Notes on De Palma(y), DeMent, Del Rey, and Darmine Doggy Door
Americans everywhere took the De PalMay Challenge
I’ve been unsure of what to do with this thing, partly due to a motivation void, partly due to the links to this site being totally throttled on Twitter, where most people would find it. Also realizing I’d imposed some pressure on myself to make these posts like what I’d written professionally in the past (even if those might’ve included listicles like “7 comfort shows to stream when quarantine hits different”) instead of something a bit more unstructured and natural. So I’m trying one of those out for a change, in the vein of a list my friend over at Basically I’m Bored LLC can crank out so effortlessly about his likes and dislikes. Here’s what I’ve been into lately.
De PalMay
I really don’t remember how it began, beyond messaging my buddy Elliott something about Brian De Palma, mentioning the phrase “De PalMay,” and thereby deciding to (non-competitively) watch as many of his movies as we could in the coming month of May. (He still scorched me, something like 10-5, for those of you keeping score at home.) Most days I could count BDP as my favorite director, or at least the one I’m likeliest to passionately defend against charges of being a hacky Hitchcock cover artist — which I luckily don’t think is as necessary in cinephile circles as it was in any of the past few decades.
By this point, I’d basically seen most of his Major works, so we were left with some of the less celebrated, less perverted curiosities (but I wasn’t ready for Bonfire of the Vanities just yet). The incendiary, gutsy satire of Hi, Mom! (featuring an opening scene with the sort of anarchic slapstick seen in a show we’ll get to later, or Jackass) and the schmaltzy, big-hearted, PG-rated Mission to Mars (featuring a body’s limbs exploding in every direction). The most reverent early Hitchcock homage of Obsession before he decided to really get freaky with it (but still quite freaky) and a down-the-middle Vietnam War picture with a searing distrust for the armed forces’ repellant underbelly in Casualties of War. And then whatever I could make sense of from the recut Raising Cain, in its escalating camp and jaw-dropping refinements to the classic BDP set piece.
Throughout all these — if not quite supplanting his all-team run of erotic, paranoid thrillers in the ‘80s or Femme Fatale, which I might just prefer to them all — I gained an even deeper appreciation for a chameleonic filmmaker on paper who rarely abandons his signature hallmarks or underlying dedication to freak shit no matter who’s bankrolling the project.
De PalMay bonus content: John DeMarsico’s Twitter (director for SNY, the Mets’ network) for a look at how he directly takes inspiration from BDP’s split diopter shots during game broadcasts and all his other sick behind-the-scenes footage from the best production team in baseball, that happens to film one of the least inspiring teams in baseball.
Iris DeMent’s Workin’ on a World
The wildly talented country singer and songwriter Iris DeMent turned 62 this year and hadn’t made a proper new album in over a decade. I wasn’t rushing to check out her latest under these conditions, with its release in February mostly slipping past my radar — but that was deeply foolish.
You’ll first notice her voice is basically the same as it was 30 years ago on her breakthrough Infamous Angel, if with new contours and a more wizened warble. Workin’ on a World was supposedly cobbled together from songs written over the past six years — tough time for America, as you may recall — and it’s replete with earnest protest songs and spiritually searching ballads about aging and making art. The eight-minute “Goin’ Down to Sing in Texas” is a strong litmus test, with its simple arrangement and searing lyrics walking the tightrope between courageous and cringe. (It pretty resoundingly lands on the former for me, mileage may vary.) As she pays tribute to a laundry list of proper noun artist-activists and activist-activists on “Texas” and throughout the record — most stirringly on “Mahalia,” for Mahalia Jackson — she makes a compelling case for why she ought to carve out her own modest place right alongside them in history. I’m still sorting out if it’s the best NPR-core album I’ve heard so far this year or just the best album of any kind.
Lana Del Rey’s “Margaret”
Where to begin with Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd? It’s definitely a sensibly messy masterstroke — and would likely go so far as to call it my favorite thing she’s ever done. I don’t know, check back with me in a few months.
But of the many baffling creative choices and guests that shouldn’t hit so hard, we have her vocal collaboration with Jack Antonoff (credited as Bleachers) — about his nascent love with Margaret Qualley, of all things — that could be the unlikeliest peak. I don’t think I’ve heard a single Bleachers song in my life, but definitely will come out swinging as one of the staunchest Antonoff-as-producer defenders. He’s the first to be cudgeled by a too-online set of music fans for creative misfires by their favs — in a way that often infantilizes the female pop artists with whom he typically collaborates — while eluding credit when things really go right (like on much of this record, his stretch of Folklore, and too many others to mention).
Anyway, what a charming, lush, affecting song right here. Lana generously cedes ground throughout Ocean Blvd, but always makes sure the collaborators adapt to her cinematic world and don’t embarrass anyone. In a record that’s much about her own family history and mortality, this gesture to a friend — however rich and annoying — still comes with all her tossed-off wisdom, playful aphorisms, and of-the-moment process details. Music!
The first 2/3 of ITYSL season 3
Like a frontloaded album, I Think You Should Leave season 3 loses some steam down the stretch. But you have new classics in Zipline and Darmine Doggy Door in the first few highlight reel episodes. Last season didn’t fully beat the mid allegations, with uneven pacing and sketches that overstayed their welcome, but their mojo — or fixation on bizarre phraseology and names, cigars, old men, baldness, ponytails, and workplace transgressions — is (mostly) so back.
Kennywood’s Exterminator
I’ve waited 2.5 hours, spread over two visits, to go on this ride twice for 3.5 total minutes of time without a regret in the world. Basically you’re riding as a rat in a wild mouse-style coaster (getting exterminated and tossed around in the dark). This is one of the rare Kennywood rides, maybe due to the indoors-ness and the long lines, that truly feels like something out of Disney World or a marquee park. I think someone threw up on it and caused an extra 15-minute delay the second time we rode it, but I will never be deterred.
Succession finale
They did it, pantheon. Let’s not talk about the other HBO series that ended later that same night.
barry finale good, coward
69/69