Some musical housekeeping:
Big thanks to Jay from Listen Up, Nerds for this kind blurb for the Don Forever EP. His newsletter is a must-follow.
I also did a lil chat with Molly Mary O’Brien for her super fun blog I Enjoy Music. Check out the site and also the delightful podcast And Introducing she co-hosts with Chris Wade. Their episode on The Fall had me hootin’.
I also had the honor of contributing a Needy Beast remix to Whitney Weiss’s latest release, The World, Reversed Remixes, alongside dazzling renditions by ELLES, Evelyn, and Spatial Awareness. I met Whitney about eight years ago in New York when they were DJing a Cheryl party, and I was immediately smitten by their ability to turn a dark, dingy dancefloor into such a warm, welcoming place. Whitney’s Rinse France show, brilliantly titled It’s Whitney, Bitch, is a monthly dopamine shot that’s gotten me through many a long workday.
FILMS
The King of Comedy (1983, dir. Scorcese) (rewatch)
In this pitch-black comedy, Martin Scorsese and screenwriter Paul D. Zimmerman show how mental illness is the precious fuel that keeps our modern mass entertainment machine humming. The bigger showbiz grows, the more eyeballs it needs in the form of loners, kooks, obsessives, and narcissists around the world, dutifully tuning in every night (or, in today’s terms, looking at their phones) to keep those profits increasing. Sure, a few unhinged ones may shoot at the president or tweet at a stranger to commit suicide, but it’s a small price to pay for godlike wealth and fame.
For a film made over four decades ago, The King of Comedy feels as relevant as ever. The protagonist, Rupert Pupkin (Robert De Niro), is a thirty-something struggling comedian still living with his mother in New Jersey. After a chance encounter with late-night host Jerry Langford (real-life “King of Comedy” Jerry Lewis), Pupkin deludes himself into thinking his moment has arrived. Like today’s social media celebs-in-waiting, he knows that one moment of virality will allow him to skip many arduous years of woodshedding and gigging and ride his unchecked ambition straight to the top. No 10,000 hours of mastery needed, just a total lack of shame, and a little push from his new famous “friend.” When Langford’s army of secretaries understandably stonewalls Pupkin’s efforts to get on the show, he turns to another equally demented superfan, Masha (a stalker played by Sandra Bernhard), and hatches a harebrained scheme to kidnap his idol.
The idiot’s conventional wisdom states that Robert De Niro only plays tough guys, but Rupert Pupkin is no thug. In fact, he’s one of the more unique creations in the actor’s canon. To prepare for the role, De Niro, always the method man, interviewed one of his own stalkers to get the perfect mix of pathos and obsession. While Rupert and Masha’s insanity drives the plot, the understated emptiness of Jerry Langford’s character balances out the parasocial equation and lingered with me just as strongly after viewing. When he’s not on TV (or being kidnapped), we see Langford eating alone in a luxurious but sparsely decorated penthouse apartment, or aimlessly walking the streets of Manhattan in the hopes of running into a fan. Lewis dials his charisma down to zero and brings a wrinkly, haggard energy to these scenes. Sure, it’s not living in his mom’s basement, but we’re shown a kind of horseshoe theory of loneliness and alienation in regards to fame, an ache suffered equally by those at the top and bottom of the showbiz ladder.
Of course, the darkest joke of all is the ending, which I won’t spoil, but let’s just say it left me wondering if haughty concepts like “talent” or “artistic integrity” are any match for the sheer power of spectacle. While I’ve seen this film a few times, I’ve quit midway through just as often. Pupkin isn’t just a tough hang; he’s a harbinger of doom, a proto-Mr. Beast who’s less “entertainer” than a corny human-shaped vessel for content. He’s not funny. He’s not interesting or original. But he keeps performing, people (strangely) keep watching, and money keeps getting made. That’s showbiz, baby!
Barbarella (1968, dir. Vadim)
Barbarella is a land of contrasts. It can be shockingly stupid. It’s also pretty fun. Some scenes are campy and funny, like Austin Powers. Others play like the sort of sleazy soft porn Austin Powers would earnestly jack off to. It’s directed and financed by a cadre of European perverts, based on a pornographic French comic strip (naturellement), but hey, at least American goofball Terry Southern did some punch-up work on the script. Playing the eponymous Barbarella, Jane Fonda seems to take the whole thing pretty seriously. More recently, though, she’s also expressed regret about the role.
As stupid as I sometimes felt sitting through this thing, I’ve been thinking back fondly on it. My conflicted feelings are probably best reflected in this brilliant review by Branson Reese:
Nowadays perverts of this stripe have to live in one bedroom homes lit by lava lamp with lawn flamingos out front to warn people not to trick or treat there. But back in the 60s they could land Jane Fonda to elevate their go-go porn sketch comedy movies and walk around with their heads held high, smiling the way the British do when they think about eating dry beans on wet cabbage. Every scene in this movie is a surreal puzzle that reveals itself to varying speeds and the solution is always for Barbarella to fuck somebody or something. Secretly or not, this is what we miss about the 60s. Every once in awhile we’ll poke our head out to see if it’s safe to live like this again. An Austin Power here, an Air album there. It isn’t -what with the news- and it may never be again. But the horny are marked by their refusal to stop dreaming. After all, what is horniness but the dream of boning? One day the clouds will part and they will walk again in the sun.
Evidently Sydney Sweeney, an actress whose mere existence provokes extremely normal reactions, is starring in a remake. I’m extremely curious to see what Barbarella will look like in 2024’s neo-puritanical culture. Regardless of how that film turns out, though, the ~discourse~ surrounding it will be weapons-grade levels of toxic. Stay safe.
Upgrade (2018, dir. Whannell)
Looking for a nasty, high-T jolt of action? Try this impressive low-budget cyberpunk revenge flick by Australian writer/director Leigh Whannell, best known for his work with James Wan on the Saw films.
While largely known as Kirkland brand Tom Hardy, Logan Marshall-Green is a big reason this ~3m dollar movie looks and feels 20 times more expensive. Marshall-Green plays our hero Grey Trace, a Luddite auto mechanic in the year 2046. After a seemingly random run-in with a street gang leaves his wife dead and his body paralyzed, the bitter, revenge-obsessed Grey has no choice but to try the titular upgrade–an A.I. chip called STEM that, once implanted in his brain stem, will help him move again–plus some extra features he didn’t bargain for. With STEM’s help, Grey is not only able to walk again but beats the snot out of random goth-punks as he investigates his wife’s murder. Marshall-Green’s performance is an athletic tour de force, his body flicking on and off as STEM helps him do kung fu before suddenly having wifi issues or its creator turns on the parental controls, causing Grey’s body to once again go limp. About 75% of the story’s twist is predictable, but you likely won’t care as Marshall-Green punches, kicks, and curb stomps his way to the final boss.
The Elephant 6 Recording Co. (2022, dir. Stockfleth)
As a piece of documentary filmmaking, this left a lot to be desired. Also, it’s unclear why Of Montreal was largely absent save for a few Kevin Barnes talking heads. Still, as an exercise in Remembering Some Guys, this was a delight, particularly anytime Bill Doss and William Cullen Hart were onscreen. I’ll take any excuse to throw on some Olivia Tremor Control.
Cam (2018, dir. Goldfaber)
I adore the garlic cutting scene in Goodfellas. Somewhere on the internet (I’m too lazy to dig it up) there’s a Marty quote about how he included this bit because a film-school professor taught him that every movie–in addition to, ya know, telling a story–should try to teach its viewers at least one thing. That way, if the overall movie doesn’t resonate, viewers can at least walk away a little smarter.
Cam is hardly a flop, though its techno-thriller plot has some holes that critics understandably picked at. Those flaws felt small to me, though, because director Daniel Goldfaber and screenwriter Isa Mazzei so vividly capture the day-to-day grind of a camgirl, a world you may be shocked to learn I am unfamiliar with. Mazzei, who based much of the story on her own experience as a camgirl, blends the real-world struggles of camming with the kind of chilling sci-fi horror premise that recent Black Mirror episodes yearn for.
Twenty-something Alice Ackerman is obsessed with her ranking on a hellishly gamified site named FreeGirlsLive, constantly inventing new outfits, bits, and eye-catching backdrops to keep her horny clientele coming back for more. While her secret side hustle has earned her enough to already buy a house, she’s trapped on a late-capitalist hamster wheel, worried that one or two dud streams could send her plummeting down the camgirl leaderboard and potentially back to a crummy retail or service job. As if all that weren’t enough of a horror show, Alice tries to log in one day only to find that some sort of A.I. doppelganger of her “Lola” persona has not only taken over her account, but is eerily able to stream live and continue interacting with the real Lola’s VIP clients.
While the logistics behind this evil doppelganger, soon revealed to be preying on other camgirls besides Alice, never fully add up, the realistic aspects of the story are far more interesting than the supernatural. Goldfaber is ruthless in his juxtaposition of Alice’s colorful, meticulously decorated sets versus the rest of her bleak, unfurnished home. We’re also “treated” to stark shots of modern-day suburbia, including an especially nauseating scene at a chain Mexican restaurant where a high-status patron gets to take Alice/Lola on an IRL date as one of his VIP perks.
To be very clear, the filmmakers never tut-tut the profession of camming itself. This isn’t building to a moralistic “Quit camming” lesson (though some unresolved plot points unintentionally complicate that, NO SPOILERS). Rather, Alice’s joy in brainstorming new outfits, sets, types of streams, etc, serves as one of the few bright spots in an otherwise haunting film. The true monsters here are men, cops (there’s a hilarious scene of cops being dumb, useless, and pervy), and that old chestnut: exploitative tech companies.
Drive-Away Dolls (2024, dir. Coen)
Ethan Coen’s first solo film, co-written with his queer wife Tricia Cooke, has a ridiculous plot and all the tics and logorrhea of a Coen brothers movie without the duo’s fastidious, buttoned-up execution. Making matters worse, Margaret Qualley (the latest nepo baby Hollywood is shoving down our throats) is painfully unfunny and unconvincing portraying a) a Southerner, b) a lesbian, and c) someone who frequents dive bars and basement parties. I don’t think it’s a bad movie, but it’s difficult to argue with anyone who thinks so.
And yet…this made me laugh out loud more than any new comedy since Jackass Forever, which feels like an indictment of modern comedy directing more than anything. This story may be plain stupid, but Coen expertly keeps the energy up, directs the shit out of the visual gags, and at least never resorts to soy banter or flabby Apatow-ian improv babble.
Galaxy Quest (1999, dir. Parisot)
Career Girls (1997, dir. Leigh)
Topsy-Turvy (1999, dir. Leigh)
F for Fake (1973, dir. Welles)
Beauty and the Beast (1946, dir. Cocteau)
Devil in a Blue Dress (1995, dir. Franklin)
PlayTime (1967, dir. Tati)
Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (2014, dir. Reeves)
The Holiday (2006, dir. Myers)
It Should Happen to You (1954, dir. Cukor)
The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972, dir. Buñuel)
Bell, Book and Candle (1958, dir. Quine)
The Dead Zone (1983, dir. Cronenberg) (rewatch)
A Matter of Life and Death (1946, dir. Pressburger & Powell)
Little Murders (1971, dir. Arkin)
Miracle Mile (1988, dir. De Jarnatt)
BOOKS
The Throwback Special by Chris Bachelder
Lack of ritual is an oft-cited source of a lot of our modern pathologies. With that in mind, you’d think the 22 middle-aged men in Chris Bachelder’s darkly comic novel would radiate warm, fuzzy feelings of community and brotherhood. On November 18 for the past 16 years, our graying heroes come together to reenact linebacker Lawrence Taylor’s infamous 1985 tackle that snapped Washington quarterback Joe Thiesmann’s leg, ending his career and traumatizing a national Monday Night Football audience for life. They wear vintage Giants and Redskins uniforms, complete with helmets and pads, and even hold an elaborate lottery to determine which of the 22 players on the field they’ll be assigned. Despite the commitment to detail, though, these men are markedly unwell.
This is an instant “Are men okay?” classic. There is no single protagonist in this 2016 novel, more like a queasy hive mind in a collapsing male colony. Bachelder deftly glides from one man’s troubled interior to the next as they conduct the festivities. We’re exposed to the petty grievances that simmer silently between them, along with secrets, insecurities, and a gnawing fear that their little annual meetup is, in fact, a hollow, ironic imitation of true ritual and community. The book really rustled some bees in my bonnet, particularly my worries about fantasy sports, sportsfan/spectator culture, and the I.P.-ification of history acting like an opiate for my generation. That said, I also laughed a lot, and as the climactic scene began with these sad sacks lining up on a high school field, ready to injure their soft bodies to recreate the timeless 1985 play, I couldn’t help but nod and whisper to myself: “Dudes rock.”
The Civil War by Bruce Catton
Nothing to see here, just another symptom of my washed era. I guess you could say I was prepping for that upcoming Alex Garland film, but really I read this because it cost two bones at the local used bookstore. Catton’s a great writer, though, with a knack for colorful characters and giving the straight dope on how horrifying this conflict was and the brain damage we continue to suffer to this very day!🇺🇸
In Vino Duplicitas by Peter Hellman
Read this as research for a silly story idea I’m kicking around. Wine forgery is fun to read about because all the rich people getting duped suck so much, save for the old-school vintners who have actual skills and a passion for making things.
TV
PODCASTS
Anyone with half a brain has noticed that tech’s somehow gotten shittier in recent years. Figuring out why is much harder. Luckily Ed Zitron, tech writer and creator of the brilliant Where’s Your Ed At newsletter, launched this podcast series to rake the muck and explain what’s going on. His first handful of episodes take aim at Apple Vision Pro, Elon Musk’s fake charities, Google, and the Winklevoss twins in his extremely tough but extremely fair style.
GOOD ASS READS
John Herrman on AI culture wars
Ettingermentum asks: What if Trump and Biden both die?
Derek Thompson explores why Americans have stopped hanging out
Carl Wilson reviews Kyle Chayka’s Filterworld
Alexi Gunner on the fake subversive advertising of the late 90s/early 2000s
Needs a "music" section imo :)