Hmm. Whereas I'm instinctively appalled when I read about these "Kill Whitey" dance parties (via Brainwashed, which itself is via Tiny Mix Tapes), I can't help but feel a bit concerned that CocoRosie is all of sudden being cast as the representatives of this new breed of so-called post-ironic racism, all based on Bianca Casady's quote in the Washington Post. I mean, yeah, that was a slightly stupid thing to say to a reporter, and, yeah, white trust-fund hipsters in Williamsburg can be just as sexually aggressive as any of the "hard-core" guys at hip-hop clubs (in part because they're protected by the equally biased assumption that white trust-fund hipsters must be safe to get freaky with because, y'know, they're white trust-fund hipsters [hello, did no one see The Rules of Attraction {kidding}]), but it's not like the Casady sisters are the ones organizing those truly abhorrent sounding gatherings. On quite the other hand, however, I find it a whole lot easier to swallow the comment that their new album is just "a collection of willful, calculated eccentricities clumsily juxtaposed with each other," even though I've heard nary a track from it. I suppose I find it easier to sleep at night with my knee-jerk judgment calls about the music as long as I'm giving the humans the benefit of the doubt. Until they give me definite reason to think otherwise. (Related: Gapers Block's post about all the campus trouble caused by U Chicago's "Straight-Thuggin' Ghetto Party." Fleh.)
Saw a hell of a trio of movies this past weekend, and wouldn't you know, they all started talking to each other (I love it when that happens): A History of Violence is a brilliant companion piece to Caché (which of course I saw the week before), and the epically weird The Night of the Hunter (showing, gorgeously restored, at the Music Box) seems like a significant touchstone for History of, a connection I haven't really seen acknowledged anywhere (except for, maybe, this review in German, which my language skillz aren't polished enough to translate at the moment; schade). The wildcard movie was Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, whose flabby pomo smugness probably wouldn't have annoyed me as much if I'd not just walked out of that horrifyingly creepy dinner table scene at the end of History of and straight into what felt like a crystal punch bowl full of Robert Downey Jr.'s recently detoxed neurotransmitters. I tend to spend a lot of time thinking about contemporary notions of masculinity in crisis, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around all the ways that Caché and History of are using deeply traditional family structures to deal with this idea of men as the keepers of secrets, men as the catalysts for the fulfillment and perpetuation of tragic destiny. The various implications for the wounds that are transferred onto and modified by the next generation break my heart when I stop to project a governmental metaphor onto them.
After all that heavy shit, I feel like I need some bouncy balls. (Which makes me suddenly remember that I've had two dreams in the past month and a half—the second one last night—about getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles in inappropriate settings. Hmm. Odd. Well, at least it usually puts me in a slightly better mood when I wake up in the morning.)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
Heh. You said neurotransmitters.
Did the inappropriate giggling involve architecture?
No, my inappropriate giggling involved yer ma. Funny you should ask.
Post a Comment