For a certain kind of music nerd, the idea of the humorous rock song will always be blasphemy: rock is about rocking, fucking, liberation, etc. At least that’s how it used to be; I suspect that the contemporary equivalent of the embittered rockist for whom Iggy & The Stooges are the pinnacle of civilization is the person outraged that most rock critics these days come from indie-rock land, where raw power is low on the priorities list and ass-shaking is optional.
Typical comment-board shot from the massively contentious A.V. Club’s list of the Top 25 Albums: “Christ jesus: boring white people pick boring white people’s music. … I know that you feel safe with 90% of this music because it won’t expose that you can’t dance … but you are MISSING OUT on a wild world of awesome shit that’s going down right now. Please, get up off your SORRY FUCKING ASSES and go do something dirty or scary.” I’m bizarrely fascinated by these kind of aggrieved comments, which suggest the terrifying idea of rock without irony, where no one learned anything from Kurt Cobain’s suicide and where to truly understand music you have to be constantly living in a 16-year-old’s idea of decadent Bohemia.
I’d like to take all these people, sit them down with 1990s’ debut album Cookies and watch their heads explode. From super-excellent opener “You Made Me Like It” onwards, 1990s display a) a great ability to crank out “raw,” rocking riffs like ’90s Britpop is still depending on them to stay alive and b) an utter disdain for writing serious lyrics to go along with them. “You Made Me Like It” isn’t about getting drunk, going on tour, or any of the four other topics serious rockists can sing about: it’s about reluctantly accepting a music geek’s recommendation and growing into it. 1990s proceed to crank out the riffs, exploding them from the inside out with self-consciously stupid lyrics: the results are catchy and hilarious in a way I haven’t heard since two years ago, when Brakes’ most excellent Give Blood dropped. (Also a British band, by the way; why is it the closest thing America’s had to a funny, self-aware band capable of sly self-mockery since Pavement is, uh, Electric Six? It’s just not fair.)
Some of the songs are jangly-pretty without irony, like second track “See You At The Lights.” But everything goes better with self-mockery. Hence, “Cult Status,” which tackles head-on the barely-famous status of lead singer Jackie McKeown and bassist Jamie McMorrow. If those names sound familiar to you, you somehow got your hands on the music of their old band, The Yummy Fur, about whom basically all I know is that they’re insanely hard to find copies of and Bishop Allen likes them. But that, of course, is always enough to be someone’s favorite band: “My cult status keeps me alive,” yells McKeown some eight times in a row over a big dumb rock riff that goes pretty much nowhere before dropping out for the punchline: “My cult status keeps me fucking your wife!”
If you don’t think that’s funny, better not stick around for “Enjoying Myself,” which lays out the de rigeur routine for a hipster party with pitiless honesty: talk loud, take some drugs, disappear for an indefinite amount of time. Like a pedantic logician, McKeown speak-sings lyrics LCD Soundsystem would reject as too heavily sarcastic: “I like enjoying myself/I like enjoying you too/I like enjoying myself at parties/and so do you.” The conclusion? “We like enjoying ourselves!” But wait: “Now I’m here with my friends and we are taking some drugs/it’s so fun we shall be taking some more soon.” The uneasy context here (McKeown has a tangled drug history) means that, thank god, they’re not about to immortalize their excesses as some kind of Rimbaudian defiance of the status quo. Elsewhere, “Pollokshields” takes the time to diss an unquestioned hipster landmark by insisting “Chelsea Hotel/didn’t ring my bell.” It’s a tricky genre—anti-hipster rock for, you know, hipsters or the people who care about them—but irresistibly executed here. Frankly, if the Libertines had been smarter, they could’ve grown up to be these guys: riff sharp and production shined (by Bernard Butler, who non-coincidentally produced some key Libertines singles), they’re the first sign of life for traditional Brit-rock in years. Without the lyrics, they’d be enjoyable trad-rock; with them, they’re possibly alienating the people who might’ve gone for that in the first place.
Because, according to Nick Southall, “One cannot be a music journalist if one doesn’t have an opinion on the second Burial album”; because it landed at #10 on Pitchfork’s Top 50 Albums of the Year with the claim that “Untrue is for everyone” (and because Idolator promptly called their bluff: “Really? Everyone?”), and because it’s currently perched on top of Metacritic’s albums for the year, a few words seem to be in order. The law of averages gives us these weird burps sometimes, where albums in the electronic/death-metal/country/whatever realm—the fields of musical specialists, for whatever reason—end up being trumpeted as a great cross-over album for the mainstream. This is generally untrue, it seems like: it was untrue earlier this year, when The Field’s minimalist loops were trumpeted seemingly solely because indie kids could laugh at the Lionel Richie sample at the end, and it’s true now when I listen to an album that seems equal parts analog hiss, “Twin Peaks”-ian synths and distorted “ethereal” vocals.
I put “ethereal” in scare quotes because Untrue, above all else, seems like a record that’s trying too hard to be haunting. The general idea seems to be that Burial is all about encapsulating big-city late-night anomie; instead of insinuating this subtly, it’s right there in the song titles. “Archangel,” “Ghost Hardware,” “Shell of Light”: all promise some kind of transcendent mood music to cocoon yourself in, alienation made blissful. Other song titles—“Homeless,” “In McDonalds”—are grittier in premise but sound the same, meaning that OMG THE UGLY AND THE BEAUTIFUL ARE TWO SIDES OF THE SAME EMOTION. Whatever.
I’m not sure what music critics would do with this kind of music if there weren’t concrete visuals to tie it into; apparently listening to this is supposed to tell me what it feels like to be alone at night in a big city. Aside from the fact that I know already, I have to wonder if there isn’t some kind of synesthesia weirdness going on here, where people have watched Morvern Callar one too many times, mashed it up with Lost In Translation’s more heavily ambient moments, and concluded that that’s what modern anomie looks/feels like. There’s a whole nexus here of images and textural associations about big-city alienation in the ’00s: flashing lights, empty streets, ambient electronica. This is “cinematic” music in the sense that the images it conjures up seem to be ripped off from Sofia Coppola or something; otherwise, it wouldn’t sound like anything in particular to me. I might find this endearing or atmospheric if I heard it in the context of an anime apocalypse or something similar. As it is, all I hear is muffled vocals, lots of weird stray sounds (some sound like a deep-fryer in action to me, others like random metallic clanging), and plenty of interesting analog hiss, all of which can only take you so far. I dig “Archangel”—whose vocal hook is loud and clean, making it sound like some kind of lost house classic—and closing “Raver,” which pretty much lives up to its title. The rest is all kind of indistinguishable to me.
Randomly scrolling through iTunes, trying to decide which long-unheard 2007 album I should listen to for catch-up, I settled on The Brunettes’ Structure & Cosmetics because I recall having read that they’re cute chamber-pop. This is a lie: no strings, no poncy harpsichords. There is, however an awesome song called “Brunettes Against Bubblegum Youth” to kick things off that has refused to leave my head for the past 3 days. This song involves them yelling over and over again “B-A-B-Y I love to call you baby/My sugar, my honey/Don’t care if it sounds cliche” with the stress and metrical placement in all the wrong places to shoehorn it into the song, which involves a lot of pissed-off Phil Spector saxophones. It’s mindless and catchy and just the right side of annoying; unfortunately, a lot of this album goes the wrong way from thereon. I have no idea if New Zealanders Heather Mansfield and Jonathan Bree are a couple or just play one on the record; still, they make that unfortunate term “couple rock” come to life. “Stereo (Mono Mono)” would probably make the actual Spector shoot himself: separated from each other on the left and right channels, the couple eventually unites in well-mixed harmony, which is about as gimmicky and stupid as it sounds. It seems hard for the Brunettes to settle on a song without attaching some kind of self-deflating crap to it: “Obligatory Road Song” might be nice if it wasn’t called that; there’s an adorable moment when Mansfield tells Bree “I think that 40s gone to your head,” but its buried in all the gimmickiness. I need to stop downloading random albums based on lukewarm Pitchfork reviews that use buzzwords I like like “baroque pop,” which I thought was pretty specific but guess not. I’ll be spending the next few weeks playing frantic catch-up for the inevitable, way-overdue Top 10, which will be posted in a couple of weeks in order to be absolutely last in the relevance sweepstakes; The Brunettes totally aren’t helping my cause.
Reflections in a Quilt: John McPhee’s The Patch
There’s something uncommonly relaxing about many of McPhee’s patient elaborations of things known and unknown.
“But beyond the flaring headlines of the past year, few are aware of who Richard Burton really is, what he has done, and what he is throwing away by gulping down his past and then smashing the glass.” This is one of those quotes, which, through its sheer heft and style, threatens to turn any accompanying review into a redundancy. To find other lines that meet its towering standard, seek its source: The Patch by John McPhee. There’s no shortage of arresting remarks in this nicely heterogeneous collection of writing. One sinks into the book, riveted, but also races across it as its fascinations multiply.
The first section is called “The Sporting Scene.” Those typically uninterested in sports or sports writing, like myself, shouldn’t be deterred by the title. As I discovered through other recent encounters with McPhee’s ballyhooed writing, the author has a knack for inexorably moving readers beyond their biases. Two-part New Yorker articles like “Oranges,” “The Pine Barrens,” and “Basin and Range,” which were later turned into books, are studious and propulsive. Fine-grained matters of geology or citrus aren’t exactly simplified in these articles, but wading through the density becomes an irresistible prospect thanks to the author’s intelligibility, wit, enthusiasm, and atmospheric touches. For an example of the latter, consider McPhee’s focus on the “unnatural and all but unending silence” of the Floridian orange groves that he visited. What’s more, he often conveys a certain sense of respectful understanding, as when he mentions that he has “yet to meet anyone living in the Pine Barrens who has in any way indicated envy of people who live elsewhere.”
Similar virtues spruce up the “The Sporting Scene.” Its pieces include emphases on fishing, football, golf, and lacrosse. McPhee honors the athletic endeavor by carefully illuminating its particulars. He busily supplies facts, anecdotes, ideas, and biographical details. In “The Orange Trapper,” for instance, he discusses his hunt for errant golf balls. It’s an engaging topic. He has learned, among other things, what occurs when you take a saw to a golf ball. You find the world: “Core, mantle, crust—they are models of the very planet they are filling up at a rate worldwide approaching a billion a year.” Other jolts arrive through the often remarkable conclusions to his paragraphs and pieces. The ending of “The Orange Trapper” is an especial wonder—a thrilling mobilization of words that elicits laughter and awe.
There are also bears: “Direct Eye Contact” is a compact assortment of hopes and advisements concerning bears in New Jersey, and it concludes on a sweetly uxorious note. Indeed, one never knows where any of these pieces are going. In “Pioneer,” meanwhile, McPhee ponders Bill Tierney’s choice to begin coaching the University of Denver men’s lacrosse team. “How could he leave Princeton?” McPhee asks. “It can be done. And Tierney knew what he was doing.” Those lines showcase the occasionally pithy, pleasantly chiseled style of his prose. It’s a considered design that favors clarity, structures hairpin turns toward new discursive trails, and pairs well with punchlines. In “Phi Beta Football,” one of McPhee’s colleagues promises to deliver him “a nice piece of change” if he figures out a suitable title for his book. “I went away thinking,” McPhee tells us, and then adds, “mostly about the piece of change.”
The recounting of sporting events is likewise augmented by the author’s playfulness. “Pioneer” throws us this line: “But Syracuse exploded—one, two, three—and the game went into ‘sudden victory’ overtime, the politically uplifting form of sudden death.” So transporting and genial is McPhee’s writing that the specifics of any given match never weigh down the reading, nor do his more elaborate remarks. “It’s a Brueghelian scene against the North Sea,” he declares in “Linksland and Bottle,” his piece on the 2010 British Open, “with golfers everywhere across the canvas—putting here, driving there, chipping and blasting in syncopation.” What’s even better is his sensitivity, in the same paragraph, to the fine distinctions between the manner of Scottish and Californian galleries as they observe rounds of golf. Suddenly, his words become almost numinous, and no grace is lost.
The second section of The Patch is called “An Album Quilt” and it encompasses a dizzying mixture of short pieces. None are available in any of McPhee’s other books. In an introductory statement, the author compares these pieces to the dissimilar blocks of a quilt. He notes that he “didn’t aim to reprint the whole of anything”; he sought out “blocks to add to the quilt, and not without new touches, internal deletions, or changed tenses.” This section is quite distinct from “The Sporting Scene,” but no less extraordinary in its overall effect. A piece about Cary Grant starts things off. Boyhood encounters with Albert Einstein are up ahead.
There are more standouts than can be briefly mentioned here, including an evocative overview of the craftsmanship that McPhee discovered within the original Hershey’s Chocolate Factory. The author’s clipped expressions of wonder enliven that piece: “Gulfs of chocolate. Chocolate deeps. Mares’ tails on the deeps.” A little later, he mentions “granite millstones arranged in cascading tiers, from which flow falls of dark cordovan liquor.” One can imagine Don Draper reading through this with poignant interest. In another entry, a series of succinct blurbs about tennis luminaries, Rod Laver’s childhood is crisply set against his eventual stardom: “Had to wait his turn while his older brothers played. His turn would come.”
And so one just leaps from piece to piece, and, along the way, discovers scenes from different periods in McPhee’s life and career. An encounter with two New York City policemen—this likely occurred in the ‘60s or early ‘70s, given the “familiar green and black” on the cop car—is particularly memorable. It begins with the author’s recollection of locking his keys inside his car, which, he notes, had been parked “in a moted half-light that swiftly lost what little magic it had had, and turned to condensed gloom.” After that characteristically precise fusion of atmosphere and psychology, he describes scrounging around for wire so as to open the door. The sudden arrival of the policemen created a dilemma: Would they view McPhee, who had been wedging a coat hanger into the car, as a thief or the hapless owner? “The policemen got out of the patrol car,” McPhee tells us, “and one of them asked for the wire.” From there, the situation undulates a couple more times before concluding through a sparkling punchline that’s supplied by one of the officers. The story is over before you know it, but its brisk and detail-oriented pleasures are echoed throughout much of the book.
In the title piece, meanwhile, McPhee movingly writes about his father, but also about fishing a pickerel out of a patch of lily pads. Here and elsewhere, granular descriptions become byways into a range of enthusiasms, histories, and hearts. The author, of course, frequently registers himself through the infinitesimal details, and through the humor that he yokes to affection. “‘Fuck you, coach!’ Quote unquote” is a message that McPhee once emailed to Bill Tierney. Great warmth radiates below the mantle of those words.
This, among sundry other qualities, keeps one reading. There’s also something uncommonly relaxing about many of his patient elaborations of things known and unknown. And there is, both within the book’s individual pieces and across its varied totality, a sense of constant renewal and revelation. As McPhee notes down somewhere amid the blocks of his quilt, “I could suddenly see it, almost get into it—into another dimension of experience that I might otherwise have missed entirely.”
John McPhee’s The Patch is now available from Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
The 10 Most-Read Slant Articles of 2018
Our most-read articles of 2018 comprise pretty much everything we do best.
Like last year, it wasn’t the most highly praised or viciously excoriated film, album, or TV show that garnered the most attention among Slant readers in 2018. It was a so-called “average” star rating of a video game that led to our most-read—or, rather, looked at—article of the year. More predictably, lists proved to be increasingly popular, particularly among cinephiles. Aside from a few pieces that didn’t make the cut—like our career-spanning interview with Jodie Foster and our five-star review of Synapse Films’s Blu-ray restoration of the original Suspiria—this list comprises pretty much everything we do best. Alexa Camp
10. The 50 Greatest Horror Movies of the 21st Century
Into the new millennium, horror films have retained their power to shock and outrage by continuing to plumb our deepest primordial terrors, to incarnate our sickest, most socially unpalatable fantasies. They are, in what amounts to a particularly delicious irony, a “safe space” in which we can explore these otherwise unfathomable facets of our true selves, while yet consoling ourselves with the knowledge that “it’s only a movie.” Budd Wilkins
9. Album Review: Mariah Carey’s Caution
At a mere 10 tracks, Caution is Mariah’s leanest album in 25 years. With the exception of the formulaic “With You,” which sounds like an outtake from E=MC2, the R&B and adult contemporary-style ballads that launched (and re-launched) her career have been largely replaced here by textured, midtempo grooves. Caution feels like the album Mariah has wanted to make all along: one that throws caution to the wind and sees her embracing her inner weirdo. And, ironically, it took her ending up back at Sony Music to do it. Sal Cinquemani
8. Game Review: Far Cry 5
With this entry, the Far Cry series has suddenly decided to crib story ideas from real American nightmares: the Ammon Bundy standoff, Jonestown, the Heaven’s Gate cult, Waco, the Westboro Baptist Church. It indulges a certain level of ejaculatory N.R.A. fantasy about a day when the Second Amendment saves the world, when all those guns hoarded by frightened men, all those survivalist bunkers, all that cynical preparation for the collapse of society proves useful. A regular supply item in this game is called a Prepper Pack. Major secrets are hidden in bunkers filled with canned food and ammo. These little hat tips toward the gun-toting survivalist sect might’ve been worthy of an eye roll had the game come out, say, prior to 2016. But at this particular moment in American life, those tips of the hat feel downright sinister. Justin Clark
7. All 90 Best Picture Oscar Winners Ranked
It’s a rare type of cinephile who wasn’t introduced to the idea of film as more than just idle entertainment by the ritual of the Academy Awards. And it’s an even rarer type of cinephile who didn’t soon thereafter vehemently reject the Oscar as the ultimate barometer of a film’s artistic worth. Those of us who started off with The Godfather, Schindler’s List, All About Eve, or Casablanca all eventually got around to Out of Africa, Around the World in 80 Days, The Greatest Show on Earth, Cimarron, and Cavalcade. First loves being first loves, we still find ourselves regressing if for only one night a year, succumbing to the allure of instant canonization even as it comes in the form of repeated slap-in-the-face reminders of Oscar’s bracing wrongness: Gladiator, Braveheart, Chicago, Crash. In that sense, consider this project part cathartic exorcism and part sheepish capitulation to the role the Oscars have played in our lives. If we had to sit through every one of these movies, the least you can allow us is the chance to show you our scars. Eric Henderson
6. Film Review: Aquaman
The best point of comparison for Aquaman is Black Panther, another superhero movie about a king of a forgotten realm reclaiming his throne. But whereas Ryan Coogler’s surprisingly affecting superhero film restored weight to both the choreography and the drama of the genre, Aquaman remains adrift, so much fantasy flotsam and jetsam floating before our eyes. Pat Brown
5. The 100 Greatest Video Games of All Time
When compiling this list, my colleagues and I elected to consider more than historical context. Greatness, to the individual, isn’t just about impact on some nebulous past. It’s as much about feeling, about the way a video game can capture the imagination regardless of genre or release date or canonical status. The titles on this list come from every corner of the medium—represented for the precision of their control or the beauty of their visuals or the emotion of their story. We’ve chosen to cast a wide net, so as to best represent the individual passions incited by saving planets, stomping on goombas, or simply conversing with vivid characters. Steven Scaife
4. Film Review: Avengers: Infinity War
What is this, a crossover episode? After 18 films, the overlords at Marvel Studios have gathered almost all of their indentured servants, err, star-studded stable together into the ever-crashing, ever-booming, and ever-banging extravaganza Avengers: Infinity War. Whether you look at this whirling dervish and see a gleefully grandiose entertainment or a depressing exemplar of the culturally degraded present moment will depend on your investment—in all senses of that term—in Marvel’s carefully cultivated mythos. Keith Uhlich
3. TV Review: Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan
If Jack Ryan never gets around to offering its audience a definition of a swift transaction, that’s because all that matters to the series is that it’s a tool used by bad guys, whom only Jack Ryan can stop. Despite paying cursory service to humanizing its principal characters, Jack Ryan is mostly interested in a battle between broad notions of good and evil. It thrives on the tension of Jack’s chess match with bin Suleiman, reducing an entire nation’s efforts to combat terror to a personal beef between two archetypes. Michael Haigis
2. Every Pixar Movie Ranked from Worst to Best
If The Incredibles was essentially a superhero riff on male mid-life crisis, Incredibles 2 primarily concerns male anxiety about women taking over traditionally masculine roles. Brad Bird’s film also touches heavily on the uncertainty and doubt that many women feel about pursuing their dreams at the expense of spending time with their families. These are weighty topics to pursue in an animated action-comedy, and Bird, with a light tone and deft touch, manages to give them their due. This is a fleeter, funnier film than the original, and the director gets considerable comedic mileage out of Jack-Jack’s wild capriciousness, as evidenced by Incredibles 2‘s single most hilarious sequence, in which the baby uses its multifarious abilities—fire, lasers, multiplying, turning into a gremlin—to battle a feral raccoon just for the hell of it. On the occasion of the film’s release, join us in revisiting the Pixar canon, ranked from worst to best. Keith Watson
1. Game Review: Red Dead Redemption 2
For all of the significant improvements Red Dead Redemption 2 has made to an open-world template, however, it still maintains Rockstar’s bullish commitment to a clunky control scheme. Across what’s now four games and two console generations, the company’s characters have lumbered along in what’s meant to convey the weight of a real person in contrast to the light, effortless controls of so many other games. But the result is artificial rather than convincing. Studios like Naughty Dog have proven capable of giving characters a consequential sense of weight without making it a challenge to navigate around a table or requiring you to hold down buttons to move at acceptable speeds. Coupled with middling gunplay feedback and a few too many stealth segments, the chunky act of playing Red Dead Redemption 2 doesn’t feel good so much as it feels, eventually at least, tolerable. Scaife
Top 10 Radiohead Music Videos
To celebrate Radiohead’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, we take a look back at the group’s best and most innovative music videos.
Twenty-five years ago, the world was introduced to Radiohead by way of their debut single, “Creep.” Thom Yorke and company may have soured to their very first modern rock hit, but as we said in our list of the Best Singles of the 1990s, for which the song ranked at #37, “Creep” is rivaled only by “Every Breath You Take” as the ultimate kind-of-obsessive/kind-of-romantic crush anthem, with guitarist Jonny Greenwood’s perfectly timed blasts of electricity turning it from slightly creepy to threatening. The track peaked on the Billboard pop chart in September of 1993, a full year after its initial release, and Radiohead would go on to become one of the most influential bands in rock history. To celebrate the band’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, we take a look back at their best and most innovative music videos.
Editors’ Note: This article was originally published on July 24, 2013.
10. “Burn the Witch” (Dir: David Mould). “Stand in the shadows/To the gallows/This is a round-up,” Thom Yorke cautions at the start of “Burn the Witch,” with all the paranoia and politically shaded intrigue we’ve come to expect from the Radiohead frontman. Directed by Chris Hopewell, the music video for the track depicts a government official sent to inspect the strange goings-on in a small village, where he’s burned alive in a giant wooden statue in a scene reminiscent of the 1973 cult classic The Wicker Man. The clip features stop-motion animation in the style of the 1960s-era U.K. children’s show Trumpton. Sal Cinquemani
9. “Paranoid Android” (Dir: Magnus Carlsson). Radiohead commissioned Swedish animator Magnus Carlsson for this bizarre and somewhat graphic video, which sees the titular protagonist of Carlsson’s series Robin encountering various unsavory or unearthly characters, including a prostitute in a tree, a deranged businessman, and an angel flying a helicopter. Cinquemani
8. “House of Cards” (Dir: James Frost). When the “House of Cards” video came out, it struck me as a tech geek’s gimmick, but in retrospect, its motion-capture technique is used for deeply human ends. First we see two faces in close-up, their physicality rendered as blue-ish data points. Then, indistinct bodies at a party and a whole suburban landscape being wiped away in Etch-A-Sketch fashion. It’s a kind of digitally envisioned nightmare: Every pixel of everything we know, instantly erased. Paul Rice
7. “No Surprises” (Dir: Grant Lee). Lo-fi simplicity tends to work best for Radiohead’s live-action videos. In “No Surprises,” we get to watch Thom Yorke gasp for breath as a water chamber fills and releases around his head. It’s a sly sadomasochistic dream that could be his, or that of plenty of Radiohead haters everywhere. Rice
6. “Daydreaming” (Dir: Paul Thomas Anderson). In this video for 2016’s “Daydreaming,” Paul Thomas Anderson’s camera follows Thom Yorke through numerous locales, from hotel hallways to laundromats. The images, lucid and confrontational, exude an almost gestural quality as they cut from interior and exterior spaces, with Yorke waltzing in a sleep-like torpor toward a hole—or spacious studio igloo?—somewhere on a snow-capped mountain. The world here appears at once real and imagined, and by the time the fire within the hole lights Yorke’s face and the song grinds to a halt, Anderson dramatically reaffirms most of our beliefs about Radiohead’s music as, above all else, the prettiest soundtrack in the world to one man’s devotion to his own alienation. Ed Gonzalez
5. “Just” (Dir: Jamie Thraves). There’s a Kafkaesque absurdity to the simple concept of “Just” that gets and stays under the skin. A man lies down in the middle of a monochromatic city sidewalk. People trip on him and ask how he is and why he’s there. Finally, he tells the crowd (though we never know, since the subtitles cut out), and they all lie with him, presumably in conjoined doom. Rice
4. “Knives Out” (Dir: Michel Gondry). Thematically evocative of the director’s 2004 film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, the elaborate, seemingly single-take “Knives Out” juxtaposes emotional and physical hardship via Michel Gondry’s signature surreal imagery, including singer Thom Yorke’s head replaced by a giant heart in which he stores a Polaroid photograph of his fiancée, whose critical condition he may very well have been responsible for. Cinquemani
3. “Pyramid Song” (Dir: Shynola). Thom Yorke and company have long been champions of animation, and “Pyramid Song” is their best, most heartfelt work in the form. A man—or a thing (the figure could be human or beast)—dives into a lost civilization, wading through bones to a home where he watches TV. CG allows for meticulous detail, but the gorgeous design by artist collective Shynola is purposely murky, full of unknown layers, and like Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within, released the same year, it suggests a ruined past we can never get back. Rice
2. “Fake Plastic Trees” (Dir: Jake Scott). Jake Scott, noted music video director and son of Sir Ridley, has said that his striking clip for Radiohead’s “Fake Plastic Trees,” filmed in an aircraft hangar in Van Nuys, California, is an allegory on death and reincarnation. His claim is borne out by images of colorful characters, old and young, strolling the aisles of a neon-lit supermarket, being watched on surveillance cameras, and eventually carted off to a heavenly looking “exit.” Cinquemani
1. “Karma Police” (Dir: Jonathan Glazer). Director Jonathan Glazer claims that this creepy revenge clip, in which a car slowly follows a man running down a desolate road only to have the tables turned thanks to a chance gasoline leak, was inspired by a bad dream. His remarkable use of point of view implicates the spectator in the video’s action, but it’s the spooky way with which he fashions a Möbius strip from karmic irony that makes “Karma Police” Radiohead’s finest contribution to the music-video medium. Cinquemani