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Lauren Vs. Monica

From Gina Bellafante's NYT review of the new season of "The Hills":

"During its third season, which picks up again on Monday after a three-month hiatus, “The Hills,” set among young aspirants of the Hollywood Hills’ music and fashion industries, has continued to track the emotional warfare between former best friends Lauren and Heidi, while delving more deeply into the twistedness, gaslighting and superficiality of the boyfriends who ensure that the tortured rivals treat each other like Crips and Bloods. The show that looked, in all of its Antonioni-esque plotlessness and dreamy cinematography, at the ignominies of youthful friendship has turned toward the more conventional cruelties that good-looking playboys perpetrate on young women who wear low-rise pants and put on boots in warm weather."

The girls in "The Hills" certainly share a similar aimless searching to some of Antonioni's characters, and she's right about the dreamy, otherworldy photography and pace. What are the Hills girls looking for? Better boyfriends and hotter careers? Better clothes? More shoes? By contrast, there is an abiding sense of soul searching, a quest for meaning beyond what society offers, in "L'Aventurra" or "L'Eclisse". It's a insightful, depressing piece, nailing the soullessness of this "faux-improvised reality show", and by extension all of us who follow it or, in fact, write about it.

Dark Visions of Future make Present seem Better, Somehow

I’m a terrible Johnny come lately to the new Battlestar Galactica, but a friend just leant me seasons 1, 2 and 2.5 and I’m teetering on the edge of compulsion, drawing out my viewing sessions, careful not to OD on too many in one sitting, eke-ing out my stash in doses and making it last. Wicked timely at points in its imagining of politics, paranoia and military tribunals, the series is adult and intelligent, making all those grand, episodic shows on the four big networks look pretty dum-dum by comparison. In addition to some serious gravitas and great space-fu the show is populated by some very randy foxes, male, female and robot.

The female Cylon is hands down the nuclear epicenter of sexual heat on the show, but there’s plenty of interesting fin du monde-style sexual energy to keep things interesting. Much has been made over Jamie Bamber but I find him a little plucked tweezed and prissy-voiced, sounding like your waiter at Cafeteria. (When the clothes come off some masculinity comes through, though-it might be a self-consciouly stylized gym body, but it’s got legitimate meaty heft.)

Aaron Douglas’ Tyrol is that slightly stocky sensitive dreamboat, very otter. I’ll take the interestingly named Tahmoh Penikett as Helo, all tall and broad shouldered with vivid eyes that make you a little nervous and excited. And Grace Park’s smoldering Boomer gets to hit the skins with both of them. Good times at the end of the world.

In other sci-fi escapist news J.J. Abrams taking on the Star Trek franchise is promising, and the rumored casting of Matt Damon as James T. Kirk sounds right. Fox Searchlght has puched pushed Danny Boyle’s Sunshine back again, from summer to a December release, which is concerning. A new round of trailers describe more of an in-space thriller than one would have guessed at first. My feeling is: how bad can it be?

Moronic Inferno

With the culture’s fixation on blond stars who got lost in the world of fame, and the oncoming headlights of the Oscar 18 wheeler there’s a Romanesque spiritual decadence and mental lassitude afoot in the land, a feeding frenzy of distraction, high-life antics transformed into local gossip. Every person on the bikes and stairmasters at my gym is reading US Weekly, In Touch or People Magazine as they burn calories and tighten buns. That they use what are essentially really really good looking fitness models as inspiration for their workouts makes some sense; that they look to the opulence and frivolity of their lives for meaning is disaster. It’s the celebrity apocalypse. One almost feels that the moronic inferno is tempting fate; in just five years we’ve regressed to late 90s-grade collective fatuousness, and the nagging fear that haters of Western godlessness may soon fly a plane into a building is back. If such a thing had to be, I’d propose this little adjustment: try a dirgible (unmanned) for a visual flourish, and target the E! Tower on Wilshire in Los Angeles. Alright, I guess you could even evacuate the building. That would slow down the 24 hour celeb news cycle a little, right?

Far from the maddening mainstream, Harmony Korrine’s new movie sounds hella wacky and refreshingly un-In Touch. "Shot in the jungles of Panama, Scotland and Paris, Mr. Lonely is about a Michael Jackson impersonator, played by Diego Luna, who runs into a Marilyn Monroe impersonator (Samantha Morton). He winds up in a Scottish-based commune of impersonators, including Marilyn's husband Charlie Chaplin (Denis Lavant) and their daughter Shirley Temple, [as well as] the Queen of England (Anita Pallenberg), the Pope (James Fox)... and Abraham Lincoln (Richard Strange)."

Heteros like spontaneous, anonymous, non-repeat sex too. Only somehow they make it look sweet.

Friends

I recently hooked up my friend Darryl Stephens with my friends at Beautiful for an interview-the end result being that I felt very cool and I get to run this shot I took of Darryl. And I mean 'my friend' in an actual friend why, not an Oprah, “My friend, Jennifer Aniston!!" way. Also: Great kick-off A to the first Q:

Beautiful: Who is Darryl Stephens?'

Darryl: I have no fucking idea.

Is there a doctor in the house?

My main man Samo Gully (left) who, along with his co-hort Marty Maxtin features some of the choicest hip hop from the Dirty South to South Of The Border Tuedays at 11 online at WSLC just sent me this late breaking review:

The new Jay-Z, Kingdom Come, has been entirely leaked onto the net. Huge cast of producers, but by far the best tracks are coming from Dr. Dre. Maybe it has something to do with a compatible longevity but Hova is sounding so nice right now over Dre's clean and timeless production. "Minority Report" even starts with a helicopter news briefing eerily reminiscent of Snoop's "Murder Was The Case."

Still, it's "Lost Ones" that I find myself playing over and over. Hot 97 is doing the same thing but don't let that deter you. The track is undeniable. Jay gets heavy, nimbly rapping about fame, love, and death accompanied by a beautiful hook from Chrissette Michelle. All this over a mellow piano and drums, that sound so perfect for one reason. It's Still D-R-E. Holla at your boy!

Editor’s note: Stream it here.

Jackie Woodman Will Not Be Ignored

Since no one I’ve spoken to has managed to actually catch the new IFC show I’m trying to promote, The Minor Accomplishments of Jackie Woodman, I’ve discovered the third episode posted on YouTube in delightful little bite size segments; Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3. Ideally you would’ve seen the first episode to figure out what’s going on, but Jackie’s fucked-up, very absurd and very real L.A world is all here. Enjoy.

Bad, BAD Lee!

Stacy Schiff's article in The New Yorker about Wikipedia examines the site’s erratic reliability and the wonderful and flawed nature of group logic. The story's peppered throughout with an abundance of the kind of idiosyncratic details found within the mammoth information warehouse.  Ever heard of Capgras delusion? It’s the ‘unnerving sensation that an imposter is sitting in for a close relative’.

However, nothing really comes close to the exquisitely obscure detail and unabashed, anonymous obscenity of this passage from Wikipedia that my friend Justin sent me.

"Near the end of the [Six Million Dollar Man] series, Lee Majors experimented with changing Austin's look by growing a mustache. This proved unpopular and the idea was dropped, but not before a number of commercial tie-ins, including a comic book and a lunch box, had been produced with the new look. It was rumored that Majors would often roam the set and ask if anyone wanted to 'take a sniff of Farrah'."