It's a miracle. We'd long ago passed off L Magazine box #3577 for dead... but no, it lives. Plucked from the streets (we guess?) to add zest to this hep bachelor pad, we can only assume little #3577 was exposed to all manner of yucky things on "the inside" (key parties, Xbox, the films of Joe Pesci). For reasons we do not know, we kept the whole ordeal a secret... until now. So yeah, dude, if you see this, could you please put the box back on the street? (And maybe lose the area rug, too.)
Thanks to tipster Don.
I'm all for moving on, but does it strike anyone else as a bit strange that Alice in Chains would send out a press release about their upcoming album, their first in over ten years, without mentioning Layne Staley even once? At best, it's a sort of sad, if also understandable—his death had to have been hard on the rest of the band. At worst, it's the kind of thing that makes the last paragraph after the jump, right before the tour dates, seem terribly disingenuous.
Planting a flag in the crack between the opposing cheeks of pulp and poetry, Kanji Nakajima’s The Clone Returns Home, screening tomorrow at the New York Asian Film Festival, engages Tarkovsky but considers and reconsiders the longing and perils of twinship as no film has done since Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers. The hero in this semi-somnambulistic dream-film is an astronaut who agrees to be cloned in case of a deep-space accident, and who, we slowly learn via a large and languid flashback, tragically lost a twin brother when he was young. When the astronaut is in fact killed on a mission, the identical clone/new twin is awoken, into a state of loss, and escapes, searching for his/their childhood home, and the other self/twin he remembers but in fact never had. Then a second clone is generated, and sent searching for the first. In his third mysterioso film, Nakajima makes the most of impossibly lyrical images: the spaceman floating through a blue afternoon sky, the astronaut’s widow sobbing in confusion about how to accept the new edition of her husband, the clone lugging the spacesuited corpse (which is, at times, only an empty spacesuit) across the countryside and collapsing in exhaustion, only to have the suit sluggishly sit up, pick up his "brother" and resume the march. Everything is allegorical, twinness is as much a dilemma of love as it is of identity, and grief seeps in like floodwater.
Quincy Jones's VIBE Magazine, founded in 1993 and branded as the black Rolling Stone, suffered the latest shocking entertainment industry death today. An official announcement is still in the works, so a visit to the VIBE website will only reveal the final round in their "Best Rapper Ever" contest — between Eminem, who's on their current cover, and the fellow at right, so you should vote (for the one who's dead).
That hasn't stopped news of the music, lifestyle, fashion and entertainment magazine's demise from popping up all over the web. How will you commemorate VIBE and its acrobatic feats of demographic-spanning daring? For my part, I'll be re-reading all my old issues from the late 90s (when the format was still mega-huge), skipping over any coverage devoted to R&B and Will Smith (so basically half of every issue), and remembering those care-free days when the internet was just a benign, non-threatening bleep on the magazine industry's radar.
Since November, poor Minnesota has been sitting, lonely, at the very northern edge of the county, enduring the taunts of all the other states, sad because it only had one Senator. At one time, long ago, they did have a second Senator, albeit human smarm rag Norm Coleman. (God damn do we miss Paul Wellstone.) But then, there was a very close four-way race between Coleman, Stuart Smalley, some wingnut or whatever, and the Lizard People. First it looked like Coleman won, but in fact the winner was the guy who cohosted Comedy Central's 1996 RNC coverage with Arianna Huffington, we learned after an exhaustive recount. And after several rounds of reputation-torpedoing running-in-place court challenges from increasingly desperate sore loser Coleman. Minnesota governor and confirmed nonentity Tim Pawlenty wouldn't certify the results; Senate Dems wouldn't risk a fight over in seating Al Franken because ooh, "partisanship".
But now! Al Franken will really and truly be the first LateLine cast member to make it to the Senate. (Muse well upon that, Miguel Ferrer!) The Minnesota Supreme Court ruled unanimously today that the election and recount and their results were just and unambiguous, as everyone already knew they would. But of course Norm Coleman will still probably appeal to the federal court system, and Tim Pawlenty seems to be in no hurry to certify the results. So maybe this is not actually news, any of this? UPDATE: No, it is news. Coleman has announced that he will cease further challenges and return to his busy life of raising money to run against Franken in six years, and Franken will go to Washington.
Still, though, eventually (UPDATE: Or rather, now), Al Franken will be Minnesota's second-best Senator (luv ya, Amy!). This would give the Democratic Party 60 seats in the Senate, which is enough votes stop Republican filibuster attempts and get along with the vitally important business of passing healthcare and climate-change legislation grotesquely watered down by Kent Conrad, Max Baucus, Ben Nelson et al (D-Corporate Interest and Profound Institutional Inertia).
Intern Amanda Kersey spent her Saturday night at Prospect Park for the Dr. Dog/Phosphorescent show, and gentlemen, there's something she'd like to tell you.
Soft-spoken Matthew Houck of Phosphorescent, showed muscle at Saturday night's Prospect Park show, further flustering already tipsy young women in the crowd.
When Houck rolled up his sleeves during his set, which included songs from his most recent record, To Willie, my friends and I gaped at his brawny upper arms. As he soulfully sang tribute to Willie Nelson, we wondered, where are there more of these sensitive, toned men? So boys, tack a poster of Houck to the wall and lift some weights. We'll adore you for it.
Bonus points, presumably, for finding a way to reveal your toned upper-arms without resorting to rolling up the sleeves on your t-shirt like a teenage girl in gym class.
Trek up to Harlem tonight for a truly unique summer-time outdoor performance art-music-theater-poetry whatsit at the Hispanic Society of America (Audubon Terrace between 155th and 156th St). The latest in a collaborative series called Tuesdays on the Terrace and organized by the Dia Art Foundation, tonight's event, titled The Collection of Silence, was conceived and created by poet, cultural theorist and generally fascinating genius Eileen Myles (pictured at right), and features a series of micro-performances all around the Hispanic Society's outdoor plaza including dancers, Buddhists (Buddhist dancers?) and a life drawing class. The performance is completely silent, per the title, and will therefore include a very unusual performance by opera singer Juliana Snapper.Things kick off at 7pm, and though the event is free you're better off RSVPing here.
(photo credit: Angela Carone)
The NY Post is reporting that Simon Cowell has been offered $144 million to continue his role as lead judge on American Idol. There's no denying, obviously, that were he to leave the show, there would basically be no show, but this is sort of a lot of money. So as a service to the good people at Fox, I've put together a list of possible replacements for the famously grumpy Brit, should the two parties be unable to reach an agreement.
"Jens Lekman Contracts Swine Flu" is the most eye-catching headline we've come across in some time; here at the L, we're big fans of the pocket-sized Swedish singer-songwriter and sometime-inaudibly whistling DJ, and we wish him a speedy recovery. Partly we wish this to alleviate our guilt at finding this news bizarrely delightful; partly we wish this because, judging from his own droll account of being taken ill on an Air France flight back from South America, the song he eventually writes about this experience will be really, really good.
If the guy can make this out of the experience of slicing one's finger with a kitchen knife, we have high hopes for what he does with global pandemic.
"I'm Leaving You Because I Don't Want You to Contract Swine Flu"? "Someone to Share My Contagion With"? "Do You Remember the Riots in Gothenberg? I Don't, Because I Was in Quarantine at the Time"? Et cetera. Thoughts?
One of the lesser-known entries in the screwball cycle of the 1930s is not only arguably one of the best, but until recently also one of the most elusive. Warner Archive has solved that problem by giving It's Love I'm After (1937) its first-ever home video release. This comedy of remarriage — one of screwball's most reoccurring themes, as in 1937's The Awful Truth and 1940's The Philadelphia Story — stars Leslie Howard and Bette Davis as a bickering theatrical couple whose petty, narcissistic arguments perpetually result in postponing their marriage. Their latest quarrel centers on a young, star-struck fan (Olivia de Havilland) who is hopelessly in love with Howard. Hoping to reunite her with her fiancé, Howard takes leave of Davis and joins de Havilland's family for the weekend, hamming it up as the world's biggest cad. To his dismay, this only endears him to de Havilland even more.
Hey, guess what, it's Iraqi Sovereignty Day! Even though the number of American troops in Iraq will be the same tomorrow as it was yesterday (about 130,000), their nervous presence on Iraqi streets has gone way down, upon Iraqi request. Basically, Americans aren't supposed to do that much now, unless they're asked — it's sort of a Simon Says of international agreements. Is this quote from the Times a harbinger of the new sovereign, secure Iraq? (Or maybe the reporter was just pissed about the snub.)
The military parade in the Green Zone on Tuesday — at the official monument to the unknown soldier — was attended primarily by Iraqi reporters and dignitaries. The public could not reach it because of extensive security restricting access to the area. Several American news organizations were also barred, including two television news networks and The New York Times, on the grounds that they did not have the appropriate badges.
Good luck, Iraqis. Bye for now.
Ugh, you guys. Just, ugh. As if I didn't already like Stuart Murdoch enough. Check out this lede from a Times piece about the Belle and Sebastian frontman's unfairly maligned new project, God Save the Girl.
On a damp April night, Stuart Murdoch sat at the piano in his Glasgow West End apartment and struggled to finish another sad song. It’s not as easy as it once was. Now beautiful women distract him. Perched next to Murdoch was Catherine Ireton, a singer from Ireland who features prominently in Murdoch’s new project, a movie musical he hasn’t quite finished writing. She texted while Murdoch hummed a melody. His wife, Marisa Privitera, was curled up on a nearby couch. She bears a striking resemblance to the French New Wave actress Jean Seberg, Murdoch’s favorite screen heroine — a likeness that was hard to miss, since she sat under a poster of Godard’s “Breathless” that featured Seberg. Murdoch played a few notes, but then stopped abruptly.“Marisa, what are you doing?”
Privitera looked up guiltily from her laptop. “Oh, sorry, I was just Facebooking,” she said. “That probably can wait.”
Her husband sighed dramatically. “Yes, please wait if you don’t mind,” he said. “We can give you a shaker if you need something to do.”
That's what I'm gonna start saying to interns from now on.
Is it me, or is somebody actively stage-managing the last few news cycles with an eye to freakish headlines and improbable stories? (Ok, so that's just a long-winded way of saying, "You can't make this stuff up!") Today's media feeding frenzy will no doubt focus on the lone survivor of an airbus crash in the Indian Ocean early this morning: as of this writing, it appears all 152 on board were killed — except for a single child.
This child, as of now an ungendered toddler (UPDATE: That toddler is in fact a 13-year-old girl) (who has probably already lined up a book deal) will have a very strange life that could go one of three ways:
Just the word "Israel" stirs up furious debate; add to that the name of controversial lawyer/author/Israel advocate Alan Dershowitz and you've got yourself a serious hullabaloo. Based on his 2003 book, The Case for Israel, directed by Michael Yohay and screening tonight as part of the Other Israel Film Festival, is documentary as argument, with Dershowitz as the main proponent.
The videos for songs off Kanye's latest album, 808s and Heartbreak, have been all over the place, and the latest is no exception. Javier Longobardo's anime-inspired CGI video for "Street Lights" is pretty, almost so pretty it could distract from the boring song, which builds just slowly enough to put you to sleep. And pretty as it is, it still looks like a half-finished video game or computerized action sequence. Like preceding clips for "Paranoid" (starring Rihanna), "Amazing" and "Heartless" (all of which are much better songs than "Street Lights"), the concept is interesting, but the execution totally half-assed. What I'm trying to say is, it might be cool in a designer video game kind of a way, but it's no "Love Lockdown". Am I right?
Since reading earlier this year that the Obamas would likely pick some Modern art to adorn the walls of the White House, I've been looking forward to the day they announced their selection. Nobody seems to know when their choices will start going up on the walls of their new home, but the ground rules stipulate that they can choose whatever they want for the private areas, while art destined for public wings has to be approved by a board of advisers and the person with the best job ever, the White House curator.
As we wait on the announcement, Artinfo asked a bunch of artists, curators, dealers and writers (including our very own Paddy Johnson!) what they would recommend to the art-shopping Obamas. Personally, I like the suggestion made by Shepard Fairey, the street artist who designed the iconic "Hope" posters, who suggested the Barbara Kruger poster above. Click here to read the whole Artinfo article, or leave your suggestions for White House art below (because, you know, the Obamas read The Measure like, all the time).
When I read this morning that after a huge increase in sales, both physical and digital, since his death on Thursday, it was being predicted that MIchael Jackson would return to the top of the charts when the week's numbers are released on Wednesday, I was all ready to do a post about it, then I decided it probably wasn't very surprising. A quick stop by the iTunes music store right now would tell you as much: seven of the top ten highest-selling tracks are by MJ, and seven of the ten best-selling full-lengths are as well, plus a whopping nine out of ten for the music video section.
But I'm sorta blown away by this piece over at Billboard, which says that Michael Jackson received a 1,735% boost in plays on terrestrial radio over the weekend. That is a lot of per cents.
In case you were wondering, here's a list of the ten songs that got the most plays. After the jump, of course.
So the Iranian Guardian Council (not to be confused with the Assembly of Experts, Sioux Falls Chamber of Commerce or the International House of Pancakes) conducted a recount today of 10 percent of the ballots and — SPOILER ALERT — redeclared noted homosexualist Mahmoud Ahmedinejad as the Grand Preznit of Iran. They also took the time to dismiss all previous complaints about the June 12 election.
Luckily, though, Michael Jackson died, so all the protests were canceled.
So, a question: Will this be a Tiananmen Square moment, plunging the country into a decades-long crackdown on protest, or will some dashing Vaclav Havel character emerge to lead the Green Velour Revolution? (And yes, the tone of this post may seem bitter and flip, but how else does one survive the unremitting cognitive dissonance brought on by living in the world?)
Monday, as always, is the best night to catch a free performance or staged reading of plays in their embryonic stages, and tonight's three shows are especially ambitious. At DR2 (103 E 15th St), the INKubator Summer Series continues with a new adaptation of Woyzeck entitled Swimming in March (by Kate Robin, 7pm) about a soldier returning to an uncertain wife after two tours of duty. Click here to RSVP.
At the Public Theater, the Emerging Writers Group's last installment of the season will be In the Crossing (by Leila Buck, 7pm), the story of a Lebanese-American woman struggling to tell her story despite protests from her husband and an outraged audience member. RSVP at 212-967-7555.
Tonight, British filmmaker and photographer Sarah Pucill will introduce a free screening of four of her short films spanning the last twenty years. Often incorporating tricks of lighting and mise-en-scene as well as formal exercises involving textures, framing and movement, Pucill's films often evoke surrealism in their unusual body imagery, though she foregrounds feminist themes like traditional women's roles and the social pressures to conform to a feminine model. Tonight's screening at A.I.R. Gallery (111 Front St, #228 in Dumbo) opens with what is probably her best-known work, "You be Mother" (pictured at right) from 1990, and concludes with her most recent film "Fall in Frame" from 2009. Pucill will answer questions after the screening, which begins at 7pm. Click here for more information and click here to watch clips of her work.
Theon's penis was visible in one episode, I think.
Reading and deciphering this takes longer than actually watching the show. It's a recap, not…
What exactly is the point of this? Such bad writing....And if we want to know…