A Few Gripes About the Artist Known as "Ke$ha"

I've been thinking a lot about Kesha lately. (I refuse to use the "official" spelling of her name -- Ke$ha -- outside of griping about it, because it's just plain stupid. What's the pronunciation of such a name? "Ke- dollar sign -ha"? "Ke-money-ha?") I've been thinking about Kesha because her song "Tik Tok" has been stuck in my head. And I realize that I actually like it. Heck, I admit it, I like it a lot. The lyrics are fun because they're an unintentional satire of the very party culture they celebrate, and the music is fun because it's simply a catchy, dance-friendly beat.

Keep in mind that this is coming from someone who, for the most part, views the Kesha culture and its music with a mixture of alienation, confusion, and disdain. Sorry if that offends you, but I feel safe in making this confession, since very, very few people reading this would be a passionate defender of party culture.

My biggest beef with Kesha -- and there are quite a few -- but my biggest beef with her is the song "Blah Blah Blah," probably because that one song encapsulates almost every complaint I have about party culture and its music. Unlike the lyrics to "Tik Tok" (written by Kesha Sebert, Lukasz Gottwald, and Benjamin Levin), which use (intentionally or unintentionally, not sure) comical exaggeration in describing party culture, and fit into a discernible musical structure, "Blah Blah Blah" similarly celebrates party culture but without any sense of irony or self-examination. The "music," if that's what it can be called, is a discordant, unpleasant mess of disorganized notes, and the lyrics (written by Kesha, Levin, Neon Hitch, and Sean Foreman) alternate between a chorus that is the pinnacle of lazy songwriting and verses that explicitly (in both senses of the word) endorse the idea that sex is best if it's with someone who has no personality and keeps his or her mouth shut. The chorus and title of the song are a reference to the singer's argument that men should just shut up and put out, because when men open their mouths to speak, Kesha loses interest; he may have something to say, but all Kesha hears is "blah blah blah."

My problems with this song are two-fold. First of all, online music critic Todd Nathanson (a.k.a. "Todd in the Shadows") rightly points out that the chorus and title are a perfect summary of how techno-pop music in general is viewed by people who, like me, generally hate techno-pop music. (If you're interested in the link for Todd's rather amusing review, it's http://thatguywiththeglasses.com/videolinks/teamt/tis/tpsr/20736-ep-01-kesha-blahblahblah) It's as if Kesha and her co-writers said, "oh, you think our music is bad, well we'll show you just how bad it can be!" Now, I might -- emphasis on "might" -- forgive or maybe even appreciate such an attitude if, as I noted before, I could detect some sort of irony or at least self-awareness. I cannot. Maybe you like Kesha and her song "Blah Blah Blah," maybe you don't, but let's at least be honest, does she really present herself as a musical or social satirist?

Beyond the obnoxious non-music of the song, the lyrics are nothing short of offensive. Now, I've read many comments online -- from both casual listeners and music critics -- that have argued that it's okay, and even admirable, for Kesha to sing about men as worthless for anything other than sex, because this is how men have been talking about and treating women since the dawn of creation. "Blah Blah Blah," this argument posits, is actually a feminist triumph of gender equality. This argument is, frankly, very, very stupid. I have three responses to it.

First of all, gender equality, hip hip hooray, I'm all for it, yeah, but no matter how you slice it, this argument is basically that if men can act like pigs, women can too. Which is true, yes, but do we really want to go there, where the argument is basically that "yes, we acknowledge that this is disgusting behavior, but disgusting behavior is acceptable as long as everybody's equally disgusting"? That's the argument defenders of the song are making, and to me it seems a course perversion of the righteous goals of feminism.

Second of all, and I admit I'm getting more personal here, but I for one do not approve of treating women with disrespect, so the argument "why is this behavior alright for a man, and not alright for a woman?" is really lost on me. This behavior is not alright for a man, I never thought it was. I am holding men and women up to the same standard here.

Furthermore, I would point out that, while I admit to being somewhat out of touch with modern music, I am unaware of any mainstream song that so blatantly sends the message Kesha's song is allegedly a response to, that women are good for fucking and nothing else. Yes, some rap music can be embarrassingly misogynistic, but with "Blah Blah Blah," we're talking about something a lot more mainstream, we're talking about something that young people are dancing to en masse.

For me, the bottom line is that we would be offended by a song whose message is to treat women like shit -- and so we should also be offended by a song whose message to to treat men like shit. It's not "okay" just because it allegedly balances the scales.

In summary, I find Kesha's lyrics, message, and music to be equally reprehensible, and the success of "Blah Blah Blah" to be a blatant sign of pop culture's continuing moral degradation.

That Tik-Tok song is pretty good though.

Smallville: A Very Subjective Retrospective

After 10 years, Smallville is over. The Red-Blue Blur is now Superman (complete with iconic suit), Jimmy and Lex are back in the roles the mythology demands them to be, and Lois & Clark have eschewed the town of Smallville itself, in favor of the big city, Metropolis.

Now that the feature-length, long-awaited series finale has aired (enjoying heaps of praise from hyped-up Internet fans, but sure to elicit debate once the initial excitement wears off) it seems fitting to take a look back at the show that redefined the Legend of Superman.

Smallville began as a show that was very much about the identity of the W.B. as a television network, and only incidentally about the characters that inspired the series. Oh, sure, you had all of the characters most central to the earliest chapters of the Clark Kent mythos. But look at the the context of other shows on the network: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (high school drama with vampires), Dawson's Creek (high school drama with soap opera sensibilities), Popular (high school drama with fashion snobs), Roswell (high school drama with aliens), and finally, Smallville -- which really presented nothing more than high school drama with Superboy. Martha & Jonathan Kent were often paraded about so that they could dispatch some down-home country wisdom, but the emphasis was really on Clark's struggles to fit in as a freshman in high school.

To be sure, the show started out on the right foot, balancing the lame "Superboy in high school" concept with a more intriguing story, as rich kid Lex Luthor (Michael Rosenbaum) carelessly hits Clark Kent (a perfectly cast Tom Welling) with his car, before crashing off of a bridge and into the river below. Clark naturally saves Lex's life, with no way of knowing that doing so, while it may be the right thing on a moral level, will eventually spell tragedy for Clark time and time again.

Clark, who has managed to keep his super powers a secret his entire life, unconvincingly insists that Lex's car didn't really hit him, but Lex knows what he saw, and Clark's refusal to admit the truth -- a storyline that will last for years on the show -- sparks in Lex a curiosity about his mysterious savior. Over time, that curiosity would become a fascination, and finally an obsession.

However, after the pilot episode, that storyline was put on the back burner. Nearly every episode of the first four years -- and, it may be safe to say, every single episode of the first season followed the exact same plot: Somebody in Smallville (usually a high school student) has been exposed to kryptonite (referred to in the series as "meteor rock"), and while kryptonite may be poisonous to Clark, long-term exposure to humans tends to give them bizarre powers. Clark's friend Chloe Sullivan (played by the immensely likable Allison Mack) would somehow get wind of the mysterious incidents long before anybody else, and she would investigate the incidents -- usually getting in over her head -- for the dual purpose of both reporting for the school newspaper, and also adding material to her "Wall of Weird" -- an obsessive collection of evidence and newspaper clippings regarding these various "meteor freaks." Oddly, despite that every one of Chloe's suspicions turned out to be accurate, she was always dismissed as a crackpot by everybody but Clark, who would invariably have to save either Chloe or somebody else from the latest kryptonite-infected guest star. I honestly don't remember a single episode from season one that strayed from this formula. Smallville's version of variety was to, once in a great while, make the meteor freak a sympathetic character whose danger was due to inability to control his or her powers, rather than intentional malice.

Typically, until the climax of each episode, in which Clark would face off with the meteor freak, this "villain of the week" routine was usually little more than a MacGuffin, an excuse to further explore Clark's surprisingly typical high school life. Per the standard for a WB series, high school was more about who's in love with who, than it is about learning. Sidekick Pete had a crush on Chloe, who had a crush on Clark, who had a crush on popular girl Lana, who was in a relationship with school jock Whitney, who had a crush on Pete. Okay, I made that last one up, Whitney was totally into Lana, but in an unhealthy, "I'm your boyfriend, I therefore own and control you" way.

If all of this sounds maddeningly repetitive, it sure as heck was. The first season's only real saving grace was the Lex Luthor character. Because the entire audience knows that Clark Kent and Lex Luthor are destined to become bitter enemies, all of the Smallville scenes depicting them as best friends had a layer of poignancy beyond the surface text. Lex's gradual adoption of the Kents as a substitute family was especially bittersweet, since Lex's relationship with his own father (John Glover) was so adversarial that they were actually depicted as business rivals, vying for control of the multi-million dollar family company, LutherCorp.

Seasons 2 - 4 never completely strayed from the villain of the week/ everyone's in love with everyone else formula, but at least these seasons started to add a layer of interest, by delving a little bit into the Superman mythology. Christopher Reeve, who famously played Superman in the movies, was even brought in as a guest character who has somehow learned to read Kryptonian.

To emphasize Clark's dual nature -- an alien who looks like and was raised by humans -- the writers bent over backwards to tie Earth and Kryptonian histories together, as a discovery of an ancient cave reveals a Native American prophecy telling of a savior (obviously Clark) and three mystical "Stones of Knowledge." Clark learns that he must find these Stones of Knowledge, which tie in with his destiny, before they are discovered by Lex, Lionel, or the Teague family, played by Jane Seymour and Jensen Ackles.

The premiere episode of season two introduced a recurring plot device that would drive viewers crazy with frustration: the "false reveal." Every once in a while, the show would breathlessly advertise that "this is the episode where Lana (or Lex) finds out Clark's Secret!" And every time -- every time the writers would throw in a "twist" that negated this revelation. Wait, Lana didn't find out Clark's an alien, it was just a dream! Wait, yeah, we know Lex saw Clark use super powers, but that was an alternate reality! No, we know we said that Lex would discover Clark's alien heritage, but surprise, Clark turned back time and made it never happen! Over the course of almost the entire series, the writers would never fail to delight in the false reveal. They seemed to think themselves enormously clever, but this was really the reason I stopped watching the show for a while.

Season 5 drew me back to the show, with the addition of James Marsters as Professor Milton Fine, Smallville's version of the comic book villain Brainiac. (I could care less about the Brainiac character, but I was a fan of Marsters because of his brilliant performance as Spike on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.) Unlike Buffy, which lost some of its heart when its characters graduated from high school, Smallville's abandonment of the high school setting worked tremendously in the show's favor. Romance became an aspect, rather than the focus, of the characters' lives, and the show finally began to lose interest in the tired "villain of the week" storylines. Although he was merely a supporting character (until his eventual emergence, late in the season, as a major villain) Marsters provided the cast with a proverbial shot in the arm as Milton Fine. And, most importantly, the show replaced all of the tedious teen angst with plot lines that featured more action and spectacle -- a transition that understandably hooked new viewers into the show.

Clark and Lex, now rivals for Lana Lang's affections, were no longer friends, but not quite enemies yet either -- although their constant sniping, and Clark's tendency to blame everything on Lex did grow tiresome after a while, as if the writers were trying too hard to say, "look, we're showing you their transition from friends to enemies, just like we promised!"

Still, this is a minor complaint when you consider how radically superior season five was, compared to seasons 1 - 4. Notable episodes include "Lexmas," a critically acclaimed Christmas story in which Lex, realizing that he is on a morally dangerous path, dreams of an alternate reality in which he and Clark are again best friends. "The Reckoning," the show's much-celebrated 100th episode, was yet another false reveal story, as both Lana and Lex learn Clark's secret, only for Jor-El (voiced by Terence Stamp) to reverse the events by turning back time. The episode was notable, however, for shocking viewers with the unexpected death of Clark's father, who had been a central character since the beginning. The season five cliff-hanger ending, with Lex finally becoming a complete villain (because he was possessed by the evil Kryptonian General Zod), and Clark stuck in the extradimensional Phantom Zone prison, while Earth descends into chaos under the (temporary) conquest by Brainiac, had millions of viewers on the edge of their proverbial seats for an entire summer.

Season 6 didn't quite live up to the high standards set by season five, but did benefit from the addition of several characters from the Superman comics, most notably Justin Hartley, as millionaire Oliver Queen, a.k.a. vigilante "Green Arrow." Narratively, the most intriguing aspect of this season was the treatment of Lex's father, Lionel Luthor. In previous seasons, Lionel was at best a morally ambiguous character, and often hinted at being a villain. Yet the discovery of Clark's secret, surprisingly, motivates him to become one of Clark's most loyal (though least trusted) allies. The show's writers later lamented that they felt lost when writing for Lionel's character, but their dissatisfaction, in my opinion, doesn't translate to the screen.

Season 7 began promisingly, with an action-packed season premiere that hinted at a major villain in Bizarro, sort of an "evil twin" version of Clark. However, the show shifted focus to the character of Clark's maddeningly bland cousin, Kara, and lost my interest for a while. There was only so much Supergirl I was willing to put up with.

As far as I'm concerned, the following two seasons were, by far, the best the show had to offer. The disappearance of Lex Luthor lead to a goal shared by almost all of the characters (finding out if Lex is dead, and if not, where he's gone to), each for his or her own reason. The writers especially deserve praise for using this storyline to make the character of Lex a continuing presence on the series despite Michael Rosenbaum's departure from the series.

Sam Witwer was a welcome addition to the cast as Davis Bloome, a paramedic who develops a romance with Chloe despite her engagement to Jimmy Olson (Aaron Ashmore). Unlike the sappy, shallow romantic entanglements of Smallville's early, high school years, the Chloe/ Davis/ Jimmy love triangle was handled with maturity and sensitivity.

Most importantly, for the sake of fitting Smallville's continuity into the larger Superman narrative, season 8 would be the one in which Clark starts to develop a reputation and routine as a superhero. As the mysterious, and accurately-but-unimaginatively named "Red-Blue Blur," Clark patrols Metropolis and starts to show hints of the "beacon of hope" he is destined to become.

Davis would turn out to be Smallville's interpretation of Doomsday, the comic book character ultimately responsible for Superman's death. Because of this knowledge on the part of the viewers, each scene with Davis, who would occasionally transform into Doomsday in times of distress (similar to Banner's transformations into the equally mindless title character of The Incredible Hulk) was laced with delightful suspense. The biggest complaint for season eight -- and I consider it a very, very big complaint indeed -- was the lack of pay-off. The entire season is filled with explicit, ominous portents of an eventual show-down between Clark and Doomsday -- a show-down which proves fatal for Clark in the comic book continuity. Yet when they finally do face off in the season finale, the fight lasts for only a few seconds -- a total of three blows are exchanged -- before Doomsday is defeated.

Season 9, the best season of the series, re-introduces the villainous General Zod. Admittedly, the details of Zod's return are never satisfactorily explained. But this Zod has no memory of his criminal deeds, and Clark plans to befriend Zod -- apparently forgetting every lesson he's ever learned about destiny during the previous eight seasons.

These nit-picks do nothing to diminish the pure fun of season 9, which, quite simply, features the best action sequences, cinematography, and dialogue of the entire series. At the center of the cast is Callum Blue as the villainous Zod, who manages to be alternately menacing and sympathetic with equal aplomb.

Season 10 begins promisingly enough, with an exciting wrap-up of the General Zod storyline, flowing seamlessly into the plot twist of Lois Lane finally learning that Clark is the Red-Blue Blur. And, pleasant surprise, it's not a false reveal -- this time, Lois gets to keep her knowledge that Clark is the Blur! Thank you, Smallville writers, for finally abandoning the "just kidding" concept of plot twists!

Unfortunately, season 10 simply doesn't live up to the high standards of the previous two seasons, despite a very sincere attempt to use action and "clever" plotting to reconcile any remaining incongruities between the Smallville storyline and the greater Superman narrative. The season's biggest problem is its poor choice in a primary villain: After the dynamic performances of Sam Witwer as Doomsday and Callum Blue as Zod, we have . . . . well, nobody playing the primary villain Darkseid, a mostly incorporeal bad guy who does almost all of his evil deeds through bland minions.

The feature-length series finale, as I mentioned, is currently getting heaps of praise online, but in my opinion, it simply tries to do too much. Clark finally becomes Superman, Clark marries Lois, Lex returns after years of being presumed dead, Doomsday tries to take over the world, etc., etc. Some of this works (I loved Rosenbaum's cameo as Lex, including a monologue that neatly summarizes the nature of long-running adversarial relationships in fiction) and some doesn't (they never even bother to explain how Jimmy Olson is somehow back from the dead -- or if this second Olson is really the first Olson's younger brother, as it's implied, then why are they identical, and why do they share the same first name?) But after ten years, Clark Kent has finally embraced his destiny. His days as the anonymous, awkwardly named Red-Blue Blur are over. This looks like a job for Superman.

Scarface: A Comparitive Review

Say what you will about the subjective quality of the 1983 version of Scarface -- some consider it a modern-day classic and others dismiss it as a live-action cartoon, an unintentional self-parody -- but whether you love it or loathe it, no one can accuse the film of subtlety. Considering the facts that the director is Brian DePalma (who once reported "guignol" to be his favorite word), the scriptwriter is Oliver Stone (who makes no compunctions about his tendency to hit his audiences over the head with his messages), and the concept of excess is so central to many of the film's themes -- excessive ambition, excessive greed, excessive materialism, excessive violence, etc. -- subtlety in presentation would probably be an inappropriate expectation, to say the least.

The film is such a loose remake of the 1932 movie of the same name that one should hesitate to refer to it as a remake at all; the modern term "re-imagining," albeit loosely defined, might be a word that better describes the '83 film, in its relation to the earlier movie.

Al Pacino stars as Tony Montana, initially just one anonymous face in the wave of Cuban refugees that came to Miami in 1980. Montana refers to himself -- and possibly even considers himself -- a "political refugee," although in truth he is just a petty criminal whose search for a new start in the U.S. is as much about escaping from his criminal past as it is about pursuing the American Dream.

Scarface follows Montana's rapid rise from errand boy for drug kingpin Frank Lopez (a fun performance from Robert Loggia) to a coveted spot in Frank's inner circle, to his rivalry with and eventual replacement of Frank as the number one man in Miami's cocaine trade. We see Montana rise from a nobody to a multi-billionaire, and while more than one person eventually observes that success has gone to Montana's head, his real problem is that success hasn't changed him at all; the crudity, cruelty, greed, paranoia, and other vices that Montana the Millionaire exhibits have been character traits of his all along, and until he finally crosses the wrong people once too often, these vices actually serve him quite well.

In the broadest strokes imaginable, the plot echoes that of the 1932 original, although the shift in focus from 30s Chicago prohibition-busting to 80s Miami cocaine dealing radically alters the story details even more than you might imagine.

As Tony Camonte, the protagonist of the '32 film, Paul Muni delivered a broad performance which seemed even broader in contrast to restrained performances of his co-stars; note how the other men in the 1932 film rarely even move their arms from their sides, an exercise in formal restraint which serves to emphasize Camonte's informal attitude and physical looseness. The supporting actors in the 1983 version don't follow their predecessors' example (and good thing too, especially in the case of the delightful Loggia) so to compensate for this, Pacino goes over the top. It's an appropriate choice, considering the over-all style of the film, but one can easily see how the performance lends itself to parody.

Although the plots of the two films are different enough that directly mirrored scenes are few and far between, there are two examples that illustrate both the positive and the negative of the lack of subtlety:

Both films have a story point about Tony's boss deciding to order a hit on Tony because he rightfully fears that Tony's ambition and fearlessness are a threat to his own power. The '32 film has a great moment when Camonte confronts Johnny Lovo. Johnny initially tries to act innocent, but when he realizes that Camonte ain't buyin' his act, he switches gears and begs for mercy.

"I never hurt anybody!" Johnny whines in his defense.

"No," Camonte agrees. "You send other people to do it for you."

With that, he walks out the door, leaving his sidekick alone in the room with Johnny. The look on Johnny's face tells us that he knows what we do, that Camonte will let his men do the dirty work, but either way, Johnny's days are over. This is arguably the most powerful moment in the film.

An almost -- emphasis on "almost" -- identical scene appears in the 1983 version, although the differences show that the excess of DePalma and Stone illustrate a lack of sophistication:

"I never hurt anybody!" Frank Lopez pleads.

"No," Montana agrees. "You send other people to do it for you."

Same great look of realization on Robert Loggia's face. But then Montana proceeds to boast and strut and curse and shout, and by the time he tells his sidekick to "shoot this fuck," all the grace of the scene has evaporated, and even if that's sort of the point, by this time, we've been so distracted by Montana's bombastic behavior that we barely remember the set-up, and wonder why Montana doesn't take the kill shot himself. DePalma and Stone may have their own legitimate styles, but the bumbling of this scene made me miss their predecessors in Howard Hawks and Ben Hecht.

However, both movies share one subplot that cried out for a lack of subtlety, and despite the '32 film's pre-code status, Hawks and Hecht oddly shied away from the incestuous feelings Camonte feels toward his sister. Interestingly, while watching the Hawks/ Hecht Scarface, I fully expected to see Gina eventually confront Camonte with a sexual advance and the line, "is this what you want, Tony?" This scene appears exactly as I'd imagined it, but only in the DePalma/ Stone version, which I knew very little about and had never even seen before until after watching the '32 film. It's as if DePalma and Stone watched the original movie and said, "oh, okay, we see where they're going with this, let's take it to where they wanted to go, but didn't quite dare to."

It's that fearless attitude that saves the '83 film from its own miscalls, and makes it a movie at least as good as, if not better, than the original.