“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Robyn said.

No, Will thought, as he tried again to pry open the condom package, though not for lack of research. He knew how to put it on; it was a simple matter of pinching the latex between his fingers and rolling it out. He’d practiced his technique earlier that night – on bananas, in the unassuming familiarity of his own bathroom – but here it was different. The glare from the fluorescent bulbs seemed to lay bare every blemish and imperfection on his skin, and he couldn’t force the easy-tear corners to peel. He knew he had to open it slowly, so as not to damage the latex, and he even knew how to tie the slippery thing in a knot when it all was over. He’d practiced that, too, but the reflective blue plastic wouldn’t budge.

He rifled through the drawers beneath Robyn’s bathroom counter. He found some silver tweezers with flat tips, like tongs, and used them to pinch one corner of the package while he tugged on the plastic with his other hand. The polymer cover didn’t give. They’d been together, he and Robyn, for just over seven months and they had the talk about tonight a few weeks ago, after her parents announced their vacation plans. That was around the same time they avowed their love to one another. (She said it first.)

After replacing the tweezers, Will pulled on the bottom corner of a small mirror to his right and it swung open to reveal a medicine cabinet. He raked his eyes along the shelves until he spotted a translucent bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He wondered if he could use it to melt away the plastic that sheathed the condom. He knew it burned, or at least it felt like it burned whenever his mom used it to disinfect the raspberries on his legs — the fruit-sized lacerations born of gravelly slides on the infield dirt.

He snatched a small hand towel off a plastic rod attached to the wall behind him and poured some of the mint-scented liquid into it. He rubbed the towel over the package for an interval but, once he stopped, he realized he hadn’t done anything to the wrapper except smear some of the lettering.

He tossed the package onto the pristine-white countertop. They were in the basement of Robyn’s parents’ house. That’s where her room was, in all its vibrant splendor. Robyn, dressed in a lacy, cream-colored camisole and matching underwear, rested atop her violet bedspread, surrounded by peach colored walls and a green dresser in one corner. She was waiting for him, ready for him, and separated from him by only a half-turn of the doorknob. Will engaged the lock. He braced his hands on the counter and leaned over the sink.

For an instant he thought about telling her the truth. But then he thought that seventeen years was long enough to wait and he frantically tried the package again. It was the last night before Robyn’s parents returned home from their week-long cruise, his last chance, for a while, to go through with it. And for that the condom was necessary. It was Robyn’s idea, her lone stipulation really, so there would be no moving forward without it. Still, the package rebuffed him.

Will decided to tell her that the condom had expired or that he had pulled too hard on the wrapper and tore the whole thing in half and that, he was sorry, but they’d have to find some other, better time. What a story that would be, his friends and teammates would torment him mercilessly for it on Monday – Robyn’s too, probably. He steeled himself and opened the door. The lights along the top of the wall-length vanity momentarily blinded him as he stood before a hazy darkness.

“Robyn?” he said, shadowing his eyes with a forearm.

Then his pupils dilated and he saw that she was lying on her side, facing away from him. He watched her torso undulate in time with her breathing, called her name again quietly and walked over to the bed. He put a hand on her shoulder. His palm seemed scaly and cold against the heat of her skin. She mumbled something, rolled to face him, and he noticed she was asleep; her eyes closed and her lips parted and her arms tucked childishly against her chest, hands cushioning her cheek, her blonde hair unfurled on the pillow.

Will slid in beside her, set an alarm to wake him before Robyn’s parents arrived, as instructed, and drew the sheet up to cover her bare legs.


Speaking of Courage

The circumstances surrounding Frank Ocean’s celebrity constitute a case study at once poignant and also highly relevant for the exploration of sexual orientation amongst public figures. Ocean’s debut studio album, Channel Orange (2012), earned unanimous critical acclaim and shipped over 500,000 copies in just eight months. The album garnered six Grammy nominations, including Best New Artist and Album of the Year, and the New York Times Magazine recently featured Ocean in its cover story. In the summer of 2012, Ocean announced his participation in a gay relationship via an open letter posted to his Tumblr blog. The news shocked the public (and fellow musicians) and generated a media frenzy. While the notion of an openly gay singer is not new, Ocean’s case stood out as groundbreaking. Ocean’s work located him at the center of the hip-hop and R&B music community, while his sexual orientation disassociated him from the hyper-masculine, chest-pounding braggadocio and homophobic underpinnings of the very genres within which he was a rising star.

The letter begins with these words: “whoever you are, wherever you are, I’m starting to think we’re a lot alike. Human beings spinning on blackness.” The use of the second person pronoun “you” personalizes the message to each individual reader and also evokes a sense of familiarity between Ocean and his fans. This letter constitutes something personal shared between them. He goes on to elucidate similarities he shares with his readers by saying, “[we] all want to be seen, touched, heard, paid attention to.” Ocean addresses the connection between his fame and the collective desire for recognition. He further appeals to the fundamental human desire for physical contact and meaningful social interaction. Ocean unites humankind under one banner — explicitly, as a group of people who want to feel wanted. The elimination of every other barrier — be it ethnic, racial, geographic, or sexually oriented — is immediate and intentional.

The banishment of such labels generates a feeling of universality. This is not a letter intended merely for men or for women, African American or Caucasian. Its target audience is any and every person who wants other people — or one special person — to find him or her interesting, worthy of attention, and perhaps even lovable. Readers need not even be a fan of Ocean or familiar with his music. The only prerequisite is the possession of a desire for recognition and connection.

Ocean appeals next to a feeling of empathy in his readers. Specifically in regards to bereavement or sorrow that arises as a byproduct of unrequited love. He describes his emotionally downtrodden state as “malignant,” “hopeless,” and inescapable. These adjectives imply that Ocean’s grief was severe and all-consuming. He claims that he wept as he declared his love for this man, and compares the lack of reciprocity from that man as akin to being “thrown from a cliff.” The language resonates with emotion despite its hyperbolic tone. Ocean felt helpless and distraught and even slightly fatalistic in the wake of his lover’s rejection.

The sentiments generated from this section of the letter complement the first. Ocean never uses the term “homosexual” or “gay” anywhere in his writing. This, again, is likely intentional. The absence of specificity, or a label, on the relationship allows for the circumstances surrounding that relationship to encompass a much broader scope. Here, anyone who has endured a similar situation (either in a heterosexual or homosexual relationship, with a male or a female) will be inclined to empathize with Ocean. All persons who have felt wronged by an individual who feigned or manipulated their romantic feelings are allied with Ocean against his former lover. Ocean creates and outlines a common enemy and merits empathy because his sorrow is tangible and sincere, if slightly exaggerated.

The final sentiment that reverberates throughout the last half Ocean’s letter is gratitude – gratitude to his fans for their support, to his mother for raising him to be “brave,” and gratitude to his anonymous lover who, despite his flaws, gave Ocean an unforgettable romantic experience. These words are highly indicative of tremendous personal growth and maturity on Ocean’s behalf. The letter is cathartic, near the end he says he feels “like a free man” (because he no longer has any secrets that need to be kept), but in a unique way. Ocean does not dedicate line after line of text to demonize his first love; instead he acknowledges the experience for what it retrospectively was: a time of unmitigated (and unmatched) joy in his young adult life. He writes, “even though it was never enough, it was.” The laconic and honest language Ocean employs to relay his thanks is the final element of pathos that elicits acceptance from readers of the letter.

Fans of Ocean expect gratitude for their support, and they receive it. The bereft are provided wisdom to aid in overcoming their emotional suffering, and those most close to Ocean are praised for their unyielding loyalty and unquantifiable contribution towards shaping him into the man he is. Public recognition defines celebrities so it is pragmatic for Ocean to acknowledge his enthusiasts. Scorned lovers frequently embellish the extremity of their sadness and might even be inconsolable. Ocean admits to feeling the same but intimates that the end of a romantic relationship is not synonymous with the end of the world – it is instead a step on the path towards self-actualization. And finally, he must pay homage to his support system of friends and family because they endured these troubled times with him, and will endure the hard times yet to come.

Analytically, it is only logical to conclude that this letter was well-received and admired by the general public. Russell Simmons, a business magnate in the hip-hop industry, extoled Ocean for “giving hope and light to many young people still living in fear.” He went on to say that Ocean “broke down a wall that should have never been built.” His thoughts were echoed by Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter, Solange Knowles, and many others. Ocean’s candid language coupled with the percolating pathos in his letter inspired feelings of unity, empathy, and reciprocal gratitude within readers, and thus became worthy of acceptance and commendation.

Ocean’s first encounter with love (and love lost) is not one unique to him or even to homosexual relationships. It is a profound and universal human experience that has afflicted many and will continue to afflict many more. He does not imply that these circumstances are special because they are homosexual. Rather, they are special because they inexorably changed his life, and ultimately for the better.

Today’s celebrities are bound to endure any number of intrusive invasions into many facets of their personal lives. The burgeoning of social media websites and the pervasiveness of handheld cameras and video recorders transform any ordinary citizen into aspiring paparazzi. Additionally, tabloid news outlets like TMZ and Gawker offer remuneration for the exploitation of information about the private lives of public figures. As such, speculation about the sexual orientation of celebrities, among many other things, is routine among the general public. Consequently, the discussion of sexual orientation by celebrities must be handled with deft precision. Prominent public figures can certainly glean some wisdom from Frank Ocean’s example.

The public discussion by celebrities of sexual orientation for the purpose of acceptance can be effective provided it adheres to the model outlined in this essay. That is, if the message contains a substantial amount of pathos, eschews labels and specificity to appeal to a vast audience, and uses candid and heartfelt language to denote an intensely personal conversation between friends — as opposed to a declaration proselytizing the virtue of tolerance — it should be well-received. But acceptance also requires courage on behalf of the audience. The courage to ignore momentarily our disagreements, petty and ideological alike, and be willing to open our minds to something new. For we all fear what we do not know, but when can a person be courageous if not when he or she is afraid?

[*This essay was written six months ago as an assignment. It appears here almost exactly in its original form. At the request of my professor/editor, the essay was submitted for review in a scholarly writing competition.]

Seven (Great) Films that Feel Like Summer

Miles Teller and Shailene Woodley in “The Spectacular Now”

The end of summer is nigh, and that realization is frequently accompanied by a deluge of feelings: confusion about where all the time has gone; dread for the impending (drastic) decrease in Fahrenheit; and the slightly hollow sensation that follows yet another 90 or so days without even the slightest glimmer of a romantic spark on the horizon. (Well, maybe that’s just me.) But it also means your local cineplex will begin its annual autumnal purge of all the CGI-heavy, style-don’t-bother-with-substance, dime-a-dozen (and often remarkably entertaining) action/superhero/sci-fi flicks to make way for the awards-season fodder. And, trust me, that’s something to smile about.

Don’t get me wrong: a board-shorts-and-tank-top release date doesn’t mandate a purely escapist, popcorn gorge-fest of a movie — we’ve already seen the debut of one inventively shot, emotionally compelling and incredibly socially relevant film. But that’s just the exception that proves the rule. Coincidentally, it is another one of those exceptions that inspired this list.

The Spectacular Now, which was adapted for the screen from a remarkably gripping, teen coming-of-age novel of the same name, has been quietly generating a lot of positive critical buzz. And although I haven’t yet seen the film (it’s currently making the rounds on a limited release circuit), I read — and loved — the book and I’m overwhelmingly excited to check out the movie. So that got me thinking: what other movies (of the romantic/comedic/dramatic variety) have defied formula (by either perfecting or transcending it), but done so without sacrificing an ounce of intelligence, insight or fun?

What follows is, to date, my almost-certainly incomplete list of must-see, award-winning, feel-good, intellectually provocative and affectingly evocative, perennial films (arranged in no particular order). The kind of movies that encapsulate everything good about the warmer months, or perhaps the kind of movies that might, as Hunter S. Thompson wrote, inspire feelings of a “kind of peak that never comes again.” But unequivocally the kind of movies that, like the best summer memories, you wish you could experience again and again — for the first time.

  1.  (500) Days of SummerReleased August 7, 2009
    If Brick (2005) was Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s debut, then this movie marks his mainstream breakthrough. He plays Tom, an aspiring architect who’s quintessentially underachieving, and who falls — hard — for Summer (Zooey Deschanel, typecast as everyone’s favorite, off-beat hipster), his boss’s new secretary.

The film is an indie picture through and through. Everything, from the protagonist’s occupation (Tom is a writer at a greeting card company) and the soundtrack to the day-in-the-life milieu, radiates a low-budget warmth and accessibility. And so do the acting and writing.

The characters are lovable because they’re relatable, if not familiar. Tom is genuine, perhaps a little too naive and idealistic, but he’s real and so you find yourself empathizing with him, and falling for Summer right alongside him. Not necessarily because she’s a great girl, or perfect for him, but because she’s what Tom wants, and that’s enough.

The movie begins by showing us the end of a relationship, the relationship really, and proceeds to dissect that relationship piece by piece — most poignantly when it presents the same montage in two contradictory tones and when it literally juxtaposes Tom’s expectations and his reality. So by the time you return to that opening shot of Tom and Summer, sad-eyed and off-center, holding hands on the edge of a park bench, you understand that even though it’s not where you hoped they’d be, it’s where they always were going to end up and you’re OK with it.

But it doesn’t end there, and the denouement will have you all smiles and buzzing inside. A little like that Hall and Oates song, but a little bit more like summer.

2.  Midnight in Paris — Released May 20, 2011
Roger Ebert described Woody Allen, the director of Midnight in Paris, as a “treasure of the cinema” — probably because he’s created at least two truly great films. This one could be his third.

The narrative revolves around a Hollywood screenwriter named Gil Pender (Owen WIlson) who feels artistically unfulfilled by his work, and who longs to produce something of lasting merit all while pining for a more bohemian lifestyle. Gil, along with his materialistic fiance, Inez (a startlingly abrasive Rachel McAdams) and her parents, travel to Paris on holiday where Gil’s free-spirited tendencies blossom.

One night after a wine-tasting, Gil gets lost amidst the labyrinthine streets and encounters a car full of peculiarly dressed strangers who urge him to join them. He does and he soon realizes that he’s been whisked back through time to the 1920s, an era he idolizes. He then meets and befriends a number of artistic and literary paragons (Cole Porter, Salvador Dali and Ernest Hemingway among them) as well as an enchanting and mysterious inamorata named Adriana (Marion Cotillard), all of whom force him to reexamine his relationship with Inez.

Aesthetically, Allen does for Paris what Manhattan did for NYC. Every shot, beginning with the three-minute, postcard-view montage, is washed in glowing amber, swirling blues and vibrant greens and yellows that infuse the film with a powerful impressionistic quality: you’re not always immediately certain of the beauty of what you’re seeing, but then, by simply watching, it suddenly becomes clear and you can’t tear your eyes away.

And, of course, there’s something resplendent about the magical realism in the story as well. I abhor spoilers, but in a film about being content with where you are — though not necessarily always who you’re with — and just how little agreeing on the “big things” can matter, the conclusion has to be done right, and you can rest assured that it is.

All that to say, there’s an undeniable je ne sais quoi allure to this picture. Like those sweltering nights in mid July when the thunderstorm breaks a week-long heat wave and you realize suddenly, in the pit of your soul, that there’s just something beautiful about the rain.

3.  Sideways — Released October 12, 2004
Too often movies billed as “comedic” fail to emote — even humor, on occasion. And many of them lack originality. So the pleasure they’re capable of delivering is threadbare, like a punchline worn thin from overuse. But that’s exactly what sets Sideways apart. It’s a comedy/drama film that is, at turns, uproariously funny and heartrending; a movie capable of transforming peals of laughter into tears and back again.

Of course that’s thanks, in no small part, to Paul Giamatti and a gaggle of virtual unknowns (Thomas Haden Church, Sandra Oh and Virginia Madsen) who all bring their A-game. And with a script to match, which was co-authored by Alexander Payne (The DescendantsAbout Schmidt) and Jim Taylor, who adapted the story from a novel of the same name.

Our protagonist is Miles Raymond (Giamatti), a wine-aficionado who’s been living out a lonely and unfulfilled life since his annulment. An aspiring writer, Miles tries to pour these feelings into a disparate, semi-autobiographical novel but frequently ends up drowning them in a bottle of Pinot Noir instead. His best friend, Jack (Haden Church), a serial womanizer and an aging actor, is about to tie the knot and so the two of them take a trip out to the Santa Ynez Valley for one last, fine-wine infused taste of freedom.

Along the way, they encounter Maya (Madsen), a waitress at Miles’ favorite restaurant, and Stephanie (Oh), an employee at a local winery. Mid-life crises ensue: Miles wants to reunite with his ex-wife and Jack gets cold feet. There is some drunk dialing and some licentious behavior and, of course, subterfuge. But there are also consequences — Jack takes a beating and Miles gets rebuffed by Maya and a publishing company — and all these dreary things are brilliantly dichotomized with the sun-dappled California countryside in all its warm, muted-light glory.

More importantly though, there are revelations and epiphanies. And they hit you like a sledgehammer in the stomach. Jack commits. Miles moves on — lurches out of neutral — although he’s not sure what lies ahead. And you wonder about him, too, until a phone message allays most of those doubts and a sudden road trip all but erases them.

Sideways leaves you feeling more relieved than satisfied, but also optimistic. Like that moment when you reach out and grab the hand of the girl you’ve been crushing on all summer and, against all odds, she squeezes back.

4.  Say Anything… — Released April 14, 1989
The litmus test for great children’s books and great coming-of-age movies is the same: if you can’t enjoy them as much when you’re an adult, they were never any good to begin with. That’s what makes Say Anything… so, well, great. It’s got all the teenage appeal (a kegger, a love story, smatterings of existential crises and a stellar soundtrack) but it’s presented in a very been-there-survived-that manner that exhibits almost documentarian levels of authenticity. And it doesn’t skimp on humor or heartwarming to boot.

Don’t be deceived, this isn’t an American Pie precursor (although that’s another Cameron Crowe film). It’s something refreshingly original. The adults aren’t punchlines and all the characters have flaws, and their mistakes sometimes have dire consequences. So, you know, it’s realistic. And what’s that people are always saying about the journey being more important? Yeah, that’s absolutely in play here too. Plainly, because the film’s story catalogs arguably the most transitional period of time in a young person’s life: the summer between high school and the future.

And who wouldn’t want to make that trip with someone like Lloyd Dobler? Diane, (a spirited Ione Skye) Dobler’s love interest, describes him as basic, and that’s just what he is. With his Peter Parker-esque, every-man charm (sans web slingers and a MENSA-level IQ, of course) and his blue Chevy Malibu, he’s perfectly ordinary. He’s also probably an average student — he spends his free time kickboxing, not studying or applying to colleges — but he’s an extraordinary companion. The kind of guy who knows and gets along with everybody; the guy who lights up every room he walks into. He’s three-dimensional and Cusack doesn’t make a single misstep.

Opposite him (diametrically opposed, really) is Diane Court. A valedictorian with the body of a game show hostess, as one character describes her. A prestigious international fellowship for her is just another stop on the road to success — something to tick off the to-do list. She’s best friends with her dad and she claims not to have a social life, and you believe it until Lloyd comes along. Their interactions comprise the crux of the film, which is all about their journey (told ya) from friends to lovers. The development of their relationship is miraculously simple: Lloyd calls her up to ask her out; he visits her at work; he makes her laugh. His most extravagant show of affection comes in the form of a sentence-long letter. “I’ll always be there for you,” it says. Yeah, it’s that good.

He knows exactly who he is but not exactly what he wants to do. She has always known exactly what she wants to do but she’s still trying to figure out who she is. She gives him a purpose and he fleshes out her personality; you root for them. Then, all of a sudden, they’re separated but not by contrivance. It involves an IRS investigation and selfishness on her father’s (John Mahoney) behalf, and it’s totally (mostly) plausible. But fear not, this movie’s a crowd pleaser through and through.

It seems simple, doesn’t it? To create a movie about two real people falling in love in a real way? It’s not, but that’s OK because every great success story seems to start with an unrealistic goal. And what a success it is. This film has no expiration date — that’s why they call it a classic.

5.  Silver Linings Playbook — Released November 16, 2012
There’s something rapturous about watching an actor you previously thought to be one-dimensional defy type and obliterate your expectations in a movie and with a supporting cast that does the same. It’s the kind of stuff that defines great cinema: a film that’s two parts original and unusual, and four parts accessible. That’s the potent cocktail; the precarious balance required to satisfy the desires of the movie-going masses (who generally crave escapism) and to withstand the scrutiny of film critics (who value the craft and the art of cinema). And to cram all of that into a romantic comedy? It takes a Herculean effort.

The actor to whom I am referring is Bradley Cooper. Jennifer Lawrence already had her day in the sun with a star-making turn in 2010’s harrowing, Appalachian thriller Winter’s Bone. That’s not to say she didn’t deserve the Oscar for her performance here; she did, and we’ve come to expect nothing less. But Cooper’s filmography includes titles like Wedding Crashers and Limitless and, of course, all three parts of The Hangover, so you’re allowed to balk at the thought of him in a serious role. Well, no more. His work here is nothing shy of revelatory; a performance so nuanced and natural you’d think he was a veteran of the genre.

He portrays Pat Solitano, Jr., a Philadelphia native with bipolar disorder, who returns home after an eight-month stint in a psychiatric hospital where he was remanded for a violent outburst that cost him a job, a marriage and his freedom. But all that time away seemed to do him some good. He’s got a new body, a new motto (“Excelsior!“) and a new philosophy. (Spoiler: it involves “silver linings.”) So Mama and Papa Solitano (Jacki Weaver and Robert De Niro, respectively) are hopeful but wary, because Pat Jr. also has a plan: he’s going to win his wife back.

That’s where Lawrence fits in. She’s Tiffany Maxwell, a recently widowed sex addict who’s got an in with Pat’s estranged wife. And she’s willing to exploit that relationship, but only if she gets something in return: Pat’s participation in a local, ballroom dance competition. He’s reluctant; the sum of his dancing experience is zero, and Tiffany kind of freaks him out, but he agrees. They make a handsome couple and their chemistry is electric; shocking, at times, but it gives the film its pulse. Pat can barely make it through a conversation without bringing up her dead husband and Tiffany calls him on all his bull, like thinking she’s crazier than he is.

But Pat’s reacclimation to a “normal” life with his family and friends is every bit as emotional and entertaining. His brother is a douchebag (the kind you want to be friends with), his dad is a bookie with OCD and his friends include his therapist, Tiffany’s sister’s husband and a fellow patient, Danny, who only appears in bursts — often with side-splitting results.

The nature of these characters leads to some very loud sequences (shouting matches, some commotion at a diner and more than one emotional outburst), and those things all have their place, but the most powerful moments of this film are also some of the most restrained. The sorrow in Pat Jr.’s eyes when he recounts his wife’s infidelity, the conviction in Tiffany’s body language when she reveals how her husband died and the falter in Pat Sr.’s voice when he finally confronts his shortcomings as a father — he makes up for it later, trust me — all carry a hefty sentimental punch.

So say what you will about the Academy, “They care more about the weight of subject matter than the quality of story,” or “They’re all too left-winged,” or (my personal favorite) “They’re all so pretentious,” but if you allow your reaction to the media to determine your viewing habits then you’re missing out. Because, this time, they got it right. This time, the Academy and I have something in common: we both want you to see this movie.

6.  Before Sunset — Released June 17, 2004
Jesse’s missed connection story trumps yours: being stood up by a woman he barely knew but loved on a boarding platform at the Vienna train station six months after their first chance encounter, shortchanged his ego (and his romanticism) but, naturally, gave him something to contemplate. So he returns to New York bereft and $2000 in debt. At least he got her name though: Celine.

Eight and a half years later, he’s channeled all that emotion and rumination into a book about the experience (the falling in love, not the standing up), and it’s a best-seller. That’s how Before Sunset resumes the story of Jesse and Celine. He’s in Paris on a book tour; she, having read the book and residing in Paris, tracks him down. The conversation picks up right where it left off – but there’s a caveat: Jesse has a flight to catch.

What follows is 81 minutes of real-time discursive chatting so fluid it seems almost entirely improvised. Of course it’s not, but credit Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy for their immersion in these characters; and their mercurial chemistry. Tip your cap to director Richard Linklater (The School of Rock, Dazed and Confused) for stepping back and capturing it all in voluminous long takes and tracking shots. Finally, applaud the triumph of authenticity over the mawkishness Hollywood’s known for.

That seems to be the point Linklater’s trying to make: the fairy-tale Vienna connection was doomed from the start. Diabetically-saccharine romances are best left to Nicholas Sparks novels and Hallmark cards. Conversations constitute much more of real relationships than swoony displays of affection or impassioned osculation. Actions cannot be articulated; they merely reinforce what’s already been said. And there’s always so much to say. It’s a fiercely original dogma; a special kind of vérité a la Robert Altman.

Granted, the minimalistic plot might be off-putting to some. And Jesse’s intellectualism and Celine’s environmentalism potentially polarizing; but their humanity is universal. Gone is the optimism, the ebullience of youth that percolates Before Sunrise; the compromise and pragmatism necessary to survive adulthood now firmly in place. But the longing for a love beyond practicality, like staying together for the kid’s sake, still consumes them both.

And after a wrenching, impassioned argument during the drive back to Celine’s apartment (in the car meant to deposit Jesse at the airport), after a prolonged embrace, a “just one drink” invitation from Celine, “just one” song and then another, the consummation’s all that’s left. The choice to act on the desire a matter of another missed connection.

That cab driver didn’t stand a chance.

Art Imitating Life

They're ba-ack.

They’re ba-ack.

Album review:

The goal of any artist — be he (or she) an actor, a musician, a painter or a writer — is to push creative boundaries. Not simply to recreate, but to redefine; to re-imagine. And innate within that desire lies an eagerness to take risks — to discover what doesn’t work in order to reveal what does.

Unfortunately for Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Chritso, a lot of those missteps showed up on Human After All (2005), the French duo’s third and, until about two months ago, most recent studio LP. Though not entirely without its shining moments (see: “Robot Rock” and “Technologic“), HAA was widely regarded as a smudge on Daft Punk’s otherwise-stainless oeuvre, which most notably includes their turn-of-the-millennium masterpiece Discovery (2001).

Long story short: we’ve been waiting eight years to hear from the perpetually-helmeted pair again. Waiting to find out if they had anything new to offer the EDM zeitgeist sweeping through contemporary pop music — a sound they practically invented. Searching for any signs of rust or exhaustion. Waiting, for eight long years.

And after a roll-out promotional campaign that can only be described as the longest, marketing, red carpet runner in recent history, Bangalter and de Homem-Christo broke their silence and presented Random Access Memories to the listening public on May, 17 2013. Not a moment too late.

If HAA was largely a miscalculated effort, then RAM is a flat-out reclamation of their je ne sais quoi — an emphatic reinstatement of their relevance and a spectacular success.

How, you say? By eschewing the computer-generated sound of their imitators (those basement-dwelling mouth-breathers who guzzle Mountain Dew by the liter and use their MacBooks to churn out more of the derivative drivel that “Top 40” radio stations play on a loop) for live instrumentation. Daft Punk successfully reinvented their sound by embracing the music that inspired them to play, and it’s these aural arrangements that make RAM as much a tribute to the past as it is a glimpse into the future.

The album is saturated with the funky disco grooves and the modular synthesizers reminiscent of the 1970s and 80s. And, as usual, the vocals are consistently — though not entirely — mechanized with the help of a vocoder. What’s more, the collaborator’s lineup reads like a Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame inductee list. There are some old-school heavyweights like Giorgio Moroder and Nile Rodgers,  and modern hit-makers, namely Julian Casablancas and Pharrell Williams, and every combination of the two pays off.

“Give Life Back to Music,” the first hype-busting track on Random, repetitiously declares the record’s creed (“Let the music of your life/Give life back to music”) — here, a more literal translation of Aristotle’s mimesis — to a crackling rhythm from Rodgers that’s so smooth it glides.

Four songs later, Casablancas shows up on “Instant Crush” to ponder the peaks and valleys of young love and explore the meaning of friendship. Miraculously, his signature, listless vocal delivery transforms into something sweet and even mournful when filtered through an encoder.

But it’s Williams (Pharrell, that is) who fortifies the nucleus of the album. His first feature, “Lose Yourself to Dance,” contains one of RAM‘s most infectious hooks, buoyed again by the breezy strokes of Rodgers’ guitar and some crescendo-ed backing vocals. And then of course there’s song-of-the-summer shoe-in “Get Lucky” — the other dance floor-flooder.  This is premium-grade Daft: pure hip-shaking funk, with a bass line so fat it’s got its own gravitational pull and a semi-computerized bridge that effortlessly evokes “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger.”

If you’re aching for some technological mastery, pick up some noise-cancelling headphones and look no further than “Giorgio by Moroder,” which contains an amalgamation of production techniques that amount to a sonic history of the past 40 years, as well a brief (and somewhat self-indulgent) autobiography from the eponymous narrator.

It all coalesces into one helluva of a ride, and it makes you wonder if, perhaps, Human After All was a necessary album; a chance for Bangalter and de Homem-Christo to excise all the bad mojo bouncing around in their tin-covered heads. Because it sure feels like it. Random Access Memories has all the components of a great Daft Punk album. It’s fun, whimsical, innovative and epidemically catchy and one playthrough will not be enough.

After “Contact” — a six-minute ode to a shuttle launch — concludes the album, you’ll be donning a robotic helmet of your own while thumbing the repeat button and saying, More, s’il vous plaît!

Album score: 9.2/10

Key tracks: “Give Life Back to Music,” “Instant Crush,” “Lose Yourself to Dance,” “Get Lucky”


The album cover should’ve tipped us off

Make your peace with his abrasive personality (and his afflictive behavior) because his artistry is utterly unapologetic — and, on Yeezus (out June 18), completely unhinged.

Following 2010’s  highly-acclaimed My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, the music community politely tipped their hats to Mr. West. But, as is often the case, our appetites for innovation (and our expectations) were only temporarily satiated. We soon began to wonder, “What’s next?” and Kanye responded by prohibiting everyone involved with the creation of his sixth solo studio LP from broadcasting one word to the press about the album. There was no pre-release party, no promotional single, virtually no hype-building marketing scheme of any kind. (You couldn’t even pre-order the album on iTunes.) All we got was this cryptic line:

“When I listen to radio, that ain’t what I want to be anymore.”

Well, he has nothing to fear. Yeezus is easily Kanye’s most sonically ambitious (read: not radio-friendly) effort to date. Replete with squelching synths, industrial force and thunderous, tribal drum beats (in addition to the seemingly-de rigueur vocoder gymnastics), the album sounds like surrealist,  avant-garde pop — or maybe EDM on a Lebowskian acid trip. Needless to say, it’s not easily accessible and that’s the point. It’s a daring anti-pop record from this generation’s most definitive pop star. Moreover, where MBDTF stressed the creation-by-collaboration process with multiple featured artists on several tracks, Yeezus is indelibly guided by a singular voice and vision (though, as always, ‘Ye’s not alone behind the sound board), and it’s a not a particularly palatable one.

Kanye has always told his stories in a confessional tone — a kind of emotive chest-pounding aimed at catharsis — and plenty of the lyrics here are angry and arrogant  (“Hurry up with my damn croissants!”) and politically-charged and otherwise not fit to print. But, whether or not you agree with his ideology, one thing’s clear: the album’s themes are all treading in the same murky waters. ‘They see a black man with a white woman,’ Yeezy drawls on “Black Skinhead,” the album’s first standout track, ‘At the top floor they gone come to kill King Kong.’ And that’s just the beginning.

He devotes “Hold My Liquor” to waxing elegiac about his alcohol-induced misadventures and regrets (and he’s backed by stellar guest appearances from Justin Vernon and Chief Keef, a fellow Chicago rapper). Later, West irreverently borrows a hook from Nina Simone’s “Strange Fruit”  on a song bemoaning all of the (primarily financial) trouble caused him by his “second-string b*****s.” Proving again that Kanye regards propriety and decorum the same way he does our expectations of him — with a tetchy sneer.

Yeezus probably won’t make many new converts out of his detractors (and, of course, haters gonna hate) but the album deserves admiration for its sheer creativity, its minimalism (it clocks in at 10 tracks and just one second over 40 minutes long) and its cohesiveness. Subsequent listens don’t reveal deeply-layered production. Rather, they demonstrate just how much more West, and his team of top-notch producers, can do with less. The results are nothing shy of stunning.

It’s insufficient (and reductive) to call this just another rap album — it practically defies classification — but whatever it is, Yeezus is proto-‘Ye, and that’s what matters. So when he declares, “I ain’t finished, I’m devoted/and you know it, and you know it” we believe him. Well, then, what’s next?

Album score: 9/10
Key tracks: “Black Skinhead,” “Hold My Liquor,” “Blood on the Leaves”

Blog at WordPress.com.