Since complaining about Oscar’s short-sightedness and asking for them to change their ways is as futile as asking for a recount in Ohio, let’s get this show on the road.
Another year, another award for multimedia synchronicity over artistic merit.
It’s a rare, special thing when a band creates an album that speaks for an entire generation.
In this extreme—and extremely schizophrenic—year, nothing was quite as outlandish as Team America’s showstopping scene of hardcore marionette sex.
Like Hitchcock, Lewis’s freewheeling, exquisitely diverting films were often undercut by sinister elements and personal neuroses.
Harvey has never struck me as an explicitly political artist, but her lyrics are vague enough to welcome multiple interpretations.
No Dogville-style polemic or drama of Mystic River-sized proportions here, but the difficult balancing act between commerce and high art is still evident.
The vibe of the day was participatory citizenship, which has become a growing mantra among political bands.
To celebrate the re-release of Grace, we’ve decided to root through the self-proclaimed chanteuse’s catalogue and spotlight some of his key releases.
The crowd was young and boisterous, and one particularly drunk teen was making yours truly look like a no-fun-having old coot.
Prince reminded the crowd of what a true talent was capable of, without fancy sets and theatrics but simply the urge to throw the town’s biggest block party, a celebration of musicality.
Enter the Mother of Reinvention. Madonna would probably prefer Mother of Evolution, or even Revolution.
We recently spoke with the writer-director about the rocky dramas that continue to resurface in his films.
“Do you know the history of this building?” Nelly Furtado asked her not-quite-sold-out New York audience at Midtown Manhattan’s the Town Hall.
If the rapturous radio response to the album’s first single “C’mon, C’mon” is any indication, bulging bags of cash may be in the cards.
You get a sense while watching the film that Gibson would flog each and every one of us if it brought us closer to God.
The screener ban didn’t last for long and didn’t seem to do much damage, and come Oscar time, indies may walk away with several big prizes.
Hobbits, fish, horses, Asians, pirates and civil wars. This year, the Academy threatens to get all political and metaphorical on our asses.
Automatically their appropriation of all that we hold dear about ‘80s rock gives them a better shot at the suburbs than the flouncy ditties of the aforementioned bands.
It’s basically a rule that any album nominated for Album of the Year will most certainly win in its respective genre-specific category.