26 May 2012

Movie Review: Men in Black 3

Article first published as Movie Review: Men in Black 3 on Blogcritics.

I saw the first Men in Black on a date, in the US, with a boy I liked very much. I laughed so hard the whole theatre stared at me (the film was out on 2 July 1997 and we went in late August) and I couldn’t help but dance to the title song by Mr. Will Smith. I saw the movie back in Belarus with my BFFs with this result: crowning Jada Pinkett Smith as the luckiest girl on Earth, creating a secret language to keep important info safe from alien invaders and entering every room in the fashion of MIB fighters. I could not believe shit like that could be made by humans... well, and a few aliens. 

Men in Black II landed in my home collection this year when my 5-year-old expressed a keen interest in the franchise. It was funny, a solid treadmill movie, but nothing like the original. I held my breath for Part 3. 

With a heavy heart I have to admit that Men in Black 3 is a disappointment. Directed by Barry Sonnenfeld and written by Etan Cohen it should be great, but somehow it’s not. It’s the curse of every sequel. It would have been a marvel had we not seen the original. The trouble is we all saw it and it was darn good. The elements of the first instalment are all in Men in Black 3 – the chases, the black suits, the in-jokes, the ugly aliens, the beautiful Bill Pope's cinematography, the Danny Elfman score – but the sheer subversive edge of Part 1 is nowhere to be found. Even my 5-year-old left with tears in her eyes, and all for the wrong reasons. 

It’s hard to put my finger on it with Men in Black 3: Will Smith who plays Agent J is back in great form and Josh Brolin who plays Young Agent K more than compensates for a sad performance by Tommy Lee Jones (Old Agent K) who looks so feeble any average alien can have him on the floor if they blow softly on him, let alone use extraterrestrial supersonic weaponry. The jokes are there but some of them fall flat in a half-empty matinee theatre, leaving an awkward aftertaste. What a shame. 

Men in Black 3 begins with two extremes: extreme beauty (courtesy of Lily played by Nicole Schenzinger – she will not be getting an Oscar any time soon) and extreme ugliness (provided by Boris the Animal played by Jemaine Clement). Lily is visiting Boris in the Lunar Prison with a jumpy cake (alongside her jumpy breasts) only to set the beast free. The dude is genuinely creepy (traditionally to the franchise, he is a host to a smaller alien spitting out nasty little darts into everyone who stands in his way). Parts of him open up like claws; Agent J even suggests a pedicure at some point. ¬¬Agent K once imprisoned Boris on July 16 back in 1969 and now this maniac is back for vengeance and the destruction of planet Earth. 

One day after K realizes the ugly creature is loose on the citizens of NYC his apartment vanishes, and J develops a peculiar craving for chocolate milk. Back in the MIB office he is the only one who remembers K, and after a small investigation he learns from new MIB Chief Agent O (Emma Thomson) that K has been dead for over forty years – Boris the Animal killed him back in 1969! J has to travel back in time, of course, and murder Boris – otherwise the Earth will be destroyed (the beautiful alien ships hovering about Chrysler Building, from which J has to leap down to travel in time, as seen in the Men in Black 3 trailer, are testament of what is to come). 

The movie truly picks up with the introduction of an all-seeing alien, a creature so delicate and fragile, he almost redeems the whole movie on his own. The vision of his world is warped, terrifying and beautiful, a myriad of possibilities that keeps him on edge at all times. He is the best part of the third instalment, a breath of fresh air among the in-jokes about period paraphernalia like huge neutralizers, mobile phones and female coiffures. The whole Andy Warhol sequence falls flat for me but the climax at Cape Canaveral is fun to watch, and the payoff, however predictable, is satisfying (there is also a small plot twist most will enjoy). Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber are aliens, of course. But no surprise there. 

I’ve been waiting patiently for the people who made 28 Days Later and 28 Weeks Later to start talking again (and preferably about the possibility of a sequel). But now, having seen  Men in Black 3, I start to understand the sagacity of Danny Boyle. Magic is a rare thing. As I have learnt from the all-seeing alien in  Men in Black 3 who knows every possible ending of every possible scenario a lot of things have to come together to produce magic – small, infinitesimal things, a fraction of a second, a millimetre here, a millimetre there. Men in Black 3 may be easily forgettable but it genuinely hurts to see it go down in flames next to The Avengers while also casting a shadow on the breathtaking original. I look forward to seeing the movie in English in the hope some of its joys have been lost in translation. But I hope this is it for the franchise. Precisely because I love it so much.

16 May 2012

Movie Review: Rihanna in Treadmill Movie Battleship (2012)

Article first published as Movie Review: Battleship (2012) on Blogcritics.

Congratulations, everyone, the summer blockbuster season is open. With the record beating The Avengers and the upcoming (much anticipated) Men in Black III, the season of loud, somewhat funny, somewhat idiotic macho movies is officially open. One can say Safe was the official opener, abound with unrealistic kicks, jumps and falls that defy physics and all other sciences put together. And now here comes Battleship, an alien invasion Transformers-lookalike brainless ‘guy movie’. The twist? It’s based on a board game (that calls to at least some intellectual activity) and director Peter Berg consulted The Science & Entertainment Exchange. Also, Rihanna is in it. Briefly. 

Treadmill Movies

Why everyone calls all of the above pictures guy movies is beyond me. Many a (male) critic have written feverishly how female viewers are simply neglected in the modern movie summer scene as if by doing so they are doing us females a favour. The whole notion of a guy or girl movie seems absurd to me (I am checking my watch, yes, it is the 21 century). What should I be looking forward to as a single 30 year-old artsy type with a kid? Bridget-fucking-Jones? Oh. I know. What To Expect When You Are Expecting! Cuz the last time Jennifer Lopez tried to sell me that type of shit in The Back-Up Plan I nearly walked out. Maybe I simply have a dick somewhere that I haven’t discovered yet. Nevertheless, I will argue till my last breath stupid actioners are not guy movies. They are treadmill movies. Battleship is a perfect example.

Plot 

In 2005 scientists transmit a message to a planet that resembles Earth from a communication den in Hawaii where NASA nerds look and smell nerdy. In 2012 in a crowded bar Alex Hopper (Taylor Kitsch) listens to a boring lecture by his older brother commander Stone Hopper (Alexander Skarsgard) about the virtues of doing something useful, like getting a job or serving in the Navy. Alex is easily distracted by some serious cleavage and impressive derriere on Samantha Shane (Brooklyn Decker) who wants a chicken burrito asap (the kitchen is closed) so Alex does the first feat of the movie (breaks into a store, gets electrocuted by the police but manages to deliver the popular Mexican dish to Samantha). 

This proves to be enough for the busty chick not only to date Alex but also to push him incessantly into the iron chest of her doting Daddy Admiral Shane (Liam Neeson) and finally bleat out a request for his daughter’s hand in marriage. By this time Alex is already in the Navy but always late, awkward, chewing gum, or wearing an inappropriate piece of clothing – not exactly Navy Admiral daughter marriage material. That’s all about to change when the aliens arrive and Alex kicks some major ass when everyone else sinks in their own adrenaline. 

Why do aliens invade? So Alex can marry Samantha after he shows how cool he really is, duh. This is a classic tale of the noble dissent from loserhood to herohood with a general grand prise – the pretty young bride. The aliens come in five massive ships but many more are coming if they manage to transmit a message back to their fellow brethren about humans being completely useless and their transportation means (cars, ships, planes, helicopters, etc) easily perishable with the help of peculiar tumbleweed destroyers with snaky tails that tear through everything metal and moving while stopping at a detection of a beating heart (in a memorable scene it stops right in front of a cute little boy playing baseball, only to turn around and go destroy the base of a bridge with neat rows of cars on it). 

Anyone who has seen the Battleship trailer will know what the ships and even the aliens look like. The rest is constant action and ¬the movie reeks of last year’s 2012. The aliens destroy two ships (and kill big brother Stone) but Alex saves the remaining survivors. One of them happens to be Captain Nagata (Tadanobu Asano) who helps track alien ships by detecting the position of tsunami warning buoys. There is a brief encounter with an alien that’s a great chance for Rihanna (she plays Cora Reikes, a weapons specialist) to show off her enviable forms. 

Fitness Bonus 

Battleship is a perfect treadmill movie because sci fi engenders uncontrollable jerks and swift movements of the limbs naturally. It’s also a war movie (well, kind of) because there are aliens and there are humans; both need to annihilate each other. Battleship also features Rihanna (who isn’t hopeless at all) who flaunts her lean long limbs lipping out genius lines like ‘Boom’ – a perfect example of what a treadmill devotee in her prime looks like. Aliens are scary enough to make you bike faster (in case you need to outrun one of those extraterrestrial creatures). Navy officers jumping around in their cute uniforms are further incentive to peddle harder. Most of them drown because, hey, the alien ships squash American vessels with one sprinkle of flashy laser beams – this makes you, the treadmill warrior, believe in yourself much more. After all, they are all dead and you are still cycling away... Treadmill movies should not be too scary or too smart. Battleship is neither. The aliens here are super sensitive to light – just flash a light bulb into their eyes and they are defeated (I wish zombies had such an Achilles’ heel). It has a few laughs but not enough to send you off the moving belt dangerously on the floor. 

The Pretensions 

Director Peter Berg tried to emulate the board game by making the alien missiles shaped like pegs, grids forming by buoys resembling the layout of the game and the sailors using hit or miss guessing to find and destroy alien ships. That’s where the intellectualism runs out. 

The cock rock score by Steve Jablonsky (famous for the Transformers franchise) that many have complained about is perfect for a hard core workout. The post credit scene suggests there will be a sequel so you can finally try out those kicks imagining smashing your foot into the green-yellow-grey face of an alien. The budget of Battleship was 200 million dollars but it has already made a profit even before the American opening. Why? Because people love treadmill movies. Even if they don’t know they are watching a treadmill movie. 

Home vs Theatre 

Battleship was released in the UK a million years ago (April 11, 2012 ) for some enigmatic reason, and the movie’s stars, including Rihanna, have gone on to speak out against downloading it on the evil pirate sites and urged the public to see it in the theatre. 

Here is my view of things: Battleship is a treadmill movie. Once they have exercise equipment in the theatre (they will one day, believe you me), you can watch it there. For now, download, download, download. Otherwise, studios will keep conveyor-belting these dumb money makers until eternity. (Men in Black III, fingers crossed.) 

P.S. This article is not sponsored by any online piracy websites. No movie director, actor or makeup artist suffered financial losses during the writing of this review. Peace.

4 May 2012

Movie Review: The Avengers (2012)


Article first published as Movie Review: The Avengers (2012) on Blogcritics.

If you've ever observed a boy and a girl in the same room on a typical afternoon you might have witnessed this sort of scenario: The little girl sits quietly drawing a picture of something peaceful (Mommy, Daddy, dog, balloons everywhere) when the little boy dashes into the room, bangs the girl on the head with a hammer and then sets the picture on fire.

If destruction is your thing then The Avengers is right up your alley. The plot of The Avengers can easily be described as this: Boom! Bang! Screech! Kaboom! Ding! Dong! Smash! Kazang! with reciprocal reactions from the audience: oh, ah, ah ha ha, oops, ouch, dang, whoa, phew... Marvel Studios obviously think that as a male (are you female? you don’t exist, sorry) you are only interested in seeing things smash into each other, blow up and be torn into pieces, so that’s exactly what you get in this blockbuster that cost $220 million (and already made $280 million ) before being released in the States on May 4.

The story is pretty simple:

The very pale Loki (Tom Hiddleston), evil step brother to Thor (Chris Hemsworth), wants to rule the Earth and gets his hands on a tesseract that will open a portal to Asgard and allow a bunch of aliens and their war ships to occupy the planet. Humans are allegedly dying to be Loki’s slaves, so S.H.I.E.L.D. leader Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson) assembles the world’s ‘freaks’ together in the face of the coming apocalypse: the unfrozen Captain America (Chris Evans) prepares his shield, Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr.) postpones a date with the sizzling Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow), the Hulk (Mark Ruffalo) gets ready to be mad as hell despite of what his anger management tutor tells him, Natasha Romanoff aka Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson) preps her nicely shaped ass for a few close-ups and Thor (Chris Hemsworth) must polish his hammer for some head smashing and wall bashing.

Instead of joining forces, our superheroes are suspicious, bickering, and stupid, causing a lot of people to get into unnecessary trouble and causing a few untimely deaths. I love how Roger Ebert describes their mis-match made in Marvel heaven: ‘When I see these six together, I can't help thinking of the champions at the Westminster Dog Show. You have breeds that seem completely different from one another (Labradors, poodles, boxers, Dalmatians), and yet they're all champions.’



Everything else is pretty much action scene after action scene (just watch the The Avengers trailer) diluted by a few banal speeches by Nick Fury (who even lies to the heroes to convince them to fight) and it’s hard to believe this was written and directed by Joss Whedon who created Buffy the Vampire Slayer and co-wrote/produced the genre-bending The Cabin in The Woods. I swear even the tepid Safe actioner with Jason Statham had more interesting direction, and I thought it would commit suicide next to The Avengers in theatres.

But then there is the humor. David Denby promised The Avengers would cause multiple orgasms among Comic-Con nerds, and judging from the giggles and claps in the Minsk theatre I went to, he is right. (There was even an impromptu standing ovation at the end, and I don’t know if that’s a sign of an impending end of the world or maybe I am just PMS-ing and overreacting.) The movie is genuinely funny in a stupid funny way – without that, I would have fallen asleep withing the next 30 minutes.

Nothing is real in The Avengers. The aliens are never presented in any way, except as metal clad killing machines.They don’t feel like a threat on a human level. They do blow a lot of things up and set Manhattan on fire but we never come face to face with any of them (as well as any of the humans in the crowd either). Essentially the viewer is made to marvel from the outside, but not participate in any way. It’s all happening on the screen, self-aware, fake and fantastical – maybe that’s just part of the whole superhero thing.

The best thing about this movie: Watching Scarlett Johansson (and her stunt double Heidi Moneymaker?). WARNING: may inspire you to actually get on the treadmill.

Verdict: Good for a laugh. A very empty laugh.

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Safe 2011 - Movie Review


28 April 2012

Jason Statham in Safe - Movie Review

Article first published as Movie Review: Safe (2012) on Blogcritics.

Boaz Yakin, writer (Prince Of Persia: The Sands Of Time), director (Remember The Titans), and producer (Hostel: Part II), comes up with Safe (it just occurred to me the title is a pun, but not a very good one) starring Jason Statham – a loud tale of wars on the streets of NYC with lots of blood spilling, and nothing much else happening. For main man Jason Statham, a former diver and brilliant actor (in Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels at least), this is not the top movie on his CV, but he again shows off himself as a solid action performer and extraordinary stunt man (must remind myself to fix that piece of gym equipment and get down to gettin’ those killer abs).

The Plot

In a series of nauseating jumps from ‘then’ to ‘now’ we learn that a Chinese girl Mei, who is 12 (why are the girls in these movies always 12?), is a wonder kid who beats her teacher in math only to get kidnapped by the Chinese mafia.  She is traded over to the US to keep business figures and dozens of number streams containing important codes for the bad guys in her tiny head. Her dad having abandoned her and having a sick mother, Mei has no one except the bad people who surround her, if those are to be considered people at all (characterization is not the strongest point of Safe).

Luke Wright (Jason Statham) is now a cage fighter but did some really bad things in the past. He manages to piss off the Russian mafia and the Triads; his ex-pals, the corrupt cops; and some city officials who make Hannibal Lector resemble Snow White. Everyone is Safe 2012 wants to get their hands on Mei to be their portable bookkeeper without the inconvenient trails PCs and paper notes leave. She photographs ledgers and account balances with one wink of an eye.  She knows the ROI of every shop and casino in the district – so inevitably conflicts arise as to who is going to own such an invaluable ‘asset.’

In Safe, difficult times are not just difficult for ordinary citizens but also for Chinese mafia, corrupt cops, and even the Mayor himself (Chris Sarandon). Luke, however, lives in a world of his own, where life has lost all meaning after his much adored (and pregnant) wife was murdered by Russian goons. He lives in a world where anyone he befriends, even superficially, falls victim to the mob. His days are lonely and pointless until as a result of some chaotically edited events, Luke and Mei end up on the same subway platform with two opposite goals in mind: she wants to live and he wants to die. Luke finds new purpose just before he commits the irreversible: the girl is chased by the same guys who murdered his wife, so he decides to redeem himself by doing something a little more noble than being beaten up to a pulp every night.


One Dimension

Safe indeed plays it really safe on the sentiments, shunning away from being compared to Leon:  The Professional, where Jean Reno and Natalie Portman formed an electrifying bond, as if being compared to Leon would be a terrible thing. Jason Statham’s Luke is too one-dimensional for the depths Luc Besson’s chef-d'oeuvre touched upon. Emotion is almost absent in the movie, even though little Mei is pitched against inhuman characters like a Chinese mob boss (James Hong) and has to outsmart them to survive. None of it seems real, and nowhere do we get to see her perspective, and the horror of her position.

As seen from the Safe trailer, the movie draws on Leon and other Hong Kong actioners--full of bloody yet riveting fight scenes--but Kill Bill it is not. There is some welcome humor in the picture, but it never gets anywhere interesting.

If I strain myself pretty hard, I can review Safe as a dystopia with the central antihero trying to shake off his paranoid stupor and start living, not merely surviving, again. The mafia represents oppression in the most generic sense; Mei’s new ‘Dad’ (Chinese mafia dude played by Reggie Lee) promises his ‘daughter’ to love her like no one else, as every other abuser out there would, while routinely pointing a loaded gun at her head. But Mei is no victim prone to sadomasochistic pleasure, she learns a few things along the way, and can react fast in the face of adversity.

The war on the streets of NYC portrayed in Safe got me thinking of the whole gun-loving thing (some) Americans like to defend with so much saliva spitting. The nightmarish nihilism critics could write about here is a stretch (common, this is just a shoot'em-up). Despite the constant action the movie gets seriously yawn-worthy by the end – Yakin should have worked on some balance.

Verdict: only if you are really, really bored, or are a Jason Statham fan. And only at home.

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26 April 2012

The Raven 2012 - Movie Review

Article first published as Movie Review: The Raven (2012) on Blogcritics.

THE REVIEW I WAS GOING TO WRITE BEFORE SEEING THE MOVIE: John Cusack has as much business playing Adgar Allan Poe as Robert Pattison has business playing Georges Duroy (in the upcoming Bel Ami). What’s next, Katherine Heigl as Charlotte Bronte? It’s painful to watch John Cusack wringing his face painfully to portray one of the most biting critics and prominent poets of the 19th century, the single-handed creator of the detective story, progenitor of science fiction and father of the horror genre in its entirety – the venerable Mr. Poe. 

THE REVIEW I AM FORCED TO WRITE AFTER SEEING THE MOVIE: The Raven is an atmospheric, moody fantasy on the last days of Adgar Allan Poe, in which John Cusack captures the spirit of never-ending sadness, sparkling genius and dejected curiosity for all things horrific of the most mysterious writer of the 19 century. A must-see. 

The Raven opens with a black screen screaming out a blatant lie: the movie pretends to be a biopic (nothing is known about the last days of the poet yada yada yada). To my surprise, in the last week I have read in some user comments about an excellent ‘adaptation of a classic’. (What classic? What adaptation?) This is the real horror of The Raven circa 2012 – that to many viewers this will be their only acquaintance with Poe, a tale of ‘how it really was’. Spoiler alert: The Raven is not a biopic. The Raven is not an adaptation. The Raven is not a classic. It’s pure fiction, fiction based on other fiction, kind of like a dream within a dream, only with a more tangible objective to make an impact at the box office. The Raven is nothing more.  

So, according to fake biopic The Raven 2012, Poe (John Cusack) is a failed writer who can’t get a drink at the bar because editor Henry Maddox (Kevin McNally) won’t publish him over some douchbag Longfellow. He is shaking with alcoholism and screams at people for calling him ‘poor’ as he yells ‘I am Poe Poe Poe’. He plays with human hearts in his free time, then feeds them to his pet racoon. He has a cute lover (erotic Alice Eve) whose father is a jerk (Brendan Gleeson, good as always), refusing to shut down a grand ball because of some idiotic killer on the loose. Poe is arrested as a suspect in a seemingly unsolvable murder case with Inspector Emmett Fields (Luke Evans, interesting) thinking Poe did it because it copies one of his stories word by word (nice going, Inspector). Next a critic Griswold (John Warnaby) dies, his last words being ‘But I'm only a critic!’ – and all hell breaks loose. There are chases and shooting scenes, cut-off body parts and classic whodunit twists. The ending may come as a surprise to some; a disappointment to others. I am staying mum. 

Australian James McTeigue (V for Vendetta) and writers Ben Livingston and Hannah Shakespeare (not to be confused with the English dude) present a Poe that is tame and almost pitiable, with his penchant for opium and syphilis symptoms nowhere in sight. Period detail is not much of concern here but not in a good Guy Richie Sherlock Holmes kind of way. Every reviewer will of course have to write how the term ‘serial killer’ would not appear until the 1970s, and so will I. This is not a post-modernist hip ‘thang’, it’s just a fuck-up, and should never happen in serious cinema.

John Cusack, however, manages to project that quiet madness that elicits out of every pore of a person who’s lost a loved one in a senseless, futile, absurd battle against death itself. The painful passing of his wife has laid a shadow on his face, and with every new murder, this shadow grows bigger and bigger, a cloud hovering over the people he loves. The movie is filled with this doomed sadness, and that’s a compliment. 

The Raven is also entertaining, never boring. The rock score of Lucas Vidal (Vanishing on 7th Street) matched the spirit of Baltimore at night – spooky and shadowy. The public was dead silent, waiting for the next shot anxiously while dreading it all the same. The Raven has a bit of Saw, Seven and Silence of the Lambs in it. I don’t know if the gory scenes were gory enough for 2012 – my eyes shut tight and refused to open until those were over, so I can’t even spoil anything for anyone. 

For me, an old school writer and critic who reread The Raven the poem before I went to the theatre, it was interesting to see whether the spirit of it, the dread and horror of that cold night described in it, would be translated to the movie in any way. I watched out for ravens in this murder thriller – eating a kitten, dancing on the face of a dead prostitute, dying with their mouths agape or staring down at Poe, letting out his last breath into the fog of the morning... They did nothing to me; but the dread did come out, not in the quiet tapping on the window, but in the stifled breaths of Emily, her dirt sprinkled chest going up and down in short, desperate breaths for life... 

I came in ready to hate The Raven and came out liking it (exactly in the sense of a Facebook ‘like’ – impersonal and mechanic). It’s exactly the case of my mind pleading to hate it and my heart melting under the pressure of its overbearing melancholy; we’ve all been there; without it half of the population of the Earth would never have been born. There were also a couple of questions I asked myself when I walked out: Are writers responsible for what they write? Do you have to sell your soul for a work of art? Is this type of scenario just an interactive reader-writer co-creation process at its extreme? 

The Raven, a poem by Adgar Allan Poe, first published in 1845, was written in a meticulous struggle to produce a creation that would appeal both to the readers and the critics. The Raven, a movie by James McTeigue, screened in 2012, makes no such pretences. It’s just a money grabber. It does nothing to look into the soul of the poet it allegedly portrays. 

Verdict: The horror is never enough for a tale with the father of horror at its core. The Raven 2012 will probably make you reread The Murders in the Rue Morgue and The Pit and the Pendulum, which is a good thing. You will also learn how much Poe earned for writing The Raven, which almost made me cry... 

Maybe Poe circa 2012 would download Jessy J’s ‘Pricetag’ onto his scratched and tattered Ipad - as a consolation. I can see him clearly near the window, with ‘It’s not about the money’ screaming in his ears. He doesn’t hear the soft tapping at the window. But it’s there, always there. The raven.

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21 April 2012

The 5 questions



Why is the child barking?
Because there is a fly in the room and the child is trying to scare it away.

Why is the diamante skull on the T-shirt missing an eye?
Cuz the kids from the child’s school wanted each to take smth to remember me by.

Why are there banana skins in each glass in the house?
'They are garbage cans, only for children, mother'.

Why is there ice cream in Minsk ‘fruit’ smoothies?
Cuz it’s retarded that way.

Why is the child talking to herself?
She is not talking to herself, she is talking to the fly. They are BFFs now.

3 April 2012

My Lovely Alter Egos

Meet my lovely alter egos:


Val Z. She doesn’t say much. She can dance. She can run. She kills all the zombies. She is the last girl standing.



Nikki Trouble. Man basher. Attention whore. Drama Queen.

Catrine M. A perfect woman. She talks to flowers, bakes and never grows old.

1 April 2012

Surviving Fame: The Little Narrative Of Alter Ego



Article first published as 
Surviving Fame: A Little Narrative of Alter Ego on Blogcritics. 



The healthy happy human may very well wear many masks, but the celebrity, rarely considered human, is forever torn between public image, public persona, brand, alter ego, character, stage persona, protagonist, with the ‘real’ person, as cheap as it sounds, behind the mask. Attributes such as ‘fake’ and ‘manufactured’ are omnipresent companions of famous people, as if spilling the beans in front of millions is a behavioral norm, as if the common man would be willing to share details of their private life with the public in order to be considered ‘genuine’.


The Virtual ‘I’

Alter ego is defined as ‘second self’, ‘other I’. Our time is the time of alter ego, with reality constantly being restructured, rewritten and refashioned by the creators of such reality, and then the perceivers of it. Alter egos are no longer reserved for pop music, comics, literature and standup comedians; they are the common man’s ‘second I’ in the digital world – daily acting out the roles of their online avatars. Look at social networks profiles: the ‘other I’ of the users is fashioned by the users themselves carefully by choosing the imagery, audio, video, text and context to describe themselves, creating characters, always somewhat different from the private person behind the screen, sometimes – completely different.

The Static ‘I’

Consistency is the norm. Inconsistency is an aberration. Since primitivism is the religion the public preaches, hastily drawn out labels get tattooed into the skin, never to come off. MySpace, the veteran of social networks, gives you two choices to register as – personal and musician – because, what, you can’t be both simultaneously? (Please also note that if you are a musician, you are not considered a person). Facebook profiles cannot be altered according to the multiple roles a healthy human being plays every day (married in one country, single in another – does that scenario ring a bell?). As bloggers, writers have to stick with one topic, one ‘niche’, one tone, one style, one personality. Otherwise, oblivion is imminent.

The Wavering ‘I’

At the same time, to be popular, to fit in, the user has to be versatile, to change like a chameleon. Twitter is all about being succinct, making even the usually composed Noam Chomsky lose his cool somewhat (trying to make value judgments based on 70 character utterances is no easy feat even for a brain like his). Pinterest is all about visuals; YouTube is video based; LinkedIn drowns in CVs and job recommendations – with users having to shed skin after skin to play by the rules.

The alter egos for different social networks have different characteristics, demanded by the nature of the social network. The greatest irony is that users find no contradiction in branding most of the celebrity world ‘fake’, ‘manufactured’, ‘insincere’, lending celebrities no right to protect their lives behind the masks the rest of humanity is so eager to wear, all the while hiding conveniently behind pictures that look much better than people in real life (and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that). It is hard to imagine a user putting a picture on their profile with their eyes half closed and their mouth agape (unless it’s ugly-cute – ‘oh look, don’t their antics look so funny here?), to post pictures of their unshaved armpits, their cellulite dimples, – yet that is what sells at the newsstand if the subject is a celebrity. Hypocrisy much? Much too much, if you ask me.

The Gaming ‘I’


And then there are computer games. The discrepancies between the people and their avatars are sometimes startling – there is almost no connection between the one and the other, except that they are ... the same person. For business purposes you can build alter egos online to lip-sync your message with the help of a digitally created talking head. You can also create an alter ego in 8 easy steps on the popular ehow.com or play alter ego games online by reliving your life as someone else in a perfect alternative life story simulation. And while all this bullshit is going on, with hours upon hours spent on perusing that artificially constructed reality of artificially constructed personas, celebs still get a beating for not being ‘real’.


The Creative ‘I’

Alter egos as a creative method have been used since times immemorial in music, comedy, film, comics and literature. Some contemporary celebs have alter egos who play on the Jekyll and Hyde scenario (Slim Shady vs. Eminem, T.I. vs. T.I.P, Brook-Lynn vs. Mary J Blige, Roman Zolansky vs. Nicki Minage). Others are excitingly original, inspired by other forms of art, like Janelle Monae’s Cindi Mayweather. In rare cases alter egos have seemingly melted into their ‘hosts’ (Marylin Manson, Lady Gaga) – these are the luckier bastards who can even pass unrecognized in the more obscure corners of the world without their camouflage.

Nowadays a number of hugely successful artists flaunt multiple alter egos, using them both for art and as aspects of their public personas: Nicki Minage has already presented ONika, Barbie, Rosa and Roman Zolansky; I have a feeling there are more on the way. Stefani Germanotta has Jo Calderone, Yuyi the Mermaid, Mother Monster, Mary Magdalene, and ... what was the other one? Ah, Lady Gaga! I nearly forgot.


Some alter egos last an album (Xtina by Christina Aguilera); others a video clip (Mariah Carey’s Bianca). Alter egos sometimes make an artist such as in the cases of David Bowie vs. Ziggy Stardust, Katy Perry vs. Katy Hudson vs. (plus let’s not forget Katy Perry vs. Kathy Beth Perry). And in the world of standup comedy Borat, Bruno and Ali G all by the tireless Sacha Baron Cohen have made alter egos indispensable in modern pop culture.


The Public Image ‘I’

But when it comes to public image, celebrities are increasingly deprived of that opportunity to be versatile. Fergie, once an addict but clean for many years, is incessantly interrogated about her addiction and her struggles, even though she has evolved into a completely different person, and has put all of that behind. Seems like once the label is on, it is hard to get it off. Mary J Blige struggled to find commercial success as a happy, fulfilled woman for a while – no, the public wasn’t happy at all to see her dry her tears and stand strong. Ellen Degeners was out of work for three years – how dare she go gay on the public when all was going so well? Steve Martin made the public ask for their money back when he talked about ‘An Object of Beauty’ as an author instead of spitting out penis jokes (Who does he think he is? Salman Rushdie?). Severing the public ‘I’ from the real ‘I’ was the premise of a popular Russian talk show Shkola Zlosloviya with Tatyana Tosltaya and Dunia Smirnova until the hostesses realized that wearing masks is actually the healthiest survival technique in the dog-eat-dog reality of mass culture.

The Brand ‘I’

It’s all about branding, about what the consumer thinks, says to brand-guru Martin Lindstrom on America's Next Top Model: All-Stars second episode where each of the (fully grown, somewhat accomplished) women are given a label they have to wear: Lovable, Daring, Candid, Trustworthy. No matter how corny and empty the label is, consistency is better than contradictory little truths, being hated is better than being forgotten. It doesn’t matter if a contestant thinks she is smart. If the public isn’t picking up on that, she has to stick with what the crowd says. 

Identity has to be distilled; ironed out to the perfect flatness of a paper doll.

The Cliché ‘I’

Real understanding demands time. But who has time these days? The bigger the label, the bolder the letters, the faster the message sinks in, no matter how shallow. It’s like running around a dozen cafes in a day – doesn’t make one a connoisseur of good food. And boy, do we get flooded with those ‘value judgments’ in the digital frenzy of today? In H8R, a TV show about celebs and their haters, people present their versions of famous people. According to the public Kim Kardashian is not supposed to date black men; Eva Longoria is at fault because she is skinny; Scott Disick is the ‘ultimate douche’ – just because! Of course Longoria is comically confused with her most famous character Gabriel Solis from Desperate Housewives (confusing Kim Kardashian with the character she portrays on Keeping Up With The Kardashians is too fucking subtle, I will not go there; the same thing happened to Kseniya Sobchak in Russia, by the way). H8R is supposed to be breaking stereotypes but instead it reinforces them (Latinas have to speak Spanish, be good cooks, have curves and know how to dance, and hey, look, Longoria possesses all those characteristics, therefore she is a real Latina), and I don’t think the creators even suspect it. (Did I mention the haters on the show are picked up from a crowd of audition hopefuls for another TV show, striving for that spotlight alongside the people they hate with so much ardor?)

The Real ‘I’

The dizzying transparency modern media culture has created for celebrities pushes them to find survival techniques which allow them to be successful yet keep their privacy (if you think I am exaggerating, take a look at the world from the perspective of Britney Spears in her car chased by paparazzi). Not everyone is enamored with fame, and there is one great example from the literary world: JD Salinger, who fought for his right to privacy till his last breath. He could have been huge – bigger than Capote or Hemingway – but he didn’t want to. But times change; the 21 century model of a successful writer is Grigory Chkhartishvili (Boris Akunin, Anatoly Brusnikin, Anna Borisova) who has been as interactive as it gets, playing with masks to please his public, keeping his alter egos secret for years without anyone suspecting.

The public is not cruel. The public is ruthless. Hypocrisy that rules the judgment process behind most celebrity myths is deemed amoral once applied to celebrities themselves. Surface judgments balloon into the realm of the ridiculous in the digital world with sarcasm and humor misinterpreted, quotes violated, truths turned upside down. Rare people get what a brutal satire Bruno was, how poignant the message was, because many can’t even tell what Sacha Baron Cohen’s alter ego Bruno is satirizing – celebrities accessorizing with African babies or the public labeling celebrities’ adopted children accessories.

Consistency and primitivism work. If something doesn’t add up in the interview responses, the celebrity is branded ‘insincere’. The viewer becomes a zombie that has no time to analyze but only time to consume and mindlessly move on to the next victim. The public say ‘they have chosen this path’ or ‘they owe it to us’. No one chooses to have the best voice in the world, or the best dance moves. It’s a gift. It’s also a curse. How were Amy Winehouse’s looks or personal lifestyle relevant to what she did musically? Same can be said about Whitney Houston. Why did it matter if Michael Jackson had a pet chimp when he did what he did? Don’t get me started on the rest of them. You will drown in my spit.

The Survivors

There is a handful of survivors that seem to keep it together, and for a good reason. Beyonce, being a class act, a true lady, a faithful wife, obviously cannot spread her legs on stage, shake her stuff for the world to see, writhe her back provocatively – Sasha Fierce steps in for her. Clichés rule the mentality of the mob, and the survivor celebrity knows that. It’s useless to explain Beyonce is not a flat rock with a single label defining her essence engraved for eternity but a diamond with a myriad facets – singer, daughter, lover, whore, businesswoman, bad cook, sly fox, cold bitch, but above all a smart girl – so she won’t explain all of the above to anyone who can’t understand.

Does anyone remember still that Madonna is not the real name of the best selling female in the world? What do we really know about this woman except her masks? Madonna has a faithful disciple following in her footsteps. Jo Calderone lands covers of major magazines and opens award shows. The woman behind the mask knows what she is doing, while no one knows her at all, most confusing and identifying her with her other famous alter ego – Lady Gaga. Stefani Germanotta may scream at the top of a mountain she and Lady Gaga are one, she may even believe that herself – nothing wrong with a good actor getting a little bit lost in the game, but she isn’t fooling me. I am not worried for her. With the bullet proof walls she has built around herself she has nothing to worry about either.

The latest addition to the alter ego club? Lana Del Rey, universally branded ‘fake’. Lizzi Grant didn’t work out all that well, so she played that old re-invention trick used many times before her, and while haters hate, her bank account is plumping up, just like her lips.

It seems to me when I analyze the careers of those who fell victim in this war, those who tried to resist the law of alter ego, the brand, the label, the ever changing kaleidoscope of masks that hides (and protects) the human, were crucified mercilessly. Those, who learned to change, evolve, camouflage, put on facades, invent names, accents and lives, have persisted, have flourished.

In the 21 century there is no definite knowledge; there are only many knowledges and the mask of alter ego may be the best way to express this multivocality. With the technology (Photoshop) and philosophy (post-modernism) to make this trick even more potent, the alter ego becomes a little narrative of the Self, one facet of the many ‘I’s a healthy happy human being has to host merely to survive.