Bleak Expectations: If Dickens wrote the story of EMI

There’s a Dickensian novel just dying to be written about the plight of EMI. An iconic British institution mired in debt, unraveling quarter by miserable quarter. A tragicomedy of financial hubris, with offshore tax havens in the Channel Islands, betrayals, and corporate vultures circling the sad carcass of a once-great record label.

And the names! Guy Hands, the swashbuckling, baby-faced financier who gambled big and blew it. David Wormsley, his foil at Citigroup, whom Hands accuses of fraudulent counsel (and really is “widely known as The Worm”). Wormsley! Only Murdstone is a better name. Then there’s Elio Leoni-Sceti, the stylish Italian label manager who wears his overcoat loose over his shoulders and once handled Mop & Glo and French’s Mustard. Edgar Bronfman Jr., the cash-hoarding ginger ale heir, waits to swoop in for the kill.

The names of the firms are not quite Jarndyce and Jarndyce, but they’re good. Hands’s company is Terra Firma, whose $8 billion investment ends up on shaky ground, written down by 90 percent after an exodus of artists who objected to being treated like “furniture.” In the bidding for EMI three years ago, Terra Firma competed with Cerberus Capital Management and Fortress Investment Group. So in this drama we have firm ground, a fortress of money, the guard-dog of hell, a Guy who can’t keep his Hands off bad investments, a profligate Citi/City, and a deceitful worm.

(If you haven’t been following every sad update in this tale, read Devin Leonard’s excellent summary in Sunday Biz. The basic plot is that Terra Firma relied on Citi as both advisor and lender, but is now suing the bank, saying that Citi deliberately misled Hands & Co. by failing to report that Cerberus had dropped out of the bidding, causing Terra Firma to overpay.)

I see a young Guy Hands at school, ridiculed for his dyslexia and driven to prove the bullies wrong and win the love of his sweetheart, Julia. He finds his way from the hinterlands to the halls of power in the City of London; makes shockingly risky, obscenely profitable deals; marries Julia; buys Churchill’s house and an estate in Tuscany. He’s a Guy of the world, and he did it all with his own two Hands — as well as the help of his friend Wormsley, with whom he became so close that he invited Lord and Lady Worm to Tuscany for her 40th birthday.

At the height of the credit bubble our hero hitches his do-no-wrong company to a crusty old anchor that sinks immediately to the bottom of the sea, taking endless liquidity with it and leaving Hands dry. That Worm tricked him! Guy thought he had triumphed over the dogs of Cerberus but in reality they were never really there. Then the market crashes, and Hands becomes increasingly isolated at Guernsey, his family life sacrificed for a tax protest. To succeed, and turn it all around, he’ll have to pull off some kind of incredible heist, and do a far, far better thing than he has ever done. (That is, woo Paul McCartney back.)

Serialized for your enjoyment every three weeks in the Financial Times.

Harrison ‘My Wife! My Family!’ Ford

Absolutely fucking brilliant analysis of Harrison Ford films today by Jake and Jesse, with the help, apparently, of somebody on YouTube who compiled scenes from various movies showing the former intergalactic skirt-chaser fuming over his lost/kidnapped/killed/whatever wife and family, over and over and over and over.

The tipping point, our boys argue, came with The Mosquito Coast.

Read Jake’s full post here. Good work, guys.

My ‘Mad Men’ prediction

I was one of the 2.8 million people who watched Mad Men on Sunday night, a number that could get you canceled if you were a network TV show but in the indie-rock math of cable TV is a triumph.

I felt uncomfortable during the Season 3 premiere. The writing, acting and production design were all superb as usual, but something seemed off. It wasn’t just the apparent loss of a character, or the arrival of “life under British rule,” as Bert Cooper put it. A pendulum is changing direction, and to me the episode seemed charged with all kinds of omens.

Thus my prediction: this is the season in which Don loses his golden touch as an ad man.

In the past we’ve seen him come up with campaigns that were not only clever and persuasive but also perfectly judged the zeitgeist. For example, Lucky Strike’s “It’s Toasted”: The tobacco companies were worried about the then-newish government pressure about health hazards, and the usual way to deal with this was to run an ad with a guy dressed up like a doctor and smoking a cigarette. But Don knew this only makes people think about doctors and hospitals and death. His idea sidestepped the health issue completely, reassuring people that “whatever you’re doing, it’s OK,” an insight that shrewdly captured the American bubble of complacency and comfort amid the Cold War. And it helped Lucky Strike sell lots of cancer sticks.

Now we have another client in need of an image overhaul: London Fog, a stodgy old brand that conjures “Charles Dickens and whatnot.” Don is dispatched to their cluttered, faux-old-world offices (they had a “Dieu et mon droit” on the wall) by a British man who scoffs at the company’s name. Right away our hero is taken down a peg: this is an errand we would never see in the itinerary of the old Don Draper, the guy who flies to L.A. and disappears for a few weeks with the swingers by the pool.

Don’s idea for London Fog indicates a lot about how he judges the world around him, an important skill for a guy whose daily life calls for vigilance and adaptability in order to protect a fraudulent identity. He proposes an ad in which a woman in a raincoat flashes a man on a train. In the ad he envisions — as sketched by Sal — a sexy girl (he says something about her “bare legs”) is seen from behind opening her coat, while a guy in front of he looks on as a voyeur. The psychological suggestion is that she’s nude.

It’s 1963 now, however, and Don’s read of the culture is off. He thinks that the stasis of the 1950s and early ’60s will simply go on. But of course Don’s world is on the brink of huge changes, the role of women being one of the hugest. This is the time of the pill, Betty Friedan, and the rise of “career girls” like Peggy. But the ad he’s thinking of is basically a pin-up from the 1950s (or even ’40s), with what I will confess to know was a common trope in that era: a girl’s clothes vanish in some mishap (blown away by the breeze, caught on furniture, etc.) while a lucky Joe Schmoe looks on, standing in for you, the real-life ogler.

Draper is looking backward instead of forward here because for the first time he doesn’t understand what’s coming down the pike — meaning that whatever it is, he himself is not prepared to deal with it. Frank Rich expounded brilliantly on this in his latest column, which also referenced Bruce Handy’s smart recent piece in Vanity Fair: the ’60s will be good for the Woodstock generation, but it will be bad for the Don Drapers.

Inability to change also turns up ominously in Don’s personal life. At the end of last season he rejected the swingers and came home to Betty, learning that she was pregnant again. They clasped hands in a sign of solidarity and maturity: their marriage may have problems, but we’re led to think that they’re going to try to make it work. But after a few months Don is back to screwing stewardesses, however diminished and pathetic the conquest may now be. There’s no flirtation this time; the girl simply throws herself at him. Interestingly, the experience is once again based on false identity. The stewardess thinks Don is somebody else, and while he once seized upon this opportunity to remake himself and live out his dreams, he now seems trapped. His seduction is more like a dull, repetitive job, one that he created for himself.

All this suggests that Don is not going to be in sync with the times to the degree that he has been; he may even be left behind.

Hypebot’s ‘10 commandments of music 2.0’

1. Thou Shalt Not Worship False Prophets - Neither a record deal or auto-tune are your saviors.
2. Thou Shalt Worship Only One God - He (or she) is called The Fan.
3. Thou Shalt Giveaway [sic] Free Music - Like Jesus and the loaf of bread, give your flock a gift that multiplies as they pass it around.
4. Thou Shalt Not Steal - Borrowing a beat is one thing, but stealing...
5. Thou Shalt Blog - Your flock wants to know what you’re doing.
6. Thou Shalt Create Profiles - Wherever your flock may go, you must be there.
7. Thou Shalt Upload Photos - Staged, unstaged, backstage, from the stage and at every stage of a project.
8. Thou Shalt Upload Videos - Longs Ones. Shorts Ones. Tall ones...you get the idea.
9. Thou Shalt Share Thy Bounty. Share gigs. Share ideas. Share with your fans.
10. Do Unto Others As You Would Have Others Do Unto You - You meet the same people on the way down that you did on the way up.

He asks for an 11th. My suggestions:

• Thou shalt not make sudden and outrageous price hikes.
• Thou shalt not foist weird formats and technologies upon thine customers. For it will be harder to pass Clive Davis through the eye of a needle than to get people to embrace slotMusic.
• Thou shalt keep ticket fees down. And when thou sayest “no fees,” thou shalt mean it.
• Thou shalt not exploit fans’ loyalty by reissuing the same product again and again with minor permutations.
• Thou shalt have good radio stations, and not flip them unless really necessary.
• Thou shalt have music videos on TV.
• Thou shalt not leak thine own music while also waging crusades against piracy.
• Thou shalt maintaineth good record stores. For even though people download music, they also liketh to browse thine physical product.
• Thou shalt not foist poorly designed, ad-supported online services upon thine customers. SpiralFrog and QTrax, we are talking to thee.
• Thou shalt get thine Grammy categories under control. Considereth a maximum of 30 or so awards, including technical. The reason that thine Hollywood neighbors coveteth one another’s Oscars is that scarcity createth competition.
• Thou shalt openly debate the fairness of “dynamic pricing” in all of its forms, including the so-called Radiohead model. For the best idea that anybody hath had about the value of music was Steve Jobs, who said that everything should costeth 99 cents. Why he caved on that, only the Lord thy God knows.

Rock posters, zeitgeist and conformity

The Los Angeles Times ran a story on Sunday about the new breed of rock poster designers, which I’ve noticed only now, thanks to a link from the essential OMG Posters.

It looks at people like Jason Munn of the Small Stakes and Cole Gerst of option-g, who exemplify the Type B aesthetic of gig-poster art in the ’00s. In the ’90s — when, I would argue, the high-concept retro flyer really took shape — the dominant look was that of Frank Kozik (right): hyper-masculine, perverse, acidic. It’s the look you saw in a zillion posters for the Melvins and Killdozer, etc.

Mutation and anthropomorphism were constants, with babies or women caressing insect-like monsters, or bunnies smiling as they are mutilated. It was an exaggerated cartoon, a rape of the childlike, comic-book style, and it reflected the nihilism and “extreme” attitude of the music.

In the Death Cab age, things are softer, subtler, and more feminine. Adult, not teen; grad student, not dropout. The colors are muted and the designs are cleaner and, as this article insightfully points out, drawn from pre-rock sources. (And, I would add, pre-JD, pre-Wild One, and pre-James Dean — or at least from the Mad Men era, when rock and teen culture existed but as minor, ignorable subcultures.)

The story also pinpoints some common influences:

These artists show a fascination with the iconography of the past, including book jackets, vinyl records, nature icons and modernist design, in a field that has been radically remade by technology: Like today’s vinyl obsessives and neo-craft types, they are post-traditionalists, reveling in, almost fetishizing, print culture after what we’re told is the end of print.

Unlike designers who extend the rock tradition of subversion and boundary pushing, Munn’s work exudes a Zen-like serenity, a love of negative space and an almost religious reverence for typeface. “I try to pick up on little random bits of a band,” said Munn, “and go from there.”

[...]

Like his fellow travelers, Munn draws from outside the rock canon. He loves Saul Bass, who designed film posters for “Anatomy of a Murder” and “Vertigo,” and Alex Steinweiss, who invented the album cover in the late ’30s with jackets for boogie-woogie sets and Grieg concertos.

What the article does not address, and what frustrates me a little bit more with every new batch of these posters I come across, is the sense of conformity. The aesthetic described above is almost ubiquitous now, to the point where it’s not always so easy to tell one designer’s work from another. Here are five posters by five different people. (For convenience’s sake I have borrowed them from MBV, which has great taste.)

Is it enough to chalk this up to the idea of a pervading style of our time, a zeitgest? If so, it’s amazing how far the pendulum has swung here, and how it has taken pretty much everyone with it. A decade ago Kozik’s style was very widely imitated, also to the point of excess, and similar trends happen again and again in the history of graphic design. Why are so many illustrators today so blatantly ripping off Chris Ware, for example?

Is it simple professional demand — you do this because this is the stuff that magazine art directors and advertising agencies want and can sell? In that way it would reflect production standards in pop music, which ebb and flow with the tastes and technological developments of a small number of studios and engineers — that’s why so much from the early ’80s has the same drum sound, for example, or why all the post-grunge metal stuff is interchangeable (well, one reason, at least).

But how does this explain the tiny and decentralized world of indie-rock poster design? Theories welcome.

The doughnut/tapas history of Chelsea

When I moved into my apartment 10 years ago, the area was a doughnut nexus. Three great shops were within a block from my door. Twin Donut was directly across Ninth Avenue, at 24th Street; Krispy Kreme was a block away on 23rd Street; and at the corner of Eighth and 23rd was a place whose huge painted sign simply said “DONUTS.” This last one had a wavy counter, and behind it was a surly old dog with some kind of frightening affliction on his eye. He seemed to take offense at every order.

I used to go to Twin Donut and read the weekend papers with a chocolate glazed (or two); the coolest thing about the place was the little sliding window to serve doughnut lovers passing by on the street. Knowing what kind of catastrophe could coagulate in my veins if I lost control, I mostly kept away from the stores on 23rd Street, but I was somehow comforted by the thought of all that buttery cake and confectioner’s sugar being just a bad decision away.

One by one they disappeared. Twin Donut became the Heart Land Café, which didn’t last long, and the space lay vacant for some time. Krispy Kreme began retreating from the Northeast years ago as people awoke from cholesterol denial. And at some point the “DONUTS” place became Breadstix Café, which is your typical phony bakery/panini/wrap/cheesecake joint, designed to dupe tourists who haven’t figured out that they can get ripped off at Pax or Europa Café.

Meanwhile, Chelsea has succumbed to that kind of hyperdrive gentrification in which an already nice neighborhood, with high property values and low vacancy and all that, begins to root out every cheap restaurant, old-man bar and unhip small store as if part of some retail pogrom. (Die, Chelsea Commons! Good riddance, Midnight Records — make room for Ben & Jerry’s and a gay-themed bakery!)

Which, as everybody knows, is basically the way it goes in Manhattan. Except for one thing that to me seems to symbolize the new Chelsea: instead of having three humble doughnut vendors in my immediate vicinity, I now have my choice of three posh tapas restaurants, with several more just a few blocks away.

The first to arrive, in 2004, was Tía Pol, on 10th Avenue. (It deserves the raves; so salty and tasty.) Three years later it spun off El Quinto Pino, in a tiny space on 24th Street that had been a breakfast place and then a bar (and perhaps some other short-lived thing too). Then a couple of months ago, in a spot on Ninth Avenue once occupied by a cheese distributor, or something equally unglamorous, came Txikito, a Basque place that serves what are basically tapas (and is yet another Tía Pol satellite).

And yet more.

I remember getting a couple of doughnuts and a cup of coffee at Twin Donut for less than $3. That would barely buy me a bite of arraultza now — which, I have to admit, I have tried, and enjoyed. But if I’m going to be colonized by anything, I want it to be Boston cremes, goddammit, not $12 mini-bocadillos. (A year or so ago a Dunkin’ Donuts opened two doors down from me. It’s depressing even just to look inside.)

And whatever happened to Twin Donut? After years of vacancy at 230 Ninth Avenue, around the first of this year I noticed a nice, thick new wooden door there. Then they put in a little bar, then tables and golden lighting. Uh-oh, I thought, but it turned out not to be yet another tapas place. Instead it’s something only slightly less posh: Co., from the Sullivan Street Bakery people, serving little pizzas at “reasonable prices.” We’ll see about that. (Update: It may not be cheap, but it’s pretty reasonable — and delicious.)

For now, though, there’s one aspect of the doughnut legacy of Chelsea that I’m glad has not been erased. That little window is still there. I wonder if anybody has looked up from their “iconoclastically topped” pizza and wondered what that thing is:

Did Philip K. Dick rip off a Flash comic for The Man in the High Castle?

Jesse writes with explosive allegations concerning the sci-fi giant Philip K. Dick and his greatest work:

In September 1961, DC Comics issued the landmark Flash #123, “Flash of Two Worlds,” written by Gardner Fox. On the cover are not one but two Flashes, both running to save a man about to be crushed by a falling girder. On the left is the Flash of the Silver Age of Comics (roughly 1956 to the late ’60s/early ’70s), the one we are perhaps most familiar with today. On the right is the Golden Age Flash (1930s to 1951), who does not wear a mask, but instead has a silver helmet like the god Mercury. The Golden Age Flash had not been seen since 1951, when the Justice Society of America comic was discontinued because of lagging sales. Many superhero comics were canceled at this time to make way for grittier war, horror and detective titles. The Silver Age is said to have begun with the Flash’s rebirth in 1956, and by 1961, with the return of the Justice League of America, the Silver Age and the revival of superhero comics was in full swing.

Confused? This new Flash had a different origin story and identity: once known as Jay Garrick, the Flash post-1956 had the alter ego of Barry Allen. This Flash also lived in a different city. The older, canceled Flash and other defunct heroes were never discussed in the new comics: continuity in a “DC Universe” was not an issue yet. These were comics for kids — who cared?

So what were both Flashes doing on the cover?

The story relates how one day, while vibrating at a super speed, the Flash of the Silver Age is transported to a parallel Earth. Things there are somewhat similar, though with small, unsettling differences like city names. Think Jimmy Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life, when he wishes he never existed.

This is of course not the first alternate history/world in fiction. An important precedent is the Nathaniel Hawthorne story “P.’s Correspondence,” from 1845, in which one “P.” details the lives of famous poets of the past who remain alive in some other world. This is considered the first alternate history story in English and I believe it is what gave Philip K. Dick the name of his character Hawthorne Abendsen in The Man in the High Castle. In that novel, Dick’s breakthrough and still one of his most famous books, the Axis powers won World War II and have divided most of the former United States, while a banned book by Abendsen, called The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, tells what the world would be like had the Allies won.

In Flash #123, after being confronted with an alternate reality, Barry Allen has a brainstorm: “Could it be that — what I’m thinking — is true? ‘He’ used to live there!” He finds a telephone book and looks up the name JAY GARRICK, the Golden Age Flash. “My theory — impossible as it seems — must be true!” he says. He goes to the address and there, sure enough, is the original Flash, aged. Allen relates to Garrick the first Flash’s origin story, at which the older man is greatly surprised. “How could he possibly know all that?” Garrick exclaims to his wife. “We were sure we’d kept that secret so well! How did he find out?” she replies.

This is where it really gets interesting. Silver Age Flash tells his own origin story, ending with the following:

Silver Age Flash: “So you see, I became the Super Fast Flash on my Earth much as you became the the Flash on yours! Indeed, reading of your Flash adventures inspired me to assume the secret identity of the Flash!”

Golden Age Flash: “What?! How did you ever read about ME?”

Silver Flash: “You were once well known in my world — as a fictional character appearing in a magazine called Flash comics! When I was a youngster — you were my favorite hero! A writer named Gardner Fox wrote about your adventures — which he claimed came to him in dreams! Obviously when Fox was asleep, his mind ‘tuned in’ on your vibratory Earth! That’s how he ‘dreamed up’ the Flash! The magazine was discontinued in 1949!”

Golden Age Flash: “Amazing! That’s the very year I — the Flash — retired...”

A couple things here. Recall that Fox is the writer of the comic we are reading (as well as the author of the original Flash). Also, the Golden Age Flash, the one Barry Allen read about as a kid, would have been the one Dick read as a kid; he was 12 when the original appeared. Finally, the story of Fox “tuning in” this Earth is remarkably similar to Dick’s own strange series of visions of “2-3-74,” which he later wrote about in his books VALIS and Radio Free Albemuth.

At the end of the Flash story, once the Silver Age hero has returned to his own world, he explains how he is going to tell this tale: “The only ones who’d really believe it would be the readers of FLASH comics! That’s why I’m going to look up Gardner Fox who wrote the original FLASH stories and tell it to him! He can write the whole thing in a comic book.” This establishes yet a third world — ours. Like the story of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. So:

• Us reading the Flash comic = Us reading The Man in the High Castle
• Silver Age Flash reading the original Flash comics = The characters in The Man in the High Castle reading Grasshopper
• The Golden Age Flash = The characters in Grasshopper

This issue of the Flash was a landmark for DC. It established the “multiverse” idea that would be used over and over again, and set up continuity conflicts that would be settled decades later in Crisis on Infinite Earths. In 2004, a copy sold at auction for $23,000.

It is entirely possible that Dick would have picked this comic up, especially since the cover is adorned with the Flash of his childhood. Remember, this came out in September 1961. According to Wikipedia, The Man in the High Castle was published in January 1962, although other sites list it somewhat later. I could not find any information about when it was submitted, nor when it was written. One site says it came out in October 1962. Still, it definitely came out after the comic. [See note on chronology below. — Ed.]

One hole in Jesse’s argument: If Dick did “rip off” anything for The Man in the High Castle, a more prominent candidate would be George Orwell’s 1984. In it, the main character, Winston Smith, is given a secret book called The Theory and Practice of Oligarchical Collectivism that tells the political crimes of Big Brother and the ruling party. Like The Grasshopper Lies Heavy, it is a banned book-within-a-book that reveals a contrary narrative to the one being imposed on society by a totalitarian government, and inspires the protagonist to act.

The difference, of course, is that Oligarchical Collectivism — also referred to in 1984 simply as “The Book” — is supposed to be a work of nonfiction, while Grasshopper is described as fiction. (In the comics, the story of the Golden Age Flash was at first believed to be fiction, but then discovered to be true.)

About chronology, note that in comic books, the cover date is often months later than it became available. This goes back to the earliest days, and publishers did it to insure a longer shelf-life for their products, so that they would “look new” for longer.

Also note: Jesse is currently unemployed. (But I am not — who’s more pathetic?)

Three reasons Adam West’s Batman is smarter than Christian Bale’s

Because he was a detective. In the comics, Batman was modeled as much after Sherlock Holmes the scientist/crime-solver as Superman the costumed crime-fighter. Batman’s storylines were basically forensic mysteries: a crime would be committed and clues would be found, leading to a cat-and-mouse game with dastardly criminals, who like Batman lived on a higher plane of existence than us ordinary schmucks. Much of the action would take place in the Batcave, which was essentially a laboratory. There would be a eureka moment based on evidence, logical deduction and intuition.

Bale’s Batman, on the other hand, is for the most part a clobberer. Nearly every time we see him he’s punching somebody, and when he does speak it’s only a few hoarsely muttered words. Despite the couple of token scenes of Batman at his crime lab, wordlessly pulling miracles from some clue, Morgan Freeman does most of the brainy work.

Because it’s impossible for an actor to convey psychological depth in a superhero costume. There are a couple of reasons why comic books can develop characters with true depth despite the limitations of the medium. One is the episodic format. You can get way into a character’s head when you have 1,000 stories going back decades. The number of times Batman’s origin has been retold, for instance, and its layers upon layers of variations, elevate the story to myth. Repetition gives a depth each individual narrative episode cannot.

Second, the best comics embrace the medium’s limits. The gaps of meaning and plot between panels, the flatness of character and scene. The exaggeration of form, color and movement. We suspend our disbelief to a greater degree in comics than in most other media, which is the only thing that allows such silly characters and stories to make sense to us. But in a film, a guy in a cape and tights just looks ridiculous. He is limited by the physicality of the costume instead of being liberated by it.

Adam West never brought out our cognitive dissonance because he played to the silliness of the story and never tried to feign high drama.

Because he didn’t affect an unnatural, animalistic voice. I’m surprised more critics haven’t faulted Bale’s Batman for his voice. It’s a perverse rasp, and Batman is never heard saying more than a few short words at a time.

(The Joker: You just couldn’t let me go could you? This is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. You truly are incorruptible, aren’t you? You won’t kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, and I won’t kill you, because you’re just too much fun. I think you and I are destined to do this forever.

Batman: You’ll be in a padded cell forever.)

West, on the other hand, went super-thespian, toying with the music of his lines in the same corny but totally attractive way William Shatner did. West’s Batman is instantly recognizable by voice — the odd pauses, the professorial singsong, the Sherlock Holmes-like self-satisfaction. It was silly as hell, but it was smart storytelling, and that’s why Adam West has stuck with us for 40 years and Christian Bale is just another lug in a rubber costume.

Waiting for Big Booty Godot

The video for Kanye West’s “Flashing Lights” is pure brilliance, and not merely because of the undulating orbs inside Rita G’s [NOTE: LINK NSFW!] satiny bra. Directed by Spike Jonze and West himself, it is a strange drama that begins in medias res, with our well-endowed heroine stepping out of an expensive sedan at dusk (or dawn?), somewhere on the desert outskirts of a city emanating neon. She takes a short walk, removing and then burning her fur and skirt.

You’re going to have to watch it for the rest of the story. (Please note that the video is somewhat risqué too. Perhaps you could guess this from the title.)

The video ends abruptly at 2 minutes 47 seconds, more than a minute shorter than the album version of the song. The puzzling brevity raises all sorts of questions. Who is this woman, and why does she murder poor Kanye? Did he screw her over? Or was he just the naive loser in some wicked con game? And what’s her phone number?

Jonze and West have simply given us too little information to analyze the story. It’s the Beckett theory of drama: the important action has taken place before the play itself begins, and we are left with the aftermath. Our Vladimir and Estragon here are (1) a big booty fertility goddess slash stripper and (2) Kanye as a tuxedo-clad hostage who bites it on the wrong side of her heavy shovel. Fucking awesome, yes. And those tantalizing plot gaps? We can only use our imagination. The backstory scenarios are infinite; so far I’ve got four.

❧

SCENARIO 1. It’s Vegas, the city built on broken kneecaps. It’s an “Ocean’s Eleven” situation, the big heist, and Kanye is our Danny Ocean. Somehow the showgirl was supposed to be the mule here, or the distraction, or something: she was a bit player and he was the mastermind. Or so he thought. Turns out she was a double agent, and as Andy Garcia waits back in the penthouse suite — grinning like a motherfucker because his money remains secure in the vault — his killer queen disposes of the shithead out in the desert somewhere at 4:45 a.m. Kanye looks up at her from the trunk so innocently. He never saw it coming. He was a good lay, she thinks, and as he lies there bound and gagged she lets him know she appreciates that: the last thing he sees will be her boobs bursting out of that lingerie, her heavenly kiss the last thing he feels. But there’s some serious vagina dentata action here as she bludgeons him to death in the trunk of her own car. It’s going to be dirty back there! Why didn’t she pull him out, dispose of him less messily? Is she going to dig a hole with that shovel?

SCENARIO 2. It’s still Vegas, only this time he’s the Andy Garcia, and Ocean is the one grinning like a motherfucker back at the bar. It worked. Not only is she a fantastic lay, she’ll even take out the fucking trash. How much do you love this woman! Kanye was an easy mark. Gave no struggle as the goons tied him up. They were just about to drive off when she showed up, said she wanted to take care of it herself. Fine. The goons looked her up and down — you’re going dressed like that? — but handed over the keys. Kanye didn’t know who was going to whack him until she opened the trunk, and at first he thought he had been rescued by a bosomy angel. Her! Such a fantastic lay, so innocent when he spotted her dancing at his casino. He remembered the look on her face when he laughed at the word “marriage” and she realized his sweat and $200-an-ounce cologne were smeared on every call girl in the house. He thought he could buy her off with a fur. It was chump change. You insult me, you son of a bitch. She held up the shovel, smashed that lying mouth and just kept on smashing. Ocean is back at the bar. He said he was going to take care of her. He couldn’t believe how gullible she was. But what a fantastic lay.

SCENARIO 3. It’s L.A., and it’s Grammy night. The parties are still raging at 4:45 a.m., and even though Herbie and Amy won all that shit, it’s still good. He’s in a smart tux, king of the world if only because there are no challengers to the throne. He chuckles as he takes off in a black Bentley with Rihanna and a bunch of young sisters from somewhere or other: that British skank is probably being led back to her padded cell right about now. The Bentley pulls up at somebody’s place in the Hills — Jimmy? Clive? — and Rihanna slinks off to the pool house, leaving him with a wet kiss and “hold that thought” eyes. Five minutes later he had a sista sandwich going when she opened the door in a long fur and full Victoria’s Secret getup. Get the hell out of here, bitches! Farnsworth, gimme a hand with this asshole! That’s it, tie him up! Tie the motherfucker up! Nobody does that to fucking Rihanna!

SCENARIO 4. It’s L.A., and it’s Grammy night. It’s been a good year, but not good enough. Nobody knows how this game really works. You’ve got the biggest opening-week sales and still it don’t mean shit. He crushed 50 Cent, and yet who made the real money? The guy with the fucking sugarwater endorsement deal who hasn’t had a hit in four years, who spends half his time with captains of industry and the rest with gangsters. He had Jam Master Jay whacked, everybody knows that. Only reason the Game is still alive is all the heat. He’s no idiot. Neither are the loan sharks who run this town, who hand out deadlines and then beatings; 2 million records is dandy, but without green it don’t mean shit. He should have known that the big booty beauty who cornered him at that party in the Hills was a setup. Her hand was in his crotch and her chest was exploding out of that fur when she pushed him through the pool house door. He never saw the goons back there. 50 was sweating, shouting, as if he were the one about to get it. Don’t be an idiot, just get the money! Our hero squirmed like a girl as they put the gag on him. Fuck you, he shouted. I’m Kanye West!

Any other reads?

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UPDATE: Thanks to Jesse for pointing out this interview with Rita G on MTV, which I cite as advance approval of my plot projections:

“I just think it’s great to have a cliffhanger,” she said. “It’s great when the mother goose doesn’t have to chew the food up for you and then feed it to you. Use your motherf****ing mind. It’s abstract. It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Steve Martin vs. Robin Williams: Showdown of failure

The other night Jesse and I discussed the strange fact that Robin Williams and Steve Martin, two of the most brilliant and successful comedians of our time, have made so many poor, unfunny films that just don’t do justice to their talent. It’s especially inexplicable since both are rich and powerful and presumably have been able to make any film they’ve wanted for at least 20 years now.

In my opinion Martin has done far better: The Jerk, L.A. Story, Parenthood — all masterpieces. And he’s done well with Roxanne, Little Shop of Horrors and a bunch more. But Sgt. Bilko? Father of the Bride Part II? Cheaper by the Dozen 2? The Pink Panther?!

Williams’s career, in contrast, is a disgrace. Mrs. Doubtfire, Cadillac Man, Toys, Jack, Death to Smoochy, Hook, Patch Adams, Jumanji, Flubber, and who can forget RV — it’s just incontheivable that a man this supremely talented has never made a great comedy film, and I don’t think his many carpe diem parts (Dead Poets Society, The Fisher King, Good Will Hunting, Good Morning, Vietnam) make up for this deficiency; rather, they just point to an easy crutch.

An interesting note: they’ve never been in a film together.

Jesse took it upon himself to compile, in the way that only he can, the following year-by-year, film-by-film comparison of Martin and Williams. It’s pretty sad. My comments, where I have them, are in [bracketed itals].

We will start by pointing out the feature film debuts of both of them, The Jerk (1979) and Popeye (1980). Both excellent films, but the critics would have The Jerk as the winner. Nevertheless, I will say they started out even. Let the games begin! [For the record, I note that Jesse has an unusual and very personal bias toward Popeye, a massive flop that had serious consequences for Williams, Robert Altman (director) and Robert Evans (producer). Also, I think it’s awesome that Martin’s role in The Muppet Movie (1979) is “Insolent Waiter.”]

1981.
Steve: Pennies From Heaven. Excellent underrated musical dark comedy.
Robin: Nothing. Probably still smarting from Popeye.
Winner: Steve by default.

1982.
Steve: Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid. Excellent noir homage/parody.
Robin: The World According to Garp. Worthwhile adaptation of Irving novel.
Winner: Tie. Critics may raise Garp over Plaid, but I value Plaid over Garp.

1983.
Steve: The Man With Two Brains. Good dark comedy some value as excellent.
Robin: The Survivors. Haven’t seen this, but it has Walter Matthau.
Winner: Tough, but I say tie. Fans aren’t overly ecstatic about Brains, and I’ve heard good things about Survivors.

1984.
Steve: All of Me. Classic comedy that propelled Steve into stardom. [Not sure why you think that — Martin was already a major comedy star. Note “King Tut,” “Wild and Crazy Guys” etc. from SNL in the ’70s.] The Lonely Guy. Funny film that tried to recapture brilliance of The Jerk.
Robin: Moscow on the Hudson. Very touching movie about Russian defector.
Winner: Tough. Stellar year for both, but although critics may have favored Moscow slightly more than All, All has withstood the test of time better. I will say Steve here, but only by the fact that he turned in the above-average Lonely Guy as well. [Agreed.]

1985.
Steve: Nothing, probably due to having served up two films last year.
Robin: Nothing as well. Lazy perhaps.

1986.
Steve: Little Shop of Horrors. Small part in worthwhile adaptation. [A masterly cameo, I think. Martin is a vocal amateur, of course, but he nails the part.] ¡Three Amigos! Classic.
Robin: Club Paradise. Underrated film, low on laughs but high on charm. The Best Years of Our Lives. Bizarre “comedy” about a high school football reunion.
Winner: Steve, but he did not trounce Robin this year. [Nonsense. Little Shop of Horrors and Three Amigos? Come on, Steve by miles.]

1987.
Steve: Planes, Trains & Automobiles. Underrated classic. Roxanne. Overrated adaptation of Cyrano, but worthwhile nonetheless. [I think the reverse: Planes, Trains is overrated, Roxanne gets an A-.]
Robin: Good Morning, Vietnam. Overrated but still fairly good period comedy. Winner: Tie. Critics highly favored Vietnam, but also gave nods to Roxanne, and Planes has had the most durability. [Maybe so, but Vietnam was a massive hit. I’m inclined to agree on the tie, but that success is notable.]

1988.
Steve: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Classic.
Robin: Nothing.
Winner: Steve by default.

1989.
Steve: Parenthood. A good film when all comes down to it. [It’s a great one, especially for Martin, from “you’re an amalgam” on down.]
Robin: Dead Poets Society. Overrated, yes, but still a classic. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. A small part in a classic.
Winner: Robin. He got Oscar nods and people went gaga for Dead Poets, plus his turn in Munchausen allied him with another great film. [Dead Poets was a big one, but I call it a draw.]

Recap of the decade: Not counting default years, Steve leads by 2, which isn’t much. With defaults, 4. [My count would be Steve by 1, or by 3 counting defaults.]

1990.
Steve: My Blue Heaven. Not entirely unfunny, but not very strong either.
Robin: Awakenings. Serious drama via Oliver Sacks. Actually not that bad. Cadillac Man. Not entirely unfunny, but not very strong either.
Winner: Robin. While Cadillac and Heaven are very close in quality, Awakenings gives Robin a little more actor credit.

1991.
Steve: Father of the Bride. Not-bad retread of Parenthood style. [It’s well liked by girls and their moms, but I’d say it’s weak.] Grand Canyon. Haven’t seen this, but guessing not entirely bad. Sort of a sequel to The Big Chill. L.A. Story. Excellent later film that is a little of a mixed bag. [Strongly disagree. It’s a 10 out of 10 in my book, and an inspiration.]
Robin: Hook. Overly maligned. Actually not that bad. The Fisher King. Excellent Gilliam film. Dead Again. Haven’t seen this one, but guessing not entirely bad. [It’s not bad, but I don’t remember Williams’s part; he’s not one of the leads.]
Winner: Tough. Grand Canyon cancels out Dead Again. Bride cancels out Hook (although Hook is slightly better). Fisher King is slightly better than L.A. Story, so Robin by a hair. [I’d call it a draw. Fisher King may have been an important role for Williams, but I prefer L.A. Story, as noted. Also, Fisher King is a lesser version of the Dead Poets/Good Will Hunting role that was starting to become cookie cutter for Williams at this point.]

1992.
Steve: HouseSitter. Not very good but not terrible comedy with Goldie Hawn. Leap of Faith. Incredibly boring.
Robin: Aladdin. Good Disney flick, pretty funny. Shakes the Clown. Dark comedy that is not entirely bad, but not very good. Toys. Huge flop. Almost unwatchable.
Winner: If it hadn’t been for Toys, Robin would have trounced Steve this year. With the inclusion of Toys, I’d say tie.

1993.
Steve: Nothing.
Robin: Being Human. Strange multi-role drama. Mrs. Doubtfire. Highly successful and not that bad actually.
Winner: Robin by default. [I would call Doubtfire worthless, which means this is a draw.]

1994.
Steve: Mixed Nuts. Completely forgettable, but not godawful. Simple Twist of Fate. Mediocre remake of Silas Marner, à la Roxanne.
Robin: Nothing.
Winner: Steve by default, barely.

1995.
Steve: Father of the Bride Part II. Completely worthless sequel; not soul-crushing, just awful.
Robin: Jumanji. A nicely spirited family romp. Nine Months. Small part in decent family comedy. To Wong Foo. Worthless remake, but not soul-crushing. [Is it really a remake?]
Winner: Robin.

1996.
Steve: Sgt. Bilko. Stupid.
Robin: Jack. Pretty dumb. The Birdcage. Decent remake, but not great. Hamlet. Small part in pretty good adaptation. [I was curious so I looked it up: he plays Osric, a courtier. Very minor character.]
Winner: Robin.

1997.
Steve: The Spanish Prisoner. Pretty interesting drama, a good turn for Steve.
Robin: Good Will Hunting. Star turn for Robin, overrated but still pretty good. [ADDENDA: Flubber, a black hole of filmic suckiness, perhaps the reason it was missed the first time around. Deconstructing Harry, mediocre Woody Allen flick, don’t remember Williams’s role. Father’s Day, invisible “dad” comedy with Billy Crystal.]
Winner: Robin. [A real sourpuss would say Flubber cancels out Good Will Hunting. I don’t think so, but it’s certainly debatable: a decade later, Flubber still stands as nearly as great an embarrassment as Hunting was a success.]

1998.
Steve: Nothing.
Robin: Patch Adams. Pretty dead attempt at fusing Awakenings with Good Morning, Vietnam. What Dreams May Come. Incredibly overdone, but not soul-crushing bad.
Winner: No one. Neither of Robin’s films warrant a win by default.

1999.
Steve: Bowfinger. Startling return to form of sorts. Good film, if not great. The Out of Towners. Worthless remake.
Robin: Bicentennial Man. Horrid. Jakob the Liar. Worthless remake, but not without some merit at least. [How can it be worthless and yet not without merit? Also, I don’t believe it’s a remake.]
Winner: Steve.

Recap of the decade: Robin by 4, not counting defaults. With defaults 5. Which means, with the previous decade, Robin is ahead by 2. [I put Williams ahead by 3 this decade. Total so far, Williams by 1, or Martin by 1 if counting defaults.]

2000.
Steve: Joe Gould’s Secret. Under-the-radar small bit in what I hear is a good film.
Robin: Nothing.
Winner: No one. Steve’s small part is not a win by default.

2001.
Steve: Novocaine. From what I hear, mind-bogglingly pointless.
Robin: AI. Bit voice-over part in this monumental embarrassment.
Winner: No one. Robin has higher profile, but no one scores.

2002.
Steve: Nothing.
Robin: Death to Smoochy. Mixed reviews on this one. Insomnia. A very well done remake and great turn by Robin. [Really?] 24 Hour Photo. OK, not bad.
Winner: Robin by default.

2003.
Steve: Cheaper by the Dozen. Attempt to recapture Parenthood sales. Not good. Looney Tunes: Back in Action. Semi-acceptable family film. Bringing Down the House. Why?
Robin: Nothing.
Winner: It would be hard to say Steve by default here. So I’m not going to.

2004.
Steve: Nothing.
Robin: House of D. Barely seen drama that has been reviewed so-so. [Notable in that it was written and directed by David Duchovny.] The Final Cut. Another serious turn for Robin; hear it is so-so.
Winner: While Robin should maybe win by default, the fact that I’ve seen none of these is indication how nonexistent Robin was this year. So no one.

2005.
Steve: Cheaper By the Dozen 2. Why? Shopgirl. Although it got mixed reviews, it at least garnered better attention.
Robin: Robots. Big cartoon. OK. The Big White. Haven’t seen. Sounds so-so.
Winner: Steve. Only by a hair, due to Robots. And really it should be a tie. I mean, Cheaper By the Dozen 2 is a stinker. [I haven’t seen Shopgirl, but Martin deserves some credit since it’s based on a short book he wrote.]

2006.
Steve: The Pink Panther. Ouch.
Robin: Happy Feet. Good/great animated film. Man of the Year. This might be applied to Robin for how many films he’s in this year, but no. Night at the Museum. OK children’s film. RV. Horrid. The Night Listener. Another film like The Final Cut, 24 Hour Photo, etc., etc.
Winner: Robin. [RV cancels all. Another draw by mutual suck.]

2007.
Steve: Nothing.
Robin: License to Wed. Soul-crushing. August Rush. Horrid.
Winner: Steve by default. Better to do nothing then these films.

So far this decade, Robin by 1, but with defaults they are tied. [Actually, by your count they’re tied either way.] Add to it the other decades and Robin is ahead by 3. [By my own reckoning Martin is up 1 in the ’00s. All-time career totals ... they’re equal if default years are not counted, and Martin is up 2 if they are.]