TUTTLE MODE | THE COLLECTIONS

 by James Tuttle (@TuttleMode)

Gentle Reader,

If you were anywhere near the California desert this Presidents’ Day weekend, you may have noticed the atmosphere being a little more fierce and fabulous than usual.  Yes, gay polo players and their friends from around the globe converged at Indio’s luxurious Empire Polo Club for the Second Annual U.S. Gay Polo Tournament.

Since there are no good shirtless pics of Nacho Figueras, here’s Alex by Thomas Synnamon.

We first met up on Friday to stick-and-ball the horses we’d be playing and discuss strategy with the pro players who had been assigned to each team.  My team’s pro, Jorge Vasquez from Kentucky’s Lexington Polo Club, suggested that we keep it clean and follow behind each other to pick up the ball if our teammates couldn’t get a good shot.  It sounds like common sense but, since polo is basically hockey on horseback, you’d be shocked how many times it doesn’t work out like that.

The first match on Saturday morning was a close one with the The Yard Equine Center team narrowly defeating Team Peroni in overtime.  In the second match, my own team, sponsored by gay sports publication Compete Magazine, had a rough first chukker but then pulled it together to beat the Polo Gear guys from New York.  Federico Gerlero, one of a very few openly gay polo pros joining us from Argentina, suggested that I’d play better if I scrapped my heavy leather gloves in favor of some lighter baseball gloves, so I tracked down a sporting goods store in nearby La Quinta before heading back to Empire for the quiet, friendly Welcome Reception.

Chip McKinney (Rt.) and I duking it out.

Our Sunday matches were held on the spectacular main field of the club, lined by enormous white tents and white sofas where spectators could sip champagne and nibble their omelets in comfort along the sidelines.  In the consolation match, Polo Gear edged out Peroni for third place before we took to the field for the final, our hearts beating anxiously as Whitney Houston’s rendition of the national anthem blared from the loudspeakers.  I did mention this was a gay tournament, right?

Ours was a hard-fought match from the first throw-in as our head-polo-gay Chip McKinney’s The Yard team scored the first goal.  From then on, we raced up and down the field at top speeds, fighting for every shot.  At one point I looked down to see my empty stirrup in my lap, which is not really where it’s supposed to be.  Luckily, I was able to toss it down and put my foot back in it before anyone could push me off my horse.

L to R: Peroni's Tom Landry and Polo Gear's Talbot Logan

Between chukkers, I overheard The Yard’s pro Alejandro Nordheimer telling Chip to forget about the ball and just stay on my teammate Gina.  I couldn’t help but eavesdrop, really, since I was practically standing between them.  Based on my fact-finding, our revised strategy was for me to take Chip out of the play so that Gina would be free to score goals for us.  Then, on the field, Alejandro started yelling for Justin to stay on James (me!) so that Chip could get Gina.  It all started to seem very political!  In the end, Team Compete stuck to our guns, made three goals and won the goddamn Wellington Cup.  Now I have some great new friends, a couple of trophies and lots of bruises.  I would like to thank Empire Polo Club, the Gay Polo League and Peroni for making it all possible.

Winning Team Compete: Jorge Vasquez, Gina Padilla, me, Christine Vermes.

While I was running up and down the grass so fast that it started to seem more like a racetrack than a polo field, Fashion Week was happening in London.  Friday kicked it off with seventeen shows that I’ve never heard of with the exception of Central St. Martin’s and that’s a damn school.

Things were looking up on Saturday, though.  Clements Ribeiro was about prints, prints and more prints.  Colors were hot pinks, red, metallic gold and winter white and there was a Russian peasant influence toned down by the rocker styling, leather-look tights and black-and-white plaids.  All in all, it was cool, slim and modern but nothing groundbreaking.

The evening brought Temperley London’s classic, feminine silhouettes inspired by Renaissance religious paintings and tapestries that you could sense in the amazing floral embroideries that covered sleeves and bodices but the Russian thing came back in the fur hats, much more chic than those at Marc Jacobs.  The collection ended with three gorgeous gowns that would have fit into the court of Tsarina Alexandra like exquisite Fabergé eggs.  It all makes sense when you remember that the Renaissance was an influential design motif in the last days of the Romanov dynasty, too.

Tsarinas at Temperley London.

Immediately after, Danielle Issa Helayel’s Issa collection introduced some fabulous large-scale prints that looked like William Morris-Pucci lovechildren in dresses and matching tights that would sell off the racks.  There was a definite Halston moment with flowing red or green maxi-gowns then some delicate gold Art Deco dresses and the Russian peasant girl made an appearance her, too.  This collection was all over the fucking place but I still kind of dug it.

Muppet fur at Mulberry (Photo: Robert Fairer)

If you ever wondered “Where the Wild Things Are,” they were stationed on either side of the runway at the Mulberry show on Sunday morning watching over the long, lush, furry fur things they inspired.  At first glance, it appeared that 1920s monkey fur was making a comeback but, since those monkeys are extinct, it must be goat hair or relaxed Mongolian lamb.  Some looks, like a brown hairy coat early in the show, took it a little too Muppet, but there were many beautiful separates in browns, camels and oranges, plus the black leather that was everywhere in New York made an appearance.  The show closed to a Muppet Show song so they get extra points for making people smile.

Later in the day, the metallics at Nicole Farhi were muted in prim silhouettes, but Matthew Williamson let his sequined embroideries and gold leathers shine at his Royal Opera House show.  There was an interesting mix of geometric shapes in dresses and jackets that came in grays and pastel blue and green, but the winning looks were the long breezy gowns in brightly colored silk prints and little sheer tees that added an unexpected twist.

Erdem (Ph: Fabsugar)

There were lots of great shows on Monday but we had to check in with Erdem’s collection inspired by Peggy Guggenheim and shown in the stark White Cube Gallery, which seemed an uncharacteristic stage for a designer that is sometimes too soft and nostalgic.  This collection was still ladylike but more modern, combining sheer lace, tweed and splattered-paint patterns in clean Fifties-like shapes.  The colors were bright—acid green, bright blues, pinks and purples—that played against the proportions that were always pretty, whether fitted or A-line, long-sleeved or sleeveless and the necklines made me think of 1960s French glamazon Capucine.

Then at Burberry Prorsum, we learned that the pencil skirt was to the Burberry woman what super-skinny pants were to the Burberry man in Milan.  There was also an array of statement coats in tartans, tweeds and a twist on the classic trench with saddlebag pockets that also appeared on skirts, belts and short jackets.  My favorite looks were the puffy bomber jackets or sharp military jackets over tweed skirts with a wide ruffle detail across the front and the dark purple quilted velvet coatdress that closed the show.  The simple but moody hair and makeup deserve mention, as well.

Snow falling on Burberry Prorsum.

I’d been looking forward to Roksanda Ilincic on Tuesday but found it disappointingly messy and haphazard.  Mary Kantrantzou, the other collection I was interested to see that day, was at the other end of the spectrum with crisp, carefully constructed elegance and all the drama that you can get from a wild print short of McQueen.  Creating glamour from everyday objects, Kantrantzou imbued the fabrics with pictures of clocks, typewriters and cutlery, then she mixed the prints together and had esteemed French embroiderer Lesage embellish them with things like yellow pencils.  The silhouettes, too, reminded me of McQueen classics and though there was a wide array of shapes, voluminous skirts and cinched bodices seemed the mainstay.

Skipping offstage at Mary Katrantzou (Photo: Evan Sung)

There wasn’t a clear thematic through line in the London collections that I checked out, but designers here, as in New York, seemed to be putting on all their most expensive rings and flipping the bird at the continuing global economic malaise.  They’ve either decided to dress only the One-Percenters or they’re optimistically thinking that, pretty soon, everyone will be needing jewel-encrusted party dresses.

Don’t look at me, though; I’ve been spending all my money on horses.  If we run out of hay, qu’ils mangent de la brioche.

Much love,

xxJames

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by James Killough

Over drinks the other night with Dame Bea and Tyler Kimball, my roommate, the psychic medium Gil Alan, was asked if I disturbed his peace at all, seeing as we both work from home.  “Not at all,” Gil replied.  “Except sometimes I can’t tell if he’s talking to me and mumbling, or just talking to himself.”  The scary truth is I am becoming more of a Hollywood schizo every day and having lengthy conversations with myself, utterly oblivious as to who might be watching me.

As long as I am displaying the outward signs of incipient mental illness, I’ve decided to embrace it.  In true American post-Oprah fashion, I refuse to be the victim and want to take charge of what’s left of my destiny by choosing my hallucinations before they choose me.  Therefore, I have decided that my inner muse, my mentor, my political advisor, that invisible large white bunny who shall stand beside me for a chat in the condiments section of Ralphs supermarket shall be none other than fashion kingpin Karl Lagerfeld.

After giving him the job, I decided to invite him for lunch in West Hollywood, at a discreet gourmet sandwich shop where people wouldn’t be alarmed by his zany outfit or by me talking to myself and possibly having a heated argument with my new guru; after all, I did insult him in last’s week’s roundup.

“Thank you for joining me,” I said to Karl as we sat down at an outdoor table.  I had already placed an order and had a vibrating coaster that would summon me to collect it at the counter once it was ready.

“Like I had a choice,” Karl sniffed back.  “You blogueurs think you can do anything these days, even take over someone’s life like a pirate, when I have so much to do, so many things to design.  The Paris collections are two weeks away!”

“Oh.  I thought you had that sour look on your face because I pissed you off with my comments last week.”

“What sour look?”

“The one you’re wearing right now.”

“I only have one expression: pouty, sensual, mysterious.  I call it ‘Prussian passion.’  You’re reading too much into it, as usual, the way you do everything, I might add. Anyway, as if I had time to read your drivel.  What did you write about me?”

“I said you were ‘that most fatuous of all gay subtypes: the fashion ninny.’  I then went on to speculate that you didn’t have sex any more so properly speaking you aren’t gay.”

Karl sniffed and turned away.  You can never tell what he might be feeling because those permanent sunglasses hide his eyes, which as we know are the windows into the soul.

“That is quite hurtful,” he said after a moment, passing a gloved finger under his nose as if pushing back a tear.

“Well, like you said, few people read my stuff, but everyone read that you said Adele was ‘a little too fat.’”

“But she is.  And she should consider breast reduction surgery, too.  Did you see that cover of American Vogue?   Mon dieu.  They probably had to take that dress apart and stitch her back into it, those knockers are so huge.  American Vogue is such crap, anyway.”

“She was on the cover of British Vogue as well.”

“But they had the good sense not to show her knockers.  British women have such huge mammaries, c’est dégoûtant.  They should offer reductions on the National Health.”

My coaster started vibrating, warning me that my order was ready.  “That looks so early Spielberg,” Karl commented as the lights spun around the plastic disk and it shuddered.  He pronounced Spielberg with a slight German “shh” at the beginning, which made sense seeing as Karl is German, not French as everyone assumes for some reason.  “Why on earth do you have to eat in a restaurant where they don’t serve you?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“I suppose you still tipped them, even if you have to fetch the tray yourself.  Stupid American.  You feel that just because you went through the indignity of waiting tables yourself once that you have to bow and scrape to those paid to serve you for the rest of your life.”

Neither his mood nor expression had changed by the time I returned.  “I suppose I should have ordered you something,” I said.

“Don’t be silly.  Even if I weren’t a figment of your imagination, I didn’t lose almost ninety pounds because I still eat that crap.  What it is, anyway?”

“Smoked chicken breast wrapped in prosciutto on toasted focaccia,” I replied, making sure to pronounce ‘focaccia’ with the full force of a proper Italian accent, knowing that no German could do the same.  I was losing my footing here; every piece of one-upmanship counted.

“A drenched in olive oil, I see,” he said.  “And is that fromage I see tucked in there?  You clearly haven’t read my diet book.”

“No, but I’ve read about it.  Fish soufflé, quail flambé, ham and raspberry mousse… You’d need a professional chef to follow it.”

“Don’t forget the special protein shakes, very important.”

“And no exercise.”

“Makes you hungry.”

“Makes you unhealthy.  I exercise, a lot, so if you’ll forgive me I’ll indulge myself with this sandwich.”

“You’ve got a potato chip stuck to your sleeve.  You had a bag quickly while you were in there fetching your own sandwich and still tipping the staff.”

I flicked away the chip and bit into the sandwich, determined to find a way to change the subject.  There is nothing worse than discussing diets with a former fat person; it’s like listening Tom Cruise crap on about Scientology just after his conversion in ’86.

“We’ve met before, you know,” I said after swallowing the first bite.  Service or no service, the sandwich was delicious.  I detected a faint trickle of saliva on Karl’s lips as he watched me eat.

“Huh?”

“We’ve met before.  When I was a teenager, in Paris.”

“Oh?”

“I was working as assistant to Pamela Hanson.  We were doing a shoot about Chanel for Marie Claire or Elle or something.  Wallis Franken pretended she was Coco, we shot in her old apartment above the boutique.”

“Poor Wallis, God rest her soul.  Always so cheerful, then one day…” he made a whistling sound like a missile being launched and used his gloved hand to imitate Wallis jumping to her death from her husband Claude Montana’s apartment.

“Yeah.  She and I were kinda close at one point.  Sad.  Then we photographed you in the Chanel boutique on the old mirrored staircase.  You’d just taken over as chief designer.  You were shy and nervous, very self-deprecating.”

“Nonsense.”

“I rather liked you, in fact.”

“I wasn’t shy.  It was that dreadful teal cable-knit cardigan you were wearing, big baggy thing.  And you smelled.  There I was stuck in a pose on that fucking staircase with a tall smelly American teenager hovering over me trying to take a light reading off my face.  I wasn’t shy.  It was all I could not to gag.”

“Oh, so you remember?  I hoped you would.” Karl cocked an eyebrow over his sunglasses to remind me that my memories and imagination were coming form the same place.  I felt like a fool.  “That was a very practical sweater.  Deep pockets.  I kept exposed film in the left, and stripped rolls ready to be loaded in the cameras in the right.  I could fit fifteen in each.  It was from Browns.”

“So what?  It was ghastly.  You should have your gay card taken away for that transgression alone.”

“I was… ahead of my time.  Hipsters would kill for that cardigan nowadays.”

“Oooph!  Please!  Hipsters, indeed!  That is one movement I cannot wait to see the backend of.  There is nothing fashionable about irony and being willfully ugly.”

I couldn’t agree with him more, but if I agreed with him, that meant I’d have to disavow the cardigan, too.  “So, um,” I said, eager to turn the conversation to something more substantive.  “What do you think about the second Greek bailout?”

“What about it?  They can’t even afford duty free any more.  They’re les nouveaux pauvres.  Gone are the riches and the glamour and the sparkle of the golden Greeks like Onassis and Niarchos and the rest.  If you can’t afford to shop, then what use are you to me?  It’s like what’s the point of living in Los Angeles if you never wear anything?  I tell you what, though, I have spent my entire life being a sale Allemand.  I was barely a child during the war!  I fought and fought my way against French prejudice.  ‘No German has good taste!’ they said.  But I rose to become one of the great couturiers of all time.”

This was the first time I had seen Karl break his composure.  He seemed to grow, the high collar of his shirt was bursting under the tension from his neck.  “I know what they said about me,” he went on.  “I read what they said about me, season after season.  So, yes, I was a little shy when you took that light reading on the staircase at Chanel.  Yes, I was fucking nervous.  Who wouldn’t be?  It was the House of Chanel!  And it was mine!”

He stamped his foot on the ground, the heel of his boot making a faint but distinct goosestep of a Prussian click.  “And so it is with all of Europe for Germany.  A clutch of dowdy old crumbling maisons waiting to be saved.  By us.  We endured the scorn, but no longer.  My country carries the world on its mighty shoulders, and I tell ZEM HOW TO DRESS!”

As Karl slammed his leather gloved hand down on the table, the last of his refined French pretentions fell away, revealing the hard-edged, put-upon ambitious German.  This was like a scene out of Dr. Strangelove: deeply embarrassing for him, not chic at all, not the rock-n-roll octogenarian he has made himself since shedding the blubber.  “May I go now?” he asked, retreating the folds of his neck back under the high starched collar.

“If you must.”  I felt badly for the old duffer; there is something very endearing about him.

“May I take that tray for you, sir?” said a perky waitress at my elbow, distracting my attention from Karl for a moment.

“Why, yes.  Thanks.”  When I looked back at Karl’s chair, it was empty.

“What is that lovely cologne you’re wearing?” the waitress asked.  I almost blurted that I never wear cologne, not even scented deodorant, but then I realized there was a strong lingering perfume in the air.

“I believe it’s Lagerfeld for Men,” I replied.

“Really suits you.”

“Thanks.”

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Dear Yahoo!,

I had a speech prepared about why I’m breaking up with you, but I’ll just let these They Might Be Giants lyrics do the talking for me: This is where the party ends. I can’t stand here listening to you… and your racist friend(s).

Love, Me.

They Might Be Giants, putting my thoughts to music since 1986.

OK, here’s the speech:

Something about the silver medalist appeals to me. I like Yahoo! better than Google. I like Pepsi better than Coke. If I ate at fast food joints, I’d probably like Burger King better than McDonald’s. But Yahoo! is fast becoming that self-destructive friend who pushes people away at the same time she cries about being lonely. She’s kinda pretty and has a lot to offer, but, frankly, she has fallen in with a really bad crowd.

When Barrack Obama took office in 2009, I wasn’t surprised that racist comments began to follow their accompanying news articles. I don’t believe in censorship and, even if Yahoo! blocked such responses, people will still think what they think. But just like Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich are chasing votes from unsavory characters they’d avoid like mustard gas if not for the primary campaign, Yahoo! has been chasing unpleasant clicks of late from their most loyal user, the white racist. Which means me and Yahoo! can’t be friends anymore.

Some markets are better left untapped, Yahoo.

I’m going to go ahead and say white racists are more likely to self-identify as Conservative Christian than us more enlightened crackers.* You may accuse me of stereotyping, but if you can show me some data that paints a different picture, I’m quite eager to see it. My assertion is based on good, old empirical evidence. Read the replies from Yahoo! users for a while and you might draw the same conclusion.

Such comments following each Yahoo! article about the President number in the thousands and typically say something akin to “Send the MUSLIM back to the plantation in Kenya” or worse. And about every three-hundredth comment comes from a tinfoil hat-wearing clown and claims that those racist messages are planted by former ACORN staffers trying to make conservatives look bad. Yuh-huh.

An ad currently scandalizing South Africa.

So, as I said, Yahoo! values clicks above all else and panders to this crowd by frontloading the news pages with articles sure to draw venom. Last week, they ran an AP story claiming that one in twelve marriages in the United States can be classified as “interracial.” If you ever want to see the ugly side of humanity, check out the user comments that followed. “Blacks are a subspecies of the white man” showed up a number of times. “Racial impurity is destroying this once great country” was another motif. Obviously, a demonstration of science facts will not sway the simpleminded, nor will pointing out that, as white people go, they are actually genetic backwash diluting our gene pool.

Not that I think about it when living my life, but I’m on the “one” side of that “one in twelve” interracial-marriage statistic. I’m not offended by ignorant comments because I don’t care what people think of me, and I certainly don’t view my wife as belonging to a different “race.” She’s my woman, and I’m her man. It’s that simple. If I want to destroy this country, as some Yahoo! users claim, it’s just so that it can be rebuilt as a place where no one cares about minimal and superficial genetic variance. After all, skin color is determined by as few as five genes of the nearly twenty-five thousand that make up the human genome. I’m not a scientist, but I suspect I am at least as genetically similar to a black man as I am to a white woman outside of my family.

Yahoo! further feeds these crocodiles with headlines like “New discovery has scientists doubting theory of evolution.” Said article discussed the bones of prehistoric whales recently discovered in a mountainous region of Canada… where many prehistoric sea animal bones are discovered, as the aforementioned mountains were once under water. No quotes from scientists doubting evolution appeared in the article (rather, the data further confirmed it), yet the comments that followed were predictably oblivious to that point. Because no evolution means humanity did not spring from Africa, right? We are not discussing the website for a neo-NAZI organization here; we’re talking about the second-most popular ISP/search engine in America.

In a post-racial future, women are turned on by guys in togas.

TV’s first interracial kiss took place in 1968 on an episode of Star Trek, when Captain Kirk was forced by mind-controlling aliens to make out with Lt. Uhura. The story goes that William Shatner and Nichelle Nichols asked, “Why do they have to be forced? They are attracted to each other.” The producers, though, were skittish about audience reaction, thinking America was not ready for an interracial kiss in which the participants experienced pleasure.

That was over 40 years ago. There have been many interracial kisses on TV since then, and none of them brought about Armageddon. Furthermore, I’m sure the majority of Americans are not like Yahoo’s loyal readers. Interracial marriage, once illegal, is bordering on commonplace. Gay marriage will be the law of the land within ten to fifteen years. The noise from the radical right is a desperate, last-minute flail, not a viable counterattack. Since America’s founding, people who fought against equality have always been on the wrong side of history.

Love is more than skin deep. Wait, what? They broke up? Aw, shit.

Yahoo’s biggest problem, other than their whack-job user base scaring away normal people like me, is that they can’t figure out how to make money. But I promise them that going down with the sinking ship has never earned anyone a dime. In other words, stop generating content to lure Neanderthals. They’re extinct.

* No, I didn’t say Conservative Christians are white racists. I said white racists are more likely to identify themselves as Conservative Christians than as liberal atheists. What happened to reading comprehension in this country? Oh, you didn’t say that? Never mind. 

THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW

by James Killough

As tedious as it is, I suppose I do have to comment on Governor Chris Christie—so evil they named him twice—vetoing the New Jersey State Legislature’s vote to legalize gay marriage.  In a nutshell, I basically agree with Karl Lagerfeld when he said that Christie “is a little too fat.”

26-year-old Zylka is in the upcoming "Spider-Man" reboot. He's a total hunny. Period. (Photo: Arnaldo Anaya-Lucca)

“No one want to see curvy American politicians,” Lagerfeld continued.  “You’ve got fat straight men with their bags of chips sitting in front of the television and saying that all thin homos are ugly.”

Lagerfeld didn’t really say that about Christie, or about blubbery Str8s like him.  He said it last week about Grammy Award-winner Adele and fat women in general.  Herr Karl is far too lofty to pay attention to regional American politics, even though the outcome state by state affects all Gheys nationwide.  Because he hopefully doesn’t have sex any more, Lagerfeld has ceased to be gay in the strictest sense, anyway, and has simply become a zombie-troll version of that most fatuous of all gay subtypes: the fashion ninny.

Even though I am a huge fan of his comedy, Brüno was by no means my favorite of Sacha Baron Cohen’s films or sketches: the plot was thin and uninteresting, even for broad comedy, and the character was grating after a while, as all fashion ninnies are.  Like all great satire, Brüno is based on real stereotypes; even GLAAD, a.k.a. the Swish Inquisition, was unable to condemn either the character or the movie outright because there are too many Lagerfeld-ish air-headed fashionistas out there who prove Cohen right.

Admit it, the similarities are staggering.

Fat fuck Governor Christie says the people of New Jersey should make the decision whether to give us equal rights in a referendum; he must think the people’s representatives in the state legislature are not really representing the people who voted for them.  As one wag in the comments section of The Daily Beast said, maybe the people of New Jersey should also vote on whether morbidly obese people should be forced to eat only salad.

To her credit, Adele shot back at Lagerfeld: “I’ve never wanted to look like models on the cover of magazines.  I represent the majority of women and I’m very proud of that.”  Of course, Vogue successfully twisted Adele’s arm and forced her to appear on the cover of their March issue, if not representing for the fat bitches, then certainly representing for the buxom divas.

I’ve never understood what all the fuss is about Lagerfeld, even when he was almost as fat as Christie.  While I won’t say the emperor has no clothes, he certainly doesn’t design them very well, in my opinion, and he dresses like Pee Wee Herman’s lovechild with Isabela Blow.

I agree with Joan Walsh when she wrote today that Republican fat bastards like Rush Limbaugh must be secret Democrats what with their rhetoric and deeds working so much in Obama’s favor.  The same applies to Christie.  Keep sharpening those swords, boys: all the better for you to fall on.

____________________________________

You can always bank on straight ninny Sean Penn to open his mouth for more than just churrasco with extra-garlicky chimichurri sauce while in Argentina.  He called the British rule over the Falkland Islands “colonialist, moronic and archaic,” which understandably caused an uproar in the UK.  Of course, said uproar was barely heard in the States because we haven’t taken Penn seriously since Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Penn looks ready for a tango lesson from La Presidente Kirchner.

Britain’s position is the people of the Falklands should decide who rules them.  Being of British descent, the English-speaking islanders naturally want to stay with their mother country, and are understandably terrified of coming under Argentine rule.  That would be true colonial aggression.  The Falklands might be close to Argentina physically, but culturally they’d might as well be part of the Channel Islands half a world away.

The islanders themselves showed Penn what they thought of his comments with a display of patriotism today: they drove a mile-long convoy of SUVs out of the capital, Stanley, into the countryside, and presumably had a lovely picnic of warm beer and soggy sandwiches, not vino tinto y churrasco.

British historian Dr. Tim Stanley wrote a fairly humorous piece in the conservative broadsheet The Telegraph about how Penn was occupying part of Mexico with his Malibu estate and should give it back, a comparison which really drove home just how scary it would be for the Falkland Islanders if they came under Argentine rule.  Anyone who has driven from San Diego in the former “Alta” California, to Tijuana, the capital of Baja California that is still part of Mexico, can see the world of difference between Anglo and Latino governance on the exact same stretch of terrain.  And that difference is alarming.

An oppressed colonist shows what he really thinks about Argentina.

Indeed, Dr. Stanley has a point; percentage-wise, there are more Spanish speakers in Penn’s hometown of Los Angeles than there are on the Falkland Islands, which is self-governing (the UK provides defense and takes care of foreign affairs).  Mexico has a far stronger right both historically and geographically to reclaim Alta California; at least the territories are contiguous, not islands off Mexico’s coast.

In any case, why Penn would want to go against the wishes of the Falkland Islanders themselves and force them into a true nightmare of colonialism under a chaotic Spanish-speaking South American government is just bonkers.  Then again, we’re talking about one of Venezuelan looney-tunes dictator Hugo Chavez’s biggest celebrity endorsers, so it’s not really that much of a surprise.

____________________________________

History is replete with stories about groups of girls being gripped with what used to be called “hysteria,” which has now be renamed “mass hallucination.”  The Salem witch trials weren’t nearly as funny as the current outbreak of Tourettes symptoms among a clutch of twenty girls in rural upstate New York.  The town of Le Roy, hitherto world famous because of its Jell-O Museum, has in recent months been besieged by journalists trying to uncover the truth behind the outbreak of twitching.

Not exactly the Guggenheim.

As readers of this blog know, there is nothing I love more than a crunchy case of mental illness, and if it’s a group case then all the better.  After months of methodically ruling out any possibility of toxins in the local water supply—the good burghers of Le Roy even called in environmental crusader Erin Brockovitch to see if she could unearth something organic as an cause—it seems that the townsfolk are resigning themselves to the fact this is indeed a mass psychogenic illness, a rare phenomenon that happens exclusively to groups of girls in rural communities.

The girls and their families seem to be ashamed that there isn’t some deeper, more nefarious outside influence at the root of their tics.  I disagree.  I think these symptoms are very real, even if they are psychogenic.  Mass hysteria is fascinating, provided you aren’t the one being accused by a group of writhing, frothing nuns in a medieval convent of being the devil, like no doubt I would be had I lived back then.  That sort of hysteria tended to have dangerous consequences, as it did in Salem.

____________________________________

Someone Lagerfeld would no doubt call “ugly and unfashionable… and, please, there is no excuse for all those chins in this day and age,” is the extremely gruesome Frank VanderSloot, co-chair of Mitt Romney’s national finance committee.  VanderSloot is, of course, a Mormon and a billionaire whose fortune has been made on a pyramid scheme of health products called Melaleuca.

"Who you callin' four eyes?" Herr Vandersloot mit Herr Romney.

Not content with backing virulently anti-gay campaigns, such as the one in support of Prop 8 in California, VanderSloot has for a long time been going after bloggers and journalists who print the slightest negative comment about him.  Salon has an alarming, in-depth article by Glenn Greenwald here, which I urge everyone to read.  And in retaliation, everyone should blog just the most gratuitously slanderous stuff about him until his lawyers drop from exhaustion.

What is so amazing is that even a magazine like Forbes would capitulate to frivolous threats of defamation lawsuits by VanderSloot’s lawyers and take down an article.  While I have a funny feeling that Forbes did it merely out of Republican Old Boy Network loyalty, I can barely understand why so many bloggers and smaller publications can be so ignorant of their First Amendment rights that they would give in to this distinctly un-American form of plutocratic tyranny.  Even Mother Jones, of all pubications, succumbed to VanderSloot’s pressures.

As I have blogged before when I was threatened with a defamation lawsuit by Seema Khalia and responded by thumbing my nose at her in a follow-up post that dared her to do it, these things are at best idle threats.  VanderSloot is definitely a public figure who would have no chance of winning any of the lawsuits he has threatened against bloggers and journalists if he actually followed through with them.  What surprises me is that people who are so good at digging up the dirt on monsters like VanderSloot—and, yes, Frank, that is my opinion about you, which I am allowed to express free of any fear of retribution from you, just as you are free to have your no-doubt bigoted opinion about my sexuality—can’t do a little bit of homework about their rights.

At the end of the day, there is nothing to fear even from billionaires with deep pockets.  In fact, lots of money just makes the not-so-frivolous countersuit all the juicier for the pro-bono legal pit bull I’d engage if I were indeed ever slapped with a SLAPP lawsuit.  (Such a countersuit is delightfully called a SLAPPback, which Lagerfeld agrees is just so moi.)

So, to LGBT activist Jody May-Chang and everyone else out there uncovering the truth about this VanderSchmuck and others like him: Go get ‘em, tigers.

____________________________________

Between the fat-obsessed former fat bitch Lagerfeld and Sean “Whatever, Dude” Penn and teens with twitches, there’s already been so much madness in this weekly roundup it almost seems like gilding the lily to name a Schizo of the Week.

Once again, I had little luck combing the streets of Hollywood for a specimen, namely because I was laid up with a cold most of the week and barely even made it to the gym, which for a homosexual is like a misguided pyramid-scheming Mormon not being able to pay his tithe to the LDS.

Without doubt the craziest person I ran across this week was Daniel Kaufman, a.k.a. The Montauk Grifter.  From the extensive coverage on Gawker, Kaufman is the most fascinating case of pseudologia fantastica, or compulsive lying, that I’ve run across in years.

Rather good montage of Kaufman lifted from Gawker.

What always amazes me is how well these characters do, how far their lies can take them for so long, even after people have uncovered the truth.  It must be thrilling to be them, to see how much you can get away with.  And if you get busted?  Just break down in tears like the profusely lachrymal Kaufman and confess you have a malady… and then somehow swindle people for more.

Another thing that amazes me is these mythomaniacs seem to thrive in New York City like nowhere else.  Maybe Washington, D.C., too.  You would think that Los Angeles, home to an entire industry built around fiction, would attract its fair share of liars and grifters, but its not something I’ve encountered here as much as I have back in my hometown.  Maybe it’s because there is a healthy outlet for the imagination out here, and maybe because we all have such devious minds that we wouldn’t fall for this kind of crap from somebody with a similarly devious mind.

Going through the extensive emails that people sent in to Gawker about their experiences with Kaufman, I’m going to give my usual amateur quack psychologist opinion and diagnose him with Borderline Personality Disorder, always a reliable standby when you don’t have the benefit of training much less firsthand experience of the patient.  Or maybe the flash tears and lying mean he’s a rapid-cycling Bipolar.  Or, given his active imagination and his ability to inhabit his own lies as if they were the truth, he could also really be Schizotypal.  Fuck if I know.

Whatever you are, enjoy your time in jail, Dan.  I hear the sex is awesome, and apparently you’re pretty charming.

TUTTLE MODE | THE COLLECTIONS

by James Tuttle (@TuttleMode)

Gentle reader,

After playing some wildly fun chukkers at Bel Air Polo Club followed by a busy day with some of my favorite clients that rivaled the conspicuous consumption of the Nineties, I just wanted to camp out on the couch while watching TV and intermittently gazing at Brad Pitt’s W Magazine cover.  I poured a glass of wine and scrolled down the cable guide when I spotted a show called “Fashion Week” on QVC and thought, “Holy shit, that’s awesome!  Now I don’t have to search out every obscure collection on YouTube to find out what’s going on at New York Fashion Week!”

Rafael Lazzini doesn't have the slightest relationship with NYFW. (Ph: Stewart Shining)

I thought I’d scored when NY Fashion Week founder Fern Mallis appeared in a lovely mocha caftan and her signature frizzy hair standing next to a glamazon in a tight pink dress, who looked like that hot chick who turns out to be an android in those sci-fi movies.  They were chatting about how the weather is always crappy during Fashion Week, then they turned their attention to some multi-strand bead necklaces that Fern herself has designed and they’re for sale, like, right now by calling 1-800-345-1515!

As these two rambled on and on like they were having a contest for who can say the nicest things about the damn necklaces, the camera panned to a number of models wearing them with different outfits, cheesy poses and nearly Kardashian amounts of makeup.  It looked kind of like a J.C. Penney catalog come to life, and that conjured up some childhood memories.

Fern Mallis flogs her beads wherever she goes.

When I was a kid, the end of summer meant dreaded back-to-school shopping and long, dusty drives through hundred-degree-plus heat with my mom, who would rather have her fingernails pulled out than shop for clothes.  Our first stop was usually the J.C.P. and, to make the ordeal even less enjoyable, I had to get my clothes from the “Husky” department.  Yes, they actually had an entirely separate section set aside for fat kids, but it was still in plain view of the rest of the store so I skulked among the racks in constant dread of being spotted by classmates while trying on my wider-than-normal school clothes.  Don’t feel sorry for me, though.  Most of those people are now at least mildly obese and I’m at around 8% body fat, so who’s laughing now?

And Mizrahi designs pastries. Ho hum.

So, anyway, Fern and the QVC android lady were going on about how these necklaces were so beautiful, so light and how they can cure cancer and shit.  Meanwhile, I was thinking, “If they’re so fucking amazing, why do they only cost 53 bucks?”  When Fern’s segment was done, they left her and the android standing there awkwardly for a really, really long time before they cut to a perky, pixie-ish dark-haired girl pitching Dell computers.  Then she sits there awkwardly for a really long time before…

I started sensing a theme here.  Was the camera-switching dude texting or sleeping or what?  When Isaac Mizrahi came on to sell his floral print trench coat for $116.94 plus $9.47 for shipping and handling, I decided I really couldn’t do this anymore.  This was not the Fashion Week I signed on for.

The real New York Fashion Week officially started last Thursday but the schedule was so packed with shows and presentations—I counted a staggering 267 on the schedule—that nearly twenty of them jumped the gun and started the day before.  If you’re wondering what the standout trends will be for Fall/Winter 2012, critics had already decided within the first couple of days that “black is the new black,” which is so fucking original that I wanted to gouge my eyes out when I read it, and that military influences are big.

Backstage at Jason Wu (Ph: S. Vandelvelde)

Oh, really?  What about the other two hundred New York collections?  It appears that I do have to do every goddamn thing myself, so I caught up with a bunch of New York collections and here it is in a nutshell:  The demure ladies of spring are making way for fall’s fabulous femmes fatales.  After we’re done having tea with the Grace Kellys and Audrey Hepburns, it’ll be time to do body shots with the Veronica Lakes and Rita Hayworths and I, for one, am not opposed.  Also, I can’t believe I’m the first one to pick up on this.  You should fire all those worthless critics and editors and send me the nice swag instead!

First up is Richard Chai, who started off with menswear staples for both men and women.  Classic jackets, coats, trousers, skirts and even backpacks were constructed from a horizontal stripe of black and gray for the first part of the show before dark greens, camels and browns were introduced.  Men wore groovy British boxy jackets and skinny trousers while the most memorable women’s looks were fuchsia solids and florals in menswear-inspired tops with wide, flowing chiffon trousers.

Richard Chai (Ph: S. Vandevelde)

Tadashi Shoji later that afternoon showed dresses and gowns inspired by the 1930s Golden Age of Shanghai and, more specifically, by the classic Marlene Dietrich film Shanghai Express from 1932.  The Chantilly lace and silks in jewel tones and soft pastels seemed mysterious but opulent and, though not groundbreaking, the collection was still quite striking.

The Shanghai Express gathered steam on Friday morning when Jason Wu’s models walked out of the fog that poured from huge studded red doors.  Red and black prevailed and there was some military inspiration but the Art Deco Chinese evening looks were what really worked.

The Tommy Hilfiger men’s collection in the evening was the freshest and most original that I’ve seen from Tommy in years.  The military cadet-inspired look that manifested in wonderfully high collars and long contrasting cuffs on the coats and jackets in navy, loden green and burgundy is more wearable than the similar idea at Prada and the military stripe down the trousers reminds me of a pair that I had from the Hilfiger runway years ago.  In short, it’s a cool, on-trend collection and Tommy stayed true to his aesthetic.

Tommy Hilfiger Men.

Charlotte Ronson veered toward clean and ladylike until strips of leather and suede brought a harder edge and a retro-ski-lodge vibe began to surface that made me think of the swinging après ski of fall’s Zegna men.

Saturday morning began with a Ruffian show that was inspired by the “English Countryside,” and though I could see that theme in the tartans and tweedy textures, it still had the Deco shapes, high-waisted trousers and fedoras that a mysterious 1930s bad girl might have worn.  I tried to find something interesting to say about Sunday’s shows but couldn’t.  Maybe they just weren’t fitting into my femme fatale theory.

I didn’t have to worry about that on Monday morning, though, with Jenny Packham’s lovely, atmospheric collection with shoulder pads that Joan Crawford could love.  We also got fabulous jumpsuits and beautiful gowns in bias-cut silk that Gilda costume designer Jean Louis would have killed to get on Rita H.

Jenny Packham.

I’d been looking forward to the Reem Acra show in the afternoon but wasn’t really impressed, especially with the black and gold beaded looks that were reminiscent of spring’s Gucci and Balmain.

The most memorable show of the week was Marc Jacobs’ colorful extravaganza, played out before a beautiful white cutout mythical mountain forest, that left me and many others completely baffled.  There were psychedelic prints, bustles, metallic buckled pilgrim shoes, layers upon layers of things all topped off with the crazily huge fur hats in every color.  It was Mary Poppins by Dr. Seuss.  When you are able to step back and look at the individual pieces, though, I think you’ll find some of them lovely.  The graceful bracelet-sleeved jackets and the amazing prints are especially intriguing and, in the end, at least that crazy ass show got everyone talking.

Marc Jacobs.

There wasn’t really anything fatale about Tuesday’s midday Rodarte show, I suppose, but it was still very 1940s.  The inspiration was said to be Australia, which you see in the shearlings and… um, I’m not sure what else, but there were some chunky cable knit sweaters and cardigans that I loved and a red and black ruffled gown that Carmen Miranda would have traded her fruit basket for.

The super-cool Blonds.

The Wednesday shows that I was able to catch began to throw my 1930s Art Deco vamp theory a bit more off the rails.  Jeremy Scott was all things “Rainbow Brite” but then his stuff is always totally nuts.  Michael Kors started out with strong red and black tartans, added fur chapeaux like the ones at Marc Jacobs and more shiny black leather but then pulled the Deco evening looks out at the end.  Finally, the wildly theatrical collection by The Blonds capped off the night with their glittering rock-hard corsets and shimmering jumpsuits that you won’t find on a rack at Nordstrom.  If these heavy metal chicks aren’t the femmes fatales of the future, I don’t know who are.

Much love,

xxJames

KILLOUGH CHRONICLES | THE INDIA FILES

by @James_Killough

I cannot imagine what it must be like for twenty-three-year-old Hamza Kashgari right now.  It’s one thing to be Salman Rushdie, already a Booker Prize-winning novelist when the fatwa was issued against him by the ayatollahs in Iran after he willfully went against everyone’s advice and published The Satanic Verses, but quite another to tweet a series of messages addressed to Mohammed on his birthday that the Prophet himself might have approved of.

One man's devil is another man's god.

There is no existing iconography of Mohammed—or there shouldn’t be— because he explicitly forbade it.  He didn’t want to be worshipped and deplored any form of idolatry.  As we in the West often imagine what Christ would think if he came back and saw the sorry state of what his teachings have wrought over two thousand years, the same would apply to Mohammed.

Kashgari’s tweets were actually quite affectionate.  He says he admires many of Mohammed’s aspects—most tellingly about Kashgari himself, “I have loved the rebel in you”—but says if he met him on his birthday he would shake his hand as an equal, would not pray for him, would not kiss his hand.  “I will say that I have loved aspects of you, hated others, and could not understand many more,” he tweeted, which sounds a lot like any relationship a normal person would have with a close friend or family member.

Kashgari.

For those not in the loop, last week Kashgari had to flee the epicenter of all the medieval Islamic tyrannies we support, Saudi Arabia, trying to seek asylum in New Zealand after stopping in Malaysia.  He was detained at Kuala Lumpur airport, presumably at the behest of the Saudi government because Malaysia is at the very tip of the Islamic crescent that sweeps across North Africa and Asia.  Despite calls from Amnesty International, yesterday he was extradited back to Saudi Arabia.

We deal with fundamentalism in the States on a continuous basis; we are a nation settled by religious zealots, who informed our national culture, and we must deal with them still.  But we forget what it would be like if there were no separation between church and state, if we had such laws against apostasy as they do in Saudi Arabia, for which the punishment is death.

No doubt terrified for his life, Kashgari has since apologized profusely for his tweets.  Saudi officials have said that while he will face “severe punishment”—presumably some form of whipping, not the loss of a limb—he is unlikely to face the death penalty if he repents in court.  He has already, at his young age, been banned from writing for any Saudi publication.  This, according to Saudi Arabia, is the “face of moderate Islam.”

The Hagia Sophia in Instanbul has hosted two "great" religions. We can easily create such beauty and leave God out of it.

It doesn’t take much imagination to envision a world where the likes of Rick Santorum had the power of life and death over the likes of me.  If I weren’t already dead, I’d be waiting in some dank dungeon for his beloved guillotine to drop at any moment for the heresy I have written in these posts, for the blasphemy of my sexuality.

The Islamic world isn’t some alternate universe.  We engage with it every time we fill our tanks with gasoline, every time we get on a plane; Saudi Arabia and the Islamic crescent flows into us and moves us along paths that are inextricably entwined with theirs.  We continue to allow their crimes against humanity to rage unfettered because they feed our addiction to our lifestyles.

It’s a beastly compromise.  Whenever I admire at our latest gadgets, surf the wonders of internet, marvel at medical technologies that are extending our lives and battling disease, I also keep in mind these savage vestiges of medieval thinking that so encumber mankind.

I am preaching to the converted when I say to readers of this blog that we don’t need religion in any form to provide guidelines for our lives, to resolve legal issues, to provide “spiritual” solace.  Charities do not need to operate in the name of the founder of a religion or a saint from some bygone era, who had he lived today would probably have been labeled with a major personality disorder and locked away.

Whenever I go on about this, when I say that all religion is evil and should be if not outlawed then heavily regulated (and definitely taxed), it’s always Tibetan Buddhism that is thrown back at me as this sort of benign ideal that works and is beneficial.  This is because the Tibetans lucked out and chose for themselves in that delirious selection process of theirs a toddler who grew up to become the present Dalai Lama, a smart, charismatic man with a quick, seemingly plausible answer to everything.

In an interview a few years ago with Bill Moyers, the Dalai Lama was questioned about reincarnation, specifically his as the fourteenth of a single being that has ruled the Tibetan people since 1391 C.E.  “So you are the same person who in the seventeenth century was one of the most bloodthirsty rulers in central Asia,” Moyers said.  “In light of what is happening right now to your own people, how do you justify that?”

“Different circumstances,” the Dalai Lama replied.

Holy smoke. And mirrors.

Indeed. Now that the great theocracy, which has governed Tibet via magical thinking and endless superstitious rituals for centuries, is in exile those circumstances have turned it from victimizer into victim, and therefore the recipient of that most famed of Buddhist attributes: compassion.

A theocracy like Tibet’s or Saudi Arabia’s permeates throughout its culture.  It enslaves, and young men like Kashgari try to break the shackles of that enslavement.  The Tibetans are lucky to some degree that theirs is a high-minded, esoteric religion, unlike the exoteric aspects of Islam that Kashgari is now facing.  Otherwise, it still has its injustices.

I was on a photo shoot in India in the 90s when I went to my first real Tibetan monastery, located over the border from Tibet in Rumtek, near Gantok in the northeast state of Sikkim.  We had already travelled for three months around India in a diesel-fumed van, setting up and photographing the different aspects of India through the faces and costumes of her people.  I wanted to photograph the wild demon-headed masks that the monks trotted out once a year for some festival or other, probably to propitiate the gods for a good harvest.  As everyone knows, if you want success in life, just don a wicked Halloween mask and dance a mighty jig.  God is bound to favor you.

Rumtek monastery.

I was told by the guide assigned to us by the government of India that it would be impossible to get the rinpoche, or bishop, in charge of Rumtek to agree to get out the masks and have the monks dance on cue for us.  It wasn’t the sacred time of year.  No amount of cajoling or offers of a donation would change this, she insisted.  But I am nothing if not absolutely convinced of my own divine, messianic powers of persuasion; if I can’t get what I want, then I will martyr myself trying.

My attitude didn’t sit well with the guide, and as our rickety van trudged up the Himalayan foothills, the tension between us grew.  She couldn’t convince me that enormous dragon party masks were so sacred they could only be brought out one day of the year, and I couldn’t make her see how ridiculous that was.

As far as monasteries go, and having grown up in Italy I have been to a few, Rumtek was nothing much.  It was still under renovation, and all of the work was being done by white Western disciples trudging stones, working off some kind of karma or other.  The Tibetan monks, most of them young men, stood around and watched, presumably on a break from one ritual or other that involved the blowing of big horns, that wonderfully hypnotic deep chanting (so great for Tree of Life-like soundtracks), and the clanging of cymbals to keep everyone awake and focused on the nonsense at hand.

One of a couple images we got that day: some kid locked away in a monastery for life. The upside is endless gay sex, I suppose. (Photo: Marcus Leatherdale)

Of course, the guide was right: my divine powers of persuasion failed me completely over tea with the holiness or eminence or whatever he was, reincarnated over lifetimes from another holiness or eminence.  My strident, irreverent attitude got us nowhere: we managed to capture a few shots, not even of grown monks, just the novices.   By the time we piled back in the van to go back to town, the guide was barely speaking to me; apparently my blasphemies against Buddhism had transcended Kashgari’s against Islam.

Trying to break the ice, I commented on a stack of five letters she had collected while she was up there.  “The younger monks give them to me to post in town,” she said.  I noticed that they were all addressed to different Western women who had visited the monastery to work off bad karma or seek spiritual solace in a religion with little context to their own, and therefore mysterious enough to obscure how intellectually ridiculous the whole charade was.

To me those letters were symbolic of human rights abuses that are carried out everywhere, at every moment around the world in the name of religion, no matter how seemingly benign or enlightened.  That the second son, or sometimes only son, of a Tibetan family is given over to the monasteries to lead a life of celibacy—chanting and blowing horns and clanging cymbals and dancing around in masks—is absolutely outrageous.  But he must do it to support the culture, to remain a part of his tribe and not be outcast.  But if Richard Gere says it’s good, then apparently it must be.

As Kashgari faces the ire of his own tribe back in Saudi Arabia, with his neck literally on the line, this week the fundamentalist Rick Santorum—who has equated the forcing of contraception on religious organizations to the use of the guillotine during the French Revolution—surges ahead in the polls, seeming to trample the former Mormon bishop Mitt Romney.  That we hope that Romney, who converted his own atheist father-in-law to Mormonism posthumously, triumphs in the end is the usual choosing of a lesser of two evils, which you always hear about during election time in the States.

Of course, in the 2008 election with the Democratic primary we had the choice between the better of two goods, relatively speaking: Clinton and Obama.  Would that we could level the playing field somehow between the Republicans and the Democrats in the same way, so that the discourse and rhetoric was rational and devoid of this pandering to religious, “moral” ideologies.  If I were to engineer this, the first steps would be to remove these boulders called God that obstruct the progress of civilization.  But despite how much I rant and chant and dance for it, I don’t think it’s happening within my lifetime.

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

The Voice is better than American Idol for two reasons: It doesn’t publicly humiliate untalented people who are too simpleminded to know they are being exploited, and the judges are legit and successful music industry veterans, not the stunt-casted personalities on Idol. Ellen DeGeneres might be everybody’s favorite TV host next door, but she knew as much about music as I know about Olympic diving. And you won’t see me in London this summer giving out 9.0s or whatever, will you?

Christina has great pipes. And she can sing.

Unlike Paula Abdul, the judges on The Voice are all sober and can sing. Blake Shelton’s country-corny lyrics don’t rock my world, but he knows how to write a hit. Cee Lo Green is brilliant at combining sweeping production with amusing, personal lyrics, and, like The Killers, one of the aughts’ most successful bands, Adam Levine’s Maroon 5 borrow heavily from 80s pop/rock yet somehow make it contemporary. I’d say the star of the show is Christina Aguilera, but perhaps that’s simply where my eyes go when the camera is pointed in her general direction.

Adam Levine, sensitive guy. With tats.

I don’t want to be too critical of Aguilera. She’s managed to avoid all the embarrassments and legal troubles of her rival, Britney Spears, and, despite selling fewer albums, has more talent in that index finger she waves around than Spears has in her whole surgically enhanced body. But Christina can be annoying when she mumbles critiques about pitch and diction and this and that during the auditions. It’s annoying because Aguilera, while technically an excellent singer, has never shown good taste or restraint in her career. Just because one can sing through three octaves and engage in all manner of vocal gymnastics, it doesn’t mean one should.

But the true flaw inherent in these shows – the big, gaping music-industry hole (insert your own Madonna’s cootchie joke here) in these shows – is that a person’s ability to sing doesn’t have all that much to do with her potential for success. Madonna can’t sing for shit. Bruce Springsteen isn’t going to take the lead in Il Trovatore at the Metropolitan Opera House anytime soon.  But Like a Prayer is a good song. Born to Run is a good song. Any random person you stop on the street is probably a better singer than Bob Dylan, but I doubt many of them are better songwriters.

The hopefuls on The Voice show up prepared to sing popular rock, pop, R&B, or country songs, and this is the sole criterion by which they are judged, as the show’s panel is turned away from the stage. It’s a clever conceit and adds an unexpected element of tension (they hit a button that spins them around when they believe the singer deserves to stick around). But being able to sing someone else’s song well is entirely different from being able to write a good song. Familiar songs are TV friendly, but if I’d produced The Voice, it would have been called The Song.

1980s Pop/rock band Survivor once recorded a ditty called It’s the Singer, Not the Song, which is true on occasion but mostly a misguided sentiment and perhaps a bit ironic coming from the artist that wrote Eye of the Tiger. Quick quiz, and no Google peeking: What was the name of the guy who sang lead vocals on that track? What movie is it from?

Baker don’t lie, fool.

If you said, “How the fuck should I know,” and “Duh, Rocky III,” in that order, you are everybody.

In other words, it’s the song.

Ok, it is partly the singer, provided that singer sings what people want to hear. It’s just like the movies: People loved Julia Roberts as a hooker with a heart of gold in Pretty Woman but not so much as Dr. Jekyll’s frumpy maid in Mary Reilly. Pop music history is rife with such failed experiments. Country Western mega star Garth Brooks generated little interest with his rock albums, and ditto for ‘40s-style crooner Harry Connick, Jr. Meanwhile, 80’s hit-machine Pat Benatar fell off the face of the Earth when she tried imitating Etta James. Does anyone remember Billy Joel’s classical album?

And am I the only one who thinks every Idol winner (and probably every future The Voice champion) sounds more or less like the same fluffy, overproduced, bland, middle-of -the-road pop artist, in either male or female version? They all offer the same acknowledgements to their parents and most of all their lord and savior Jesus Christ. They all use the same reverb on the vocals and the same sparkly acoustic guitar track overdubbed through every song. They all seem to hire the same songwriting team. Here’s an idea: A music competition show that requires people to write their own songs and play their own instruments, like the majority of true music stars whose careers last longer than two or three albums.

Grammy nominee Katy Perry. If you say so, Grammy people.

Since we’re talking about music on TV and I’m PFC’s music guy, I suppose I’m obliged to comment on tomorrow’s Grammy Awards. Here’s my comment: The Grammy awards are the worst four hours of dreck imaginable and are the antithesis of everything cool about music. With apologies to dreck, which isn’t actually that bad by comparison.

Everyone loves to bash the Oscars for being little more than a boring circle jerk, but at least the Academy sort of gets it partly right. Yes, good movies get overlooked and not-so-good ones get nominated, but the general gist is that art for art’s sake is a factor in the nominating process. Not so in the music industry. If the Oscars took the same approach as the Grammy people, these would have been the nominees for best film of 2011:

Transformers: Dark of the Moon

Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn Part 1

The Smurfs

Green Lantern

Captain America

Killough wanted Melancholia for best picture, but we know better.

You have a nice mix there of the popularity contests, middle-American trendiness, utter crap, and head-scratchers that comprise most Gammy nominee lists. At least with the Oscars, you can play in 5 theaters and still get a nod. That’s not to say good albums don’t ever get nominated, but they need to be good and stupidly popular. Good alone isn’t enough.

Rather than give a rundown of who deserves an award and who doesn’t, I am simply going to point out that Nicki Minaj is nominated for best new artist. Nicki Minaj, whose career is built around the fact that she has a nice ass. This is the woman who sings a song called Stupid Hoe, which very well may be the least pleasant three minutes your ears will ever experience.

In case you haven’t heard it, here’s the video:

I find the chorus particularly witty and award worthy: “You a stupid hoe. You a you a stupid hoe. You a stupid hoe. You a you a stupid hoe.” That, my fellow prisoners, is your 2012 nominee for best new artist. Which gives me hope that Troma Films will release Toxic Avenger 6: You’ve Been Slimed in time to be considered for next year’s best picture award.

None of my vitriol toward Ms. Minaj makes her ineligible as This Week’s Brunette, by the way. I have nothing personal against her as a human being. I just think it’s absurd that music that bad could ever get nominated for the industry’s top award. But we here at PFC are base perverts who like to present ourselves as thinkers and keen observers of the human condition, only to turn around and dispel that illusion by splashing pictures of scantily clad hotties all over the place. If nothing else, Nicki Minaj is nice to look at. I even hope she wins the Grammy so this story gets more clicks. Yup. I’m a bad person.

Nicki Minaj shows us her best side.

TUTTLE MODE

by James Tuttle @TuttleMode

Gentle reader,

If you’re like me, you’ve been so busy this past week that even RuPaul’s Drag Race sits unwatched on your DVR.  There was no way I was going to miss one of the biggest events in television history on Sunday, though.  After months of anticipation, no-fly zones over Indianapolis and nationwide stockpiling of chicken wings and tortilla chips, Madonna Bowl finally arrived!

Former footballer Seth Kuhlmann did not play in Sunday's game. Unfortunately. (Photo: Rick Day)

Scott and I popped over to our friends Michael and Joel’s Madonna Bowl party, which they kept referring to as a “Super Bowl” party, late in the afternoon.  We may have missed most of the first half of the football game that they were playing as a lead-in to the performance, but we were comfortably seated with a stiff cocktail when an army of guys dressed like Roman gladiators in Calvin Klein underwear led an enormous chariot onto the field. 

In a dramatic reenactment of Elizabeth Taylor’s 1963’s epic Cleopatra, the huge golden fronds parted to reveal Her Madgesty in a glittering gold sequined cape by Riccardo Tisci for Givenchy Couture and a gold and crystal headdress by Philip Treacy.  I think it’s interesting how Lady Gaga can make, say, a black-and-white music video and Madonna fans lose their shit, claiming that she stole it all from “Express Yourself,” but Madge can copy the most famously excessive scene in movie history and no one bats a beaded eyelash.

As butch as a gay porn set... I mean, frat party: gladiators backstage.

Within seconds, that cape that took twenty women weeks to adorn by hand with beads, sequins and metal pieces was tossed aside for the “Vogue” number to reveal a sexy but age-appropriate short-sleeved black dress and exquisitely hand-studded and hand-embroidered black python belt with detachable straps that evoked the Roman pteruges, or armored skirt.  The black over-the-knee Miu Miu boots with gold details coordinated so well that they seemed designed for the ensemble.

She got rid of the headdress for the “Music” segment, but replaced it with some break-dancers and a guy with a ginger Afro wearing a white dress, who bounced weirdly on a tightrope in the show’s most WTF moment.  I personally think she should have held on to the hat instead.  Finally, LMFAO showed up and they all did a “shuffling” routine to the crowd’s obvious delight.

Girls in red and white fringed go-go outfits then stormed the stage and, with the straps gone from the belt, Madonna was now the perfect fifty-three year-old Greco-Roman cheerleader for her new single “Give Me All Your Luvin’.”  The video for this song came out last week and it was so bad that, at first, I thought it was a parody.  Luckily, this performance was full of fun and energy and more smiles than I’ve ever seen on Madonna.

The final costume, also from Givenchy Couture, was a black long-sleeved coatdress that was hand-beaded with black sequins and black seed pearls.  When Cee Lo Green showed up in a similarly shiny black choir robe over his big belly for “Like a Prayer”, I was reminded of the ominous, liquid-crystal looks from Givenchy Couture Spring 2012.  Then I thought, “Oh, shit!  I hope they didn’t have to do all that by hand!”

Once the audience had been adequately “gayed”, the football game came back on and I was struck by how terrible the New York Giants’ uniforms were.  Not only were the bleak whites and tight silhouettes unflattering to most of the hefty African-American men on the field, but the armholes on their jerseys were fucking terrible.  I obviously had to root for the Patriots after that but, unfortunately, better armholes do not a football game win.

With all the focus on advertising at each commercial break during this whole thing, it was interesting to see that two distinct themes emerged:  Beer and Cars.  What the hell happened to fashion?  I mean, I wasn’t expecting Donatella Versace to pop up on the screen (God forbid!) and tell us about her spring collection but what are they expecting all these people to be wearing while they’re drinking their beer and driving their cars, hopefully not in that order.  Fear not because I’ve got a wrap-up of the Spring 2012 fashion ad campaigns for you right here!

First off, Mert and Marcus’ campaign for Gucci mirrored the dark, glamorous hair and makeup from the runway show but poor Abbey Lee Kershaw looks like a skeletal corpse crawling out of the grave to feed on unsuspecting passersby.  Burberry is all about super-cool skinny white people, too, but ones I might actually hang out with.  I also wouldn’t mind keeping company with the cool, mellow, beautiful hippies in their colorful clothes at Etro and I think that’s a good message for an ad campaign to give:  “I might actually talk to these people.”

Mert and Marcus for Gucci.

Dolce and Gabbana’s ads are more about a feeling of fun, with models mixing with laughing, celebrating southern Italian families.  You actually have to look a little bit for the featured clothes.  Bally is another happy one, with pretty people like Miranda Kerr on an Alpine terrace with smiles that silently scream, “Look at this bag!”

The Michael Kors ads by Mario Testino are quite intriguing, with beautiful people on safari wearing a lot of bronzer.  Like, a lot.  I get the unsettling impression that it’s a guy with a hot mom or a young aunt, but they never seem like a couple.  Also shaky on the age-appropriateness is Giorgio Armani with simple straightforward photos of classic clothes on beautiful cropped-haired Milou Van Groesen.  The only problem is that she looks like she’s wearing her mother’s stuff.

Testino for Kors.

Black-and-white photos are uncommon this season but two campaigns used them well.  Chanel’s Karl Lagerfeld photographed girls in light, airy dresses on gymnastics equipment.  It’s a bit moody but the lightness and simplicity made me want to give the collection another chance.  Emporio Armani has the feel of vintage photographs of lovely girls in China and also incorporates some Asian models, which is smart for chasing those yuan and I expect to see this from more designers in the near future.  Almost in this category are Louis Vuitton ads, which are so light and pastel that you need sunglasses to look at them, but the ice cream that mirrors the ice cream colors is a whimsical and welcome touch.

Lagerfeld for Chanel.

Some of the French houses are especially puzzling.  Intentionally unflattering snapshots of messy girls in messy surroundings was the Balenciaga idea this season.  I get the “grunge” thing and the “high-low” thing but these girls don’t look good and the clothes don’t look good, so what’s the point?  The YSL ads seem what the French call jolie-laide, which means pretty and ugly at once, but the styling is clearly a tribute to Saint-Laurent’s muse Loulou de la Falaise so I guess we have to give them the benefit of the doubt.  Over at Givenchy, they’re giving us Brazilian supermodel Gisele Bundchen and hot shirtless guys, so what could go wrong?  Well, Gisele looks more butch than the dudes, for starters.  And what’s with that outfit?

Meisel for Prada

I’ll have some dissent on this one, but I really dislike Steven Meisel’s tough-as-nails Prada campaign.  This makes sense because I also didn’t like the collection, but I’m sure the bright, garish colors will attract attention and the 1950s gas station background will explain the motif if you didn’t get it already.

At the other end of the spectrum for me is the great Valentino campaign shot by Deborah Turbeville. The images of beautiful girls in long, lean dresses milling around a Mexican stone ruin quietly remind us that the collection was inspired by 1920s Mexico without being too literal.  The hair and makeup styling from the runway show tie the whole thing together without detracting and, in the end, it’s all about a peaceful mood and those great clothes.  What more could you want?

Much love,

xxJames

THE KILLOUGH CHRONICLES

by @James_Killough

“But, James,” you say, exasperated, while you wait in vain for the newly reborn Harvey “Phoenix” Weinstein to return your call. “You incessantly bitch about the poor quality of the films in the running for the Oscar this year.  If you’re so good, how come you’re not up there yourself?  And, by the way, OMG! I loved The Artist, you are so wrong about that!”

When Garbo finally talked, nobody cared that she wasn't from Connecticut.

And you are quite right, except I take exception to one part of your comment in particular because it reminds me of a spat I had with an Indian director I rewrote a script for back in the latter part of the last century.  “If you’re so good,” she hissed, “Why aren’t you in Hollywood?”

“You really don’t get it,” I hissed right back.  Defending script rewrites is a blood sport.

For many Indians in the pre-New India, when the country’s self-esteem in general was at an all-time low, being a white man working there meant you were somehow defective.  “You have to be a misfit in the West to fit into India,” was the proud saying among the Goa hippies, until they were paved over and gentrified by yuppies from Mumbai and Delhi.  That I understood and loved India’s potential before she herself grasped it was never an argument I could use to convince them I wasn’t subpar.

Now that I have placed myself firmly on higher ground as an underappreciated visionary and artiste, let me offer a few tongue-in-cheek but hopefully thought-provoking changes I would have made to this year’s Best Picture nominees had I been invited to remake them:

The Artist:

The silent thing is a cute, audacious gimmick that allows the French co-stars to hide their real nationality and creates the illusion they are American, and also provides for something of a twist ending.  But history doesn’t side with the notion that European stars like Jean Dujardin’s character lost favor with audiences when the talkies came around just because they had a foreign accents; stars sink beneath the shifting tides of popularity all the time, for different reasons.

Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo made the transition from silent to sound.  Even though Maurice Chevalier wasn’t a major star in the silent era, he still cranked out films then, and blossomed even more when people could hear his accent.  And what about Charles Boyer?

Pepé Le Pew has had an amazing career despite sporting a thick French accent.

Another massive problem is the ending.  Neither Dujardin nor Bérénice Bejo can dance fluidly, and audiences back then were quite savvy about tap and all manner of ballroom dancing; it was one of the main forms of entertainment.  The idea that they would save his career by turning him into a Fred Astaire is ridiculous; Dujardin has two left feet, and Bejo looks like she’s deliberately spoofing Ruby Keeler for a laugh.

Perhaps now you understand some of my problems with The Artist.  So when you do finally get Harvey on the phone, you can explain that when the entire premise of a film is grossly inaccurate and unlikely, it ruins it for me.

Romantic lead and smoker Charles Boyer

What changes would Script Doctor Killough make?  Kill the twist, kill the final dance sequence.  I know, I know: you loved the ending; it was almost the best part.  But the studio and I have decided that the American remake of The Artist should be a cross between Mel Brooks’ Silent Movie and Little Big Man.

This is our new, higher concept: via some plot device, such as an interview with a journalist in the 60s, an elderly Dujardin—now covered in a totally believable wrinkle pack like the one Marion Cotillard (another Frenchie) sported in La Vie en Rose—reminisces about his days as a silent movie star before he became Governor of California.  It’s only then, after his political career is stopped short in its tracks because of the xenophobic law that prohibits even competent people who were born on foreign soil from becoming President, that we exploit the pathos of his Frenchness.

We will intercut between the modern era, which will be in color and sound, and the flashbacks of the silent, black-and-white footage, which will be shot kind of the way the film is right now, but with more money decked for production design and a bit of a trim all around.  Like, forty-five minutes of trim.

I am loving this new concept.  It has scope, as they say over at Paramount.

The Descendants:

First of all, Clooney is way overrated in this, and his character is completely overshadowed by his eldest daughter.  Why?  Because this movie should have been about teens.  We lost a massive Twilight opportunity at the box office by centering it around a middle-aged man with rather banal marital problems played by an actor who doesn’t look like he’s had a seriously bad day in his life.  It should be about the teen girl and her relationship with the sexy dumb jock surfer dude, who is the kind of guy I would have totally lost my shit for in an unseemly, irrational way when I was their age.

So Nick Krause from "The Descendants" is a teen caveman. And?

As I mentioned in my review, Alexander Payne has a gift for shooting gorgeous locations indifferently.  I don’t care that he makes it clear in the beginning of the film that this isn’t the clichéd paradisiacal Hawaii, but rather an insider’s Hawaii.  This is the movies, dude: the only place for ugly is behind the camera.   Just because something is prosaic doesn’t mean it has to be blah.  Even when you were trying evoke a sense of gorgeousness deliberately with that wide shot from the hill overlooking the private beach the family owns, you managed to make it look like the background of a happy snap taken by a tourist visiting Malibu.

I would like to see this remade as a cross between Endless Love and Juno, with the adults in the background like drooping palm trees.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close:

Listen, it’s fine to have someone with Aspergers as a prominent character in a film, like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman—Aspies people are even quirkier and more adorable than gay best friends—but he can’t be the protagonist. We can’t pin our hopes and aspirations on someone so strange.  Tom Cruise is the protagonist.

So, in Dr. Killough’s rewrite, we have a new hero, a twelve-year-old Cruise, who is likewise affected by 9/11 to the extent he takes pity on the Aspergers kid in his class whose dad died when the Towers came down, who he has hitherto teased mercilessly.  He helps the kid solve the mystery of the key in true Hardy Boys style.  Big character arc right there.

In general, we need to tone down the vast menagerie of even weirder New York types in the film, whom the unlikely but lovable new best friends meet on their journey to find what the mystery key opens (I can’t even comment on how disappointing that revelation is in the story).  This superfluous-eccentric-character removal includes grandpa Max von Sydow: enough already with the damaged and the sad and scrounging for interesting ways to portray them.

Arnold's career certainly wasn't stopped by his caricature German accent.

I know, we shouldn’t take too many liberties because this is an adaptation of a respected novel, which I couldn’t finish because the narrator’s voice was so irritating.  But let’s face it, nobody read it.  And this certainly wouldn’t be the first time producer Scott Rudin bought the rights to a book and then fucked over the writer.  Rudin gets particularly aroused when he makes you cry.

The Help:

I haven’t seen this, but I want it to be more The Color Purple meets The Ten Commandments.  It should be completely about blacks.  The whites should be represented like the adults in Charlie Brown animated cartoons: just squawking nonsense off screen.  It’s a perfect way to represent white Southern women because that’s what they actually sound like.

Reimaging this script set me thinking about what sort of films we Gheys will make once our struggle is over and we have attained equal rights.  Will our films have titles like The Decorators?  But they will never be as lavish as The Help because you cannot get a gay-themed film financed for over a million dollars; nobody will see it, so the numbers are awful.  As gay director Joel Schumacher once said, “People don’t want to be reminded about butt fucking,” which is a pity because it’s such fun.

For decades audiences weren't sure what Streep's real accent was. She survived.

Hugo:

I understand why this film was made, I admire Scorsese immensely, but I wouldn’t know where to suggest changes because that would be like trying to transform Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory into a piece that is a viable Academy Award nominee.  I would end up like Hugo himself, endless tinkering with the mechanisms of the film in silent despair trying to make the impossible fit together.  This is because Hugo is like Lord of the Rings: a pure fantasy piece that has no place in the running for an Oscar.  It’s a fucking children’s film, for Christ’s sake.

Let me try to wrap my mind around how muddled this is: the Academy feels okay nominating Hugo but not Harry Potter after half of Britain, including the best of their actors, slaved over those films for a decade and then some?  As they say in England, “You’re taking the piss, mate.”

Midnight in Paris:

The reason this has been Woody Allen’s most successful film is it’s basically a remake of Back to the Future, with a Duesenberg (or whatever make it is) as the time-machine car instead of a Delorean.  So what’s missing here is more razzle-dazzle, Woody.  I’m talking special effects, lots of scope.   Enough with the realistic, already!  It’s also fantasy piece!  And let’s talk sequel.  Shall we call it Midday in St. Tropez?  That has scope, too.  And yachts.

I know, Woody: The good borrow, the great steal. Inspired theft, though.

Moneyball:

This was a solid film, I have to say.  Can’t think of a single silly suggestion for it.

The Tree of Life:

As I have written in these posts ad nauseam, this is not a real film.  Up until I saw it I was a huge fan of the director, Terrence Malick.  TOL is actually meant to be an audio-visual experience, sort of like going on a trip to the planetarium.  But it’s not a very agreeable experience, certainly not as enjoyable as Baraka or the Qatsi Series, which likewise feature images set to music, albeit without Sean Penn.  Maybe smoking a joint before seeing it, which I forgot to do, would have made a difference. Nah.

Penn is the first actor who came to mind as someone who should never do accents.

Dr. Killough’s remedy would immediately include adding basic dramatic elements like a plot and a character arc for the protagonist, after of course identifying who the real protagonist is.  And this is going to sound environmentally unfriendly, but get rid of the fakaktah trees, already.  Change the title if you have to; in any case, just one tree is all you need.  No twirling camera, either, makes everyone dizzy.

Script Department note to Malick: voiceovers are used when you have no other options to support the narrative and can’t move the plot forward without them.  In your film they are deployed as some sort of hackneyed prose poem.  You can’t hypnotize everyone into thinking you’ve made a substantive film, even though it clearly worked on the Cannes jury headed by Robert de Niro.  He must have smoked the joint that was meant for me.

Indeed, this is a festival film at best, but it still shouldn’t have won the Palme D’Or, especially over Melancholia, and it certainly has no place in the race for the Oscar.

War Horse:

I haven’t seen this, but to be one of the world’s great directors and apparently fuck up the hottest play on the London stage after Billy Elliot is a mystery worthy of a Terrence Malick esoteric meditation on existence.  Yes, even a he’s-so-far-left-field-he’s-in-India filmmaker like me admires Spielberg’s technique, it would be ridiculous not to.  His choices might suck from time to time, but he is the Meryl Streep of directors.

And that may be the key: this was the wrong choice for him to make.  Another director might have adapted it with more finesse, and could have even given The Artist a run for its money.  From the trailer, War Horse looks mawkish and overblown, whereas the play was cleverly staged and genuinely moving.

The only advice Dr. Killough can give is to remake it in French on a lower budget, and throw in a healthy dash of that zany humor of theirs, like those Steampunk flicks they make with large-nosed characters shot close up with wide-angle lenses.

I’m loving it.  This has scope.

BAKER STREET

by Eric J Baker

Everyone laughs at Art History students for voluntarily sabotaging their career prospects from the get-go (even the poetry kids point and sneer). And it’s almost obligatory for lame job-hunting articles on Yahoo to call out Art History as the worst possible field of study from a future-income standpoint. But none of those people thought of a little thing called “Google Image Search” that lets art historically astute bloggers put total fluff pieces together comparing celebrities to artworks, did they?*

In the words of the immortal Bruce Campbell from Evil Dead II: Who’s laughing now?

Groovy!

It’s not uncommon on the internets to see side-by-side images of lookalike celebrities á la those Separated at Birth books written way back before entertainment was free. But at PFC, not even the passing of centuries can stop us from hunting down yesterday’s two-dimensional doppelgangers of today’s three-dimensional stars. Look upon these images and decide: Is Baker damn clever, or does he need glasses?

Sandro Botticelli vs. Uma Thurman

We can assume that if Quentin Tarantino had been king of Florence (?) in 1485, round about when this painting was done, Uma would have been his queen, and Sandro Botticelli would have been his court painter.

Henri Matisse vs. Drew Barrymore

Actually, the Barrymore family has been in the acting business longer than Matisse family has been in the painting business. And shouldn’t Drew be about 70 by now?

Andre Derain self-portrait vs. Donald Sutherland

Now tell me, who’s the REAL body snatcher?

Peter Paul Rubens vs. Rupert from Survivor All Stars

I always thought that guy on Survivor was “Rubenesque.” Now I know why.

Diego Rivera self-portrait vs. James Earl Jones

Diego Rivera is your father, James Earl Jones. Search your feelings. You know it to be true!

The Rush Suite

Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres vs. Geddy Lee of Rush

Posting likenesses of Geddy Lee is practically a cottage industry these days. Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres, France’s best academic painter of the 19^th century, was at the vanguard of such when he painted this portrait in 1846.

Édouard Manet vs. Neil Peart of Rush

Many, including me, consider Manet to be the father of modern art. Still others consider Neil Peart to be the father of modern air drumming. The guy on the left is one M. Tillet, as painted by Manet in 1881.

Joan Miro vs. Alex Lifeson of Rush

The fact is, Alex Lifeson is the normalest looking person in rock and roll and doesn’t seem to have a painted counterpart. He is awfully weird and funny though, like this painting by Joan Miro from 1950.

Piet Mondrian vs. General Grievous from Star Wars

I don’t know. I dig Piet Mondrian’s art, but I’ve got to say that George Lucas’ creation looks more like a General Grievous than the other thing looks like an Apple Tree in Flower, which is what Mondrian called it.

Olidon Redon vs. Godzilla (or should it be “Godzilla vs. the Cyclops”?)

Left: Olidon Redon, Cyclops c1914 (oil on cardboard) Right: Ishiro Honda, Godzilla 1954 (chemical on film stock exposed to light)

Godzilla looks pissed that the naked chick is gone. No wonder he smashed Tokyo.

Edwige Fenech vs. Edwige Fenech

There are three reasons French/Algerian/Maltese/Sicilian actress Edwige Fenech has shown up in this story comparing celebrities to artworks: She’s a celebrity, she’s a work of art, and she’s This Week’s Brunette (and a long-overdue one at that). This photo was probably taken around 1970, but Ms. Fenech is as gorgeous today as ever.

*Disclaimer: Even I was smart enough not to major in Art History.