By Yasmina Tawil
Many people would agree that 2016 has been one of the more frustrating and heartbreaking years in recent memory and, to be honest, it looks like 2017 might be a slog too. In times like these, there are a few places to turn for guidance, comfort, and strength. Our favorite refuges from the troubles of the world are movies (duh) and music.
Which is why we’d love...
By Yasmina Tawil
Princes cinematic legacy effectively starts and stops with Purple Rain, the 1984 smash that cast the artist in a Star Is Born narrative. In the face of the overwhelming apocrypha surrounding the Prince, the film also doubled as mythic origin story by offering a plausible autobiography. Yet despite the enduring entertainment value of the film, it arguably loses something of Princes essence in smoothing out his kinks. Im not a woman/Im not a man/I am something that youll never understand, he sings on I Would Die 4 U, but this Prince is, apart from his aloof demeanor and strange outfits, entirely legible.
To get a cinematic sense of the true Prince, in all his baffling, maddening contradiction, one must turn to his own directorial efforts: 1986s Under the Cherry Moon and 1990s Graffiti Bridge. Released to widespread derision, the films today enjoy trashy reputations that they come by honestly. Nonetheless, each provides a glimpse into the unfettered creative mind of Prince as it struggles to grasp a format foreign to him. The results are undeniably baffling and scattered, but in their contradictions lie an unpolished, unprotected view of Princes personality, artistic worldview, and his well-cloaked self-awareness.
None of this is readily visible on the surface of either film, both of which center their plots on how much Princes characters get laid. In Under the Cherry Moon, he plays Christopher Tracy, a gigolo who, along with his brother, Tricky (Jerome Benton), beds and bilks rich women across the French Riviera. Eventually, he targets loaded heiress Mary Sharon (Kristin Scott Thomas), only to fall in love. Graffiti Bridge takes this split between love and sex even further: In this loose Purple Rain sequel, the Kid (Prince) actively vies with The Times Morris (Morris Day) for the affections of Aura (Ingrid Chavez). This is just a replay of the two figures war for Apollonias hand in Purple Rain, but the twist here is that the Madonna/whore complex that frequently informs Princes view of romance is literalized by Auras ethereal nature. In effect, both the Kid and Morris spend the entire movie attempting to screw an angel.
Princes libidinous forays bring out the rakish troublemaker in him, and the wry sense of irony he displayed in Purple Rain blossoms into a peevish sense of humor. Christopher Tracy delights in messing with Mary, responding to her ability to see through his empty charms by simply doubling down on them. Surrounded by stuck-up elites, Christopher is unabashedly common, and Prince emphasizes his inappropriate outbursts and leers to shake Mary out of her aloofness. In Graffiti Bridge, the Kid is back to his arch ways, but the film itself bursts with a free-spirited comedy. Cartoon sound effects, exaggerated camera movements, and the catty chemistry between Prince and Morris all contribute to a goofiness that shows the artist cutting loose from his solemn, stern image.
The seemingly random stylistic clashes of both films likewise reveal the artist from a new angle. Cherry Moons velvety, black-and-white cinematography (courtesy of Rainer Werner Fassbinder/Martin Scorsese mainstay Michael Ballhaus) provides a grounding element for the manic intensity of the films tone, but the professionalism of the images matches a curious aspect of the movie. Released at the peak of Princes working relationship with Warner Bros, the film looks like a rapid sprint through much of that companys studio history. The smoky nightclubs where Christopher searches for new marks vaguely recalls the setting of Casablanca; Prince and Jeromes teasing interplay updates Abbott and Costello; and the antic, raunchy, gold-digger comedy harks back to the Pre-Code era.
For its part, Graffiti Bridge pulls from a long history of backlot musicals, replacing the semi-realism of Purple Rains Minneapolis setting for a highly chromatic, hyperreal image of a city that appears to consist of nothing but nightclubs. But if the art direction of the previous film offered a playground for Princes melodramatic comedy, the set design of this rotting pleasure city illustrates a societal moral failure that contrasts with the artists spiritual enlightenment, which is cued by the Kids wardrobe as much as his speech. Dressed in flowing tunics and sporting long, straightened locks and a beard that looks drawn in mascara instead of grown, the Kid resembles an icon of Jesus as painted by a particularly thirsty worshipper. Prince had never shied away from airing his religious beliefs, but here he transforms the Kid from an aspiring rock star to someone who would rather spread that spiritual noise, as Morris terms it, than get a platinum record.
By Yasmina Tawil
Prince’s cinematic legacy effectively starts and stops with Purple Rain, the 1984 smash that cast the artist in a Star Is Born narrative. In the face of the overwhelming apocrypha surrounding the Prince, the film also doubled as mythic origin story by offering a plausible autobiography. Yet despite the enduring entertainment value of the film, it arguably loses something of Prince’s essence in smoothing out his kinks. “I’m not a woman/I’m not a man/I am something that you’ll never understand,” he sings on “I Would Die 4 U,” but this Prince is, apart from his aloof demeanor and strange outfits, entirely legible.
To get a cinematic sense of the true Prince, in all his baffling, maddening contradiction, one must turn to his own directorial efforts: 1986’s Under the Cherry Moon and 1990’s Graffiti Bridge. Released to widespread derision, the films today enjoy trashy reputations that they come by honestly. Nonetheless, each provides a glimpse into the unfettered creative mind of Prince as it struggles to grasp a format foreign to him. The results are undeniably baffling and scattered, but in their contradictions lie an unpolished, unprotected view of Prince’s personality, artistic worldview, and his well-cloaked self-awareness.
None of this is readily visible on the surface of either film, both of which center their plots on how much Prince’s characters get laid. In Under the Cherry Moon, he plays Christopher Tracy, a gigolo who, along with his brother, Tricky (Jerome Benton), beds and bilks rich women across the French Riviera. Eventually, he targets loaded heiress Mary Sharon (Kristin Scott Thomas), only to fall in love. Graffiti Bridge takes this split between love and sex even further: In this loose Purple Rain sequel, the Kid (Prince) actively vies with The Time’s Morris (Morris Day) for the affections of Aura (Ingrid Chavez). This is just a replay of the two figures’ war for Apollonia’s hand in Purple Rain, but the twist here is that the Madonna/whore complex that frequently informs Prince’s view of romance is literalized by Aura’s ethereal nature. In effect, both the Kid and Morris spend the entire movie attempting to screw an angel.
Prince’s libidinous forays bring out the rakish troublemaker in him, and the wry sense of irony he displayed in Purple Rain blossoms into a peevish sense of humor. Christopher Tracy delights in messing with Mary, responding to her ability to see through his empty charms by simply doubling down on them. Surrounded by stuck-up elites, Christopher is unabashedly common, and Prince emphasizes his inappropriate outbursts and leers to shake Mary out of her aloofness. In Graffiti Bridge, the Kid is back to his arch ways, but the film itself bursts with a free-spirited comedy. Cartoon sound effects, exaggerated camera movements, and the catty chemistry between Prince and Morris all contribute to a goofiness that shows the artist cutting loose from his solemn, stern image.
The seemingly random stylistic clashes of both films likewise reveal the artist from a new angle. Cherry Moon’s velvety, black-and-white cinematography (courtesy of Rainer Werner Fassbinder/Martin Scorsese mainstay Michael Ballhaus) provides a grounding element for the manic intensity of the film’s tone, but the professionalism of the images matches a curious aspect of the movie. Released at the peak of Prince’s working relationship with Warner Bros, the film looks like a rapid sprint through much of that company’s studio history. The smoky nightclubs where Christopher searches for new marks vaguely recalls the setting of Casablanca; Prince and Jerome’s teasing interplay updates Abbott and Costello; and the antic, raunchy, gold-digger comedy harks back to the Pre-Code era.
For its part, Graffiti Bridge pulls from a long history of backlot musicals, replacing the semi-realism of Purple Rain’s Minneapolis setting for a highly chromatic, hyperreal image of a city that appears to consist of nothing but nightclubs. But if the art direction of the previous film offered a playground for Prince’s melodramatic comedy, the set design of this rotting pleasure city illustrates a societal moral failure that contrasts with the artist’s spiritual enlightenment, which is cued by the Kid’s wardrobe as much as his speech. Dressed in flowing tunics and sporting long, straightened locks and a beard that looks drawn in mascara instead of grown, the Kid resembles an icon of Jesus as painted by a particularly thirsty worshipper. Prince had never shied away from airing his religious beliefs, but here he transforms the Kid from an aspiring rock star to someone who would rather spread “that spiritual noise,” as Morris terms it, than get a platinum record.
By Yasmina Tawil
[Editors note: One of the six Wuthering Heights adaptations discussed in this essay is Andrea Arnolds 2011 version, which is distributed by Oscilloscope Pictures. The opinion expressed below was developed independently of Oscilloscope and is entirely reflective of the authors point of view.]
I needed a love story in my life. If not love, at least an obsession. Something to pass the time and occupy the mind. Id spent much of the summer simmering in heartache, the kind that makes you feel young againand not in a good way. I got used to weeping behind sunglasses on the subway. I remembered the wild, irrational agony of a text message ignored. I felt the total loss of self-control we call emotional vulnerability.
All that crazed energy with nowhere to go. Amidst a thick melancholic fog, I found a tattered 1970 paperback of Wuthering Heights in the foyer of my apartment building. I knew the Kate Bush karaoke anthem and the gist of the novel as a Romeo & Juliet-esque story of star-crossed lovers. Thisll do, I thought.
Those 400 pages held something else entirely: a knotty saga of love souring into resentment, exploitation, and violent grief. Emily Bronts 1847 novel doesnt balm a broken heart, I learned; it hardens it. Our principal lovers, Heathcliff and Catherine, spend most of the book in a histrionic rage. They manipulate and blame one another for their loves collapse. Catherine marries another man; Heathcliff seduces the other mans sister just to rattle the cage. Their love curdles into something ghastly.
And then, of course, one of them dies. And we still have 200 more pages of book to read.
Despite the romance-novel reputation, Wuthering Heights goes down about as bitter as any pill Ive taken. Bront depicts passion as a dangerous double-edged sword; it intoxicates, sure, but it also turns humans into monsters. Her characters personify the adage hurt people hurt people. Heroes become villains in a multi-generational tale that balances a dozen key characters, rests on an elaborate nesting-doll structure, and offers a master class in cruelty.
By Yasmina Tawil
[Editor’s note: One of the six Wuthering Heights adaptations discussed in this essay is Andrea Arnold’s 2011 version, which is distributed by Oscilloscope Pictures. The opinion expressed below was developed independently of Oscilloscope and is entirely reflective of the author’s point of view.]
I needed a love story in my life. If not love, at least an obsession. Something to pass the time and occupy the mind. I’d spent much of the summer simmering in heartache, the kind that makes you feel young again—and not in a good way. I got used to weeping behind sunglasses on the subway. I remembered the wild, irrational agony of a text message ignored. I felt the total loss of self-control we call “emotional vulnerability.”
All that crazed energy with nowhere to go. Amidst a thick melancholic fog, I found a tattered 1970 paperback of Wuthering Heights in the foyer of my apartment building. I knew the Kate Bush karaoke anthem and the gist of the novel as a Romeo & Juliet-esque story of star-crossed lovers. This’ll do, I thought.
Those 400 pages held something else entirely: a knotty saga of love souring into resentment, exploitation, and violent grief. Emily Brontë’s 1847 novel doesn’t balm a broken heart, I learned; it hardens it. Our principal lovers, Heathcliff and Catherine, spend most of the book in a histrionic rage. They manipulate and blame one another for their love’s collapse. Catherine marries another man; Heathcliff seduces the other man’s sister just to rattle the cage. Their love curdles into something ghastly.
And then, of course, one of them dies. And we still have 200 more pages of book to read.
Despite the romance-novel reputation, Wuthering Heights goes down about as bitter as any pill I’ve taken. Brontë depicts passion as a dangerous double-edged sword; it intoxicates, sure, but it also turns humans into monsters. Her characters personify the adage “hurt people hurt people.” Heroes become villains in a multi-generational tale that balances a dozen key characters, rests on an elaborate nesting-doll structure, and offers a master class in cruelty.
By Yasmina Tawil
Life is lonely, boring and dumb. The Doom Generation
I feel like a gerbil smothered in Richard Geres butthole. also The Doom Generation
Gregg Araki likes young people. He likes their asymmetrical dyed hair and ripped denim, the tight fabrics that look like placeholders waiting to be ripped off. He likes shoegaze and dream-pop music, Cocteau Twins and Ride and the Smiths. He likes drugs, whether...
By Yasmina Tawil
“Life is lonely, boring and dumb.” —The Doom Generation
“I feel like a gerbil smothered in Richard Gere’s butthole.” —also The Doom Generation
Gregg Araki likes young people. He likes their asymmetrical dyed hair and ripped denim, the tight fabrics that look like placeholders waiting to be ripped off. He likes shoegaze and dream-pop music, Cocteau Twins and Ride and the Smiths. He likes drugs,...
By Yasmina Tawil
Wildcats shall meet hyenas, / Goat-demons shall greet each other; / There too the lilith shall repose / And find herself a resting place, reads Isaiah 34:14the only biblical passage that mentions Lilith, the first wife of Adam and historys first witch. The origins of Lilith are frequently conflated with a Mesopotamian demon named Lamashtu, as described in various ancient cuneiform texts. In these stories, Lilith takes the form of seven witches bearing seven names. These archetypal stories about women have firmly established an association of the feminine with monstrosity since the cradle of civilization.
While other creatures, particularly vampires, are often strong, gender-neutral cultural signifiers in fiction, the witch remains a gendered monster that male authors use to exploit the feminine identity and image. Only in recent decades has the trope of the witch been turned on its head and used to examine the implications of its dubious cultural reputation as it relates to the lived experiences of women. In the context of cinema, the classical Hollywood portrayal of witches is largely tied to romantic (or male) fantasies and stories about social assimilation, evidenced in films such as in I Married a Witch and Bell Book and Candle. The former movie follows a reincarnated sorceress who falls in love with the ancestor of her executioner, while the latter film finds a modern-day witch sacrificing her magical powers for love. After the rise of the 1960s counterculture, filmmakers became less interested in portraying the mere otherness of witches and more concerned with imbuing an indelible humanity on these characters, creating complex women who have the potential to be sources of darkness and light.
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