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Blurring the Lines

1/12/2017

Before I went to art school, before I understood my queerness, one day he appeared. I was 19 and working in the mall when “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” hit no. 1 in 1984. All the Metal heads at Chick-Fil-A were disgusted but I listened to it with curiosity, an absurdly trumped-up take on Doo Wop and Motown. But it wasn’t until I saw him in the video for the song, saw him with Andrew and Pepsi and Shirley, smiling fluorescently white before they had that toothpaste, two (not one) gold hoop earrings shining, hugging himself right at me, that I knew. I was transfixed: he was pop, glam, and wildly talented. And he was absolutely queer.

The song that truly ushered him in as indispensible was “Everything She Wants”. It was indelible the moment I heard it, and not just for the beauty of the synths and vocals (all written, produced, and arranged by Michael). There was something more. Inside the song was a very subversive, feminine approach to marriage. It was, in fact, a sensibility I too was experiencing, a sensibility I already shared. It was gayness: bitchy, cool, sarcastic, and passionate. George wasn’t just playing the spurned husband; he was playing the wife, too! A thrill of recognition ran through me.

For the rest of the 80s each new song built on this sensibility: one moment bragging of his sexual prowess (“Faith”, “I Want Your Sex”, “Hard Day”) and the next playing the long-suffering female (“A Different Corner”, “One More Try”, and yes! “Father Figure”). George Michael could project male or female with complete fluidity, and no irony. He never really camped (like Boy George) but instead existed as a hybrid. It should be remembered that Wham! was partner Andrew Ridgely’s idea: to get hits, go completely over-the-top and make a ridiculous impression. He could never have known how quickly George would absorb and transcend that image nearly instantly, or what a genius for writing personal songs he would develop. George was pure talent. He was seductive.

Very few pop stars create their own category (Michael Jackson, Prince, Bowie, Madonna) and George was one of the very select. But no one distilled gayness as he did. It was never cat and mouse with him – instead, he was its essence. By the time the business side had overwhelmed him (post “Faith”, pre “Older”) he was trapped, desperately trying to resolve his status as an icon. Because it came out of him so naturally I am not sure he ever understood his success. So he hid. He disappeared from his videos and into drugs, sued Sony for a release from his contract (“slavery”) and basically retired right in front our lusty eyes. All the public wanted was more George. Fun George. Cheeky George. The greatest irony and sadness of his later life is that George, the man who taught me so much about gayness, had such a terrible time functioning as a gay man. As an “out” person he seemed so much like a caged animal, unable to resolve the dichotomy of his gifts and our strange fixation on his sex.

It has been said that fame is a crucible. But what is there to be forged from the creature that penned the glorious “Careless Whisper” on a city bus at the tender age of 17? Like the ancient Greeks George Michael was only ever meant to be golden, and like St. Sebastian he was already beautifully pierced. He had some wonderful things to say as an older man, and an out one, but they did not match the delicious ironies of his early presence. The very first songs with Wham! hold up for being oddly mature. I will always be grateful for the day I saw him smiling up at me and mouthing the words to “Wake Me Up”. I am not sure that I expected he would stay. But I never imagined he’d go away - it all felt so eternal.

Hiding in plain sight is one of the oldest forms of drag. One just operated in their societal role and signified from within. George telegraphed this idea beautifully, but as a star. He was the costume and the closet, and could convey many messages at once: ordinary, glam, hard working, self-serious, wounded or horny. But to do it most perfectly, he needed his youth and he needed his beauty, even though as an old soul he understood neither. As one of our stealthiest gay men he crept up on us all, took our hearts, and left us way too soon.

But that is love. That is a love song.

George Michael, 1963-2016

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Certainty

12/26/2016

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This year a friend of mine lost his job. Like most of us it wasn’t a job he loved – it was a job that paid for his life. He is at that moment, right before you make a new choice, where you feel completely lost, absolutely mistaken, where every past move looks like the wrong move in hindsight. These are terrible moments of uncertainty.

This year I raced out and voted for Hilary Clinton. Not because I believed in her but because Donald Trump is so wildly unfit to be a public servant (and I will graciously leave my description at that). This was also a moment of uncertainty. I knew that if she won the inevitable American desire for a fresh change would turn rancid against her and nothing would get done. At the very best liberals, women, gays, and minorities would have been able to breathe a little easier for the next four years.

This year I saw myself through a couple of huge art projects: the completion and publishing of “This Gay Life” (a graphic novel) and “Faces New York – The Digital Drawings”. I poured everything I had into them with a real sense of urgency, and making them was truly rewarding. But did they pass muster – did they connect? Were they not rushed into production for fear that if I did not I wouldn’t have had the confidence to pursue them at all? Were they good enough? I am not certain.

Yesterday my friend called me. He said I don’t know what to do – I’m lost. And I knew exactly what he meant. To be an artist without that absolute, all consuming path, a deeply etched direction, is to be just like everyone else – a little lost. So I told him so. I admitted that while I have always been good at a lot of things I have never had a single clue just what it is I really wanted, or what I should really be doing with my life. And so what? I exclaimed. Who does? I just want to create things. I could hear him breathing on the other end of the phone line.

There. I admitted it.

Direction can be an illusion; sure to change, end abruptly, and tell us exactly nothing. I ask a lot of myself as an artist but a lot of this is vanity, or that deep insecurity that beats the drum to say yes! See me? I matter. I did this thing. And I’ll be damned if this does not remind me of a certain newly elected official, boasting and bragging all the day and night but connecting – really connecting – with no one. I wish him luck. Even more I wish him wisdom.

For me I am going to stick with where I am at – a little uncertain, and I’ll see where it goes.

See you in 2017.

x - Mark

Posted in Oranjestad, Aruba.

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Bazaar

6/25/2016

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"Bazaar" is a rediscovered piece I wrote in January 2011 and never posted. I hope you enjoy it now.

Lately I’ve been feeling exhausted (it is that time of year). Trying to find a balance between life, work and love, especially during mid-life, feels nearly impossible. I’ve been caught in a rapid, circular trap, rushing from one activity to the next (including sleeping and showering – I might be the king of the 7 minute shower) and before I know what I have done I am rushing out of the door to the next ‘do’. So yesterday I decided to take a small break. I woke up in the morning, grabbed the phone from behind my pillow, and called in sick.

Before I could begin my break I got up, made some coffee, and headed toward the deli to grab some milk. Halfway there (one block) and half asleep I thought a slice of pound cake might be a treat so at the store I bought myself one. Sitting in front of my laptop I worked on the finishing touches for an art project I’ve been on for months now and nibbled my cake with the coffee. I was working, yes, but as I had the whole day ahead of me I felt calmer already. Project done I checked all of my accounts for activity (email and Facebook) as I always do.

Oh how those hours do fly. The computer – once an object and activity of derision – now completely occupies my life. I cannot be alone. I network. I search. I watch. I rock. I roll. I draw on it, design on it, and I stare at my laptop for hours and hours on end. We all pretend to go pale when we hear of teenagers gaming for days but are we adults so removed? Day dissolved so quickly into afternoon that I barely noticed. When I looked up it was near twilight, and most of my day had been spent front of the glowing blue screen of my device.

This would not do. I quickly rose up and showered. After dressing I stood and looked west out of my living room window to watch the sun set so beautifully (as it does), staring across Queens toward NYC. I had decided to go out and try a Thai restaurant I had read about in a Times review; working nights rarely gave me the chance. I had an entrée already in mind: crispy pork with Chinese broccoli. I set out.

I travelled down Roosevelt Ave (a gritty change from the more genteel and village-like neighborhood of most of Jackson Heights) and cut right towards Elmhurst. It was night by now, and this was new territory. Walking across a couple of avenues west it became spookily quiet: a little chilly and very urban blight. I quickened my pace – ah! – Woodside Avenue. I spot the restaurant. As I enter it is nearly full – all of the bohemes and foodies of the area plus me. I am alone but I have a good book ( Joan Didion’s “The White Album” in a small vintage paperback). The pork and broccoli, chewy fat morsels meeting a pop of crunchy green in a vinegary meat broth, is superb ($8). I feel great. I feel like I am living. The meal goes down quickly and before I know it I am back on the street.

By now it is very dark outside. I am not feeling that solitary walk toward Roosevelt so I take a right toward lights and activity. I think this will also take me home. Ten years in Jackson Heights and everything on this side of town is new to me: Halal stores, 99¢ shops, vendors, fast food joints and by the time I am at 82nd street I see the Indian movie house (which I know) and a huge, well lit vegetable store called Mango Rico (which I don’t). I go right in - it is amazing. How could I have missed this store, three tiny blocks from home? I start to check out the produce lit by a warm yellow glow - a huge variety of cassava and roots I am unfamiliar with, a wonderfully fresh combination of South American and Asian food being rapidly stocked right before my eyes. The joint is packed with regulars all going about their weekly shopping and it is then that I think it (I know it): I love this city. So much around you all of the time and all you have to do is open your eyes! Mango Rico has a well-used quality that I love. We all peck around the veggies like chickens, picking up this, eyeballing that, each of us trying to forecast what might be good to eat this week. It is fulfilling enough to simply soak in the colors of the food. I grab two limes (20¢), a bunch of cilantro and parsley (79¢ each), an avocado ($1), a bunch of very fresh, tight broccoli ($1.29) and a couple of jalapeños (19¢) – just the things I am in the mood for. I walk out for around $4.

As I head home with my tiny plastic bag of treasures I feel more relaxed than I have in a while, pursuing these solitary pleasures but in the world, too. Nothing makes me feel quite as alive (save drawing and painting). The computer that has absorbed so much of my attention lately has also left me on empty (like the night shifts I pull down and the other ceaseless tasks we are all required to do every day). New York City is an especially tough place to get things done – mundane tasks feel almost impossible here. But to wander its streets – just for a couple of hours – what a wonderful thing to do. Senses reawaken. You are alone but surrounded. You are not just thoroughly but truly involved. For the few stolen hours that reality dissolves and you disappear into the crowded streets we townies become sightseers again, and it is in these rare moments I reawaken and realize something true: New York City is magic.

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My Bowie.

1/20/2016

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Let's dance
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues
Let's dance
Dance to the song they're playing on the radio
Let's sway
While color lights up your face
Let's sway
Sway through the crowd in an empty space.

Like many in my generation David Bowie came to me via MTV and the 1983 single “Let’s Dance”. Back then I soaked it all up with equanimity: Prince, New Edition, Duran Duran – it all blurred together, the avant-garde and homemade at once, and right there on TV. Television as a delivery system wasn’t new of course, but the nonstop streaming of sounds and images certainly was; unbeknownst to me one of the great pinnacles of Bowie’s career had arrived.

Later, much later, in college, and post college, and then post post college, Bowie’s catalog became more known to me. My gay friends referenced him a lot as a visual icon and tastemaker. Staring at the album covers for Low or Heroes and at his presentation, well, how could one not be influenced by it? But for me Bowie was chained to the ethos and mannerisms of Rock n Roll, and if I did not get fed via Disco or the New Wave, well, I didn’t get fed. But certain people inevitably brought Bowie back into the mix.

With his passing I now realize just how saturated Bowie is in music, fashion, and culture. With my head deep in the clubs little did I understand how important David was to every pop movement since ’69. While he never delivered a gay image per se (I was always looking for them) he was the queerest mix of outsider and insider. In the 70s, with his taste for costumes and the outré, I see him today as THE great facilitator: never settling down to one pose for fear his antennae would miss the signals and fail to bring about the next.

I see it now – Bowie had been a deep influence. Without him would Punk, Glam, Krautrock, Ambient, Electronica, New Wave or Disco be the same? David was brave. He was kind. And it seems he was completely alone in bringing it all down to America - bringing it to me. We certainly would not have his truest heir, Madonna. She followed his every move, drawing from the street, capturing the zeitgeist, and serving it to the 80s and 90s. She had the same kind of antennae. Both were presenters for their eras, and not so much by changing their costumes but by changing their hair (rarely did either star resort to a wig). In a way it is their claim to authenticity: they committed.

Even now I cannot say that I am a superfan of Bowie’s music – hey, I never was. I chose Madonna – she was gayer and blacker in her influences. But I would be infinitely poorer without him: that strange beautiful stare, the loneliness, the art, the access to the avant-garde, I mean, where else were the suburbs going to get it? Sometimes it felt like it was enough just to look at him. His poses and attitudes being more distillations than costumes, I guess David Bowie was an alien, and perhaps it was David Jones that actually left us: that sweet, smart and loving soul talking to me from the past in the many interviews online. I have really been digging watching Bowie in his various incarnations describe what he is going for as Aladdin Sane, or Ziggy, or as a Plastic. It is all so smart, so searching, and so incomplete. It is hard to contemplate a man who is always in process, and now that he is gone there is this incredible record of that process. The whole of it feels like art, and I feel richer for it.

This week, with so much written about his life and work the song that seems to be on repeat in my brain is from the album Scary Monsters: “It’s No Game (Part 1)”. I guess it is apropos. For David Bowie it was no game; he was truly reaching out, and beyond, and then further beyond. It feels as if he is reaching further still.

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Keeping It Fresh.

1/14/2015

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What defines a movement? What makes something alive, and of the moment? I awoke this morning with these things on my mind.

Some of you are following my graphic novel This Gay Life (www.thisgaylife.net), in weekly installments. When I began the series I was nervous to draw, type or write the word “Gay” every week. It had me asking questions: is it obnoxious to self-identify as gay over and over again? Does this let people in, or does it shut them out? Is it embarrassing? More importantly – is it interesting?

The excitement of working through my story (semi-fictionalized but grounded in my history) gave me the courage to do something so “Gay”. I found that the more I challenged myself to be truthful the better the comics became. As I distilled my experiences onto “paper” (I compose on a Mac) I slowly realized how common my feelings and ambitions actually were. I wasn’t documenting anything revolutionary; instead I was showing the pains and trials of growing up. Yes, I am recording my little slice of gay history (sorely needed in this holographic age) but I am also retelling the universal story of becoming who you are while slowly piecing together who you are not; writ small, the story of self-acceptance.

Alack! as they say in Shakespeare. After 2 Seasons and into the middle of the 3rd that initial thrill has become hard, hard work. On many days I wonder: if the thrill is gone, why continue? I have struggled to keep it going. I do have those moments, when the drawings and story transport me, but then it is back to the grindstone. Do I really want to grind these out? Was this my intention?

Well, I guess I do. Every time I am convinced that I should quit, the story calls me back. I am never too sure that it will all be cohesive (even though the episodes are carefully plotted) but perhaps this blindness is one of the things pulling me along. I am also conscious that I am recording my bit of gay history – the 80s into the 90s – because one day it may be important for someone, somewhere to make a connection with this period of gay bars, compact discs, Mtv and the AIDS epidemic. Back then this potent mix felt so fresh and modern. The music was so good. The art was so good. There was a lot to fight for. Of course this was just another decade defining itself.

Nowadays we are past it all. With social media it’s Flash! Flash! Superstars, one and all. No small town gay bars, no smalltown boys and girls. My fear is that we’re all forgetting where we’ve been. So I write This Gay Life. I continue.

By now the word doesn’t seem so Gay anymore. Gay men and women are being absorbed into the mainstream. As a result our particular struggle, language, culture, and outsider status seems to be vanishing. I guess it is only natural – the struggle moves on. Watching this season’s best new show, Transparent (which tells the story of a straight father of 3 grown kids transitioning from male to female) has shown me how the ideas of straight, gay, and queerness can evolve into new and fresh patterns. Yes! Here are people like me still looking for love, honor, and acceptance. Here are characters like me but not just like me. And as they tell their stories perhaps I become a little wider, a little deeper, a little more compassionate. The revolution is indeed still on, but it won’t be televised. It’s streaming on Amazon.

(This Gay Life premieres a new episode each Friday.)

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Facsimile

3/31/2013

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This Week I just finished watching Steven Soderbergh's documentary (collage?) of Spauding Gray's life called And Everything Is Going Fine. Spaulding Gray, actor and monologuist from the 70s-00s, is perhaps most famous for a piece called “Swimming To Cambodia”. As an artist he has always lurked on the edges of my consciousness; I understood that his was performance art as much as anything. I also knew that this was a performer working out his history through his neurotic tendencies and as such I avoided him. For some reason the time felt right to look back.

Soderbergh's film is just Gray – snippets of interviews and video recordings of his performances in skip time. I loved the opening scene – obviously a lo-fi vhs tape- with Spaulding in his classic set-up: a lone table, a mic, a spiral-bound notebook, and a glass of water. The image flutters from acid color to b&w and back again quite beautifully (so like Soderbergh to open with tape) as Gray begins to unwind his stories for us. I didn't find him funny; dry and amusing is more like it. But his accounts of life as a New England Wasp are entrancing. He is completely transparent in his need to perform, as if the only way to understand his life was to tell it back to an audience. What was surprising was how unneurotic it actually all was. These pieces have a beautiful calm. It did become art, and of the best kind: pieces easy to absorb because the artist has done all of the work. It also occurred to me how prevalent this kind of work has become, undoubtedly influencing ironists like the writer David Sedaris and the NPR series “This American Life”. It is also possible that Gray is a link between the confessional but high-toned writer of the past and reality television today. What preserves Spaulding Gray as unique is an 80s East Village vibe (it is no mistake that Jonathan Demme directed his only film). This stuff is redolent of the New Wavers and the 80s art scene in New York. He was a part of that time and space.

There is a slide show above

Another artist has reached me obliquely this week as well – Justin Timberlake's new album “The 20/20 Experience” has just been released to boffo sales (no surprise). To be honest while some of his songs are quite good I have never warmed to his voice. I was oblivious to 'Nsync and tepid at best to “Future Sex / Love Sounds”; the latter sounded new in one way – stripped and robotic – and glaringly derivative in another – one in a long line of Michael Jackson wannabes. However hearing the first single “Suit & Tie” I was surprised at how much I liked it – warm, fizzy and charming. I was surprised again to read some very lukewarm reviews of the new album. Even after “Suit & Tie” debuted to explosive sales I read critic Sash Frere-Jones describe it as a “widely regarded misstep”. Huh? Of course I had to download the album, and it is really beautiful. A little bumpy in the “funk” parts, it is delicious in its shimmery production and unabashed love for 80s RnB – the kind I love. I think what the critics smell here is the dread m.o.r.: middle of the road / soft rock / dance music. The kind they play on the radio, or used to, a lot. The kind of fusion “Off The Wall” perfected. And yes, he is no Michael Jackson but for once Timberlake does not seem to be pushing so hard to replicate this soul style or that vocal chop. Instead he is channeling the past just like he should, not as some kind of facsimile soul hitched to a brutal beat, but as sweet, impeccably produced rhythm and blues. Will it last? Who knows. For now it is a lovely distraction.

Speaking of the middle (the road, the brow, popular taste) I recently watched Judd Apatow's last film “This is 40”. Apatow produced the wonderful “Freaks & Geeks” for NBC in the late 90s but really cashed in with crude teen-styled film comedies in the 2000s: he directed “The 40 Year Old Virgin” (2005) and “Knocked Up” (2010), extending his brand as a producer with “Superbad” (2007) and the wildly successful “Bridesmaids” (2011). What all of these films share beyond an adolescent male sensibility is a soft humanism, good dialogue, and dead-on jokes. Apatow makes films everyone seems to agree on – smart, silly and fun. Yet again I was intrigued as one tepid review after another appeared for “This is 40”, all to suggest that 'we love you Judd...but don't get old'. A good looking film with a deluxe budget, a lovely cast (including the always dependable Paul Rudd and a wicked Albert Brooks) as predicted the film goes nowhere. A family with money problems drives their BMWs to palatial homes with their swimming pools twinkling in the California sun. No one looks middle aged, and the jokes don't land. It would seem that even acting like an adult takes the fun out an Apatow movie. While not exactly humorous it is, like its director, extremely good humored and fun to watch. OK it's Life-Lite, dressed up impossibly fancy, and with nowhere to go dramatically. But like his doppelganger James L. Brooks even when it is all too much like a sitcom one never comes away exactly empty handed. Everyday people and all of their foibles are lovingly filmed, and that accounts for something.

And as a parting thought, what is HBOs “Girls” actually all about? We are two seasons in and no wiser. Is this Apatow produced series one long Lena Dunham journal entry? Is it a style piece? A pop tart? Why can't those girls cry convincingly? If their parents don't support them who pays for those one bedroom apartments in Williamsburg or Bushwick? Is this retrograde or future feminist? Is it teeny bop or current slice-of-life? The tone jumps around like crazy and while I enjoy Lena Dunham as a writer and enjoy these characters let's face it – none of these girls can act. It's appalling, actually. Where's Stella Adler when you need her? Ok she is dead but can't they cut an onion at cry time or something? Because if I remember correctly 20somethings, even in hip Brooklyn, do have feelings – lots in fact. And as a New Yorker I am here to tell you that in reality these cute white girls would actually be living in The Bronx. Because bad actresses without an income don't make it in New York, baby. Not without some tears.

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Tastes Like Summer

7/18/2012

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Hey everyone. In the spirit of summer I have decided to hang back, cool down, and do sort of a rolling blog ala This Week In the Culture, sharing some points of interest thus far. There is a little slide show above. And keep those a/cs cranking – it’s brutal out there.

Hi, Hellow.

Walking down 6th Avenue near Rock Center this phrase loudly greets you from one of the running LED signs atop a Middle Eastern Gyro Truck (what we call “Street Meat” at work). Ever since I came here I have always been amazed at the amount of misspelled signs one can see all around the city – big expensive signs, even neon, welcoming you to All U Can Et, or for Dinnar. I always wonder to myself – don’t any English speakers work at the signage places? Don’t they have computers, or spell check? The word Coffe committed to neon cannot be cheap, right? The other side of me loves the sheer madness of the entrepreneurial spirit that runs amok in New York. And to tell the truth, Hi, Hellow, strikes me as kind of poetic.

It is in the wild but true spirit of the city that I’d like to say goodbye to Nora Ephron (1941-2012). I picked up Heartburn last year in a used bookstore (a beautiful first edition that I cannot find anywhere dammit) never having read her before but being fully aware of her screen credits and her vibe. What a treat: a witty account of the 80s, divorce, ambition, lust and food (recipes punctuate the dramatic highs) in a voice that we must all by now recognize as hers. She wrote the screenplay for When Harry Met Sally, a film so effortless that I dismissed it in my 20s (having had zero life experience). Every line in the movie is memorable, and I guarantee she wrote them all. More to the point was that she said all of these true things with a wit and humor always leavened by a life-affirming ebullience. I just could not believe she had passed; even worse, I did not know how big of a fan I was. It was another of her gifts – to permeate the culture without a trace of ego. She never complained about being a woman in any of the nearly all-male fields she worked in (newspaper journalism, magazine writer, editor, screenwriter, movie director); instead she exemplified it. She had a New York attitude in the best sense: lusty for pleasure, direct, open to the new, and compassionately funny. She filled the world with a crackerjack spirit – nothing fussy, nothing fashionable, and while yes, I know she left us her legacy, God I will miss her.

And from the sublime…last week I too was sucked right into the theatre to screen Magic Mike with every other horny housewife/trashy gay guy in the vicinity. Of course I have standards and went for the supposed arch screenplay working the Urban Cowboy slant: gritty economic realism throbbing beneath the images of popping muscles. The film is beautifully shot, and in a very green gray palette, and while the dialogue is superbly handled (all of the actors speak very naturalistically) the action made me queasy. I admired the choreographed strip scenes (which were not coy) as well as the way the gay subtext was acknowledged and then discarded (no need for everyone to say buddy every five seconds) but I kept waiting for something terrible to happen. I felt like I was watching a version of The Godfather filmed in a Florida strip mall. No one’s aspirations seemed even remotely possible: there is only the unholy dollar and the grind. I actually found it oppressively sad. The sleaze was very real, but the film is nowhere near any kind of expose. I did enjoy Soderbergh’s film obsessions (70s techniques, very pale colors) and, lo and behold, I enjoyed Matthew McConaughey. One of my least favorite performers (can you say sleazy?) he is brilliantly cast as the ring leader/snake charmer of South Florida, dominating every other performer in the film, and when it is finally time for him to strip at the end of the film, I understood what had been missing: real charm, talent, and the best looking post 40s bod imaginable. Nonetheless, the movie is kind of grim.

At now to the grim and sublime: last night I streamed the 2010 documentary The Woodmans on Netflix. I first read about the photographer Francesca Woodman in The New York Times last year (she had a retrospective at The Guggenheim); the novelty was that in 1981 this young, brilliant woman leapt to her death at 22, the victim of art or depression or both. Her self-portraits, all in b&w, are incredibly assured and magnetic. They are a little necro, a little narcissistic, but deeply committed works, and visually amazing. The documentary explores her family: her father, mother, and brother, who are all lifelong artists. It is the usual series of talking heads as the film delves into the past; I think I was waiting for the revelation that art had killed her, either by her own ambition or the ambition of her parents. As usual the truth seemed elusive or impossible to discover. While everyone seemed to grieve her, they all seemed to be competing with her as well, her posthumous fame far exceeding any of their own. While the tragedy hovered over and ate up most of the film, I started wondering whether The Woodmans weren’t a little cold after all: the mother stating that she could not conceive of living around anyone who did not live and breathe art, and the father gruesomely taking up photography late in life and mimicking Francesca’s work. But the truth I did discover was that none of them could touch what she left behind: timeless and profoundly committed photographs, all there in black and white.

That's it for now. And if you see my copy of Heartburn let me know. I’m dying.

Nora Ephron’s Vinaigrette (from "Heartburn")

“Mix 2 tablespoons Grey Poupon mustard with 2 tablespoons good red wine vinegar. Then, whisking constantly with a fork, slowly add 6 tablespoons olive oil, until the dressing is thick and creamy.”

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Goo Goo Ga Ga

3/23/2012

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Madonna has just released her 12th studio album, "MDNA" (get it?) and I am happy to announce that it is in most ways a return to form. Dance-y, electric, bitchy, personal and silly, it has it all. Her last record ”Hard Candy” could have been made by just about anyone with the same producers. It isn’t that it did not have its moments (to quote Bridget Jones “she is nothing if not professional”) but it lacked, well, her. But what is “her”? What has Madonna meant as an artist – and is it worth paying attention to anymore?

In this decade the new mainstream street urchin is certainly Lady Gaga. If the zeitgeist then was the New York East Village Scene, the theme of the 2000s (I will not say aughts) is the robot. Not the festive dance craze of the 70s, but people as automatons, vis-à-vis glazed sexuality and autotune. Lady Gaga, especially in her first incarnation, brought this concept to a mass audience just as Madonna brought the New York dance scene to us in the 80s. Of course I am old now so Gaga resonated zero with me – it seemed silly. This is how I know that I’ve matured past the sell-by date of current diva pop. But I would not say that I was unaware.

There have been the inevitable comparisons to Madge. Cold sexuality? Check. Grandstanding? Check. Faux outrageous acts? Check and check. Madonna, however, has always sourced black and gay for her inspirations. Gaga, by comparison, sources aliens and (at least lately) Elton John as her style references. I have considered this for a while; just as Gaga coerced her gay and tweenie fans with Eurotrash she certainly pulls equally from rock n roll (at least today). Her primary difference, in the end, is that she has what Madonna lacks: a full, rich and powerful voice.

Ergo the endless remarks that Gaga is “talented” and that Madonna is not. Well, people, how many Madonna tunes can you hum right now? A lot! She co-wrote them all. She depends on collaborators! you say. Wow- what astute choices, I say. I am here to suggest that not only is Madonna talented but prodigiously so. Love her or leave her she makes one strong record after another, including a bona fide original (her first album “Madonna”). There is her rock solid instinct in choosing her songs and collaborators, fine tuning them so that they stick, and keeping her style just edgy and modern enough to keep her current. This talent has been attributed to her business savvy, which is not quite accurate: it is more like an animal instinct. Bowie had it as well in his day.

I know she is desperate and probably unfriendly but Madonna captured lightning in a bottle for so much of the 80s and 90s crowd. I also know it is the same for the fans of Gaga, a genre-defying fame junkie just like her. But I would say the comparison stops there. The answer to my question is yes: Madonna rules. And the bitch is back.

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Exhale

2/15/2012

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So Whitney Houston (1963-2012) has passed away. If you are not under a rock I am sure you have been flooded with images of her, flashing across television screens all over, old Whitney, Bodyguard Whitney, young and dewy fresh Whitney (“You Give Good Love”). It is hard not to have some sort of response if you are over 30. She was with us as a media presence for a long time, even as her life was cut short.

I was at dinner with my partner and friends – we had just been sat. As I returned from the restroom everyone had their Smartphone out and stunned looks on their faces. It is the kind of news you have to tell, and they did. My stomach fell. I didn't know why this affected me so much; is it because she had been with us for so long? I can personally attest that “I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me)” inspired sensations of murder in me – they played that thing relentlessly. It was goody-goody and hard driving at once. I cannot have been alone in this. Still I was deeply affected at her passing.

She had actually already lost the voice – that beautiful voice – years earlier. For her last “comeback” record (I Look To You, 2009) she could sadly no longer hit the 2nd and 3rd registers of her famous 3 octave range. Maybe this was when it set in that I missed her, not because I had loved her so much in the 80s (I remember how sparkling her first single sounded as a teen driving to the beach, but let’s be honest, most of it was cheesy to me), but because someone great had left the room. Just like Michael Jackson, it is very easy to take a gift for granted when it is delivered so effortlessly and with such command. Whitney, even at the end, never sang a song she did not positively own. She was a pro.

I think that her best period, her prime, is The Bodyguard /Waiting To Exhale period. I have read and heard a lot of interesting discussion on just what Houston did to the style of music after 1985 (and the many successive acolytes starting with Mariah Carey). Basically she made polite ballads popular again. Songs of love and longing, never lust, and certainly not revenge. That is why they were corny to a teenage me. By the time of The Bodyguard her style had matured and became smokier. The songs were at once more demanding (“I Have Nothing”) and less fussy (“I Will Always Love You”). It began a period of more stripped down material that let to one of her finest moments, “Exhale (Shoop Shoop)”, a winding and conversational moment for her. It was clearly the work of an adult, a mature woman, and an artist in her prime. It shows no production, there are no fingerprints on it, it is just her. I had always imagined she produced it herself.

And at the height of her beauty, talent and fame she met and married Bobby Brown. This is what haunts us still, the fact that she sullied a perfectly constructed image, first as America’s sweetheart, then our favorite soul diva. I had always been aware of the other Whitney, a fiercely combative interviewee, with a very haughty and testy persona. There was always confrontation and danger in those eyes, no? She had the haughtier of a queen. The marriage and drug abuse only exaggerated what we already knew. It made her fall from grace seem like a natural devolution. I have heard her say that she never felt like a real person until she met Bobby Brown – because he wanted her so directly. In so defined a person this was bound to create two versions- good Whitney and bad Whitney, the public and the private. Our fascination at her passing is in this dichotomy: we cannot believe that something so young and fresh had changed, and then passed. It is the American way that we push our heroes to the brink.

As there are no accidents, perhaps she was waiting to exhale and she actually did want to dance with somebody who loved her. It is sad that it led her down such a long and destructive path. But it is worthy of her that we must now piece it all back together: old Whitney, young Whitney, crack head Whitney, and that impossibly fresh smiling lovely young girl who enchanted us all. As the story unfolds for us one thing is certain: those “cheesy” safe ballads have more than stood the test of time. In their very accessibility they had hidden an absolute master of American song.

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Wide Awake, Still Dreaming

1/10/2012

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Michael: Harold, don't you have any other music , you know, from this century?
Harold: There is no other music, not in my house.
Michael: There's been a lot of terrific music in the last ten years.
Harold: Like what?

Television is a drag when you work nights – there is rarely anything on when you stumble in after 11pm. But Friday I came home to find a treat of sorts: New York 55 was running The Big Chill (Lawrence Kasdan, 1983). I had not seen it in many years, and I cannot for the life of me remember screening it the first time, which is unusual. I know that I was in Charleston SC, a senior in high school, and deep into movies.

What I do remember is immediately accepting every character in the warmest way – all of them youngish, rich and interesting, but not teenagers. Nine characters gather at a funeral to say goodbye to Alex, a bright light from college. We know he was special because they are all morose as they attend, and we know their heyday from the soundtrack, a highly effective Top 20 playlist from the mid to late 60s. As Jobeth Williams plays The Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” on the organ while the casket is being removed, we know they are edgy and kooky, too.

The scene is a beautiful coastal town in the South. Alex is gone (a famously cut Kevin Costner), so we have a weekend sleepover with resident yuppies Harold and Sarah (Kevin Kline and Glenn Close), Nick the drug dealer/washout (a very seminal William Hurt), lawyer and potential inseminate Meg (a memorable Mary Kay Place), cynic, opportunist and “People” writer Michael (a pre-pumped Jeff Goldblum), Chloe, the young girlfriend Alex left behind (the odd and wonderful Meg Tilly), and finally the triangular set Karen, husband Richard and hot TV actor Sam (the very good JoBeth Williams, straight-laced Don Galloway, and superhunk Tom Berenger, in very fine form). Karen and Richard are rich suburbanites, Richard leaves early in the film but has important scenes, and Sam holds a flame for Karen. Our nine characters are left to put together the pieces of their lives and relationships in one short weekend.

The film still had a magic for me as I watched them all play set pieces with one another. This is a very canny product – deliberately written and cut, all of the jokes judiciously placed, and the vibe set to both the 60s (soundtrack) and the 80s (aging hipsters making dough). What is remarkable to consider was that as a young man in my teens and as an older man in my 40s my reaction was the same: the movie has a perfectly evoked sense of nostalgia, comfort food, and good jokes. Yes some of the lines read as if right off of a page (before he leaves lawyer Richard has a particularly wooden scene where he questions the whole hippy-dippy group and the dead friend Alex while he makes a midnight snack). What I slowly realized re-watching the movie was that the crucial ingredient here is the most obvious: these aren’t Yuppies, they’re Boomers. I had never even connected the two because I am a Gen X’er. The slick comfort the movie effuses is from one of the most coddled, loved, free and protected group of souls that America has ever produced. Their problems aren’t problems, they are developments, and their trysts are movie perfect because they are all as safe as houses, well, just like the big mansion they cavort in. Our poorest character, the drug addled Nick, drives a Porsche! Many scenes are set around eating, sleeping or shopping. This is the Baby Boom edition of America: beautiful, safe and white. No wonder it was and is so easy to plug into: these are very easy lives.

The rub is that it is still so interesting to watch. It cannot help its roots (our writer/director Kasdan and all of the main actors involved here were born from 1947-1950, excluding Meg Tilly) and it doesn’t try. In many ways the picture plays out like a therapy session, yet there is an edge to the scenarios - I think there is a deeper questioning in the film. What sells The Big Chill is the Boomer soft soap opera that unspools; what saves it is a deeper question of the world these people live in. Our cynic and “People” writer Michael (Jeff Goldblum) is “tired of his best work being read in the can”, Nick (Hurt) questions every character’s glib and easy life, Meg (Mary Kay Place) wonders how she ended up as the wrong kind of lawyer, Karen (Jobeth Williams) rages for a fully passionate sex life, Sam (Berenger) knows television is hollow (as he drinks his way to the funeral), and Sarah and Harold (Close and Kline) have a perfectly safe marriage. We know this because Sarah can only let loose her feelings in the shower, and Harold can only make jokes. Then there is Chloe, and she is the astringent for the whole film. Young and in her 20s, with none of the established ties and sureties of our main group, her very presence questions and undermines every scene. Whether she stares serenely out at the camera or misses every easy reference to the past her presence questions the very ground upon which they all tread. Our group is in 'therapy' trying to find Alex, absorb the meaning of his failed life, and modify their own lives in the process. Meanwhile Chloe (Tilly) is nearly in her own movie, laughing at all of the wrong spots, and never relating. She surely adds a contrast and depth to the film that it would not have had otherwise.

One of the surest arguments for the relevance of The Big Chill is the use of the video camera as a device. Years before Sex, Lies and Videotape (Steven Soderbergh, 1989) there are many scenes where the camera is actually a character. Nick (Hurt) picks up a video camera and films a mock self-interview (and Chloe first connects to him listening close by), and soon they are all filming one another. (Michael the cynic has a wonderful moment where instead of simply picking the thing up he studies the manual.) There are scenes where the characters are simply watching their own characters. This is very subtly woven into the movie, and I would suggest that it takes naval gazing into something like prescience: before we were watching The Kardashians (and ourselves) do everything on camera, The Big Chill was slyly watching itself. I think Kasdan knew where these people were going, which was exactly nowhere. Karen sleeps with Sam, but goes right back to boring Richard. No one changes a scintilla. What actually happens is that time has become frozen for these aging Boomers just as it is still frozen today. We have plenty of technology but we still live the Boomtown dream: watching ourselves do what we do, asking questions that don’t require answers, and risking very little. The salient question The Big Chill seemed to ask was where do we go from here? I don’t believe it could answer that question, and I believe we are asking it still. What is revelatory (and satisfying) is that these are adults trying to connect to their young selves, not adults trying to be their young selves. Imagine that.

But whatever dude. Pass me the doobie. I wanna watch it again!

*

For an addendum to this blog read Kurt Anderson’s interesting article You Say You Want a Devolution about cultural stagnation in last month’s issue of Vanity Fair.

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