The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com 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.