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Arts
Friday, April 3, 2015 — 5

FILM NOTEBOOK
Why ‘Vertigo’ is the 
best film of all time

Hichcock’s 

masterpiece is a 
complex vortex 
worth falling for

By CHLOE GILKE

Managing Arts Editor

When I tell people “Vertigo” is 

my favorite film, their immediate 
reaction is to look at me like I’m 
the world’s most pretentious ass-
hole. They are probably right. As 
a film major and general purveyor 
of taste, I favor movies that are 
sublimely written and directed, 
and “Vertigo” is about as complex 
and masterful as film can get. It’s 
objectively perfect in every way, 
every flower and green neon sign 
and mirror hanging on the wall 
imbued with endless meaning and 
psychological underpinnings.

But none of this is why “Verti-

go” is my favorite movie. “Vertigo” 
is mostly analyzed as a collection 
of discrete parts — little pieces like 
a word or an image or a single sym-
bol. These elements are fascinat-
ing, and the technicalities alone 
are enough to merit being called 
the Greatest Film of All Time, but 
it’s the black reality buried under 
all the layers of analysis that make 
“Vertigo” so transcendent. It’s 
about deadly relationships; within 
the overblown and lurid story of 
Scottie and Madeleine is a devas-
tating truism about what it means 
to fall in love. “Vertigo” is about a 
man who can’t fucking get over a 
woman he fell for who didn’t recip-
rocate, and that man’s endless, 
tragic chasing of a girl who might 
come close to filling her shoes. The 
film speaks to the universalities of 
heartbreak, painting a portrait of 
deceitful and one-sided love in a 
way no other film could or has.

Scottie Ferguson spies her from 

across the bar at a restaurant. Clad 
in royal green and standing against 
a passionate red background, she 
is the most beautiful woman he’s 
ever seen. She is stunning, and I do 
not blame him for chasing her. But 
what Scottie doesn’t know is that 
the stunning Madeleine Elster he 
falls for is a construction. Gavin 
Elster, an old college friend of 
Scottie’s, hired a woman to imper-
sonate his wife in order to distract 
Scottie, to be a beautiful diversion 
to cover up Gavin’s premeditated 
murder of his actual wife. Mad-
eleine appears to be a sad case: 
She’s acting strangely, and she may 
be in danger of harming herself, so 
Gavin sets his buddy Scottie on the 
quest to save her life.

Though Scottie maintains his 

distance for most of the first half 
of the movie, and Madeleine’s gen-
erally aloof attitude keeps any of 
Scottie’s advances at bay, he falls 
for her while he’s a few feet away. 
Scottie is a former cop, with his 
heroism dimmed after a vertigo-
related failure on the job. He lives 
in an apartment with his friend 
Midge, who has always been more 
like a mother or a therapist than a 
romantic partner. In short, Scot-
tie is down on his luck, what a 

film scholar might call “symboli-
cally castrated” but which I’ll call 
just “sad and pathetic.” Madeleine 
could be the redemption act he’s 
looking for. If anyone is more hope-
less than Scottie, it’s this woman: 
She stands in a graveyard, stares 
lifelessly at a painting and wan-
ders through the city without any 
lucid information as to where she’s 
going. She senses some strange 
connection between herself and 
a painting in the museum, a lady 
who died too young and whose 
hair and accessory choices are 
uncannily similar to Madeleine’s 
own. Madeleine needs Scotty, or 
at least pretends to. With a look of 
helplessness in her eyes, she seems 
to say, “I’m your depressive pixie 
dream girl, and you’re the only guy 
who’s man enough to save me.”

Scottie doesn’t save her. In a 

fit of passion, Madeleine throws 
herself off a tower and falls to her 
death, forever out of Scottie’s life 
before he could marry her, fix her 
or fuck her. Scottie falls into a deep 
depression, the kind that can only 
be possible for men who lose the 
woman they love. He goes through 
the motions: He talks to Midge, 
goes to the flower shop, waits 
around the streets for his ephem-
eron of a woman to appear and 
tell him she’s sorry and she loves 
him and she didn’t mean to hurt 
him so. But while he’s standing 
there in front of the flower shop, 
Scottie spots a woman who looks 
mysteriously like his beloved Mad-
eleine. Well, not really. Her hair is 
darker, her eyebrows filled in and 
lips rouged; she is a vulgar and less 
refined version of Madeleine. Scot-
tie doesn’t care. He’ll make of her 
what he wants.

The last third of the film, when 

Scottie decides to mold Judy into 
this fiction of a woman, is one of 
the most tragic stories I’ve seen 
on film. The horror is detailed 
from both perspectives. Scottie is 
blinded by his unrequited love for 
Madeleine, a love that was impos-
sible from the start because she 
was a fiction. Judy inexplicably 
pines for Scottie, having fallen for 
him while playing the part of Mad-
eleine in the first half of the movie. 
But she knows he’ll never take her 
the way she is, the whole appeal 
of Madeleine was her coldness, 
distance and impossibility. Her 
only hope of catching his attention 
again is to let him dye her hair, pick 
out her clothes and transform her 
into the woman he really loves.

It’s agonizing to watch, because 

the film shoves your face into 
the tragedy and makes you feel 
every sting of each new gray gar-
ment and plucked eyebrow. It’s so 
affecting because this situation is 
all too common. To some degree, 
in order to find common ground 
for a relationship, you have to 
play Judy. You have to erode 
your edges, become a blank slate 
so the other person can project 
the person they need upon your 
empty, eager visage. You allow 
yourself to occupy the space of 
another woman and let someone 
construct you into what he wants 
and needs — until he remembers 
that you’re not her, and never will 
be. The most brutal feeling in the 
world is knowing that your own 
looks, interests and hobbies will 
never be enough for the person 
you love. They’ll always be chas-
ing the ghost of that ideal person 
they could never have. All that’s 
left to do is be the cool girl and 
wait for the inevitable fall.

“Vertigo” is so brilliant because 

it realizes that this situation is 
fucked for every party involved. 
Scottie is a pawn in Gavin Elster’s 
plot to murder the real Madeleine, 
a silly fool who was sucked into 
Judy’s vortex of lies. He loses 
every drop of composure and 
power associated with being a cop, 
or even just a man. Judy plays the 
role of another woman twice over, 
first impersonating Madeleine and 
watching the man she grew to love 
fall for this falsified version of her-
self. After Madeleine’s death, Judy 
lets her hair out of its knot and 
takes off the disguise, but only for 
a moment — Scottie takes her over, 
dresses her up again and promises 
his love only for this flat sketch of 
a woman. “Vertigo” is probably at 
the top of all those Greatest Film 
polls because of its narrative and 
symbolic complexity, but for me, 
the real marker of a great film is 
that gut punch of truth it delivers. 
Nothing can top “Vertigo.”

I know. I’m pretentious as hell. 

But please, try to find me another 
movie that comments this viscer-
ally about the tragic trickery of 
mismatched love. Please find me 
another movie so rich in cinemat-
ographic style that I could write 
another 1,000 words on its use of 
color alone. Collect your recom-
mendations. Email them to me. I’ll 
be the judge of whether they live 
up to “Vertigo” ’s delicious inscru-
tability and challenge, though I 
predict nothing will ever reach the 
heights of my true love.

PARAMOUNT PICTURES

I’d like that profile picture.

Europe’s best dressed

STYLE NOTEBOOK

By MARIAM SHEIKH

Daily Arts Writer

I heard many different things 

before coming to Europe, spe-
cifically Italy. Watch out for 
the pickpocketers. Don’t talk 
to strangers. Be careful trav-
eling. Don’t walk around at 
night alone. So on and so forth. 
But perhaps the most repeated 
warning was to beware of Euro-
pean men. 

We’ve all heard the stereo-

types. They are in books, mov-
ies, songs, television, etc. I 
mean, I’ve seen the episode of 
“Full House” with Uncle Jesse’s 
(not so) distant relative Stavros 
from Greece. He was creepy. 
And OK, there are creepy Euro-
pean men lurking the streets 
catcalling and hissing (yup) 
at girls, but creepy people are 
everywhere. What’s not every-
where is men who look like they 

came straight out of a Gucci ad. 
You have to look at the glass 
half full and look at the posi-
tive, because the number of 
good-looking guys definitely 
outweighs the creeps.

Now I know some people 

antiquate “hipster” style with 
Goodwill and garage sales, but 
I associate it with an urban 
coffee-lover type of vibe, and so 
to me the European man is the 
original hipster. Before being 
hipster was even a term, before 
it got twisted into becoming an 
excuse to hate everyone, every-
thing mainstream and brand 
name soap.

Men here walk around with a 

certain vibe to them. They take 
care of their appearance but not 
in a vain or outrageous way, like 
an episode of “Jersey Shore.” 
They never look like they spent 
two hours perfecting their per-
fectly coiffed hair, but they prob-

ably did (how else can one attain 
that level of perfection?!). And 
their style is a unique expression 
of their character and personal-
ity. It’s also somewhat of a game. 
Young people our age in Italy 
are more than often still living 
with their parents, most of them 
won’t even move out and get jobs 
until their late 20s to early 30s. 
So the hot guy you see roaming 
the streets in his perfectly fitted 
suit with his perfectly coiffed 
hair, who basically looks like a 
million bucks, is probably home 
by 8:00 every night for his mam-
ma’s homemade pasta. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, 

there are still some guys around 
Europe who would never stand 
out in a crowd, speaking strictly 
in terms of fashion, of course. 
However, there’s just some-
thing about the European man 
that makes them far superior to 
any other.

ALBUM REVIEW
‘Jenny’ is damn good

By DANIEL SAFFRON

For The Daily

You know that spot on your 

knee that hurts when you push 
it? It’s not bruised or anything, 
but it hurts. 
You press on 
it anyway. You 
silently 
hope 

the pain’s not 
going be there 
on 
the 
next 

press, but it is 
and, somehow, 
you relish in 
the pain that you just wished 
wasn’t there. It’s not bad after 
all, the pain, but it’s noticeable. 
You begin to bargain with your-
self, once more, then you’re done, 
you tell yourself. You give it one 
last push, harder and more pain-
ful than all of the ones before. 
Of course you don’t stop push-
ing after the final push. Eventu-
ally you find yourself going from 
your spot-pushed knees to fetal 
position caught in a meta-exis-
tential crisis over why you can’t 
abide by evolution’s kindly-gift-
ed, longevity-producing aver-
sion to pain. This is Death Grips.

This March, Death Grips 

released the two disced, post-
humous album Powers That B, 
coming after their controversial 
disbandment-by-napkin-note in 
early July. Disc one, titled Nig-
gas on the Moon, was released 
for free download last summer 
and faced generally positive 
reviews. All of Niggas’s tracks 
feature vocal samples of Nor-
wegian musician Björk, an avid 
Death Grips fan. Her distinct 
voice loses its recognizability, 
but complements Death Grips’s 
experimental soundscape. Jenny 
Death, the second disc of Pow-
ers That B, is slightly longer 
than Niggas on the Moon, and 
definitely harnesses a differ-
ent energy. While Niggas on the 
Moon is heavily digital and rela-
tively calmed, to accommodate 
Björk’s vocals, Jenny Death is 
energetically voluminous and 
unexpectedly 
rock-influenced; 

Jenny is the stronger of the two. 
Death Grips’s rock-incorpora-
tive approach to this second disc 
proves to lend something inter-
esting to their sound. 

Jenny Death opens with previ-

ously released “I Break Mirrors 
With My Face In The United 
States.” A music video for “IBM-
WMYITUS” made its way to 
YouTube a couple days before the 
release of Jenny Death. The video, 
shot from the perspective of vari-
ous, instrument-mounted, fish-
eye cameras, fits the disorienting 
music well. The album starts in 
the expected Death Grips style: 
sledgehammer 
vocals, 
heavy 

handed drums and aggressive 
lawnmower synths. The implica-
tions of the track’s title are rather 
obvious, and repetitive lyrics 
intone the track’s theme. 

Moving on, “Inanimate Sen-

sation” begins with pitch-climb-
ing vocal samples that remind 

of the “Hustle Bones” intro. 
The vocal rhythms in the first 
verse are playfully sing-songy in 
the way a shotgun would sing a 
nursery rhyme and the inflamed 
synths throb along with a pulse. 
The song is full of pop culture 
references. In the last verse, MC 
Ride, the bands singer, referenc-
es Guns ‘n’ Roses frontmen, pos-
sibly relating Death Grip’s sound 
to “Axl Rose in a blender” and 
“Slash on Satan’s Fender,” fore-
shadowing rock ‘n’ roll themes 
that come to dominate the latter 
half of the disc. 

For a short while, “Turned 

Off” gives the listener time to 
cool off after “Inanimate Sen-
sation.” A tasteful, solo guitar 
opens the disc’s third track, 
but when the verse drops, Andy 
Morin 
(producer/keyboards) 

trades his lawnmower for a jet 
engine and Zach Hill (drums) 
whales on his crash cymbal. The 
aforementioned 
rock 
themes 

begin to surface in “Turned 
Off.” The first verse is perhaps 
the most interesting part of the 
song. It deviates away from rap’s 
overwhelming preference for 
a four four time signature and 
opts for a fatal six feel — a nice 
musical choice that intrigues the 
time signature savvy and also 
showcases the musicianship and 
versatility of the genre defying 
group. With a Yeezus-reminis-
cent vocal sample intro, “Why A 
Bitch Gotta Lie” picks up right 
where “Turned Off” ends. The 
two tracks seem to grapple with 
the similar musical ideas. 

“Pss Pss” and “Powers That 

B” backpedal along the Death 
Grips spectrum to find the 
familiar, 
vibrant, 
electronic 

wavelengths. Hill uses an elec-
tronic drumset in both tracks 
and Ride showcases the versa-
tility of his vocals, with a sinis-
ter, cynosural whisper during 
the chorus. The verses are rife 
with drug references; one verse 
poetically compares his lyrics to 
heroin: “These are my gold bars 
melted on spoons / My junk hits 
like martial law / You nod like 
true.” “Powers That B,” the title 
track, relates what appears to be 
a form of enlightenment that has 
come from Ride’s finding “the 
powers that b” — whatever they 
happened to “b.” The songs last 
verse blames the “bads” (mis-
fortunes) that come from crit-
ics’ expectations of the group 
and relates the “price tag” that 
comes with these so-called bads. 
Subtle compositional flourishes 
à la Andy Morin put the cherry 
atop of this Himalayan, sonic 
clusterfuck. 

“Beyond Alive” goes the wrong 

direction with the album’s new 
sound. A brow furling amalgam 
of sounds, “Beyond Alive” has 
vacuous System Of A Down style 
guitar riffs which clash with the 
track’s industrial components. 
Thankfully, track seven finds sal-
vation in the last 30 seconds’ brief 
electronic vignette. This break 
from chaos can even be described 

as beautiful — a Death Grip’s rar-
ity. Next, “Centuries Of Damn” 
does what “Beyond Alive” tries to 
do, but does it better. The guitar 
tracks in “Centuries Of Damn” 
provide a recurring melodic hook 
that sends the abused listener 
Blue Öyster Cult vibes and a 
much-needed melodic foothold.

“On GP” is far and away the 

strongest track on all of Powers 
That B. Like the group does on 
“Turned Off,” “On GP” makes 
use of time signatures uncom-
mon to rap. “On GP” (general 
principle) starts big with blar-
ing guitars, but eventually finds 
itself in many different places, 
all varying in energy. An inti-
mate ride cymbal and gloomy 
organ pads set the stage for the 
first verse, where Ride’s dark 
lyrics tell of a “nosy bitch” who 
notices Ride and wants to know 
what’s up with him. He tells 
her to “listen close,” because he 
just bought an “old black rope / 
Gonna learn how to tie it (and) 
hang (it) in (his) chamber.” The 
verse ends with the personifi-
cation of Death on Ride’s front 
porch, “itching to take (him).” 
Finally, Death hands Ride a 
weapon and “slurs, ‘use at your 
discretion, its been a pleasure, 
Stefan,’” referring to Ride by his 
given name. The verse is heart-
felt in a Death Grips kind of way; 
it’s about as touching as Death 
Grips 
gets. 
Considering 
the 

band’s recent decision to break 
up, these self-destructive words 
accrue some serious weight. The 
outro references the song’s title 
and continues to touch on Ride’s 
self-destructive tendencies: “All 
the nights I don’t die for you 
/ Wouldn’t believe how many 
nights I ain’t die for you on GP.” 
These provocative words sug-
gest that some general principle 
indoctrinated their break-up.

If Death Grips has been doing 

anything well lately, its been their 
incredible ability to piss people 
off. Their sudden disbandment, 
cancellation of future shows 
and no-show gigs have made the 
group pretty high on several peo-
ple’s shit lists. The final track’s 
title doesn’t help their cause, as 
it tempts us with a new version 
something we just lost. “Death 
Grips 2.0” is instrumental and 
jarring — a deviation from their 
usual industrial sound. Abandon-
ing all hip-hop influence, “Death 
Grips 2.0” sounds like something 
off Drukqs. 

Jenny Death is good. Damn 

good. While not likely to be their 
largest commercial success, it 
is innovative and conceptually 
dense. Jenny Death serves as 
something of a eulogy for the 
band, if the band does really stay 
broken up. The band will be tour-
ing this summer to promote the 
release of The Powers That B. 
All things considered, it is ques-
tionable as to whether or not 
The Powers That B will be Death 
Grips’s final album – I have 
strong doubts. If it is their last 
album, it’s a fine note to leave on.

A-
Jenny 
Death

Death Grips

Harvest

MUSIC NOTEBOOK
The timeless Sinatra

By CLAIRE WOOD

Daily Arts Writer

All girls dig a classy man.
It’s no lie. Bow ties, shiny 

shoes, fine wine and holding 
the door are the key to any girl’s 
heart. 

Frank Sinatra came into our 

world in 1915. Arguably Amer-
ica’s most romantic serenader, 
the chap is, indeed, the picture of 
“classy.” His look is a sharp one 
— suede coat and tie, all below a 
signature, charming grin. And 
let’s not forget the finishing 
touch: the hat. Guaranteed to 
melt the hearts of any sweetie 
in the mid 20th centrury, the 
Sinatra topper defines the man: 
handsome, sophisticated and 
indubitably audacious.

Despite this charm, modern 

pop stars reject Sinatra’s style, 
gripping the gazes of today’s 
teens with anything but class. 
Iggy Azalea beckons viewers in 
her music video “Fancy” with 
a precariously thigh-exposing 
mini-skirt and knee-high stock-
ings in a teasing schoolgirl 
seduction. Lil Wayne sports 

bright red short and full-body 
tattoos in his video for “A Milli.” 
“Burnin’ Up” features Jessie 
J, complete with golden talons 
and intentionally ripped sleeves, 
chewing a man’s ear between 
glossy purple lips — making 
everybody mildly uncomfort-
able. So, unless skimpy garb 
and chaotic hair have been 
recently proclaimed as sophis-
ticated wear, these stars are 
certainly evading even remote 
hints of intellect. Despite this, 
their fame is tremendous — fans 
across the world obsess over vid-
eos, play albums on repeat and 
flock to concerts. These guys are 
renowned, rocking looks that 
teens love. But will they last?

The song content of these 

recent artists begs the same 
question, as lyrics parallel the 
moderately trashy vibes of pop-
star dress. Today’s R&B and pop 
talk about a few core things — 
parties, sex, drugs and alcohol. 
Adam Levine recalls how “I get 
so high when I’m inside you,” as 
Miley Cyrus sings of “dancing 
with Molly,” and Flo Rida belts 
out his inflamed desires to take 

“a freak” home. It’s what teens 
want to talk about in this day 
and age.

Sinatra, however, rocks a dif-

ferent vibe. He sings of true, 
unadulterated romance rather 
than one-night lovers. “Lovely, 
don’t you ever change,” Sinatra 
sings out in the top hit, “Just the 
Way You Look Tonight.” “Fly 
Me to the Moon” (a personal 
favorite of mine — and everyone, 
let’s be real) captures listeners 
hearts with a smooth combina-
tion of vocals and jazzy instru-
mentals. It’s genuine passion, 
distant from the constant refer-
ences to curvaceous bodies and 
fickle fornication in today’s hits 
— and it never gets old.

Sinatra isn’t at the top of 

the charts. He’s not on the Top 
40, blasting from speakers or 
jammed out to by the collegiate 
body. This man beckons us with 
a different kind of allure, reject-
ing the hyper-sexualized, frat-
party, bass-drop heat of teenage 
pop and sporting a classic, 
romantic mood that’s everlast-
ing. This man is classic. Frank is 
still fresh.

