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path-of-my-childhood · 6 years ago

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Taylor Swift: ‘I was literally about to break’

By: Laura Snapes for The Guardian Date: August 24th 2019

Taylor Swift’s Nashville apartment is an Etsy fever dream, a 365-days-a-year Christmas shop, pure teenage girl id. You enter through a vestibule clad in blue velvet and covered in gilt frames bursting with fake flowers. The ceiling is painted like the night sky. Above a koi pond in the living area, a narrow staircase spirals six feet up towards a giant, pillow-lagged birdcage that probably has the best view in the city. Later, Swift will tell me she needs metaphors “to understand anything that happens to me”, and the birdcage defies you not to interpret it as a pointed comment on the contradictions of stardom.

Swift, wearing pale jeans and dip-dyed shirt, her sandy hair tied in a blue scrunchie, leads the way up the staircase to show me the view. The decor hasn’t changed since she bought this place in 2009, when she was 19. “All of these high rises are new since then,” she says, gesturing at the squat glass structures and cranes. Meanwhile her oven is still covered in stickers, more teenage diary than adult appliance.

Now 29, she has spent much of the past three years living quietly in London with her boyfriend, actor Joe Alwyn, making the penthouse a kind of time capsule, a monument to youthful naivety given an unlimited budget – the years when she sang about Romeo and Juliet and wore ballgowns to awards shows; before she moved to New York and honed her slick, self-mythologising pop.

It is mid-August. This is Swift’s first UK interview in more than three years, and she seems nervous: neither presidential nor goofy (her usual defaults), but quick with a tongue-out “ugh” of regret or frustration as she picks at her glittery purple nails. We climb down from the birdcage to sit by the pond, and when the conversation turns to 2016, the year the wheels came off for her, Swift stiffens as if driving over a mile of speed bumps. After a series of bruising public spats (with Katy Perry, Nicki Minaj) in 2015, there was a high-profile standoff with Kanye West. The news that she was in a relationship with actor Tom Hiddleston, which leaked soon after, was widely dismissed as a diversionary tactic. Meanwhile, Swift went to court to prosecute a sexual assault claim, and faced a furious backlash when she failed to endorse a candidate in the 2016 presidential election, allowing the alt-right to adopt her as their “Aryan princess”.

Her critics assumed she cared only about the bottom line. The reality, Swift says, is that she was totally broken. “Every domino fell,” she says bitterly. “It became really terrifying for anyone to even know where I was. And I felt completely incapable of doing or saying anything publicly, at all. Even about my music. I always said I wouldn’t talk about what was happening personally, because that was a personal time.” She won’t get into specifics. “I just need some things that are mine,” she despairs. “Just some things.”

A year later, in 2017, Swift released her album Reputation, half high-camp heel turn, drawing on hip-hop and vaudeville (the brilliantly hammy Look What You Made Me Do), half stunned appreciation that her nascent relationship with Alwyn had weathered the storm (the soft, sensual pop of songs Delicate and Dress).

Her new album, Lover, her seventh, was released yesterday. It’s much lighter than Reputation: Swift likens writing it to feeling like “I could take a full deep breath again”. Much of it is about Alwyn: the Galway Girl-ish track London Boy lists their favourite city haunts and her newfound appreciation of watching rugby in the pub with his uni mates; on the ruminative Afterglow, she asks him to forgive her anxious tendency to assume the worst.

While she has always written about relationships, they were either teenage fantasy or a postmortem on a high-profile breakup, with exes such as Jake Gyllenhaal and Harry Styles. But she and Alwyn have seldom been pictured together, and their relationship is the only other thing she won’t talk about. “I’ve learned that if I do, people think it’s up for discussion, and our relationship isn’t up for discussion,” she says, laughing after I attempt a stealthy angle. “If you and I were having a glass of wine right now, we’d be talking about it – but it’s just that it goes out into the world. That’s where the boundary is, and that’s where my life has become manageable. I really want to keep it feeling manageable.”

Instead, she has swapped personal disclosure for activism. Last August, Swift broke her political silence to endorse Democratic Tennessee candidate Phil Bredesen in the November 2018 senate race. Vote.org reported an unprecedented spike in voting registration after Swift’s Instagram post, while Donald Trump responded that he liked her music “about 25% less now”.

Meanwhile, her recent single You Need To Calm Down admonished homophobes and namechecked US LGBTQ rights organisation Glaad (which then saw increased donations). Swift filled her video with cameos from queer stars such as Ellen DeGeneres and Queen singer Adam Lambert, and capped it with a call to sign her petition in support of the Equality Act, which if passed would prohibit gender- and sexuality-based discrimination in the US. A video of Polish LGBTQ fans miming the track in defiance of their government’s homophobic agenda went viral. But Swift was accused of “queerbaiting” and bandwagon-jumping. You can see how she might find it hard to work out what, exactly, people want from her.

***

It was girlhood that made Swift a multimillionaire. When country music’s gatekeepers swore that housewives were the only women interested in the genre, she proved them wrong. Her self-titled debut marked the longest stay on the Billboard 200 by any album released in the decade. A potentially cloying image – corkscrew curls, lyrics thick on “daddy” and down-home values – were undercut by the fact she was evidently, endearingly, a bit of a freak, an unusual combination of intensity and artlessness. Also, she was really, really good at what she did, and not just for a teenager: her entirely self-written third album, 2010’s Speak Now, is unmatched in its devastatingly withering dismissals of awful men.

As a teenager, Swift was obsessed with VH1’s Behind The Music, the series devoted to the rise and fall of great musicians. She would forensically rewatch episodes, trying to pinpoint the moment a career went wrong. I ask her to imagine she’s watching the episode about herself and do the same thing: where was her misstep? “Oh my God,” she says, drawing a deep breath and letting her lips vibrate as she exhales. “I mean, that’s so depressing!” She thinks back and tries to deflect. “What I remember is that [the show] was always like, ‘Then we started fighting in the tour bus and then the drummer quit and the guitarist was like, “You’re not paying me enough.”’’’

But that’s not what she used to say. In interviews into her early 20s, Swift often observed that an artist fails when they lose their self-awareness, as if repeating the fact would work like an insurance against succumbing to the same fate. But did she make that mistake herself? She squeezes her nose and blows to clear a ringing in her ears before answering. “I definitely think that sometimes you don’t realise how you’re being perceived,” she says. “Pop music can feel like it’s The Hunger Games, and like we’re gladiators. And you can really lose focus of the fact that that’s how it feels because that’s how a lot of stan [fan] Twitter and tabloids and blogs make it seem – the overanalysing of everything makes it feel really intense.”

She describes the way she burned bridges in 2016 as a kind of obliviousness. “I didn’t realise it was like a classic overthrow of someone in power – where you didn’t realise the whispers behind your back, you didn’t realise the chain reaction of events that was going to make everything fall apart at the exact, perfect time for it to fall apart.”

Here’s that chain reaction in full. With her 2014 album 1989 (the year she was born), Swift transcended country stardom, becoming as ubiquitous as Beyoncé. For the first time she vocally embraced feminism, something she had rejected in her teens; but, after a while, it seemed to amount to not much more than a lot of pictures of her hanging out with her “squad”, a bevy of supermodels, musicians and Lena Dunham. The squad very much did not include her former friend Katy Perry, whom Swift targeted in her song Bad Blood, as part of what seemed like a painfully overblown dispute about some backing dancers. Then, when Nicki Minaj tweeted that MTV’s 2015 Video Music awards had rewarded white women at the expense of women of colour, multiple-nominee Swift took it personally, responding: “Maybe one of the men took your slot.” For someone prone to talking about the haters, she quickly became her own worst enemy.

Her old adversary Kanye West resurfaced in February 2016. In 2009, West had invaded Swift’s stage at the MTV VMAs to protest against her victory over Beyoncé in the female video of the year category. It remains the peak of interest in Swift on Google Trends, and the conflict between them has become such a cornerstone of celebrity journalism that it’s hard to remember it lay dormant for nearly seven years – until West released his song Famous. “I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex,” he rapped. “Why? I made that bitch famous.” The video depicted a Swift mannequin naked in bed with men including Trump.

Swift loudly condemned both; although she had discussed the track with West, she said she had never agreed to the “bitch” lyric or the video. West’s wife, Kim Kardashian, released a heavily edited clip that showed Swift at least agreeing to the “sex” line on the phone with West, if not the “bitch” part. Swift pleaded the technicality, but it made no difference: when Kardashian went on Twitter to describe her as a snake, the comparison stuck and the singer found herself very publicly “cancelled” – the incident taken as “proof” of Swift’s insincerity. So she went away.

Swift says she stopped trying to explain herself, even though she “definitely” could have. As she worked on Reputation, she was also writing “a think-piece a day that I knew I would never publish: the stuff I would say, and the different facets of the situation that nobody knew”. If she could exonerate herself, why didn’t she? She leans forward. “Here’s why,” she says conspiratorially. “Because when people are in a hate frenzy and they find something to mutually hate together, it bonds them. And anything you say is in an echo chamber of mockery.”

She compares that year to being hit by a tidal wave. “You can either stand there and let the wave crash into you, and you can try as hard as you can to fight something that’s more powerful and bigger than you,” she says. “Or you can dive under the water, hold your breath, wait for it to pass and while you’re down there, try to learn something. Why was I in that part of the ocean? There were clearly signs that said: Rip tide! Undertow! Don’t swim! There are no lifeguards!” She’s on a roll. “Why was I there? Why was I trusting people I trusted? Why was I letting people into my life the way I was letting them in? What was I doing that caused this?”

After the incident with Minaj, her critics started pointing out a narrative of “white victimhood” in Swift’s career. Speaking slowly and carefully, she says she came to understand “a lot about how my privilege allowed me to not have to learn about white privilege. I didn’t know about it as a kid, and that is privilege itself, you know? And that’s something that I’m still trying to educate myself on every day. How can I see where people are coming from, and understand the pain that comes with the history of our world?”

She also accepts some responsibility for her overexposure, and for some of the tabloid drama. If she didn’t wish a friend happy birthday on Instagram, there would be reports about severed friendships, even if they had celebrated together. “Because we didn’t post about it, it didn’t happen – and I realised I had done that,” she says. “I created an expectation that everything in my life that happened, people would see.”

But she also says she couldn’t win. “I’m kinda used to being gaslit by now,” she drawls wearily. “And I think it happens to women so often that, as we get older and see how the world works, we’re able to see through what is gaslighting. So I’m able to look at 1989 and go – KITTIES!” She breaks off as an assistant walks in with Swift’s three beloved cats, stars of her Instagram feed, back from the vet before they fly to England this week. Benjamin, Olivia and Meredith haughtily circle our feet (they are scared of the koi) as Swift resumes her train of thought, back to the release of 1989 and the subsequent fallout. “Oh my God, they were mad at me for smiling a lot and quote-unquote acting fake. And then they were mad at me that I was upset and bitter and kicking back.” The rules kept changing.

***

Swift’s new album comes with printed excerpts from her diaries. On 29 August 2016, she wrote in her girlish, bubble writing: “This summer is the apocalypse.” As the incident with West and Kardashian unfolded, she was preparing for her court case against radio DJ David Mueller, who was fired in 2013 after Swift reported him for putting his hand up her dress at a meet-and–greet event. He sued her for defamation; she countersued for sexual assault.

“Having dealt with a few of them, narcissists basically subscribe to a belief system that they should be able to do and say whatever the hell they want, whenever the hell they want to,” Swift says now, talking at full pelt. “And if we – as anyone else in the world, but specifically women – react to that, well, we’re not allowed to. We’re not allowed to have a reaction to their actions.”

In summer 2016 she was in legal depositions, practising her testimony. “You’re supposed to be really polite to everyone,” she says. But by the time she got to court in August 2017, “something snapped, I think”. She laughs. Her testimony was sharp and uncompromising. She refused to allow Mueller’s lawyers to blame her or her security guards; when asked if she could see the incident, Swift said no, because “my ass is in the back of my body”. It was a brilliant, rude defence.

“You’re supposed to behave yourself in court and say ‘rear end’,” she says with mock politesse. “The other lawyer was saying, ‘When did he touch your backside?’ And I was like, ‘ASS! Call it what it is!’” She claps between each word. But despite the acclaim for her testimony and eventual victory (she asked for one symbolic dollar), she still felt belittled. It was two months prior to the beginning of the #MeToo movement. “Even this case was literally twisted so hard that people were calling it the ‘butt-grab case’. They were saying I sued him because there’s this narrative that I want to sue everyone. That was one of the reasons why the summer was the apocalypse.”

She never wanted the assault to be made public. Have there been other instances she has dealt with privately? “Actually, no,” she says soberly. “I’m really lucky that it hadn’t happened to me before. But that was one of the reasons it was so traumatising. I just didn’t know that could happen. It was really brazen, in front of seven people.” She has since had security cameras installed at every meet-and-greet she does, deliberately pointed at her lower half. “If something happens again, we can prove it with video footage from every angle,” she says.

The allegations about Harvey Weinstein came out soon after she won her case. The film producer had asked her to write a song for the romantic comedy One Chance, which earned her second Golden Globe nomination. Weinstein also got her a supporting role in the 2014 sci-fi movie The Giver, and attended the launch party for 1989. But she says they were never alone together.

“He’d call my management and be like, ‘Does she have a song for this film?’ And I’d be like, ‘Here it is,’” she says dispassionately. “And then I’d be at the Golden Globes. I absolutely never hung out. And I would get a vibe – I would never vouch for him. I believe women who come forward, I believe victims who come forward, I believe men who come forward.” Swift inhales, flustered. She says Weinstein never propositioned her. “If you listen to the stories, he picked people who were vulnerable, in his opinion. It seemed like it was a power thing. So, to me, that doesn’t say anything – that I wasn’t in that situation.”

Meanwhile, Donald Trump was more than nine months into his presidency, and still Swift had not taken a position. But the idea that a pop star could ever have impeded his path to the White House seemed increasingly naive. In hindsight, the demand that Swift speak up looks less about politics and more about her identity (white, rich, powerful) and a moralistic need for her to redeem herself – as if nobody else had ever acted on a vindictive instinct, or blundered publicly.

But she resisted what might have been an easy return to public favour. Although Reputation contained softer love songs, it was better known for its brittle, vengeful side (see This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things). She describes that side of the album now as a “bit of a persona”, and its hip-hop-influenced production as “a complete defence mechanism”. Personally, I thought she had never been more relatable, trashing the contract of pious relatability that traps young women in the public eye.

***

It was the assault trial, and watching the rights of LGBTQ friends be eroded, that finally politicised her, Swift says. “The things that happen to you in your life are what develop your political opinions. I was living in this Obama eight-year paradise of, you go, you cast your vote, the person you vote for wins, everyone’s happy!” she says. “This whole thing, the last three, four years, it completely blindsided a lot of us, me included.”

She recently said she was “dismayed” when a friend pointed out that her position on gay rights wasn’t obvious (what if she had a gay son, he asked), hence this summer’s course correction with the single You Need To Calm Down (“You’re comin’ at my friends like a missile/Why are you mad?/When you could be GLAAD?”). Didn’t she feel equally dismayed that her politics weren’t clear? “I did,” she insists, “and I hate to admit this, but I felt that I wasn’t educated enough on it. Because I hadn’t actively tried to learn about politics in a way that I felt was necessary for me, making statements that go out to hundreds of millions of people.”

She explains her inner conflict. “I come from country music. The number one thing they absolutely drill into you as a country artist, and you can ask any other country artist this, is ‘Don’t be like the Dixie Chicks!’” In 2003, the Texan country trio denounced the Iraq war, saying they were “ashamed” to share a home state with George W Bush. There was a boycott, and an event where a bulldozer crushed their CDs. “I watched country music snuff that candle out. The most amazing group we had, just because they talked about politics. And they were getting death threats. They were made such an example that basically every country artist that came after that, every label tells you, ‘Just do not get involved, no matter what.’

“And then, you know, if there was a time for me to get involved…” Swift pauses. “The worst part of the timing of what happened in 2016 was I felt completely voiceless. I just felt like, oh God, who would want me? Honestly.” She would otherwise have endorsed Hillary Clinton? “Of course,” she says sincerely. “I just felt completely, ugh, just useless. And maybe even like a hindrance.”

I suggest that, thinking selfishly, her coming out for Clinton might have made people like her. “I wasn’t thinking like that,” she stresses. “I was just trying to protect my mental health – not read the news very much, go cast my vote, tell people to vote. I just knew what I could handle and I knew what I couldn’t. I was literally about to break. For a while.” Did she seek therapy? “That stuff I just really wanna keep personal, if that’s OK,” she says.

She resists blaming anyone else for her political silence. Her emergence as a Democrat came after she left Big Machine, the label she signed to at 15. (They are now at loggerheads after label head Scott Borchetta sold the company, and the rights to Swift’s first six albums, to Kanye West’s manager, Scooter Braun.) Had Borchetta ever advised her against speaking out? She exhales. “It was just me and my life, and also doing a lot of self-reflection about how I did feel really remorseful for not saying anything. I wanted to try and help in any way that I could, the next time I got a chance. I didn’t help, I didn’t feel capable of it – and as soon as I can, I’m going to.”

Swift was once known for throwing extravagant 4 July parties at her Rhode Island mansion. The Instagram posts from these star-studded events – at which guests wore matching stars-and-stripes bikinis and onesies – probably supported a significant chunk of the celebrity news industry GDP. But in 2017, they stopped. “The horror!” wrote Cosmopolitan, citing “reasons that remain a mystery” for their disappearance. It wasn’t “squad” strife or the unavailability of matching cozzies that brought the parties to an end, but Swift’s disillusionment with her country, she says.

There is a smart song about this on the new album – the track that should have been the first single, instead of the cartoonish ME!. Miss Americana And The Heartbreak Prince is a forlorn, gothic ballad in the vein of Lana Del Rey that uses high-school imagery to dismantle American nationalism: “The whole school is rolling fake dice/You play stupid games/You win stupid prizes,” she sings with disdain. “Boys will be boys then/Where are the wise men?”

As an ambitious 11-year-old, she worked out that singing the national anthem at sports games was the quickest way to get in front of a large audience. When did she start feeling conflicted about what America stands for? She gives another emphatic ugh. “It was the fact that all the dirtiest tricks in the book were used and it worked,” she says. “The thing I can’t get over right now is gaslighting the American public into being like” – she adopts a sanctimonious tone – “‘If you hate the president, you hate America.’ We’re a democracy – at least, we’re supposed to be – where you’re allowed to disagree, dissent, debate.” She doesn’t use Trump’s name. “I really think that he thinks this is an autocracy.”

As we speak, Tennessee lawmakers are trying to impose a near-total ban on abortion. Swift has staunchly defended her “Tennessee values” in recent months. What’s her position? “I mean, obviously, I’m pro-choice, and I just can’t believe this is happening,” she says. She looks close to tears. “I can’t believe we’re here. It’s really shocking and awful. And I just wanna do everything I can for 2020. I wanna figure out exactly how I can help, what are the most effective ways to help. ’Cause this is just…” She sighs again. “This is not it.”

***

It is easy to forget that the point of all this is that a teenage Taylor Swiftwanted to write love songs. Nemeses and negativity are now so entrenched in her public persona that it’s hard to know how she can get back to that, though she seems to want to. At the end of Daylight, the new album’s dreamy final song, there’s a spoken-word section: “I want to be defined by the things that I love,” she says as the music fades. “Not the things that I hate, not the things I’m afraid of, the things that haunt me in the middle of the night.” As well as the songs written for Alwyn, there is one for her mother, who recently experienced a cancer relapse: “You make the best of a bad deal/I just pretend it isn’t real,” Swift sings, backed by the Dixie Chicks.

How does writing about her personal life work if she’s setting clearer boundaries? “It actually made me feel more free,” she says. “I’ve always had this habit of never really going into detail about exactly what situation inspired what thing, but even more so now.” This is only half true: in the past, Swift wasn’t shy of a level of detail that invited fans to figure out specific truths about her relationships. And when I tell her that Lover feels a more emotionally guarded album, she bristles. “I know the difference between making art and living your life like a reality star,” she says. “And then even if it’s hard for other people to grasp, my definition is really clear.”

Even so, Swift begins Lover by addressing an adversary, opening with a song called I Forgot That You Existed (“it isn’t love, it isn’t hate, it’s just indifference”), presumably aimed at Kanye West, a track that slightly defeats its premise by existing. But it sweeps aside old dramas to confront Swift’s real nemesis, herself. “I never grew up/It’s getting so old,” she laments on The Archer.

She has had to learn not to pre-empt disaster, nor to run from it. Her life has been defined by relationships, friendships and business relationships that started and ended very publicly (though she and Perry are friends again). At the same time, the rules around celebrity engagement have evolved beyond recognition in her 15 years of fame. Rather than trying to adapt to them, she’s now asking herself: “How do you learn to maintain? How do you learn not to have these phantom disasters in your head that you play out, and how do you stop yourself from sabotage – because the panic mechanism in your brain is telling you that something must go wrong.” For her, this is what growing up is. “You can’t just make cut-and-dry decisions in life. A lot of things are a negotiation and a grey area and a dance of how to figure it out.”

And so this time, Swift is sticking around. In December she will turn 30, marking the point after which more than half her life will have been lived in public. She’ll start her new decade with a stronger self-preservationist streak, and a looser grip (as well as a cameo in Cats). “You can’t micromanage life, it turns out,” she says, drily.

When Swift finally answered my question about the moment she would choose in the VH1 Behind The Music episode about herself, the one where her career turned, she said she hoped it wouldn’t focus on her “apocalypse” summer of 2016. “Maybe this is wishful thinking,” she said, “but I’d like to think it would be in a couple of years.” It’s funny to hear her hope that the worst is still to come while sitting in her fairytale living room, the cats pacing: a pragmatist at odds with her romantic monument to teenage dreams. But it sounds something like perspective.

#taylor swift #interview #by taylor #the guardian #lover era #lover album #not sure how I feel about the interviewer's approach...there's a lot of irony in it #but a fun read for us nonetheless

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latenightcinephile · 4 years ago

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#701, ‘Olympia’, dir. Leni Riefenstahl, 1938.

This is a very, very difficult film to write about. It’s tempting to write it off as simple propaganda, or to examine its failings as a documentary, and there are many people who have taken this approach to Olympia in the past. It’s often cited as the first film of an Olympic Games (although it isn’t), as a glorification of Hitler (more on that later), and as a dull repetition of sporting events (it most assuredly is not that, either).

The thing is, I quite admire Olympia, both as a documentary and as a piece of art. I think that Riefenstahl’s artistic prowess is often denigrated because she is perceived, rightly or wrongly, as the mouthpiece of the Nazi regime. But I’m inclined to agree with Taylor Downing’s argument that Olympia is not the result of a concerted propaganda effort. As Downing points out, if Riefenstahl had set out to make propaganda, a very different film would be the result. It’s hard to deny that Olympia is a colossal work of art, made in political circumstances that make it unsettling to admire. But I think admiration is the only appropriate response to the film.

(Most of my details come from Downing’s book on the film for the British Film Institute. If you’re interested in the processes involved in making Olympia, I highly recommend it. I’ll try not to steal too liberally from Downing’s ideas here.)

I’ll point out from the very start that just because Olympia wasn’t the result of a conscious attempt to propagandise, that doesn’t mean it isn’t propaganda by itself. Any film made under the rigours of the Nazi regime is going to reflect the values of that regime, both deliberately at the hands of various political actors and socially through the ideologies that Riefenstahl replicates uncritically. On a base level, the film shows no more footage of, or deference to, Adolf Hitler than any documentary about the Olympics would show to the leader of the host country. In fact, the film sets the record straight about some of Hitler’s rumoured excesses - he didn’t, as popular myth has it, use the opening ceremony to make a political or self-aggrandising speech, he just announced the games open, as was expected of him.

On a deeper level, though, the film is quite happy to ‘bread and circuses’ its way out of some of the worst types of propaganda. In Olympia, the 1936 Olympics are an opportunity to show a games unparalleled in history. These games, and the film about them, are only possible through the benevolent patronage of Hitler’s government. Riefenstahl was certainly talented at drawing further funds from the regime to make her films, and at dodging the restrictions imposed upon her by government factions that wanted her under their thumbs. But the people she made this film for were not stupid, and they were not blindly throwing money at her for no purpose. They knew the soft power a film like Olympia could have, and the kind of goodwill and mythology that it could foster.

Riefenstahl uses this kind of mythologising to represent the Berlin Games as the apotheosis of a long history. The first section of the film opens with the lighting of the Olympic flame, after some protracted and dignified shots of Greek ruins. Visiting the actual ceremony, Riefenstahl was somewhat distressed by the presence of the crowds ruining the profundity of the moment she had in mind. So she did what she would do frequently during the production of the film: she restaged it. The more grave footage she recorded for this event draws the lighting of the flame back into the depths of history, making the idea of a lineage from Berlin back to ancient Greece almost literal.

Riefenstahl has no qualms about restaging events throughout Olympia: she brings back the entire cast of the men’s pole vault finals to reshoot their contest the next day, and she films divers and marathon runners during training to get unusual angles and extra footage (in many of these shots, you can tell because the stands of the stadia are suddenly empty). At her request, the American athlete Glen Morris stayed several days after the games finished and helped her recreate events. Most directors these days would have some concern about using this type of footage - indeed, taking footage out of context is one of the main things we think of when considering the propaganda toolbox - but Riefenstahl was dedicated to creating a complete retelling of the Olympics and resorted to these measures when filming the original events was impossible. Beyond this she also wanted to create a film that was interesting on its own terms. Some of these restagings enabled her and her team of cinematographers to access viewpoints that would be impossible in actual competition, because the large cameras would actually impede the running of the events.

That said, there are some limits on what she was willing to do, and finding these limits tells us for sure that she was not interested in making direct propaganda at this point. Much has been made of Hitler’s refusal to congratulate Jesse Owens for his spectacular performances during the games, but Riefenstahl has no such compunctions. She’s fascinated with the movement of the athletes, the American champions especially, and doesn’t pay any less attention to Owens because of his race. (Side note: there’s a troubling undercurrent throughout Riefenstahl’s career of fetishising the black body, and it might be on display here. Either way, it’s interesting to note the love-hate relationships fascist regimes have with many different things.)

It’s also clear that Riefenstahl is enthusiastic about being able to tell an actual story, beyond simply relying on metaphor. Triumph of the Will is cinematically innovative, but it doesn’t have a story that she can draw on. The Olympic Games, however, have a set of narratives that Riefenstahl can refer back to: narratives of winning and losing, using a sporting contest as a representation of a wider cultural struggle, or the pastoral origins of ‘sport’. In this last regard, the openings of both halves of the film feature depictions of the classical ideal of sport: naked athletes performing aesthetically-pleasing activities in the open air, and a community spirit built around these activities.

Riefenstahl goes further, creating new narratives to activate otherwise boring events. Some of the running races, including Lovelock’s sub-four-minute mile and the British victory in the men’s relay, are shown in a single shot taken from the upper tiers of the stadium, letting the natural rhythms come forward. For the diving events, though, Riefenstahl abandons any sense of naturalism and breaks the events into components of an avant-garde mosaic, playing shots in reverse, cutting back and forth across the line of action so it appears divers are leaping towards each other, and filming so closely that there is no sense of where the ground is. Whatever Riefenstahl’s political leanings in making the film, she is clearly dedicated to making each element of the film as interesting as it can be,

The technical aspects of this film are truly admirable. During the process of filming, Riefenstahl’s team developed entirely new techniques of filming, dug pits next to tracks to get good shots of athletes’ faces during competition, relied on five different sizes of camera, strapped small cameras to runners, and devised a camera that could film above and below water. They borrowed an airship from the Luftwaffe. The rushes were reviewed each day, totalling about two hundred cans of film every day of the games. In addition, with the exception of Hitler’s opening speech, every single piece of sound in the film was dubbed in post-production. As Downing points, out, this would be a mammoth task with modern technology, but in 1936, every ten-minute reel of film had to be mixed in real time, from start to finish, and then processed for a day before you could even tell what the result would be like. The engineers invented several entirely new sets of audio filters to reduce ambient sound, and did this during post-production. The entire final mix took two months of twelve-hour days to complete. It practically invented the genre of the sports documentary. If this had been done under any other circumstances, it would be hailed as the greatest production in history. Instead, its reputation collapsed under the weight of history. Nobody wants to like a film made by the Nazis - no matter how innovative and interesting it is, it is permanently a smokescreen to put a happy face on an appalling and destructive regime.

I have been asked if a film like Olympia could be made today. I think the answer to that depends on whether you’re looking at the film as a sports documentary or a propaganda film. Pretty much every sports documentary since Olympia has used this toolbox, so in a very real sense, this film has been made today, many times, and has often claimed innovations that Olympia made as their own innovations. As far as propaganda goes, though, I don’t think you’d need to make this film. Olympia has a very subtle hand - its statements about the superiority of the Nazi regime are implicit rather than explicit. Contemporary regimes, though, have found that you can just say that kind of thing explicitly and it will often be accepted. I also think there are very few regimes that would bother to go to this kind of expense for a film.

Riefenstahl’s complicity with the Nazis has often been hotly debated, and I think the most likely explanation of her stance is this: she wanted to make films, and the Nazis wanted films made. That she was either unwilling or unable to deny their patronage, or that she actively embraced their beliefs, is perhaps the harshest truth. She was given the opportunity to be an innovative filmmaker. All she had to do was climb into the lion’s mouth, and her films would be remembered.

She climbed in. The lion made no promises about how or why she’d be memorable.

#1001 movies #leni riefenstahl #olympia #propaganda #long post

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cavalorn · 8 years ago

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Unearthing the Bones: digging into the myths of Alien: Covenant

WARNING: SPOILERY AS ALL HELL BELOW THE BREAK Hi. It’s me, the guy who did that Space Jesus blog about Prometheus on Livejournal that some of you read. I’m not using Livejournal at the moment for various reasons, so you can find my work here on tumblr for now.

So. It's been a while, but Alien: Covenant is finally here. I've now seen it. I’m banging out the first of a series of blogs while it’s still fresh in my head.

There's a sense of deja vu about this post. Is Alien: Covenant a flawed movie? Absolutely. Does it feature characters making stupid decisions? Emphatically. Will it frustrate the hell out of most people who go and see it? Probably. So far, so Prometheus.

Well then, smartass, is there a ton of stuff going on under the surface so that we can at least have fun digging it out and playing spot-the-reference? Predictably, yes there is.

The most jarring thing about Alien: Covenant is that it doesn't feel like a meaningful sequel to Prometheus. It follows on from it chronologically, but the theme and the important questions have been completely changed. Storywise, it's a jump from 'what is the ultimate origin of mankind' to 'what will befall this ship full of hapless colonists', and having Wayland openly speculate about where we all come from in the first five minutes does not equate to continuing that line of questioning. Referring back to it is not equivalent to picking it back up.

I'll hold my hand up here and say I thought we were going to get something very different from what we actually got. I expected Ancient Egypt and Biblical plagues, not yet another run through of the familiar land – make stupid decisions - get infected – die a lot – escape – fakeout ending – real ending cycle on yet another alien world. But I still enjoyed it.

To be fair, the nature of the followup to Prometheus has been changed several times, so we can hardly be blamed if we had different expectations. The original title of 'Prometheus 2' yielded to the provocative 'Alien: Paradise Lost' and thence to 'Alien: Covenant', leading many of us to wonder what story Ridley intended to tell. My honest opinion is that Ridley changed his mind during the production process. I think, for reasons that will become clear, that Giger's death may have had a bearing on this change of direction.

Alien: Covenant is, to use Ridley's words, about 'Who made [the alien] and why? No one ever asked that question.' To me it seems obvious that the moment you conceive of the Alien as a designed creature, as opposed to a being that is the product of some kind of natural order (however foreign to our earthly understanding that natural order may be) you inevitably invoke the spectre of Giger. It is not facetious to point out that we already know who made the alien, and why.

It was Giger. In the locked studio. With the box of bones.

Why? Because Ridley Scott wanted him to.

(Before expounding further, I want to acknowledge a debt of gratitude to the brilliant site http://alienexplorations.blogspot.co.uk which has kept an immense amount of valuable information available. Go and visit them, but make sure you have plenty of time on hand before you do, because the place will suck you in.)

There are several aspects of Alien: Covenant that don't make a lick of sense on the face of it. Why kill off Elizabeth Shaw, the heroine of Prometheus? Why do it offscreen? Why does David declare that he loved Shaw? And why is Shaw's eviscerated, mutated corpse still lying on a slab in David's workshop, many years after her death?

One way to read this is to see Alien: Covenant as a mythologising of the real-world creation of the Alien. Seen through that filter, a disturbing number of things come into focus.

I can't watch David talking to Walter in his secret workshop without thinking of Giger's own workshop, and what Ridley Scott said about it when he eulogised the late artist:

"I think back on how committed and passionate he was, and then consequently, all the security we built up around his 'lock up' studios at Shepperton. I was the only one allowed the honour of going in, and I absolutely enjoyed every hour I spent with him there."

Reading back on this, I was quite startled. Scott's assertion that Giger allowed nobody but him into his studio is contradicted by photographs from the time. They clearly show several members of the team visiting Giger in his various workspaces (he had several, for the different parts of the project he worked on). It's possible that Scott is referring to an earlier stage of the Alien's development, when only he and Giger were present. Or he could simply be misremembering, though that seems unlikely to me.

At any rate, the image of Giger welcoming Scott into his realm is an enticing one, and David welcoming Walter into his surely echoes it. But there are other, more sinister myths woven into the story of the Alien's creation, and at least one macabre aspect of it that is wholly true.

Giger's time at Shepperton Studios seems to have been a memorable tale in its own right, as far as the rest of the crew were concerned. One anecdote found its way into the Book of Alien:

'It was a very hot summer in London, and one day we were out on the lawn, having a picnic, and we all had our shirts off. Except Giger, who was still decked out in his leathers. And everybody tried to get him to take off that jacket, but he wouldn’t do it. You see, I don’t think he dares take off those clothes, because if he did you’d see that underneath he’s not human. He’s a character from an H.P.Lovecraft story.'

Again, Giger is remembered as the odd one out, the inhuman creator among the humans, just like David is in the film. It's only Walter, who serves as the analogue for Scott himself, who David sees as even having the potential to understand and embrace his vision.

It was not only Giger himself but his working space that had uncanny resonances. Giger's girlfriend at the time, Mia Bonzanigo, was with him at Shepperton and helped work on the Alien. However, Mia 'hated being on the set alone, saying she felt some kind of presence there' and 'thought she could hear voices or sounds and was creeped out remaining in the studio all the time' (Charles Lippincott). Appropriate, really, for the genesis of an iconic monster.

Giger liked to work with bones, and it often comes as a shock to fans of Alien to learn that the creature's head incorporated a real human skull. By the time the creature's look was finalised, the carapace had become much more opaque and the skull's shape can barely be discerned, but earlier iterations clearly show the eyesockets and the bridge of the nose. The skull was imported from India, and its condition was so good that Dan O'Bannon was later to voice uneasy concerns about skeleton farms. From his commentary on Return of the Living Dead: 'Well, in fact, when i was working on Alien. HR Giger asked them to obtain some real skulls for him to work from, to build the alien, the full size alien. And they did, and they purchased them and they brought him skulls which were wrapped in plastic just like that and they were the most beautiful skulls I had ever seen, they were like works of art, I was struck by the perfection and the teeth were all perfect, and I was told that they were ordered from India, and then sold for medical purposes but the production had bought them for Giger to use, and he took a hacksaw and cut them into pieces and put them back together, and subsequently when i was working with Tobe Hooper, who was meant to direct this film himself, we were talking about this scene. Hooper was aware also that medical skeletons were purchased from India, and he said that the eeriest thing. Tobe did, he thinks that they have a skeleton farm in India. I thought about it a while, it was such a creepy idea that when i wrote the script, I put that in. The picture was released and a few months after the picture opened, i read a news item that the government of India had suddenly stopped the deportation of all skeletons for medical purposes, and ever since then it's very difficult for medical schools to get them. They use plastic skeletons and it may have been a coincidence or the film may have indeed come to their attention and they put a stop to it. I have a feeling, the creepy feeling that there was something very criminal going on in India. At what age does a person have an absolutely perfect skull and set of teeth? When they're young.'

Ridley Scott would certainly have been aware that Giger was using human remains to create his Alien. How he felt about it, we can only guess.

Although the account of Giger cutting up a real skull is true, there were other stories about the artist circulating at Shepperton that were completely mythical. When considering Alien: Covenant as a mythologised retelling of the Alien's actual creation, the most important story is that of Giger's deceased girlfriend, Li Tobler.

Accounts varied wildly even at the time, but it was believed that Giger's former girlfriend had committed suicide (that part was true) and that he had kept her skull, or her entire skeleton. Alan Dean Foster, the genius storyteller who wrote the novelization of Alien and several of the other movies, believed that Giger had 'the skeleton of a former mistress suspended from the rafters of his Switzerland home'. Sigourney Weaver recounted that '... you would hear these stories about how he has his wife’s skull or some sort of, kind of, you know morbid stuff in his house.' The source of these rumours seems to have been Mia Bonzanigo, who also claimed to feel a ghostly presence in Giger's studio.

It's important to note that these stories were completely untrue. Giger himself debunked them in 2009, adding the exquisite comment 'Shit, I'm not mad, you know.'

But a myth is a myth, and stories have a way of growing in the telling.

It seems inevitable that at some point along the way, the story 'Giger used a human skull to make the Alien' would fuse with 'Giger kept his lover's skull after her death' to become 'Giger incorporated his dead lover's remains into the Alien.' While I'm not aware of this composite version of events having been told at the time, I have seen it stated online: 'First day on the job of designing alien sets, Giger said to the production secretary, “I want bones.” After touring medical supply houses and slaughterhouses, a truck pulled up to deliver. There was an entire row of flawless human skulls, three fully preserved snake skeletons, and even a rhinoceros skull. Rumors spread on set that one set of bones belonged to his deceased fiancee, who had committed suicide.'

You're way ahead of me here, aren't you?

Let's finish the story, then.

In Alien: Covenant, it turns out that David has kept the late Dr Elizabeth Shaw's remains and used them to create his creature, his 'perfect organism'. Bearing in mind that Shaw appears to have died shortly after their arrival, her eviscerated body has been lying on that slab for something like ten years. He has preserved her. And this, of course, matches the myths that arose around Giger precisely.

More unnervingly still, David claims to have loved Shaw. So from David's twisted point of view, he has kept the remains of a lover, not just a convenient source of biological material. Again, this parallels the Giger legend.

And there's one detail that seems to me to confirm the parallels as conscious and deliberate. Some of Giger's most famous, recognisable portraits are of Li Tobler, the very woman whose remains he was believed to have preserved. Her face is shown embedded in a bivalve, symmetrical mass of biomechanical stuff, the cheekbones protruding through the skin.

This is, of course, the inspiration behind how Shaw's remains appear on screen. Like Giger's iconic image of Li, her bones have grown through her face. Numerous reviews have pointed out the parallel between Shaw's remains and Giger's portrait of Li, but the deeper parallels seem to have passed unnoticed.

There are other angles of analysis we can pursue when approaching Alien: Covenant, and I’ll be blogging about those presently, but I wanted to get this one out of the way first because it's closest to the surface. Ridley Scott does love his myths, and to me it seems very much as if he's chosen to retell a modern myth here – the myth of Giger the visionary artist, somewhat other than human, and how he built his dead lover's remains into a creature that would outlive him. Next time around we’ll talk about the Demiurge.

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mourningsickness · 7 years ago

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Claire Vaye Watkins’s ‘Gold Fame Citrus’

Claire Vaye Watkins’s debut novel, Gold Fame Citrus (Quercus, 2015), opens on an arid Laurel Canyon, whipped by unrelenting ‘crazy-making’ Santa Ana winds. A dry place that has birthed a host ‘countercultural’ figures – from Joni Mitchell and Jim Morrison to Marilyn Manson –, for nearly two decades “passing through” Laurel Canyon was a compulsory pitstop on the road towards superstardom. It has been mythologised in various cultural iterations – most famously Graham Nash’s ‘Our House’, written about then-lover Joni Mitchell, whose own (better) 1970 album Ladies of the Canyon also drew obvious inspiration from the neighbourhood [1].

More troublingly, the Canyon was also the setting for the brutal murder of silent film actor, Ramon Novarro on 30th October 1968. His killers, brothers Robert and Tommy ‘Scott’ Ferguson, then aged just 22 and 17 respectively, entered his home under the pretext of soliciting their sexual services, believing a vast sum of money to be hidden somewhere in the house. Novarro, a Mexican Catholic, had been one of MGM’s leading Latino stars during the 1920s and a romantic idol, having starred opposite Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo and Myrna Loy. His homosexuality remained a closely-kept secret throughout his career (Louis B. Mayer reportedly attempted to coerce him into a “lavender marriage”, which he refused), and was the cause of much internal struggle in an era when success was contingent on the presentation of normative sexuality. Then in his late 60s, Novarro had a history of arranging for prostitutes to visit his Canyon home for sex and companionship. The Fergusons obtained his number from a previous guest.

Over dinner, Novarro read the brothers’ palms; during their trial the pair proclaimed him to be a lousy fortune-teller. He was subjected to several hours of torture intended to extort the location of the money from him. Eventually, the pair left the house with 20 dollars retrieved from his bathrobe pocket, leaving Novarro to choke to death on his own blood [2]. These sinister events formed a counterpoint to the Manson Family murders of 1969, which took place roughly a year later, in Laurel Canyon’s northern counterpart – that “senseless-killing neighbourhood” Haight Ashbury [3]. Though the canyon’s entanglement with celebrity soured, it remains a popular residential location. Google informs me that, today, the area is still favoured by stars such as Moby and George Clooney. Both keep homes there.

I read Gold, Fame, Citrus not long after having read Joan Didion’s The White Album (Simon & Schuster, 1979) for the first time, which perhaps explains why I was suffering from a bout of “murder mind” [4]. One of its essays, ‘Holy Water’ takes as its focus the complex, sprawling networks of dams and aqueducts that keep Los Angeles county in water. In it, Didion (a Sacramento native) visits the Operations Control Center for the California State Water Project, one of numerous government agencies responsible for shifting the ‘trillion gallons’ of water that are pumped across the state each week. Here, she writes: ‘Some of us who live in arid parts of the world think about water with a reverence others might find excessive. The water I will draw tomorrow from my tap in Malibu is today crossing the Mojave Desert from the Colorado River, and I like to think about exactly where that water is. The water I will drink tonight in a restaurant in Hollywood is by now well down the Los Angeles Aqueduct from the Owens River, and I also like to think about exactly where that water is’ [5].

At the time of reading, I found this essay vaguely anticlimactic, following as it does the incendiary piece from which Didion’s book takes its title. As someone who lives in a damp English climate, her preoccupation with the bio-political regulation of water supply across the state of California felt alien to me. Coming from a place where water has always felt abundant, I couldn’t fathom the scale of these operations, nor could I place Didion’s strange anxiety. Despite the glut of climate fictions I’ve encountered, I found it hard to imagine what drought might actually look like. It felt implausible in London, a city where the gravest threat it had posed was the hosepipe ban of my childhood summers, or the ugly reservoir grazing the stretch of motorway on the way to my grandmother’s house. Reading Vaye Watkins’s climate dystopia – with its vision of a west coast drained even of groundwater – brought Didion’s essay, along with L.A,'s broader history of precarity, into stark focus.

Doubtless Watkins, herself raised in the Mojave Desert, has also read ‘Holy Water’. Drawing on the ‘Water Wars’ of the 1920s for her own novel’s casting of the near-future, she reveals a similar preoccupation with how California keeps itself liquid. The Water Wars began following the construction of a 233 mile aqueduct in 1913, which saw the Owens River forcibly diverted towards a reservoir in the San Fernando Valley [6]. Following the project’s completion, the aqueduct guzzled so much water that Owens Valley, known formerly as ‘The Switzerland of California’, was effectively transformed into a desert, stoking rebellion among local farmers and ranchers, who sabotaged part of the system in 1924, laying dynamite at the Alabama Gates [7]. This inheritance is made explicit in the book’s preface, which refers to the words spoken by pioneering engineer William Mulholland over his finished project: ‘There it is. Take it’.

Hollywood, for its own part, has already mined the Water Wars narrative. Roman Polanski’s 1974 noir classic Chinatown is loosely based on legal disputes that were still ongoing in 1970, following the LADWP’s construction of an aqueduct in Inyo County that stood in direct contravention of groundwater protections. Indeed, the film’s first victim, Hollis Mulwray, is purportedly based on Mulholland (if you listen closely, you may still be able to hear the producers riffing on those names). Ironically, the film is also tangentially connected to Watkins’s novel. Her father, Paul, was a member of Charlie Manson’s notorious ‘Family’, though he left shortly before the murder of Polanski’s pregnant wife Sharon Tate, later going on to testify in court.

When we first encounter Gold Fame Citrus’s two central protagonists, Luz and Ray, holed up in the former mansion of a Hollywood starlet, we are also encountering this history. Marginalised former residents of California – descended from the feckless grifters responsible for the ‘failed experiment’ of the state – are now known derogatorily as ‘Mojavs’ (GFC, 70). Signs on elementary schools read: ‘MOJAVS NOT WELCOME. NO WORK FOR MOJAVS. MOJAVS KEEP OUT’ (GFC, 23). Those who have chosen not to ‘evac’, remaining behind in Los Angeles, are plagued by a feeling of ‘sostalgia’, a term coined by Glenn Albrecht to describe the alienation and distress brought on by environmental change that lies outside inhabitants’ control [8]. The “good vibes” of LA have endured, if in mutated form. Venice Beach has become a hotspot for raves, but also for black-market trading – of blueberries, Ovaltine, all-cotton socks and other elusive commodities.

Luz and Ray’s days are for the most part consumed with trivial tasks that elide the quiet desperation of their circumstances. Even in this carnivalesque nightmare, traditional gender roles seem to prevail: Ray digs out the ‘shitting hole’ in their backyard; procures crates of stale ration cola; kills a prairie dog that winds up in the library; while Luz (a former model) naps and plays dress-up in the starlet’s abandoned closet. In an effort to shake up this mundanity, they attend a ‘raindance’ on Venice Beach where they encounter a small, pale-haired toddler whose ‘people’ radiate bad vibes. Between them, they make a snap decision to (benevolently) kidnap her, and return to the canyon. They call the ‘baby’ (infantilised because she remains curiously underdeveloped throughout) Ig, after one of the strange sounds she makes. Fearing retribution from Ig’s ‘people’ – a disparate band of punks, seemingly not including her parents – they head east on the advice of a former comrade, Lonnie, whose compound the couple have left on bad terms (Luz having fucked Lonnie, out of obliging boredom rather than actual desire).

When they run out of gas, somewhere on a desert trail flanked by jagged salt-rock formations, Ray heads out to find help. Uttering the haunting last words “I’ll be right back”, he leaves Luz and Ig on the backseat of the oven-like car (GFC, 102). Here, the novel – along with the couple – splits. We follow Luz into the Amargosa Sea (a sprawling, hostile ocean of sand ‘blown off the Central Valley and the Great Plains) and leave Ray for dead (later it emerges he has been holed up in a subterranean prison complex, somewhere in what was formerly New Mexico) (GFC, 72). Though the Amargosa is reportedly lifeless, ‘a dead swath’, it is the source of their salvation (GFC, 72). Their rescuers form part of a lone, nomadic community, a gaggle of lost souls who have dedicated themselves to the dune sea and to their “prophet” leader, Levi. ‘Descended from a long line of dowsers’, Levi is apparently able to glean water from sand, though his methods of extraction are later revealed to be deeply suspect (GFC, 72). The cultish sway of his charisma is, clearly, reminiscent of Manson. In this aspect, Watkins’s novel reminded me of Emma Cline’s wildly successful debut The Girls (Chatto & Windus, 2016), which rehashes many of the same tropes. Like Manson, Levi himself proves to be the worst kind of mirage – an abusive narcissist preying on the vulnerability and soft-mindedness of others.

The encroaching desert, we are repeatedly told, ‘curates’ its inhabitants. Luz, already born a figurehead, has been “chosen". In another life the adult Luz was ‘Baby Dunn’. A propaganda initiative cooked up by the Bureau of Conservation, she was adopted as a symbol at birth, her life and its milestones chronicled by public media. She retains a baby book, stuffed full of newspaper clippings: “Governor Signs HSB 4579; Every Swimming Pool in California to Be Drained Before Baby Dunn Is Old Enough to Take Swimming Lessons”; “Berkeley Hydrologists: Without Evacs Baby Dunn Will Die of Thirst by 24” (GFC, 11). As the ‘fame’ of its title would suggest, the novel is preoccupied with the cult of celebrity, itself a form of self-destructiveness often wilfully sought out. The hardback cover resembles a peach melba, metallic pinks and white leaking over a desert-yellow background, invoking the pastel palettes favoured by Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan in the early 2000s. (Tellingly, its lead endorsement is a quotation from Vanity Fair). Though Watkins depicts a canyon bereft of celebrity residents, this “trashy” aesthetic nonetheless gestures towards the car-crash lifestyle that often accompanies certain brands of live-fast-die-young fame.

Like the Laurel Canyon, the Amargosa also spits out new forms of life. If our own species has struggled to adjust, then animals in Watkins’s novel appear more amenable to life in the scorched world. Midway through the novel there is an interpolated bestiary, a compendium of the Dune Sea’s flora and fauna replete with illustrations: a bioluminescent bat, the Mojave ‘Ghost Crab’, a spiny land eel, a carnivorous turtle that has evolved to walk on long legs resembling stilts. The government have led the public to believe no life exists in this “wasteland” so that it can be “nuked” without qualm, Levi begs to differ. For Luz this revelation – that there are animals where they shouldn’t be – marks a source of hope. She carries the primer around with her, reading to Ig from it like a surreal bible – evidence of weird, wonderful life. Luz’s devotion recalls the novel’s opening and her unfulfilled ‘yearn[ing] for menagerie’:

Where were the wild things seeking refuge from the scorched hills? […] Instead: scorpions coming up through the drains, a pair of mummified frogs in the waterless fountain, a coyote carcass going wicker in the ravine. And sure, a scorpion had a certain wisdom, but she yearned for fauna more charismatic. “It’s thinking like that that got us into this,” Ray said, correct (GFC, 7).

Ray’s commentary is astute: few people would shed a tear at the prospect of a future without such a scuttling, ‘repellant’ creature as the scorpion. But the imagined loneliness of a world without them is palpable here. Notably, the book begins with a ‘little live thing’ bursting onto the scene – the wild prairie dog that Luz locks in the starlet’s library. Luz’s exhilaration during this episode intimates some room for optimism in the apocalypse. Perhaps a new vision of community, grounded in a quest to be ‘part’ of something outside oneself, or a broader desire for communion both across and within species. Yet, quickly, her excitement collapses into anxiety. Having welcomed the prairie dog, she begins to fear it might be rabid. Her willingness to have Ray dispatch with the animal suggests that Watkins’s characters are, in fact, less concerned with the conservation of ‘wild things’ than with safeguarding themselves [9].

Despite its commitment to a post-humanist landscape, Gold Fame Citrus seems ultimately to offer us a humanist vision of apocalypse. And while Watkins's book works beautifully as a novel of ideas, her characters often feel tediously out of step with their circumstances. The plot can feel faltering on occasion. As Emily St. John Mandel puts it in the New York Times: ‘The work suffers occasionally from a condition fairly common to apocalyptic novels, which might be described as the “now what?” problem’ [10]. So, too, does Watkins's prose which, though wonderful at times, is also overworked, or try-hard in places (can a dune, for example, really be ‘dreadful’ with moonlight?). These linguistic flourishes, as well as its formal playfulness, are perhaps part of its charm, adding to the broader disorientation of reading the world's end. While some of these digressions I found myself wanting to ‘get through’, others work to haunting effect. In one stand-alone section, the narrator describes a desert monument, constructed as a sinister hazard-warning for generations to come:

The Landscape of Thorns was erected atop Yucca Mountain to frighten our distant and curious descendants on a primal level. It is an assembly of multilingual stone message kiosks and concrete spikes jutting from the mountain, skewering the sky…. Our young people… made rubbings from the message kiosks there… The rubbings say, This place is not a place of honor. No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing of value is here. What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us (GFC, 220).

More terrifying still this is based on a real project, backed by the Trump administration [11] .The abject horror of such a prospect, however, is offset by the narcissism of protagonists who seem consistently absorbed with more pedestrian concerns. Critics have praised Watkins for the fact that her characters undergo no redemptive arc, that they end just as fucked up as at they were at the beginning. Certainly, she does not subscribe to a conformist restitution narrative; the end of the world is not a case for new beginnings here. In this sense, the novel marks a departure from the Roland Emmerich fantasy of the post-apocalyptic world “cleansed” and primed for rejuvenation, or the Spielberg disaster-logic of a bad patriarch becoming good [12]. Gratingly though, the same heteronormative, patriarchal dynamics one might expect of a less conceptually interesting text persist: the love triangle that dominates Book Two, alongside Luz’s guilt over her past sexual betrayal, make it feel almost soapy at times. She worries frequently too about her attractiveness, particularly her attractiveness to men – her 'fat Chicana ass', her thin top lip, her filthy hair. Perhaps it’s wishful thinking to hope that I would be hung up on loftier things in the apocalypse (certainly my browser history, with its tally of eBay visits and skincare vlogs, would suggest otherwise). But I’m unsure that bushy brows, or my boyfriend’s enjoyment of my emaciated breasts, is what would keep me awake at night in a future where my primary liquid intake consisted of bottles of expired cola.

In a 2016 interview with The Guardian, Watkins expressed her irritation with the ‘traditional’ genre of dystopian fiction, suggesting that all too often:

It’s just one note. It’s just: it’s dire. We’re plod, plod, plodding along, one foot in front of the other, and the ash is grey – and it’s just the same emotional key struck again and again and again. And I wondered: how come nobody’s ever having sex in the apocalypse? Or telling jokes? [13]

I’m all for having sex in the apocalypse. But surely sex in the apocalypse (and in a world where infertility is rife) ought to be darker, messier and decidedly queerer than this? Instead, the queerest it gets is when Luz submits to an unconvincing tantric partnership with two other women – something she does mostly unwillingly – in an effort to impress the gruff, messianic figure with whom she has fallen “in love”. [14] Perhaps I was expecting something closer to the monstrous, playful sexuality that abides in the work of Angela Carter or Leonora Carrington. At the very least, I hoped that abusive men (or, indeed, ‘benevolent’ men who infantilise women with terms of endearment like ‘baby girl’) might have become extinct. Instead, women still bear the scars of men’s desire – one character in particular, Dallas, does so visibly. Far from anarchic or carnivalesque, sex in Watkins’s apocalypse doesn’t look like all that much fun.

Perhaps one cause of the enduring “brokenness” of its characters, Gold Fame Citrus subscribes to a brand of narrative determinism that dooms us to repeat our mistakes, whether personal or ecological. This transpires most strongly in the novel’s sustained focus on motherhood, together with Ray and Luz's struggle to preserve the figure of the quasi-nuclear family. In this way, the novel appears to harbour a myth of reproductive futurism, wherein survivalism is actually about fighting for our children, not ourselves. [15] It takes the discovery of a child to break through the inertia of Laurel Canyon; notably, it is only once this dream has collapsed, itself becoming unsustainable, that the novel (along with Luz and Ray’s journey) can end. In turn, like Luz before her, Ig is co-opted by a new Manson-esque “family” as a PR object – destined to become the shining face of the campaign to save the Amargosa Sea. In a future plagued by sterility a child is, by its very nature, given over to symbolism. Perhaps this reproductive cliché is unavoidable in dystopian fiction. In his book Liquid Love, sociologist Zygmunt Bauman argues that in our anxious, unsettled times even children have become ‘objects of emotional consumption’, commodities over which we deliberate long and hard before deciding whether or not to ‘invest’ [16]. The act of family-making thus entails a kind of risk assessment; as it transpires, the cost of such attachment proves too great for Luz to bear.

Like love or desire, natural disaster exposes our ineluctable vulnerability to external forces, whether the material impacts nature, or the whims of other. This fact was showcased only recently. Just a few months ago in January 2018, wildfires raged across California’s forests, decimating over 281,900 acres and forcing some 230,000 to evacuate their homes. The chronic drought afflicting the state seems to indicate that, more likely than not, this will only become a broader pattern of events in the future. The fires have also been shown to have long-term negative health impacts particularly for pregnant women, children, the elderly and those of lower socioeconomic status – all of whom have a greater propensity towards asthma, and other respiratory diseases. For humans then, the dystopia Watkins envisions seems already on the cusp of unfolding. And yet, despite the dryness, the desert also teems with life. Ojai Valley, California, originally settled by the Chumash tribe, lies a couple of hours away from L.A. An uncommonly fertile region, wildflowers, olives, apricots, oranges, almonds, as well as “pixie” tangerines all thrive there [17]. Though touched by the fires, this April the valley will witness a rare botanical event: “fire followers”, a particular kind of seed that is activated by exposure to flames [18]. Where most plants can take years to grow after burning, these are germinated only ‘when stimulated by intense heat’: ‘“[Flowers like] cacomite and mariposa lily have co-evolved with fire for millions of years. They’re impossible to start from seed — you literally have to set it on fire, or put it in proximity to smoke, to activate the seed”’. [19] In this parched landscape, it may be the task of the nonhuman to flourish.

Footnotes

[1] See Lisa Cholodenko’s 2002 film, Laurel Canyon.

[2] Less well-known are the 1981 ‘Four on the Floor Murders’, in which three members and one associate of the “Wonderland Gang” drug-ring died a few doors down from the home of then-California Governor, Jerry Brown.

[3] Joan Didion, The White Album (New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009), p. 15.

[4] See Maggie Nelson, The Red Parts (London: Vintage, 2016).

[5] Didion, p. 59.

[6] See Wikipedia for a fascinating (and more thorough) exposition of these events: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/California_Water_Wars>

[7] A second diversion in 1941 re-routed water away from outlying farmlands and away from the Mono Lake, forcing its ecosystem (integral to sustaining the patterns of migratory birds) into a state of total depletion.

[8] Glenn Albrecht et. al, ‘Sostalgia: the distress caused by environmental change’, Australasian Psychiatry, 15 (2007), 95–98 (p. 95).

[9] Later, the trustworthiness of the bestiary and its “neo-fauna” are called into question by the fact of Levi's duplicity and psychosis. Though it is inferred that it was probably a fabrication, this remains unresolved at the novel's close.

[10] Emily St. John Mandel, ‘“Gold Fame Citrus”, by Claire Vaye Watkins’, New York Times, 2 October 2015 <https://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/04/books/review/gold-fame-citrus-by-claire-vaye-watkins.html> [Accessed 27 March 2018].

[11] For more on the Yucca Mountain revival see: <http://www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-stranded-nuclear-waste-20170702-htmlstory.html> and <https://knpr.org/knpr/2018-03/yucca-mountain-legislative-action-budget-request-expected-soon>

[12] See Slavoj Zizek, ‘The Family Myth of Ideology', in In Defence of Lost Causes (London: Verso, 2008), p. 55.

[13] Alex Clark, ‘Claire Vaye Watkins: "How come nobody’s ever having sex in the apocalypse?"’, The Guardian, 31 January 2016 <https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jan/31/claire-vaye-watkins-gold-fame-citrus> [Accessed 25 March 2018].

[14] Levi’s own interest in female pleasure is apparently so lacking that we are – in an offhand detail – he has never once performed oral sex during the length of his affair with Luz.

[15] See Lee Edelman, No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004).

[16] See Zygmunt Bauman, Liquid Love: On the Frailty of Human Bonds (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003).

[17] Alex Schechter, '"Fire followers" to bloom in California after deadly wildfires', 27 March 2018 <https://www.aol.com/article/weather/2018/03/27/fire-followers-to-bloom-in-california-after-deadly-wildfires/23396358/> [Accessed 5 April 2018].

[18] Schechter, '"Fire followers"'.

[19] Schechter, '"Fire followers"'.

Bibliography

Albrecht, Glenn et. al, ‘Sostalgia: the distress caused by environmental change’, Australasian Psychiatry, 15 (2007), 95–98.

Bauman, Zygmunt, Liquid Love: On the Frailty of Human Bonds (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003)

Clark, Alex, ‘Claire Vaye Watkins: "How come nobody’s ever having sex in the apocalypse?"’, The Guardian, 31 January 2016 <https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jan/31/claire-vaye-watkins-gold-fame-citrus>

Didion, Joan, The White Album (New York, NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2009).

Schechter, Alex, '"Fire followers" to bloom in California after deadly wildfires', 27 March 2018 <https://www.aol.com/article/weather/2018/03/27/fire-followers-to-bloom-in-california-after-deadly-wildfires/23396358/>.

St. John Mandel, Emily, ‘"Gold Fame Citrus", by Claire Vaye Watkins’, New York Times, 2 October 2015 <https://www.nytimes.com/2015/10/04/books/review/gold-fame-citrus-by-claire-vaye-watkins.html>.

Vaye Watkins, Claire, Gold Fame Citrus (London: Quercus, 2015).

Zizek, Slavoj, In Defence of Lost Causes (London: Verso, 2008).

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Come together! How rave returned to the cultural mix | Society

Before the May bank holiday in 1992, Castlemorton Common in the Malvern Hills was chiefly known only to walkers keen to hike through its 600 acres of unspoilt, unenclosed land. After that bank holiday, however, it became known as the site of Britain’s biggest-ever illegal rave.

Partygoers arrived in such numbers that Castlemorton featured on TV and in the newspapers – which brought more revellers. In the end, an estimated 20,000 people flocked to the site. By the Tuesday, it had induced moral panic in the Daily Mail: “A walk through the hippy encampment was like walking into a scene from the Mad Max movies. Zombie-like youngsters on drugs walked aimlessly through the mobile shanty town or danced to the pounding beat,” it reported. By 1994, the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act was passed, with the now infamous ruling against parties playing music “characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats”.

Twenty-five years after Castlemorton, rave is back in the pop culture mix. The aesthetic, culture and sound has trickled down to everything from the growth of the festival to the concept of chill-out, to your DayGlo wallet, clubbing scenes in Girls, a weekend in Ibiza and the Kirakira app’s sparkles. Most people might not be regularly indulging in four-day parties but, in 2017, rave’s cultural legacy extends far and wide.

Castlemorton 1992 … the Malvern Hills beauty spot became the site of Britain’s bigest illegal rave. Photograph: Murray Sanders/ANL/Rex/Shutterstock

“Artists see it as a halcyon age,” says Seb Wheeler, head of digital at dance and clubbing magazine Mixmag. “I’m 29 and acid house started in the late 80s, so that’s my whole lifetime of dance music to explore … There are dance music legends that you will hear from your older brother or your parents and you’re like: ‘I’m going to check that out,’ and head down a wormhole on YouTube or a specialised playlist on Spotify.” Wheeler points to Bicep, the dance music duo, as the act most influenced by the rave sound, which itself developed from acid house roots in Chicago. Since 2008, the duo’s Feel My Bicep blog has brought their favourite tracks from the genre to other fans. These fans will soon also be able to watch the story unfold: Irvine Welsh, the author of Trainspotting, is working on a TV series, Ibiza87, about the roots of the movement. Matthew Collin’s upcoming Rave On, meanwhile, is a follow-up to his acid house book Altered State, telling the story of how rave went from underground to ubiquity.

Fashion brands including Charles Jeffrey, Molly Goddard, Christopher Shannon and Comme des Garçons – more known for conceptual experimentation than clothes for the dance floor – have all brought rave to the catwalk. The latter’s menswear show was a highlight of the SS18 season, with young men dancing, coloured lights and clothes made of neon glittery fabric last seen on Camden Lock market stalls in the 90s. Meanwhile, Russian designer Gosha Rubchinskiy, currently fashion’s golden boy, staged his spring collection in St Petersburg’s first-ever rave venue. He also published a zine with 90s images of teenagers on the rave scene in Russia, at clubs such as Tunnel.

Elrow party, Glastonbury 2017. Photograph: Alicia Canter for the Guardian

For these designers, rave is inspiring as an authentic youth culture. Goddard says she was influenced to turn her SS17 show into a rave from watching videos of raves at Lewisham library and thinking about her own youth going out to “parties in Hackney Wick and posh clubs in Mayfair”. Shannon’s sportswear aesthetic is influenced by the Joe Bloggs and Naf Naf clothes he saw his older brothers wear going out dancing. “I can remember wearing an acid house T-shirt on a school trip and getting told off,” he says. “Even if I didn’t understand it, [rave] taught me about clothes’ ability to antagonise things.”

Artists are also exploring rave. Jeremy Deller uses rave’s smiley face repeatedly in his work, and his Bless This Acid House posters are almost as popular as the Strong and Stable My Arse versions in households prone to making arty liberal statements. As part of Frieze art fair in October, Jarvis Cocker staged his Dancefloor Meditations, a kind of lecture-meets-disco with lasers, 808s and total darkness.

Nav Haq, the curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art Antwerp, staged an exhibition on the impact of rave, Energy Flash, last year. He says the period is relevant now because it shows what we are lacking: rave is typically seen as the last genuine subculture. “It’s hard to see something emerging in the same way now. People talk about the digital realm but that’s difficult because it gets corporatised very quickly. Youth movements emerge through things that happen in the world – the riots in 1968, the recession in the late 80s and early 90s. We’re in a similar period of time, but we have not been able to create that movement somehow.”

Jeremy Deller’s Joy in People at the Hayward Gallery, London. Photograph: Linda Nylind for the Guardian

As with any subculture, rave has become mythologised. It is remembered as a scene where community was key and money was insignificant, but that was not the case for long. The popularity of ecstasy had repercussions beyond breaking down barriers on the dancefloor – it brought with it organised crime. By the 90s, drug dealers with baseball bats were found at rave mecca The Haçienda and rising security bills contributed to the club’s closure. Rave going mainstream spawned opportunists ready to cash in, too. Wheeler points to Tony Colston-Hayter, the Sunrise rave promoter – and later fraudster. “This is a weekend youth culture,” he told an interviewer at the time. “A city banker can shed his suit, put on his dungarees, dance all Saturday night away.” Parties such as his – that do not fit the narrative of rave as cultural disrupter – have their own legacy in clubs as business: see the phenomenon of Elrow, a party organiser from Barcelona that will host 132 events globally this year, reaching an audience of 1.7 million people. In a recent article, Resident Advisor called it “the world’s most popular clubbing brand”.

The Facebook page Humans of the Sesh was started in 2015 by two friends calling themselves Brown Sauce and Grand Feen. It is dedicated to detailing the bantz around the house party, the after party and impromptu bender, all under the umbrella of the “sesh”. Brown Sauce, though, is convinced his fun will never live up to what he sees calcified in grainy images of ravers. “There is a massive feeling that everyone went to a great party but we were too late,” he says. “Our idea of a good party – the huge speakers, the warehouse space – is based on the idea of a rave, even if you don’t know what a rave is. There’s a nostalgia to that era even if you weren’t around then.”

There are some trying to make their own versions on the free party scene, working against how corporate the mainstream nightlife scene has become by going back to the ideology of rave. Scum Tek, the collective that organised the “Scumoween” party in 2015 that ended in confrontation with the police, has members from the original scene, and an anti-establishment feel. A Vice documentary last year, Locked Off, told the story of various collectives that aim to put on illegal parties around the country in disused warehouses and squats, a cat-and-mouse game between organisers and the police. Footage shows teenagers dancing to a backdrop of lasers, jumpers tied around their naked torsos, dummies in the mouths – convincing facsimiles of the ones in the original rave pictures but for the balloons of Nitrous Oxide. “It’s not simply a bunch of guys with a bunch of speakers in a field,” says a partygoer at one point. “It’s bringing people together in a way that nothing else really does.”

The political backdrop of rave will feel familiar to the young people of today. It’s one of a less-than-stable Conservative prime minister (John Major then, now Theresa May) who reached power through a resignation; a crash in recent memory (1987 then, 2008 now); high levels of youth unemployment (800,000 18-to-24-year-olds in the early 90s, around 850,000 16-to-24-year-olds in 2016), and general unrest expressed through riots and demonstrations (the 1990 poll tax riots; the Brexit and Grenfell Tower protests). “People will always create music to escape when they’re skint and there’s a Tory government inflicting spending cuts,” says Wheeler. “It’s a form of rebellion.”

Clubbers at Raindance, 1991. Photograph: UniversalImagesGroup/UIG via Getty Images

Will Stronge is trying to fuse the anger of disenfranchised young people with the desire to dance. The theorist found himself in the spotlight in September when the concept of Acid Corbynism – coined by Jeremy Gilbert and fleshed out by Matt Phull and Stronge – went viral. While the Acid Corbynism event at the Labour Party conference looked closer to Peep Show’s Rainbow Rhythms than a Spiral Tribe rave, the theory is interesting. Taking acid house as one of its bases – a scene where the collective ruled and everyone was welcome on the dancefloor – Stronge and Phull argue that encouraging similar values now could upset the establishment in a joyful way. “The ecstatic moments on the dancefloor tie into what it is to be a person, a person [who is] part of a community,” Stronge says. “Dance music as a collective experience means it’s already political, but it’s whether or not you can maintain that political experience as part of a larger cultural project.”

Stronge, 27, who is off to a six hour Erol Alkan DJ gig after I speak to him, is far from nostalgic. In an article for Red Pepper magazine, he namechecks contemporary musicians including Jam City and the Circadian Rhythms record label as signs that something is happening. Circadian Rhythms even apparently pepper their radio show with shout-outs to Diane Abbott. Stronge believes a genuine subculture could emerge from this scene – one that could outsmart the corporate world’s tendency to jump on anything young people flock to. “This is a call to say, ‘Let’s find ways that youth culture can become counterculture.’ How do we not make the mistakes so our revolutions aren’t sold back to us?” he says. “At its core, dance culture is where we can have individual pleasure through collectivity.” Or, in the words of Jarvis Cocker at Dancefloor Meditations, “Having fun is the most profound form of protest there is.”

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