Office stare, and plays a doodling figure on the piano as the scene comes to an end.

Matt’s increasingly convoluted litany of concept album conceits is funny because it rings true. Since the straightforward blues-rock of their debut, Gallowsbird’s Bark, the pair has tended ever more heavily toward the weird, the inscrutable, and the arcane. So when the press release for their new album described their musical goal as offering “songs [that] can be used as theme music to folks’ own versions of Taxi,” another digressive but wholly interesting experiment in proggy psychedelia seemed inevitable.

Similarly encouraging, the band asked fans to submit “deaf descriptions” of the album (i.e. reviews written without first hearing the record) for a “fan-made, word-only, entirely unrelated, alternate version of I’m Going Away.” Naturally. A logical extension.

The album turns out to confound those assumptions by being, well, kind of normal. Rather than a noodling stroll through the dim hanging garden of their earlier aural territory, here the Furnaces have taken more of a sunny, mid-May drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, delivering a stream of mostly cheerful piano-driven rock songs. Lyrically, the album is much more direct, conversational, and personal than previous efforts. The most noticeable change, however, is the record’s simplicity—more than anything else, the songs on the record are catchy. While Eleanor still manages to make every line of her vocals sound like an auctioneer running out of breath, the band’s trademark quirks seem to have been rather unceremoniously sacrificed to the demands of melodic necessity.

Also surprisingly straightforward is the album’s title; many of the songs deal quite openly with departure. The tempo-shifting ballad “Drive to Dallas,” with its chorus of “If I see you tomorrow / I don’t know what I will do,” suggests a kind of reverse Lisa Nowak narrative, while “Even In the Rain” is a Dylanesque memoryscape about lost love. The unapologetically pretty “The End Is Near” may in fact be the Furnaces first real break-up song, incredible when you consider that I’m Going Away is their eighth full album. But while all of these tracks evoke, suggest, and conjure up various exit narratives, there are none of the scrupulously crafted, dauntingly opaque epics found in most of the Furnaces’ extensive back catalog. It seems the band has tired of doing oil paintings and taken up quick sketches in charcoal.

Though their swing back towards the poppy and accessible is refreshing, the siblings Friedburger seem most comfortable creating from a place of innovation, rather than emulation. There are great melodies on I’m Going Away, as well as clever arrangements (jazz flute) and well-interpreted influences (’70s funk), but no instantly gripping hooks, no really great pop songs. The pair’s tendency to repeat phrases again and again to tease out each nuance is less enjoyable in a three-minute song about lust (“Charmaine Champagne”), and their indie-darling glib streak does them no favors on a sweet lonely-hearts anthem like “Lost at Sea.” The Fiery Furnaces may have been trying to go back to their roots, but like most expeditions of this kind, their journey wistfully recalls pleasures long past rather than recreating them.

 

By Katherine Orazem

 

 

 

Jay-z-The Blueprint 3

Jay-Z needs no introduction. He’s one of the most influential and iconic MC’s to ever hit the rap game. He knows it, too, and that’s why The Blueprint 3 will sorely disappoint fans hoping for a classic release in the mold of Reasonable Doubt, The Blueprint or The Black Album.

The Blueprint 3 is notably lacking in the passion and hunger that Jay had back in his days as a drug dealer in the Marcy Projects. He makes it all look easy with his new album, but not in the same way that he used to. This album does more to show off Jay’s ability to make a collection of pop-friendly songs than his talents as an MC. He seems content to let the producers and contributing artists dictate the sound of the album. “Real As It Gets” sounds more like a Young Jeezy track featuring Jay-Z than the other way around. “Off That” sounds just like another dramatically overproduced Drake song, swamping any of Jay-Z’s lyricism underneath a beat that just has too much going on. “Hate” sounds like a track scratched off Kanye’s 808’s and Heartbreak.

The album’s weakness stems from drastic changes in the eminent rapper’s iconic flow. Jay-Z now sounds lazy on the microphone—not lazy in the Snoop Dogg/West Coast style where words roll off the tongue languidly, but lazy in the I-don’t-want-my-verses-to-scan-to-the-beat way. One notable example of this comes on the track “Run This Town, featuring Rihanna and Kanye West.” The line “Uh, uh and ain’t nobody fresher / I’m in Maison, uh Martin Margiela” is completely dependent on “uh”ing to pass for aligning with the beat. The staggering amount of “uh’s” stuffed into the album make me pine for the days of “Dead Presidents II.”

This is not to say that the album is an absolute bust. In fact, it has several standout tracks. But there is no feeling of coherence, or any overall theme that connects them. “Empire State of Mind,” a song sure to become a New York anthem, is far and away the album’s best track, if not one of the best hip-hop songs of the past year. Though the beat is fantastic and Jay flows well, the real standout is Alicia Keys on the chorus, who absolutely murders the track with her exuberant and rich voice. “Death of Autotune” is where Jay proves that he can spit hard over highly creative, technically difficult beats with constant shifts in rhythm over a blistering guitar. “Forever Young,” a soft retrospective done over a cover of Alphaville’s classic sounds a lot like “Blueprint,” and as such, is executed flawlessly.

Perhaps I haven’t given Jay-Z enough credit. If his intention in crafting the third Blueprint was to paint a picture of the current state of hip-hop, then he does it well, as he covers the entire spectrum of popular sounds. But that’s not at all what the game needs right now. The Blueprint 3 should have been a revival of and a return to the golden age sound of hip-hop, to the era where R&B and soul samples complemented an MC’s flow. The Blueprint 3 would be a good album for most of the mediocre rapocracy. But from Jay-Z, this album is a mediocre addition, Hov’s latest effort is a dilution of his legacy.

 

By Tyler He

 

 

 

Muse- The Resistance

Brace yourself to join the resistance (cue The Terminator, cut the lights).

Muse’s fifth studio album, The Resistance, released Mon., Sept. 14, has proven to preserve their distinctive blend of musical styles. Featuring intense guitar riffs, lyrical piano solos, moments of symphonic excellence, and exhilarating electronic beats, Muse makes you remember that a musician, like a magician, should be able to pull more than one rabbit out of the hat. Although the album contains more orchestral portions than most of their other albums, you need not fear—you won’t forget they’re a rock band.

Muse’s main goal still seems to be creating a reaction. Their blatantly in-your-face lyrics potently remind the listener that the band could care less about swaddling than dangling the baby out of the window—the group is practically allergic to the mainstream. With this kind of no-holds-barred attitude, it is almost impossible to be neutral about Muse. Their music either pulls you in and chains you to its rhythms and lyrics, or makes you want to crawl into a soundproof room away from the chaos.

From the title, the perceptive reader might guess that the album houses the band’s assorted political objections, and they’d be right. Just the title of the first song, “Uprising,” serves as a clear indicator that Muse’s interest in politics remains as strong as ever. The song, helpfully explained by guitarist and pianist Matthew Bellamy, “expresses a general mistrust of bankers, global corporations and politicians.” And this is just the beginning.

The “United States of Eurasia (+Collateral Damage)” references books like 1984 and The Grand Chessboard, a geo-political work. Lines like, “and we know that there is no one we can trust / Our ancient heroes, they are turning to dust!” depict a world at constant war and in the grips of sinister oppression. Punctuating the protest, a symphonic melody featuring Chopin’s “Nocturne OP/9 NO/2” (used to intimate a sense of innocence) is shattered by the roar of an army jet nearly as subtle as the iron curtain.

While the band centers the album on political turmoil, psychological manipulation and a winner takes all world, they do take the time to sing about markedly lighter topics, such as dark secrets between lovers and troubled relationships. Sex is many things to many people, but it’s still politics to Muse. In the eponymous track “Resistance,” 1984 is used as a metaphor to describe how love and sex can connect people of different beliefs and symbolize freedom from oppressive forces.

Guns go bang, the sun rises, and Muse writes another album-cum-polemic. To add insult to injury, Green Day did it first. Green Day also did it twice. Fortunately for them they never claimed to produce Shakespearean musicals (or rock operas, for that matter).

Instead, Mark Bellamy’s virtuosic guitar riffs and devilishly stylish piano playing has garnered them large enough audiences to recall the golden age of stadium rock. Who here wants to rock? Who here wants to read?

Pick your side.

 

 

By Rachel Ouellette