Le Tigre's Vagina Discotata
(02/21/02 5:00am)
She used to be an angry lesbian, but now she's a party lesbian.
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She used to be an angry lesbian, but now she's a party lesbian.
"Everything is falling into place. It can't be too long now," he says with eyes bright as meteors. "We may be the generation that sees Armageddon."
Erin Cressida Wilson, acclaimed playwright and screenwriter, is hot. Her writing is hot, the classes she teaches at Duke as associate professor in theatre studies are hot, and her movie Secretary, which prompted the jury at Sundance to make up an award on the spot, is really, really hot.
Is it Hollywood's great irony that its highest measure of success has marked the end of Kevin Spacey's edge, or is it just bad career choices? The two years since his Oscar for American Beauty have grievously dulled the shine of 10 years of stellar performances.
Coffeeshop wonderboy John Mayer is coming to the Cat's Cradle next Wednesday, and that really sweet girl down your hall is probably going to see him. Rolling Stone, in their hip-as-grandma "Artists to Watch List," described his sound as "folk, blues, rock and wisps of jazz." But that says just about nothing, doesn't it? So permit me to describe this hot ingenue for you in some more illuminating terms:
A zombie walks among us, feeding on Busch Light and unsuspecting freshmen. It has been dead for some time now, perhaps years, yet it lumbers on, poisoning Duke's campus and laying waste to its once-thriving social life. We can fight back--we may be able to kill the beast--if we possess the will to wrestle control into our own hands.
The best child movies manage to appeal on a more mature level to the adults who are subjected to them--Snow Dogs is, unsurprisingly, not one of those movies. Rather than trying to leap over the generation gap ourselves, Recess brings you cinematic criticism straight from the demographic's mouth. Tasos Kanopoulos, age 9, and Yousif Nazo, age 10, are third-grade students at Hillandale Elementary.
Former Recess Music Editor Robert Kelley once touted The Kingsbury Manx as the "next big thing," a claim that earned him "Most Overblown Prediction" in Recess's "Best Of" issue, not to mention a few snickers from the naysayers. Give him a break. So what if Kelley's no Kreskin--you can't fault him for this one.
2001's Americana poster boy sure was busy: A year after Ryan Adams' band Whiskeytown released their damn fine final album, he pops out two more--solo--as if he'd had 'em stored up all along. Coasting on the dubious endorsement of Elton John and the timely, lively tribute of "New York, New York," the second album Gold is a good emulation of worthy sources (the usual alt-country suspects of Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison and the Stones). But although Gold may be the album that brought Adams more attention, there's less of him in it. He's self-consciously posing at a modeling shoot, whereas his first solo album Heartbreaker comes more like a beery talk into the wee hours at a smoky bar.
"It's a cold world out there.... Sometimes I think I'm getting a bit frosty myself."
____simple_html_dom__voku__html_wrapper____>Ahh, AmZlie, ma cherie. You tickle my palette, intoxicate me with the sweet wine of your dazzling smile. How you brighten up the screen, how you delight my senses like a skip through Montmartre on the briskest autumn day. I admit it, petite amie, at first I resisted your charms. I thought of Ally McBeal, her silly fantasies so much like yours. But je ne savais pas, you are lovable and she a wretched hag... Pah! Perhaps I was expecting different from your gloomy director Jean Jeunet--perhaps my heart was stone. But no, now I feel fresh as if off my bidet! Alas, you are too light and fleeting--tomorrow my memory shall say au revoir. But today, je t'aime, AmZlie. --By Greg Bloom
If movies can be frustrating in their dispiriting lack of ideas, it is outright disarming to come across one that's built and composed on only thought and imagination. In Waking Life, Austin auteur Richard Linklater (Before Sunrise, Dazed and Confused) delivers a veritable chin-scratcher that swaps dialogue for monologues, characters for impromptu and often unlikely lecturers, and plot for what at first appears deceptively to be a montage of freshman-year pseudo-intellectual yammering. It's all more headily arresting than you'd expect, with nearly 100 minutes of uninterrupted talk fleeting by in a breathless, dizzying rush that never actually leaves the couch.
When Radiohead warped forward to the far reaches of the music universe thanks to dual engines of Kid A and Amnesiac, most fans and critics were surprisingly willing to take the trip with them. There were, inevitably, those who dragged their feet, complaining about the albums' obtuse difficulties, dismissing their challenges as pseudo-electronic proggery. I Might Be Wrong, a collection of live recordings of songs taken almost entirely from those two albums, shows that those who accused the band of artistic abstraction were perhaps too lazy or stubborn to give the music the attention it deserved.
s critics never fail to note, the Brothers Coen are some kind of film savants--they know everything about movies and nothing about life. In the course of nine films, they have plundered the dark sleaze and high camp of all-American film tradition, yet for all this reverence, they remain irreverent in their refusal to take seriously the pathetic and often gruesome worlds they present on screen.
If you thought that last movie you saw was crap, why don't you just make a better version yourself? Well, go on. No, really....
In the first week of September, I sent a quick e-mail to a former teacher from my time in Israel. He is a smart man who is deeply dedicated to his country, and our sporadic correspondence has brought much insight into my questions about the Middle East. So I was disappointed when he finally responded, a few weeks and one world-changing event later, without a single word of personal greeting--only a long, 20-page series of post-Sept. 11 articles of various pro-Israel and anti-Palestine sentiments.
The argument goes the same way every time: I, trying hard to sound rational, announce a new mandate for the safety of the family--ranging anywhere from "no more Dolphins games" to "buy a boat and be ready to sail out of Florida"--while my father dismisses any possibility that we could ever come to direct harm.
On Dec. 31, 1974, a fissure in the time-space continuum erupted in the dank, smoke-filled backstage room of a hip New York City club and transported The Strokes twenty-five years into the future.
Turin Brakes are nice guys. You know the type--sensitive chaps. There will always be a place for the nice guys in music, if only because they're so damned earnest. Bless them--they have so much tenderness, so much love to pine about cryptically.
he reaction became an instant clichZ: "It was all so unreal, like special effects in a movie." Few could find a good way to say it otherwise--but at a time when words were failing, the triteness of this particular clichZ was forgivable.