21st Century Problem: Choice Overload

In the third decade of the new millennium, we have an embarrassment of riches to choose from for our movie-viewing pleasure: many of us are hooked up with one or more streaming sites that literally have hundreds of thousands of movies and TV shows at our disposal.

There is more content than you will ever conceivably be able to or want to watch in your lifetime: popular movies, indie movies, comedies, dramas, horror, family-friendly, foreign, old, new–every genre you can think of. Even if you had all the time in the world, you could not make a significant dent to the ongoing list of content. It’s a buffet table that seems to grow longer and longer every time you go back for more.

This is unfathomable, when considering that up until about a decade and a half ago, we still had to resort to traipsing down to the local video store and selecting one or two new VHS tapes or DVD’s to satisfy our immediate entertainment needs.

Although that was a paltry setup by comparison, it was certainly less overwhelming than what we have today. While I feel no pressure to watch anything on the streaming sites now, ‘cause not only do they have an immense bounty–some of them are even free now, because of course it’s come to that–it’s that it results in another twenty-first century predicament: fear of missing out (FOMO). There’s a nagging part of me that can’t help wonder if I’m missing out on some random, amazing film that’s buried on a streaming site–maybe an old gem I’d been meaning to watch or a new film that could change my life–and if it’s free: why the hell am I not taking advantage of it? And since I was old enough to remember shelling bucks, gas fare, and physical energy just to select from a fraction of films I’m privy to now, I feel like I’m betraying my old self who would’ve been ecstatic for this privilege today!

It’s too much pressure, like having a free buffet every night. How much can I keep stuffing my face before I get sick of it all and crave something simple, small, and different instead?

I know everyone loves to claim that things were “better” when they were younger, but sometimes I do miss only having a couple of new VHS tapes to watch during the weekend. It made things easier: I could know when to start and stop watching movies, and carry on with my life afterwards. Now, there are no clear boundaries between when to start and stop watching movies. It’s a new skill I’ll have to develop with this new way of obtaining movies.

25th Anniversary: ‘Jagged Little Pill’ — A New Perspective

Like a lot of older Millennials, I can remember the first time I heard Alanis Morissette. I was in eighth grade, and her debut music video in the U.S., “You Oughta Know”, began making the rounds on TV. I didn’t think much of it, but her second single, “Hand in My Pocket”, arrived months later and I became hooked like the 33 million fans worldwide who’d buy her blockbuster album, “Jagged Little Pill”, in 1995 onwards.

It wasn’t just that I was a fan; she literally introduced me to music—and at that pivotal age, it was momentous. Like many teenagers, my musical taste would be crucial in informing my identity. Aided by Alanis’ music, I discovered the genre she was ostensibly part of—alternative rock—and I was in love.

I remained a fan of Alanis in the subsequent years, still fondly playing her first and second albums regularly, well into my thirties. A quarter of a century later, however, I unexpectedly found myself coming full circle to the minority of outliers whom I recalled initially rebuked the phenomenon of her music, perplexingly.

Something had shifted my sensibilities. Now the instrumentation, style, and concept of her music simply struck me as… inauthentic. They seemed preconceived, affected, and a little silly. It wasn’t that there wasn’t true talent involved; it’s that the music was less about art than it was about entertainment. On that level, yes: the music was certainly catchy—enough for me to listen repeatedly for decades. I would never tire of her music in some sense, but I began to realize: maybe she wasn’t such an authentic artist, but again: just an entertainer with a phenomenal gimmick.

These were the accusations from her critics, twenty-five years ago upon the release of “Jagged Little Pill”. They had baffled me then, in their reservations against a surely indelible and spectacular artist—but now I understood where they were coming from.

I remember hearing people flatly say her music was “whiny” and an outlet for complaining—rather than profound and cathartic, as millions of fans attested. Her most famous critics declared her hackneyed and contrived; I could hear it in the instrumentation now—often, it sounded more like an imitation of rock music than actual  rock music, if that makes sense. It was too slick and mannered for its own good. A sophisticated ear is a tall order for a fourteen year old; what was my excuse for the last twenty years? Maybe when I listened to her music between then and now, it was clouded by my own nostalgic attachment to it.

Morissette’s credibility was always suspect from the start: prior to “Jagged Little Pill”, she’d released two strictly dance-pop albums that were indicative of their time: the early 1990s. Her about-face with “Pill” as an alternative rock singer was suspiciously convenient, a few years later at the peak of the grunge phenomenon. That she collaborated with veteran music producer Glen Ballard—who was accomplished but best known for polished pop rather than rock music—only perpetuated doubts of Alanis’ “rock” status. Honestly, this theoretical calculation on her part wouldn’t have bugged me, except that she didn’t pull it off artistically after all.

It’s telling that Morissette never repeated her success with “Pill”—commercially or artistically, ever again. Not that an artist should replicate their style or subject repeatedly, but she never attained the same relevance even on a strictly esoteric or artistic level. Her follow-up album came the closest, but even now it suffers from a similar quality as its behemoth predecessor: inhabiting a dubious sonic limbo between art and entertainment. In fact, all of her subsequent albums shared this trait. That was no accident.

It’s no wonder that no matter how beloved and entrenched “Jagged Little Pill” is in popular culture, it rarely if ever landed on any of those contentious, retrospective “Best of” lists from presumably serious music critics. Those dissertations always lent themselves to debate, which is why their unanimous omission of this album is all the more telling: and rarely debated!

Don’t get me wrong—I still think Alanis Morissette’s music has merit, but her music is tantamount to a blockbuster movie: it may become a beloved fixture in popular culture, but it’s not necessarily the finest example of its medium. In many ways, it’s no less valuable for bearing this quality, and there’s no shame in liking it. I will always have a place in my heart for her brand of music, just like I do with other fun pop music, blockbuster films, or cheesy TV shows. They all serve a purpose. Twenty-five years later, I may have changed, but I can still laud this landmark album for its most consistent quality: a pivotal moment in pop culture—for me, and the millions of fans that made it one of the biggest albums of all time.

Fiona Apple: A Ranking of Her Albums

It feels like a milestone with Fiona Apple’s new album, Fetch the Bolt Cutters. Maybe because of the relief it spells for us in our unprecedented times of ambiguity during a global pandemic, or because it’s her fifth album—rounding out a full discography that officially spans four decades in this new year, or maybe every album feels like a milestone from the famously reclusive singer who has solidified a slow pace of artistic output with her last release, in 2012.

For all of these reasons, it feels warranted to geek out over Apple’s music—with that most irresistible and contentious of efforts: a list. With five albums under her belt now, Apple’s catalogue feels ripe for a ranking of this very discography. It’s all the more tempting because it’s no easy feat, considering how ingenious her music has consistently been these last four decades: how would you rank her albums from best to worst, or in her case: best to almost as best?

1. The Idler Wheel… Her 2012 release has been aptly described as “distilled” Fiona. It best showcases her artistic sensibility, style, and skill in top form. Although the piano was synonymous with her identity and music at the start of her career, and still is—The Idler Wheel… transcended instrumentation, literally: its pared down sonic landscape was a stark departure from Apple’s prior albums, but her lyrics and melodies were instantly recognizable—and an extension as well, showing her artistic growth. These assets were brought to the foreground, and were always Apple’s greatest strengths. Songs like “Anything We Want”, “Hot Knife” and “Every Single Night” were as rich and potent as any music with multitudes more instrumentation. It’s her most consistent record, without a single weak track. Apple was at her peak: the songs don’t aim to be catchy, but the melodies are indelible anyway. It’s the perfect balance of artistic and accessible.
2. When the Pawn… – Apple’s sophomore album was also an impressive balance of rich melodies and artistic innovation. In many respects, it’s her most satisfying album because it operates on all cylinders: it features beautiful production values, potent lyrics, and inventive sounds. It’s no wonder that this appears to be the fan favorite, from what I’ve read online—myself included. It draws from several influences and weaves it into a rich tapestry that can be sung along to, while also digested for its lyrical depth: classic rock, hip-hop, show tunes, and spare piano torch songs. “Paper Bag” remains one of her best songs for good reasons: it’s lyrically and melodically taut yet bursting with ripe instrumentation that includes a brass section. “I Know” is one of her loveliest songs—a quiet, infectious meditation on adoration and contentment. When the Pawn… is the complete package.
3. Fetch the Bolt Cutters – Undoubtedly her least pretty album, but perhaps because it’s the sequential last step in her artistic progression thus far: her most revealing, in a career that always prioritized revelation. Similar to her 2012 release, it moved even further from instrumentation and focused more on lyrics and themes. The result is a palpably cathartic album that marries deeply personal experiences with the primal impulse for release: pure art. What the melodies lack in accessibility, they make up in sheer urgency and authenticity—they’re like chants you made up in the schoolyard as you faced down bullies, or while you lounged quietly in the privacy of your home. They pulse with vitality. “Ladies”, “Heavy Balloon”, and “Relay” touch on themes like jealousy, betrayal, and mental health without being didactic or heavy-handed.
4. Tidal – Her most accessible album for its sheer sonic gloss, it features her most catchy songs like “Criminal”, “Sleep to Dream”, and “Shadowboxer”. The seemingly surface beauty of these songs is not a detriment to their accomplishments. They sound as vibrant and relevant today as they did a quarter of a century ago. This album is ranked lower than her others only because an artist like Fiona can only improve with age, and starting from 18 years old at that, as she was when this album was released in 1996. The lyrics are not as mature as her subsequent albums, naturally, but the melodies and gorgeous piano-laden instrumentations aid them in their appeal.
5. Extraordinary Machine – This was always my least favorite album, perhaps because it sounded less urgent and distinctive than the rest. There are a few classic gems that exemplify what I love most about Apple: “Parting Gift” is what she did best at the time: a girl with a piano singing about love askew; “Waltz: Better than Fine” is a throwback, reminiscent of her preceeding album’s foray into classic show tune influences. The rest of the album justified Apple’s talents, but there was a whimsical instrumentation and mood to this album that, though shouldn’t be synonymous with inferiority, was less appealing.

The View vs. The Talk

I love watching women gab. As sexist as it sounds, I’ll just say it: they’re good at it. I imagine it’s the equivalent of people tuning in to watch physically fit men play sports. Also, if I really want to fully commit to being politically incorrect: maybe it’s part of my DNA as a gay man to enjoy hearing women yak about everything from the profound to the frivolous. I can relate, and it’s fun.

Since the beginning of this decade, we’ve had two major choices to see the biggest and brightest women in pop culture do just this, on daytime T.V. in the U.S.

Venerated journalist Barbara Walters set the precedent in 1997 with a show called “The View”—featuring ‘different women with different points of views’ sitting around a table and discussing the day’s biggest headlines. They ruled the roost as the lone standard for such a concept, until 2010 when former child actress Sara Gilbert had the sterling idea to do an offshoot of the format (with the angle that it’d consist of a panel of “moms”—although its predecessor never played down the maternal status that most of its panelists could claim too). As a viewer though, I wasn’t discerning—it made sense because: in a nation as large and diverse as ours, one of the benefits is how we can expand on commodities… like talk shows. After all, there have been multiple late night talk shows for decades now, competing directly with one another and thriving in their own right regardless of the saturated market. When a new daytime talk show featuring a panel of half a dozen women talking about topics in the news with their “different points of views” popped up, we took it in stride.

Both “The View” and “The Talk” have succeeded with viewers and been nominated for the same daytime Emmy awards throughout the years, solidifying their place in the pop culture lexicon.

But is there a difference or a clearly superior one?

“The View” has the advantage of experience on its side: thirteen more years over its rival. With that plethora of time, it’s seen and done many things it can learn from. Infamously, placing two panelists who are diametrically at odds with one another in perspective is ratings gold: when outspoken liberal Rosie O’Donnell was recruited as the show’s mediator in 2006 during the contentious Bush/Iraq War years, fate was written on the wall—she would ultimately come to blows with then-outspoken conservative panelist Elisabeth Hasselback the following year. It was the best daytime drama that needed no script.

The show also has the undeniable class factor that only a highly respected figure in the journalism field like Barbara Walters can provide. Although “The View”’s reputation has ebbed and flowed as any long-running entity is prone to, its pedigree is still rooted in solid stock.

It’s not without its trials. The show has “jumped the shark” as much as a talk show can do, in the sense of creative/production malaise. Since the 2010s, there has been a highly visible turnaround in the show’s panelists—it’s hard to even keep up with who’s officially on the roster these days, like watching your favorite sitcom characters getting replaced by new actors or new characters that you just don’t care for. Many of the new recruits were blatantly regrettable as well (Candice Cameron Bure and Raven Simone dragged down the credibility of the show, imho! Thankfully, their tenures were scant). The show has even rehired previously retired or exited co-hosts such as longtime favorite Joy Behar, Sherri Shepherd and even Rosie O’Donnell herself (who ultimately only stayed for one season again in 2014, mirroring her infamously clipped first round).

“The Talk” also tinkered with its lineup initially after its debut season, which is to be expected of a fledgling show though. It found its footing with a consistent lineup afterwards, and has only had one panelist replacement since.

Another difference with “The Talk” is its less emphasis on formality. The show humors its audience and viewers by directly asking them questions after bringing up a headline—from a serious news story to celebrity gossip, mediator Julie Chen will offer a concluding missive to encourage monosyllabic responses, boos, hisses, or laughter from the live audience reminiscent of, well, a daytime talk show (a 1990s version moreso, though).

Since the show is filmed in Los Angeles, another distinction from its New York City predecessor, it also has a daily celebrity-themed guest correspondent who contributes a pop culture headline (adding to the inevitable pop culture news that permeate the show anyway), in a segment loosely dubbed “Today’s Top Talker”.

As one can guess, “The View” and its reputation skews more towards a serious, politically-themed show. Although its current longtime mediator Whoopi Goldberg is a veteran Hollywood actress, she is outspokenly political and even good-naturedly mocks the more frivolous pop culture news she’s required to broach regularly (read: reality show fodder).

Other panelists, regardless of how short their tenures have been in recent years, have frequently been renowned political pundits as well, something “The Talk” has steered from completely. Currently, Senator John McCain’s daughter Meghan McCain is the resident conservative Republican on “The View”.

“The View” has also expanded its most well-known segment, the roundtable discussion deemed “Hot Topics” from just a third of the show’s running time to half or more now, betting on the attention-grabbing headlines and the often heated exchanges between the ladies on the panel to sustain viewers.

Both shows have the requisite celebrity guest interview in the latter half of the show. Again, “The View”, naturally more political, regularly invites political figures such as former president Barack Obama and several political commentators. “The Talk” relies entirely on celebrity guests, occasionally some that are not even major draws. This is moot, since I only tune in to each show to watch the ladies yak amongst themselves in their roundtable segments.

Judging each show based on my proclivities, I do have a clear conclusion of which one succeeds most. “The View” tides me over, for the aforementioned reasons above—it has more legitimacy but is still able to delve into melodrama, camp, and frivolity. Although its high turnover rate is unnerving and dispiriting, it has enough mainstay power players to anchor it. As a child of the 1980s and 1990s, I have a bias for Whoopi Goldberg as a pop culture fixture. Comedian Joy Behar’s sassy Italian schtick hasn’t gotten old—or perhaps, twenty-one years later on the show, I’ve also grown attached to her presence. As for the rest of the current panelists, I feel neither strongly for or against them. Sara is the bright blonde who keeps things light or at least centered; Sunny adds more diversity and a touch of primness. Meghan obviously serves as an antidote to the clear liberal slant from the two veterans of the show, and for the most part I enjoy her dynamic. Not to paint her as an archetype, but I love a good “nemesis”, and Meghan is one by default, constantly having to defend her political party whenever President Trump drags it through the mud, which is often.

“The Talk” is sufficient enough, but my taste doesn’t quite extend to audience participation and an overabundance of pop culture fluff. And although they currently have the steadiest panel lineup longevity, I’m not especially fond of any of the panelists: mediator Julie Chen is too proper; Sara Gilbert is insightful but staid as well; Sharon is the venerable one who’s been around the block—but is a bit too mannered and biased in her outspokenness; newcomer Eve hasn’t proven her worth yet beyond tugging the median age of the group down more; and Sheryl Underwood plays up the sassy black woman trope a bit too much.

Each show brings something to the table, and it’s merely a matter of taste. To me, I primarily blur the edges that separate the shows. They’re like two sitcoms that have an overlap of similarities and differences, and I like them both for different and similar reasons.

Do the Oscars Matter Anymore?

It’s that time of year again: when people come together to talk about what some famous actresses wore—who wore it best—oh, and which film won Best Picture. Probably something artsy and serious. Sometimes it’s deserved—a film of true excellence and craftsmanship in writing, acting, and directing. But usually it’s just a film that you may or may not have seen. (I don’t know about you, but I’ve gotten to the point where I’ve decided all serious dramas will be relegated to DVD viewing—‘cause, you know: why do I need to see talking faces on a big screen?) Also, movie prices are astronomical, so—okay, I see it: I’m part of the cycle and why Hollywood is nickel and diming every potential film that passes through their gates in the hopes of production. No wonder they’re settling for the bottom line so often—a “sure” thing (read: sequel, prequel, or remake of something that did legitimate business once). But I digress.

Anyway, it’s the Oscars again. And of second most importance, it is 2017. I make a point of the year because frankly, I don’t believe the Oscars are nor have been the same for a long time now.

I often wonder what my younger doppelganger today would think of this Hollywood pastime now. What do young, budding (okay, and gay!) dreamers like me today think of this rapidly declining tradition of awarding the “Best” in Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences?

Cut to: me in the early 1990s. Maybe because things often look better in retrospect or I just didn’t know any better because I was a kid, but: the Oscars felt like they meant something back then. The five, count ‘em, just five nominated films for Best Picture (more on the topic of that category being expanded to ten nominations later) really felt like they earned that coveted spot. Each film that was nominated felt special, and it was usually a tight race that was more or less about merit and not just politicking by studios and adhering to social trends of the day.

Culturally, budding gay—I mean, budding dreamers of all stripes only had a few outlets to view their favorite stars back then: People magazine, and “Entertainment Tonight”. Which meant we were primed and hungry to see all these stars convene on one epic night—a smorgasbord of glamour, glitz, and at least to an idealistic kid like me back then: talent!

The Oscars have been cheekily dubbed “The Superbowl for Women”—in terms of annual cultural impact and significance. But unlike the actual Superbowl, the Oscars have been morphing and changing notably, and gradually eclipsed by other smaller Superbowls in the past two decades.

In the age of Twitter, TMZ, and the E! Channel, we can literally follow our favorite stars online 24/7 to see what they ate for breakfast or what color their kids’ poop is; spy on them as they exit an airport terminal via shaky video footage, or consume their daily lives in a craftily executed weekly reality TV show.

With these enlightening options that we’ve been blessed with through technical progress, the mystery of what it means to be rich and famous and talented has become rote and accessible in ways never before imaginable.

I have a feeling my teenage doppelganger today would view the Oscars the same way I viewed silent films or drive-in movie theaters when I was a teen in the 1990s.

Perhaps in response to this changing culture (read: poorer ratings for the telecast—undoubtedly due to the Academy’s penchant for nominating “serious” films that don’t do much business at the box office)—the category for Best Picture was expanded to include up to ten nominees, in 2009. The Academy claimed this was a throwback to the early years in the 1930s and ‘40s, where there were up to ten nominees per year—but many cynical observers assumed it was a blatant attempt to nab more viewers for the annual show. The quip “Are there even ten films worthy of being nominated every year?” hit the web quicker than you could say ‘Action!’. Incidentally, the Oscars suffered its lowest TV ratings ever the previous year, so read into the subsequent change however way you want.

As I alluded to earlier, I could relate to the criticism on the merit of today’s films—let alone their worthiness of being nominated for such an honor. In our current cinematic climate, I think the cap of five nominees is/should’ve been more relevant than ever—an elite prestige worth striving for, artistically.

Nearly a decade later, the expansion of nominees hasn’t made a mark on me as an Oscar viewer or a movie fan. If anything, it makes it harder for me to remember what films were nominated each year—but that could be more of a reflection on my waning interest for the show altogether.

In 2016, the Academy was confronted with yet another issue—this time one of moral. The lack of diverse nominees that year spurred a boycott by many African-American artists and viewers, who claimed a racial bias against them. Although I understood the greater issue of diversity, as a minority myself even I had reservations about the campaign. Was the Academy biased, or were there simply no quality films that year that starred African-Americans (or other ethnic groups)? If it was the latter, for instance—the issue wasn’t the Academy, but the movie industry itself.

Nonetheless, in true form, the Academy reacted swiftly with their image in mind—claiming they would add a significant amount of women and people of color to their voting bloc. The validity of this gesture aside, the consequence of this detrimental publicity also left a viewer like me wondering how sincere future nominations would be. As well intentioned as the campaign was to shed light on the Oscars’ lack of diversity, the fallout could be that they might overcompensate and recognize films (not people, mind you) of lesser merit to meet political correctness.

This shifting of objectives and influences only aided the rapidly declining relevance of the Oscars in my eyes. It was not about simply awarding the best films anymore—but a commercial and social experiment gone awry.

But this was nothing new overall: the Oscars have always been about more than just the merit of moviemaking, of course.

I turned eighteen when the world entered a new millennium in 2000, and the year “American Beauty” won against a highly publicized award campaign for its chief rival nominee that year, “The Cider House Rules”. Maybe because I’d technically became an adult and therefore achieved full enlightenment at last, but the fact that a movie studio launched a publicity campaign to swarm voters to choose their film was not lost on me. Apparently, voters don’t just go into hibernation and pick winners, then emerge back into the real world alive and rejuvenated by the purity of their choices.

The validity of their choices has often been debated for other reasons as well: awarding an actor or director for their current, less stellar work simply to acknowledge their greater body of work is another common longstanding ploy.

That being said, it’s safe to say that the curtain has finally gone down on my love affair with the Oscars. Honestly, the last few years I’ve been less and less drawn to the extravaganza. As late as 2013, I still recall having a few vestiges of excitement that I’d had in my youth—feeling like I was witnessing something greater than myself. But the past two years and on the eve of this year, it’s dawned on me now that the heyday of the show has long joined the past. It doesn’t detract from the merit of truly good movies, but that’s the thing: good movies and the Oscars are not the same thing, and they haven’t been for a long time.

So it’s that time of year again—when people come together to talk about what some famous actresses wore—and who wore it best. Oh, and which film won Best Picture. Exactly. That’s all it is.

 

 

La La Land: The Story of Us (Review)

They say there are no new stories to tell, and nothing new under the sun—that phrase itself is a cliché, see. Yet we still need these tales, for ineffable and primal reasons. Why? Well, it’s ineffable—so sometimes it’s beyond words.

“La La Land” is one of the most familiar stories in the modern canon: girl has a dream of stardom and pursues it in spite of demoralizing setbacks. On top of that, it’s a love story between a girl and a boy—and the boy also has the same dream, essentially. This sandwich of familiarity is enough to send any quasi-cynic running for shade—and I don’t mean for cover. But oddly, many of us are still on board with this setup; so much so, that this film has become the breakout hit of the year: Oscar bait and pop cultural force. And for good reason: for many, it’s simply our story.

The film opens with an inventive musical nod to one of the hallmarks of the city of stars: L.A. traffic. In a gridlock on a steep highway overpass, passengers do the most natural thing in a musical: break into song and dance—jumping on top of their vehicles, courting each other out of their cars, and dancing on the concrete lane with unmitigated reverie, proclaiming in the song’s title how it’s “Another Day of Sun”. For a person who’s lived in Los Angeles longer than I care to divulge, this scene blew straight passed my jaded antennae and bowled me over with its unabashed whimsy. Instead of scoffing at the absurdity of it all, I wanted to join in.

At the song’s end, we meet Mia, played by pixie-ish but quirky Emma Stone. Mia is an aspiring thespian who heeded her childhood calling to tinsel town to realize her dreams of becoming a star—but mostly to tell stories through her craft, like every bleeding-heart artist on Earth. Although Mia is certainly likable, the film is less about character than plot and ideals. Stone is competent as always, but you guessed it: does not add a new wrinkle to this careworn archetype. She does add another notch to her increasingly impressive repertoire, proving that Hollywood may not be so shallow after all: in one scene, after a humiliating audition, Mia zips through a hall of Stone-lookalikes that are also vying for the part. In the elevator, flanked by two of these clones, she is clearly the least statuesque and nubile.

This doesn’t stop her from catching the eye of another aspiring artist, Sebastian—a somewhat aging (by Hollywood standards—read: thirties) jazz pianist played by the still smoldering and chiseled Ryan Gosling. He has the slightly more original dream of the two by default: to simply open up a jazz club, which is a feat because it’s a jazz club and this is the twenty-first century.

In a subdued, if not entirely original setup, Mia is drawn into a nondescript nightclub by the chords of a pensive tune that she hears Sebastian playing inside. This melody becomes a smartly recurring musical motif throughout the film. It’s there that she spies Sebastian, but thankfully it’s not love at first sight for either party. They meet again shortly after through serendipity (he’s a keyboardist at a Hollywood party that she attends), and the inevitable develops between these two passionate artists—cue: excoriating debates on the merits of their crafts and the plausibility of their dreams to secure them, and—romantic love. They inspire each other and cheer each other on, unsurprisingly.

These scenes are padded by more musical numbers—less grandiose in overall production, but still charming and catchy—particularly the lovely, haunting theme of the film, “City of Stars”. These numbers also continue to pay winning tribute to more L.A. trademarks and locales like the Griffith Observatory, beach piers and the Watts Towers. The film does lose its musical momentum in the second half of its story, which will not go unnoticed by musical connoisseurs. For novices like me, it’s the best of both worlds: I enjoyed the songs far more than I’d expected from a traditional film musical, but I was just as happy to be saddled with plain plot and character in the interim, however uneven.

I won’t disclose too much of the remaining plot, because it’s no trouble guessing for a proverbial tale as this anyway: the story reaches its emotional apex when Mia can’t bear another humiliating failure, and hits the sore spot many viewers who bought into this story for personal reasons, fear most—pondering that she may not be destined for greatness after all.

Nonetheless, the ensuing conclusion is probably what you’d expect for both aspiring artists in a film like this. And with that, this is the reason why these familiar stories still work: we need to be reminded that things are possible. It’s not cliché; it’s human—which one came first? (Well, frankly the human—but one thing informs the other). Notably, the movie does handle the love story between Mia and Sebastian with less hackneyed results, and I will leave that utterly out of this review for the viewer to discover on their own.

“La La Land” is nothing new, but it’s a tale we’ll never grow tired of because (many of us) will always care about the things it cares about.

Pop Culture and Me: a Forbidden Love Affair

No one expects me to like pop culture. I believe two key factors play into this: my race, and my lack of style. I’m not going to change either one. Or the unyielding fact that I’ve always been quite enamored by pop culture.

Okay, my race I can’t change. But could I change my style so that it translates into a media-savvy hipster? Or at the very least, someone who looks like they watch TV?

How does that work? Should I wear “Walking Dead” t-shirts? Get a “Breaking Bad” Tattoo? Wear everything I see from Forever 21 to prove that I’m just like everyone else?

The funny thing about being misunderstood is that although we loathe it, we secretly enjoy it too—because it proves that there’s more to us than meets the eye.

I suppose there are some people out there who are happy being simple and straightforward—easily “read”, or as the kids call it these days: basic. See, I am hip enough to know that.

For the rest of us, we instinctively feel that that translates to being shallow, which is generally seen as a pejorative term unless you’re a reality star. Check. I know what constitutes a reality show star.

The truth is, I do play a role in my own conundrum too. It’s my lack of desire to assimilate on some levels that distances me from my peers, which fosters animosity and misunderstanding. But if I’m not interested in jumping on the latest bandwagon, that’s my right too. And being an individual does not preclude an awareness of what’s current in popular culture.

It’s not all bad either, to be fair. When I mentioned something about the Golden Globes one year (yes, I’m even an awards show junkie), a friend innocently remarked: “Wow, I thought you’d be—too cool to watch something like that.” Aww, ain’t that sweet? So maybe there is a contingent out there that isn’t attacking my character when assuming things about me. They’re simply deeming me to be more enlightened than I actually am, which is flattering—and less insulting.

But alas, I can succumb to frivolity as much as the next person. Who doesn’t enjoy the latest celebrity news? It’s like a large order of McDonald’s French fries: not good for you, but you’re not interested in being a saint. You’re allowed an indulgence once in a while. How utterly boring would it be if we only did things that were ethically “good” and enriching for us? If that were the case, there’d be no decent TV shows, movies, or music. We’d all be wearing white robes and chanting scriptures and talking about nothing more provocative than the weather.

So there you have it. The unremarkable reason why a person like me can enjoy the latest Adele album or the Oscars is just that: it’s human nature. Sometimes the simplest answer is the hardest one for people to see or accept. Apparently.

Celebrity News! By Way Of Me….

Jennifer Lawrence was seen getting a Sprite from a vending machine. Sources later revealed that she was was hoping for a Fanta.

Expectant mother Mila Kunis was spotted telling an unnamed bodyguard that she had a “craving”.

Bradley Cooper went to the restroom while dining out at Spago’s. He returned after two minutes, with no visible differences in appearance or demeanor.

Seth Rogan had a hardy meal at a pizza place. Sources wonder if he is Italian, or not on a diet.

Jennifer Aniston was smiling and radiant, while walking down an unnamed street in either New York City, or Malibu.

Taylor Swift cut a rose from a graveyard in Paris, France. Later, it was spotted lying on a cooler on the set of her latest music video. No traces of it were found after that.

Miley Cyrus was at a sex shop in Amsterdam. Wearing a striped leotard and smoking a joint, she went unnoticed by customers.

Kim Kardashian began to slip off her sunglasses, while stepping into a limousine in Beverly Hills.

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were spotted in a small village in Uzbekistan, speaking to a dignitary.

Selena Gomez was overheard talking on the phone, apparently with a close family member, inquiring about an aunt.

Andrew Garfield and girlfriend Emma Stone seem to have weathered a minor tiff: while walking together in Chelsea, Andrew pulled his hand out of hers—but they were seen holding hands again, after she walked through the door he was holding open for her.

Mark Wahlberg was seen grabbing a Fresca for Kate Moss, in a café in New York City. This sighting may have originally been reported in 1995.

Katy Perry is working on a new track called “SEXXX = Good”. It is also the title track of her upcoming album. Miley Cyrus is rumored to be collaborating.

Gwyneth Paltrow was in London, smiling and radiant, while looking at herself in the mirror of a ladies’ restroom.

Christian Bale ate a huge pastry before heading into a gym, where he didn’t emerge for three hours. Sources say he stopped at a grilled chicken place afterwards, and ordered half a chicken.

Sandra Bullock got off a plane after an unruly passenger was escorted off for making remarks—most likely terrorist threats. Bullock was wearing a black jacket and little makeup. Her son was not with her. The 51-year-old star first rose to prominence in the movie “Speed”. She was last seen in the movie “Gravity”, and rumored to star in a sequel to her comedy “The Heat”, with Melissa McCarthy. She has homes in Beverly Hills and New Orleans.

Justin Beiber ate a Twix Bar, two at a time. Sources say this is his “guilty pleasure”.

Charlie Sheen was spotted at the checkout lane in Whole Foods, with a bottle of chocolate syrup, vodka, butter, cherries, oysters, duct tape, matches, aspirin and a dozen eggs.

Katherine Heigl was seen walking on every major street in Beverly Hills. She was known for “Grey’s Anatomy”.

Jessica Simpson was seen with what was thought to be her new baby, but turned out to just be a chihuahua in a stroller.

Jennifer Lopez is dating her accountant. He is fourteen months her junior.

Will Smith had lunch with Tom Cruise. Later, he was frolicking on the beaches of Malibu with his wife, Jada. Afterwards, he was seen shaking hands with Arnold Schwarzenegger at a charity event. Then he had dinner with his two kids, Willow and Jaden at an exclusive restaurant in Brentwood. Afterward, they climbed aboard a jet and flew up to Santa Barbara.

Lindsay Lohan broke a heel off her shoe while walking down a street in Beverly Hills. She left the shoe in the middle of the sidewalk, for other pedestrians to ponder and walk around.

Johnny Depp was seen drinking some chardonnay in Paris. Then he walked alone alongside the river Seine, wearing a hat with a guitar slung over his shoulder.

Lea Michele was seen walking out of her brownstone apartment in Manhattan. She was wearing sunglasses and a hoody. Sources say she looked solemn.

Drake was upset when a crosswalk turned red just as he was about to cross. He flipped off the sign, then started chatting on his cell phone.

Jimmy Fallon smirked and made a face, at the corner of 36^th and Broadway.

Adam Levine strutted out of a Saks Fifth Avenue store, unaware that he stepped in some dried dog feces.

Kanye West was wearing a fur coat and Christmas lights on his head, while leaving a charity event for music in the inner city.

Michelle Rodriguez looked angry while eating an ice cream cone in Venice Beach.

Zac Efron walked his dogs: a mini corgi and a maltese. Later, he was seen purchasing a teddy bear and a large lollipop at a shop in Beverly Hills.

Jay-Z bought some orange shoes at a mall in L.A. He said he’ll write a song about it.

Celine Dion was thought to be out walking alone in Manhattan, but sources saw her children ten feet behind her, preceded by half a dozen bodyguards.

Harrison Ford was seen walking out of a dining establishment in Beverly Hills. Paparazzi were shocked to see him.

Robin Thicke gave a waiter a hard time about a sandwich that wasn’t prepared to his liking, apparently. He fussed and hemmed and hawed for twenty minutes, sending the waiter back more than twice. When questioned by the paparazzi what was wrong, the waiter quipped: “I haven’t the faintest idea who this guy is. I know he’s not a rapper ‘cause he’s white, and I know he’s too old to be in One Direction.”

Rachel McAdams had chocolate covered strawberries and a strawberry drink, at a restaurant in Malibu. Later she pulled out her purse, and it had a kitten emblazoned on the front of it.

Drew Barrymore was seen walking down a street in Santa Monica, wearing a gauzy shirt, flip-flops, and a large canvas bag. She also had on a floppy hat. Her publicist says: “She’s such a free spirit.”

Martha Stewart was seen drinking from a water fountain, in Long Island. Bystanders were amused.

Robert Pattinson was seen at a premiere in London, Paris, New York, Los Angeles, Malibu, and Beverly Hills. He is promoting his latest movie, art-house film “Gulf of the Nadir”, a searing portrait of the 1890’s art scene.

Chris Brown was seen on three separate dates with three different women in the past week. Sources say he is either really charismatic, or women just never learn.

Paula Deen’s publicist had a panic attack, while attempting to vanquish the waves of retaliation for her previous racist remarks.

Beyonce slipped while walking down a street in Chelsea; she managed to pretend like she was just dancing, and pulled it off admirably.

Daniel Radcliffe was swarmed by a bunch of teenagers in New York, who were fans of his “Harry Potter” films. Later on, he was swarmed by a couple in their fifties. While at dinner, a cutthroat business-type man asked for his autograph, to give to his daughter. When asked by paparazzi if it bothers him to be constantly stopped for his “Harry Potter” fame, Daniel replied: “Bloody hell. It’s either this or being poor.”

Matt Lauer was splashed by a car that drove by, as he was walking down a sidewalk in Manhattan. When a bystander asked if he was okay, he replied: “Of course! I’m Matt Lauer!”

Nicole Kidman is set to star in a new movie: “Glenda of the Cresting Wave”, a historical drama about an agoraphobic lesbian who discovers her parents were the first scientists to create artificial insemination, in Yugoslavia.

Heidi Klum was at the Screen Actor’s Guild Awards, posing for photos, watching the show, and occasionally socializing with some actors.

Tiger Woods was having dinner with an unnamed woman, when paparazzi kept harassing them. They left and flew away on a jet.

Lady Gaga wore a dress made of real human bones, while attending the opening of a Manhattan library for under-privileged kids.

Megan Fox’s next movie will come to a DVD near your, or Netflix Streaming.

LeAnn Rimes was smiling and taking photos for paparazzi at the opening of Kobe Bryant’s new lifestyle products line in Hollywood. Rimes rose to prominence in the mid-1990s as a country singer.

Channing Tatum’s next film will be about a firefighter who has to bulk up in order to join the force. Gerhard Butler is in talks to play his hunky mentor.

Justin Timberlake’s working on a new single entitled “I. AM. METROSexual.”

Chaz Bono is writing a new book. It’s a mystery novel about a man’s cat and his dead mother. When pressed for its inspiration, Bono replied: “It has nothing to do with my life. Can’t I just do something that isn’t about my genitals?”

When pressed why she hasn’t made any records lately, Christina Aguilera replied: “What’s a record?”

Mel Gibson visited patients in a local hospital in Pennsylvania. When he spoke with an Amnesia patient, she exclaimed: “You are the epitome of the Perfect Man!”

Joan Rivers almost made a racist remark about an unnamed minority actor.

Venus Williams does not drive cars. People driver her in cars.

Kristen Stewart looked somber, as she stepped out of a limo and onto her private jet to a film festival somewhere in Europe.

The Rock ordered six eggs, three pieces of toast, and a side of kale, while having coffee in a café in Brentwood. “We don’t serve eggs after 1pm,” the waiter informed him.

Jared Leto was seen wearing a long purple jacket adorned with fake eggs made of yarn. He took off his orange hat to reveal his long black hair, with one strand braided. “Peace and love!!”, he proclaimed, while giving the peace sign with one hand.

Shia LeBouf peed behind a gas station. When asked if this was a flagrant publicity stunt, LeBouf replied: “I don’t have a bathroom anymore!”

Amy Adams was seen leaving an S & M club in New York City. She was nearly unrecognizable wearing skin tight black leather, thigh high boots, as well as several metal chains that caught the glow of streetlights.

Courtney Cox was spotted feeding killer whales in an exclusive beach in an exotic destination that is obscure and inaccessible to most people.

Reese Witherspoon is in talks to play a modern, independent woman in either a comedy or a drama.

Helen Mirren accidentally belched after a meal of cavier and escargo. Her publicist took over, paying the bill while she slipped out of the restaurant quietly.

Kelly Osbourne dyed her hair another color and got a new tattoo. When asked if she had any projects “in the works”, she hesitated, then said: “Oh, you never know…”

Nikki Minaj revealed that she’s actually a full-blooded middle-aged Czechoslovakian woman. It takes her five hours each day to put on makeup and hair to become an eccentric strong black woman.

Robert Downey Jr.’s dog was arrested for heroin possession.

Lance Bass is recording a solo album. It’s entitled: “From ‘Nsync… it’s Lance Bass!”

Sir Paul McCartney’s personal pilot recently retired. McCartney was sad to see him go, but was delighted to get a new one.

Steven Tyler revealed that his past drug use took a toll on him physically. Fans did not react surprised, on social media.

Ashton Kutcher is working on a new movie called “Don’t Hit On My Girl!” It’s a comedy, from the people who brought you “White Chicks.”

Nicolas Cage went unnoticed as a he walked down a sketchy street in Hollywood. He donned stubble and disheveled hair.

Melissa McCarthy was spotted at the Souplantation, in Torrance over the weekend.

Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner were seen playing in the park with what appeared to be over a dozen kids. Sources couldn’t decipher which one(s) were theirs, or remember how many they are purported to have.

Rosie O’Donnell was seen screaming and quoting the Constitution, on a street in New York City. It was later clarified that she was arguing with a street vendor about getting enough relish on her hot dog.

Emma Watson felt so bad for patrons in a run-down McDonald’s that she’d stepped into in lower Manhattan, that she paid the tab for everyone there.

James Franco is pursuing his next interest—being a Jamaican voodoo priest.

Tom Hanks was seen smiling and eating a donut, in Manhattan.

Pamela Anderson is in talks to play a new character on a TV show. Her character will be a doctor who is blond and sexy.

Paris Hilton is in talks to star in a new reality show, where she will choose a new BFF, or go shopping.

Ellen DeGeneres got some bad news: her third mansion was burglarized.

Ashton Kutcher had his medications switched and was accidentally on sleep meds for the past month. Sources say it did not affect his acting.

Leonardo DiCaprio is in talks to play Albert Einstein. He said the role will be “Very intense, gritty, and complex!”

Kevin Smith was seen shopping in Hollywood. His cart included twinkies, milk, Lucky Charms, Pez dispensers and Archie Comics.

Neil Patrick Harris was singing and dancing, and doing back flips—at a Whole Foods in Beverly Hills.

Rihanna wore a bikini encrusted with diamonds and silver. She took a limo to the grocery store, where her personal shopper went in for a few items for her, while she waited in the automobile.

Denise Richards is in talks to star in another reality show, called “It’s not THAT Complicated.”

Ryan Phillipe is in talks to star in a spinoff of the reality show “It’s Complicated”, about being a divorced star sharing custody of the kids with his ex.

Morgan Freeman will be narrating a new documentary about film narrators.