How should a pop diva grow older in public? When your career is based not so much on virtuosic vocal ability but charisma, X factor, taste, and performance, where do you end up? What is the “age appropriate” equivalent to singing standards for the artists whose output is rooted in the dance pop of the ‘80s? How does the artist who is characterized in part by her command on culture and ability to communicate with the masses thrive when the masses stop listening? How do you make pop music when you know it has little chance of actually being popular, per the ageist standards of the music industry?
Two hundred and fifty days ago, former reality TV star Kristin Cavallari announced that she was writing a book to be released sometime in the spring of 2016. Balancing in Heels (formerly titled Balancing on Heels—Kristin’s first choice of title) now has an official cover image and a website where you can pre-order it.
“We wanted viewers to feel like they were washed up, panting on another shore somewhere having just had a brush with drowning in a tempest of narrative,” is how Canadian director Guy Maddin described his latest feature (co-directed with Evan Johnson), The Forbidden Room, which played this year’s New York Film Festival. And indeed, Maddin’s 11th feature is exhausting. Essentially an anthology film with a Russian nesting-doll structure, The Forbidden Room sprouts narratives out of narratives, flowing from one seeming tangent to the next with Maddin’s familiar silent-movie aesthetic (the narratives were generally based on titles and synopses “lost” movies often dating back to the ‘20s). A crew in a submarine that’s running out of oxygen attempts to extend their collective lives using the air pockets in flapjacks. A lumberjack attempts to rescue a woman from a cave-dwelling tribe called the Red Wolves. A man’s ghost attempts to teach his son how to trick his mother into believing that the man never died. There is a vampire banana, a virgin sacrifice, a character known as “Squid Thief.” It blends together deliriously in transitions that emulate the decay and melting of celluloid.
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson announced some horribly sad news Monday night: BRUTUS, the French Bulldog puppy he adopted and subsequently rescued from drowning in his outdoor pool, has died. This news is not baller. It is, in fact, the saddest thing to befall The Rock in the recent history of his joyful, baller-ass life, which he always lives to the fullest.
The story about the events surrounding Kitty Genovese’s death, as most people know it, is a myth. It’s been over 50 years since her March 13, 1964, slaying, and so much has been written (often in attempt of correction) in the time since. Yet in many people’s heads, the story remains as it did in the opening paragraphs of Martin Gansberg’s March 27, 1964, New York Times story, “37 Who Saw Murder Didn’t Call the Police”:
In a new Rolling Stone interview, Rage Against the Machine bassist Tim “Timmy C.” Commerford claimed responsibility for one of most devastating outbreaks during the rap-metal crisis that ravaged America in the years leading up to 9/11: the one, the only, Limp Bizkit. He hereby apologizes for that bullshit.
Chris Brown has been denied entry to Australia because his 2009 assault on Rihanna, for which he was sentenced to five years of probation and six months of community service, doesn’t square with the country’s feelings about domestic violence. Faced with canceling a lucrative tour, Brown is now on Twitter trying to guess the password to get into Australia. Is it: “I would be more than grateful to come to Australia to raise awareness about domestic violence?”