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HALLOWEEN COSTUMES YOU DIDN’T KNOW YOU OWNED
PRESIDENT CHENEY NUKES ORPHANAGE • THE COLD WAR RETURNS
the eye
COLUMBIA ON THE STREET
ARE YOU
AFRAID OF
COLUMBIA?
VOL I, ISSUE 7, 10.26.06
TRUE TALES THAT WILL HAVE YOU
SLEEPING WITH THE LIGHTS ON
the eye
On the Cover
A&E
[email protected]
http://eye.columbiaspectator.com
Spider-Man
Tim “Insert Scary Name Here” Shenk
The Bush Twins
Ghoulia Israel, Ghoulia Stroud
Beyonce, Jay-Z
Jason Kim, Sumana Rao
Madonna
Risa Chubinsky, Xiyin Tang
A Cupcake, An Ugly Betty
Alex Gartenfeld, Jennie Morgan
Count Chocula
Shannon Die-nnelly, Dan Haley
Catwoman
Sally Cohen-Cutler
Dracula
David Ehrlich
Candy!
Miri Cypers
The Monster Mash
Elizabeth Wade
Little Orphan Annie
Hillary Brody
An Oscar, or Something Funny
Bee Shaffer
Ninja Turtles
Brendan Ballou, Paul Barndt,
Liz Brown, Jen Spyra
Power Rangers
Ariel Bibby, Adam Brickman, Max Foxman,
Swetha “Squanto” Regunathan
Halloween Is for Devil Worshippers
Ian Corey-Boulet, Amanda Sebba
Devil Worshippers
Shifra Goldenberg, Kaitlyn Gaynor
Lauren Seidman
Santa
Kibby McMahon
Elves
Carly Isman, Matt Franks,
Robin Yang, Emily Greenlee
15
Ho’lloween
No parties all semester,
and now there are 20.
10
MUSIC
DJ Shadow experiments with fame
04
12
FILM
Who is Bob Wilson
and do we care?
Murder! Sex! Shocking confessions! This Halloween, the parade isn’t the
only horror show in town. Read the three most frightening tales from Columbia’s sordid past. Toasted marshmallows and a campfire are optional.
14
ROLLING EYE
Big pimpin’ with a
Nobel laureate
Dial Rolm for Murder
Urbanities
CAVA
Jake Olson, John Mascari,
Steve Moncada, The Devil
If you have questions, comments, or letters to
the editor, e-mail Tim Shenk, editor-in-chief, at
[email protected]. You can also call us at
(212) 854-9547. To place an ad, call (212) 854-9558.
“Is this the end of Zombie Shakespeare?”
©2006, The Eye, Spectator Publishing Company,
Inc. No part may be reproduced in part or in whole
without express, written consent of the editors. All
rights reserved. The Eye is published every Thursday during the fall and spring semester, except
during examination and vacation periods. Get it?
We’re doing all this stuff because of Halloween.
Get it? Halloween? Ahhh, you don’t get it.
03
07
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the queerest of
them all? An honest look at the competition for
the title of “Gay Ivy.”
With Halloween just around the corner, ditch that
tired bunny-tail and follow these tips for creating
a unique ensemble.
Ivy Queen
Manhattan Masquerade
From the Editor...
S
ome kids spend time with their friends. Others play sports. Still others learn a
challenging and valuable skill like playing the piano. I was too cool (re: inadequate) for that balderdash growing up, so I did something much cooler with my time.
I read.
From the ages of seven to nine, one of my favorite things to read was Goosebumps.
For those who missed out on this integral part of growing up in the early to midnineties, Goosebumps was a series of horror books aimed at kids. They had titles like
Bad Hare Day, A Shocker on Shock Street, Say Cheese and Die!, and, my personal
favorite, Say Cheese and Die—Again! I swear I’m not making this up.
Goosebumps came out on the first Wednesday of every month. For me, that day was
like Christmas, Independence Day, and Arbor Day (I like trees. Is that a problem?)
rolled into one. I would sit in school, but my mind would be in Goosebumps-land,
which is why I still don’t understand fractions.
By the way, those interested in reading a story just as scary as anything in Goosebumps, but infinitely more well-written, should check out Jen Spyra’s story on page
4. And if you want to check out costumes that are so stylish it’s terrifying, flip to page
7. Do it or the puppet from Night of the Living Dummy (Goosebumps #7) will come
after you. Trust me, you don’t want to deal with that.
I read other books that are slightly less embarrassing to recall. The collected works
of Roald Dahl, Bruce Coville, and Lois Lowry gave my pre-adolescent self a reason to
live, even if I still haven’t figured out what happens at the end of The Giver.
When I think back on my childhood, almost all my memories involve me with a
book. Like the time in second grade when this big shot ten-year-old ripped apart
my copy of My Teacher Is an Alien and I immediately burst into tears in front of my
entire class; or the time during silent reading when Leslie died in Bridge to Terabithia
and I immediately burst into tears in front of my entire class; or the time I used one
of the swear words I learned from Jurassic Park and my teacher yelled at me, causing
me to burst into tears in front of my entire class. Good, tear-stained times.
Mostly, though, I remember the countless hours I spent inside my hometown’s
Barnes & Noble. My parents would drop me off there after school, on weekends, and
pretty much any other time they didn’t want to deal with me. I would roam the aisles,
gathering up as many books as I could handle, and then totter off to a chair with my
latest acquisitions piled up to my eyes and precariously balanced in my tiny hands.
My life wasn’t a story—nobody’s is. But when I had my nose between the covers of
Maniac Magee, The Pushcart War, or From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E Frankweiler, I could forget that for a while.
urbanities
We’re One Big Gay Family
Who reigns as king ... er ... queen of the Ivy League?
By Dan D’Addario
D
ILLUSTRATION BY CRISTINA POLITANO
o you know what’s gay? Living in the woods of New Hampshire in a frat
house with a bunch of dudes. We all know what types of things happen in
the woods. Therefore Dartmouth must be the Gay Ivy.
Except that it’s not. Hanover, N. H. does not, to our knowledge, have a Pottery
Barn. To be a contender for the honor, the school would need great theater,
loud house music, readily available bubble tea, and the perfect amount of ambient light. As Columbia students, we know we place high on the Ivy League
Kinsey Scale, but we’re still left wondering: how do we measure up against the
other members of the prestigious pack, and more importantly, which school is
gayest of them all?
Like Dartmouth, Cornell is out of the running for Ivy League Queen, primarily because it isn’t an Ivy. We kid! Don’t kill yourselves! But in all fairness,
Ithaca isn’t exactly a major gay mecca like Cambridge, New York, Philadelphia,
Princeton, Providence, and New Haven (okay, just New York and Philadelphia).
If you’re a gay student at Cornell, you need to embrace a certain Brokeback
Mountain model to fit in with the straight-as-an-arrow agriculture school students and lacrosse players. Cornell is simply not the Gay Ivy.
Then there are some schools that are only blips on the gaydar. Take, for
example, Princeton, the University of Pennsylvania, and Harvard, all schools
that fall somewhere between American Eagle and Diesel. Since Princeton and
UPenn were the only two Ivies to place in the Advocate’s list of the Top 20
Most Gay-Supportive Campuses, we would think that they would be strong
contenders. However, the list was based on the strength of university-run
LBGT centers rather than the actual size of gay student populations. And let’s
not forget that Princeton’s school colors of orange and black are too jarring
for the gay aesthetes among us, and Penn’s football team is just a little too
good for the school to be Columbia-level gay. Since Harvard didn’t even place
in the Advocate’s top 100 and is simultaneously trapped in the closet known
as New England, we can conclude that these three also just aren’t the gayest
in the League.
Now we’re left with the elite three: Yale, Brown, and Columbia. In 1987, the
Wall Street Journal estimated that a quarter of Yale’s population was gay. “One
in four, maybe more” is a common campus rallying cry, reports Eric Kafka,
Yale ’08. Yale exhibits a certain awkward sexual voraciousness indigenous to
New Haven, epitomized by the popularity of on-campus foam parties. It is also
the home of the “Whiffenpoofs,” an a capella group, which, though not a euphemism for “homosexual,” certainly should be. More seriously, the school has
made serious strides toward stamping out the insidious homophobia that the
campus’s Old Boys’ Club atmosphere often fosters. Yale started running antihomophobia freshmen workshops in 1998, and a recent Yale Daily News article
makes it seem as though Yale has the largest gay Greek population since the
days of Plato: we’re introduced to a frat brother in “an a capella t-shirt” and
“cargo shorts,” which is the very definition of cognitive dissonance. Clearly, gay
life is mainstream at Yale.
But is Yale gay enough to be a plot point on The OC, as Brown was? The Brown
queer alliance is believed to be one of the three largest groups on campus and is
infamous for its annual party known as SexPowerGod. Our friend Bill O’Reilly
once claimed that “the gays set the tone” for SexPowerGod. And after examining the photographs of shirtless, same-sex cavorting that result from a Google
image search of the party, we realize that, for once, O’Reilly may be right.
“The freedom of academic choice attracts open-minded individuals to Brown,
who are generally more tolerant and accepting of homosexuality and bisexuality and flexuality—and don’t flinch at frat parties when two boys are kissing,”
declared Robert Smith III, Brown ’09 and chair of the Queer Political Action
Committee.
But as we Columbians know, academic freedom can’t be directly responsible for sexual liberation; otherwise our Core would make us as buttoned-up
and homophobic as Omaha accountants. Alma Mater is plenty gay, from the
widespread celebration of Queer Awareness Month to the access to New York
nightlife, which has always been recognized for its “flexuality.” New York City
and the opportunities it presents are more than just one party once a year or
a bunch of suggestively named a capella groups—it represents a haven for the
scads of closeted kids who come out freshmen year (and sophomore year and
junior year). Columbia may not have received placement on the top 20 list from
the Advocate, but perhaps this is because varying sexualities are so common at
Columbia that students have stopped taking notice of the gay-specific events
going on around them.
“I’ve seen the fliers [for Queer Awareness Month events] and seen [Columbia
Queer Alliance members] sitting out on the steps, but I haven’t gone to any of
the events or anything,” said one CC senior, summing up the attitudes of many.
Of course, apathy toward any on-campus event is as representative of Columbia as our gay-friendly environment, so this type of comment is just symptomatic of our general, jaded temperament more than anything else.
And now, the moment of truth: which school wins the coveted title of “Gayest
Ivy”? Let’s call it a tie—all the Bulldogs, Bears, and Lions can live in homo-normative bliss happily ever after. That’s just so gay.
03
in focus
unlocked tales from
the columbia crypt
by jen spyra
A
s an ominous afternoon shrouds the marble belly of low,
I tuck into the Columbia archives. Wilted leather volumes of palmed-over classics rest heavily
on their mahogany shelves. The room teems with muffled voices. While the librarians languidly type
at their keyboards, a small, gilded clock emits a dour chime. Amid these tinny peals of long-forgotten music, I page through the records of murders past, piecing clues together like a young Sherlock
Holmes.
Everyone in the Columbia archives is dead, and 314 Low is where their stories are buried. Boxes
containing newspaper clippings, old letters, and yellowed notebooks even smell as you pry them
open.
Though I lack a pipe and magnifying glass, my grave-digging in the archives has exhumed a modest trove of Columbia’s bloodiest lore. These hallowed halls have hosted more than fund-raisers and
department meetings. They have been the site of real tales of horror, intrigue, and violent revenge.
This is what your guidebook didn’t tell you.
COVER, LEAD BY KIBBY MCMAHON; PORTRAITS FROM COLUMBIA ARCHIVES
04
murder ,
she wrote
SCOUT’S HONOR
W
hile you might have heard benign boastings about Jack Kerouac enjoying a
beer at proto-Havana Central, chances are you haven’t learned of his role in
a murder that followed a night of drinking there back in 1944.
In the summer of 1943, Kerouac’s girlfriend introduced him to dapper Columbia
sophomore Lucien Carr at the West End. Carr was a blond Upper West Side hotshot, revered by his crowd (which included such luminaries as William Burroughs,
Allen Ginsberg, and Kerouac) for his classically fetching combination of cynicism,
beauty, and charm. Carr was slender but tough, with sarcastic eyes that flickered
and laughed, and a sardonic grin that melted hearts. He slouched and spouted snide,
well-timed quips. He was as effortlessly smart as he was dispassionately cool.
Kerouac and Carr were instantly jake. Their quirky exploits included Carr cajoling Kerouac to enter a barrel and then rolling it down Broadway. On another night,
the pair spent a rainstorm in a gutter and poured black ink over their hair while
singing the
hit of the summer, “You Always Hurt the One You Love.”
A swarthy redhead with a ruddy complexion, David
Kammerer met Carr in St. Louis under the auspices of
the Boy Scouts. Kammerer, ten years Carr’s senior,
was the handsome scout’s master. If Michelango
drew their portrait, Kammerer would be a roughand-ready God and Carr would be a cherub.
Kammerer fell hard for Carr. His relentless devotion would make Humbert Humbert look like a
casual suitor.
Lucien’s parents, disturbed by their son’s relationship with Kammerer, sent him to Phillips
Andover Academy in Massachussetts. According
to Aaron Latham, author of The Columbia Murder
that Gave Birth to the Beats, “One morning Carr had
walked out of his Andover dormitory and found
LUCIEN CARR
Kammerer, his red beard flaming in the New England cold, waiting for him. Before long, Kammerer and Carr’s parties had become
the scandal of the campus.” Carr was expelled from Andover. He enrolled at Bowdoin, in Maine, where Kammerer again pursued him. Carr received a one-way ticket
from that school after he and Kammerer scuttled a yacht “just to feel what it was like
to stand on the deck of a sinking ship.” Kammerer then followed his obsession to the
University of Chicago, where “they had gone on another spree, which ended when
Carr attempted suicide.”
Recovering, the troubled student found himself at Columbia. Kammerer relocated to the Big Apple, earning small potatoes as an assistant janitor.
Kammerer was obsessed with Carr and everyone knew it. He was reputed within
the nascent Beat circle to watch the student while he slept. Burroughs once asked
Kammerer what he did on such occasions: “I get as close to him as I can without
waking him up, and stand there till dawn.”
By his sophomore year at Columbia, Carr had had his fill of nocturnal voyeurism.
Fearing Kammerer’s relentless pursuit, Carr and Kerouac met on a grassy patch at
115th and Riverside to plot a dramatic escape to France. They would leave the next
morning.
But the pair never got on the road.
On the evening of Sunday, Aug. 13, Jack and Carr repaired to their preferred
drinking hole. When Kerouac left, Kammerer took his place. The two drank there
until 3 a.m. and then took a walk in Riverside Park.
Carr had his Boy Scout knife—a gift from Kammerer— in his pocket. According to Latham, Kammerer insisted on following Carr to France. Infuriated, Carr
menaced, “Do you want to die?” To which the elder man, defeated, replied, “Yes.” In
a last-ditch sign of affection, the scoutmaster embraced his scout. Carr reached for
his knife, “and plunged it up to the hilt in his scoutmaster’s chest.”
“So this is how David Kammerer ends,” the victim mused.
Unsure whether Kammerer was dead or alive, Carr rolled him to the water’s edge,
took the laces from Kammerer’s shoes, and tied his hands and feet. He ripped up
Kammerer’s shirt, took off the dead man’s belt, and used the clothing to tie up his
arms and the rest of his body. Frantically, he gathered small stones and stuffed them
into Kammerer’s pockets and clothes before finally rolling him into the Hudson.
After the slaying, Carr went to Burroughs’ apartment and offered him a bloody
pack of Lucky Strikes before going to find Kerouac at his girlfriend’s place. Carr
needed help: he still had the murder weapon and Kammerer’s bloody glasses.
Kerouac agreed to the meeting and they strolled along 118th Street to Morningside Park. There, while Kerouac pretended to urinate, Carr carved a hole out of the
ground and buried the glasses. Later, at the 125th Street subway station, Kerouac
suggested that Carr drop the knife into the subway grate. He did. Then Carr suggested they take in a movie.
After the film they got a couple of beers, and Carr went to the police to turn
himself in.
With physics on his side, the murderer later argued self-defense. Carr’s slender
frame was no match for the 6-foot, 185-pound Kammerer.
Kerouac was arrested as a material witness and held on $5,000 bail. Assistant defense attorney in charge of homicide Jacob Grumet told the judge that Kerouac had
gone to Morningside Park with Carr and had helped him bury Kammerer’s glasses.
Kerouac hastened to clarify, adding that “I only watched him bury the glasses.”
“You came very near to becoming an accessory after the fact,” the prosecutor
retorted.
Back at the station, the detectives needed to get things straight: was Carr gay? The
Daily News and other rags had called the murder an “honor slaying,” pinning Carr as
a victim defending his virtue from a homosexual. Kerouac announced that he and
Carr were as straight as the night was long, effectively saving his friend’s life.
Kerouac’s bail was later reduced by half. Edie Parker paid it, and they were later
wed. Carr would serve only two years in the big house.
He carved KEROUAC on the cell wall with his fingernail.
THE SCIENCE OF SLAYING
E
ileen Fahey was a sweet-faced blond with the creamy appeal of a teenaged Judy
Garland. At 18 she was fresh out of high school and mad for life. Her graduation photo reveals a pretty girl with a slow, sincere smile. It was as though milk ran
through her veins.
Fahey lived in a fifth-floor walk-up with her modest parents, brother, and sister.
Her father worked as an elevator operator. She worked as a secretary for Columbia’s
American Physical Society in Pupin Hall.
Her boyfriend, Ronald Leo, was a private first class in
the Marine Corps who was stationed in Korea. The
puppy lovers had been going steady for three years,
and despite their separation, they remained mutually devoted. It was one of Fahey’s keenest pleasures to read his many letters detailing, among
gloomier tidings, their upcoming wedding and
life together.
Each morning at work, she would whisk
through the office, pour a ritual glass of orange
juice, settle comfortably into her chair, and quietly
savor one of Leo’s letters.
Meanwhile, in Boston, a frustrated psychopath
stewed.
EILEEN FAHEY
Bayard Pfundtner Peakes was a disgruntled exmember of American Physical Society, an unpublished author of electronic theory, and arguably, a lunatic. After the society rejected
Peakes’ paper, “So You Love Physics,” Peakes printed a thirty-three page photo-offset publication and sent it to the 6,500 other members of the A.P.S. for their reading
pleasure. The pamphlet was called “How to Live Forever”: it sought to prove that the
electron was fiction and that you could live to be 600.
The A.P.S. summarily rejected Peakes’ theories. One investigator said, “I spent
hours trying to pin him down, but his theory was no theory at all. He was a crackpot.” According to the New York Times, the pamphlet was “a rather pointless and
elementary discussion of various aspects of physics. It says nothing about Peakes’
ideas for prolonging human life.” Peakes was enraged. “They wouldn’t look at my
book. They wouldn’t even look at it,” he muttered to the police. He continued feverishly: “What’s the matter with the society? I know they didn’t look at it. They should
have looked at it.”
Peakes wanted blood from the Columbia A.P.S. He took a train to New York City,
booked a hotel in his real name, and went out for an educated hamburger (dressed
with mayo and ketchup). Then, with murder on his mind, he went to Morningside
Heights.
On July 14, Peakes marched to the ninth floor of Pupin bent on snuffing scientists. But all he found was one dimpled blond, beaming over a letter that she held in
one hand while absent-mindedly tracing a half-drunk glass of orange juice with the
other. Fahey looked up, smiled brightly, and started, “Ye—”
Mildly dismayed, Peakes sighed and let a round of bullets fly into the blameless
woman.
Leo flew home on emergency leave but wouldn’t arrive in time for the funeral.
During the trial, psychiatrists described Peakes as “in such a state of insanity
that he is incapable of understanding the charge, indictment or proceedings or of
making his defense ... he is a suitable case for commitment to the Matteawan State
Hospital at Beacon, NY.” Peakes was committed. As he raved on about electronic
theory in the blank air of the asylum, Fahey lay cold in her grave, and Leo battled on,
dumbstruck in Korea.
INDIAN BURIAL GROUND
H
enrietta Schmerler was a thoroughly modern Millie in both style and spirit.
Her chic, sheared bob, sumptuous lips and Roman nose conveyed the sense of
style, seriousness, and progressive thinking for which she was reputed.
In 1931 Schmerler was the star grad student in Columbia’s anthropology department, then headed by Franz Boas. When she decided to study the customs of
Apache Indians on an Arizona reservation (the same one that saw the Geronimoled 1872 massacre of U.S. soldiers) to focus her thesis on ethnology and anthropology, she had no qualms about leaving Columbia’s academic candyland for wild rural
living. In fact, she was thrilled. She even got a grant. That’s the kind of girl Henrietta
CONTINUED ON PAGE 6
05
in focus
CONTINUED FROM PAGE 5
06
Schmerler was.
Schmerler liked to drink and dance, ride postilion, and research. She was the kind
of girl who walked around with a flask of sugared whiskey pressed against the flesh of
her thigh. The kind of girl who would build a wikiup out of brush, don a squaw costume, and yuk it up like a real Indian. The kind of girl who, according to an Apache
man drunk on tulapei (aboriginal moonshine), was looking for trouble.
That summer Schmerler set out for the East Fork Indian
settlement, where she installed herself as the natives did
(in a wikiup) and quickly befriended her Native American neighbors. A couple days later, Jack Keyes, a
sub-chief of the White River Apaches, approached
her with dark but compassionate advice.
According to the New York World Telegram,
Keyes warned Schmerler, “You are not safe here.
There is an abandoned cottage down the road a
bit. It is only half a mile from the white farmer’s
place. You would be happier there and you would
not cause us so much worry.”
Rumors circulated that she was trying to assimilate.
Schmerler had a soft spot for dressing in costume
HENRIETTA
and penetrating the secrets of local traditions. She
SCHMERLER
wrote in a letter home: “I am getting ready for another dance and have asked an Indian named Claude Gilbert to take me. From Mary
Velesquez, a half-breed, I got a wonderful squaw’s costume which I will wear.” In
another note, she revealed what she felt to be an important step in her research: “I
found out about a certain tribal custom, including a secret ritual.” Once, she was
found lurking behind some brush, covertly photographing a ritual dance: “On the
fourth of July I attended a Devil Dance and tried to take some pictures of the dancers
and their masks. Dogs barked at me, and they found me hiding in the bushes with
shoes in my hands.” Her moment of apprehension was dispelled when she realized
that they reacted “very nice—invited me to breakfast.” In general, Shmerler rated her
performance as top-drawer: “I am progressing very nicely. The Indians are friendly
and help me all they can. They call me ‘White Lady Stay Up Late.’”
This picture of bonhomie was eviscerated on the eve of Saturday, July 19, when
Shmerler and Apache local Golney “Mac” Seymour, an “undersized Redskin buck,”
as described by Time Magazine, took a fateful ride into the desert.
After some pre-gaming, Seymour rode past the white girl’s house on his way to
a dance. Schmerler, horseless and happy-footed, stopped him and asked for a lift.
She said she had seen lots of women riding with men on horseback. Time reported
that Seymour chastely replied, “Those people are married.” “That’s all right,” she answered.
The Apache admitted: “She asked me in. She had something in a bottle ... it burned
my neck. She mixed some with sugar and water. It tasted good. She kissed me. We
started for dance on my horse. We stopped at muddy draw to walk across. Then she
started hitting me with her bag, teasing me. I thought she wanted to marry me. She
didn’t fight...”
The reservation was up in arms when they discovered the body of the slayed researcher. She might have been unusually friendly, but the Apaches were fond of her.
People talked. “I say paint-man put body of White Lady in his automobile,” a deafmute Apache told the reservation office. A trader, Simon Wickoff, came forward
with information that he had seen Robert Gatewood and Golney Seymour riding
toward her cottage earlier. Gatewood was called in for questioning.
With the help of Jesus de Velasquez, an Apache who had consecrated himself to
the task of finding Schmerler’s murderer, J-39 (the New York agent assigned to the
case) was able to extract the following statement: “[Seymour] told me he had killed
the White Lady and that if I ever told anybody he would kill me.”
J-39 called Seymour in to be interviewed. He began his elaborate charade by declaring ominously: “In New York, where I live, we have many scientific marvels. Tell
him that, Dosela [the interpreter].” J-39 asked Seymour to hold out his hands; he
reluctantly did so. J-39 let a few drops of colorless fluid hit the bronze skin. At first,
nothing happened. Slowly the liquid deepened in color, from a rosy pink to tell-tale
burgundy.
“Seymour, there is blood on your hands!”
Frightened out of his wits, Seymour confessed to the murder.
“She got very mad. She threw a rock and hit me in the chest. She cried she was
going to tell on me.” Schmerler grappled for a knife in her bag; getting hold of it, she
tried to cut him. “I threw her down and took the knife,” Seymour confessed. “I hit
her with a rock and cut her neck ... I felt very bad. I cried. I went to horse and made
horse travel fast away from her.”
Later a befuddled reporter would ask J-39 what the liquid was.
The agent chuckled: “It’s really very simple ... the Apache diet is such as to give
their skins an acid reaction. The liquid I used was a diluted solution of orcein, the
base of litmus papers. It turned red on contact with Seymour’s skin. His superstitions did the rest.”
And on 221B Baker Street, one satisfied detective settled into a wing-backed armchair, set aside her magnifying glass, lit a pipe, and sighed contentedly.
urbanities
Saying ‘Yes’ to a Stylish, Homemade Costume
This Halloween, discover the tricks and treats inside your closet
By Moira Lynch
Use what you have
F
ashion trends this season heavily reference the past, meaning that with a few accessories, the clothes in your closet can be
transformed into a last-minute costume. [1] A mod dress (think big buttons and large, solid blocks of color) and opaque tights
instantly recall Edie Sedgwick. Just don’t forget to arrive at that Halloween party in the Lower East Side with Andy Warhol in tow.
All your partner needs is a white wig and a black turtleneck. [2] For the brave at heart: try pairing a tartan dress with some blue face
paint to be William Wallace’s lass. [3] Nostalgic for a childhood throwback? Pull on a white shirt, don a headband, and drag out that
jumper you snagged at H&M to embody Eloise, the ultimate city child. [4] Country mouses may relate more to fairy tales. Luckily,
the season’s vogue response to the hum-drum jacket—the cloak—provides an ideal base for a modern Little Red Riding Hood. [5]
The ubiquitous leggings you’ve worn under denim miniskirts all season-long can shine in any ’80s costume from Fame to Girls Just
Want to Have Fun. [6] If you’re still in love with Johnny Depp and Pirates of the Caribbean, tell the world with a simple bandana
or, for a classier twist, an Alexander McQueen pirate scarf. [7] Of course, if you’d rather pile on layers for this chilly October night,
borrow a tie, dig up those baggy pants from three years ago, and add a vest to create an Annie Hall-themed costume.
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SEE NEXT PAGE FOR FULL-SIZE COLOR COSTUME SPREAD >
Go vintage
If Halloween’s your way of justifying a shopping spree, head out to these
imaginative thrift and vintage shops filled with pieces that perfectly transfer into Halloween garb. Boutiques like Cheap Jack’s (Fifth Avenue and 31st
Street), Tahir Boutique (First Avenue and Ninth Street), Rue St. Denis (Avenue B between 10th and 11th Streets), and Psyche’s Tears (First Avenue and
East Ninth Street) sell well-preserved pieces from as far back as the 1920s.
A full-skirted floral dress and pearls paired with impeccable red lipstick and
high heels scream Stepford Wife, while a slinky fringed dress and cloche hat
promise to pin you as a flapper. If you happen to stumble upon a white satin
dress, eschew the typical Marilyn Monroe attire and opt for Kim Basinger
in LA Confidential instead. Of course, vintage can be a bit pricey, so those on
a budget should walk down Broadway to the 96th Street Salvation Army. An
old grungy t-shirt and big, teased hair paired with this season’s skinny jeans
turn both guys and girls into rock stars from ’80s hair metal bands like Poison
and Guns N’ Roses. Consignment trench coats also work well as a fashionable disguise. Beige invokes classic Ingrid Bergman or Humphrey Bogart
from Casablanca, while a red trench and some fanciful accessories produce
an unexpected Carmen Sandiego. If you can’t find a coat in your size, opt for
$3 plaid shirts and $20 cowboy boots for an old western look, or pay tribute
to Nirvana by bleaching a pair of cheap ripped jeans. Just try not to shower
for a few days beforehand, or the outfit won’t be authentic.
Be crafty
The Fabric District is primarily located between 36th and 40th streets,
bounded by Seventh and Eighth avenues. To the east you’ll find millinery and
trim; M & J Trimming (Sixth Avenue between 37th and 38th streets) is a
favorite. Buy some red velvet and craft your own cape—when coupled with
a plastic tiara, the combination is unequivocally regal. The queen-for-a-day
look not your thing? Experience the exotic by going to ethnic fabric stores.
Patterned and dyed fabrics fold easily into sarongs. Add a flower to your hair
for a Tahitian ensemble with flair.
Collaborate with friends
Local mainstays Global Copy (98th Street and Broadway) and Fotorush
(112th Street and Broadway) make shirts with any screen printing or lettering that you want. Our suggestion? Form a team from an old Nickelodeon
show like Global Guts or Legends of the Hidden Temple. Or pair up with
your best friend and go out as a scandalous duo: for Mary-Kate and Ashley,
try baggy sweaters, large hobo purses, loose, floor-sweeping skirts, oversized
sunglasses, and, of course, that trademark Starbucks venti latte in hand. For
Paris and Nicole, buy blonde wigs and bright print dresses (eating disorders
are optional). Couples can be Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. Holmes requires a dazed look and a clearly fake pregnant stomach, while Cruise calls for
a bad brown wig and a pamphlet touting the merits of Scientology.
Embrace the mainstream
Buy a costume. Ricky’s are located all over the city (the closest is at Columbus Avenue between 82nd and 83rd streets) and even Duane Reade sells
costumes and face paint. If you’re willing to venture a bit farther, Halloween
Adventure (104 Fourth Avenue near 12th Street) has an enormous selection.
And, of course, if midterms have you too crazed to leave your room, theinternetdepartmentstore.com is an ideal site for moderately priced costumes. Just
be sure to rush the order so your ensemble arrives in time.
MODELS: (TOP ROW, LEFT TO RIGHT) REMI LAINE; SYDNEY KUMT; NATASHA COHEN;
(BOTTOM ROW) GILLI MESSER; CHAMIKA MILES; ROBYN BURGESS; ERIN SALTMAN
urbanities
COSTUME
COUTURE
Styled by Olivia De Carlo
Photographed by Andrea Sper
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music
College Music Journal
Music Marathon
Recommended Shows
Tues., Oct. 31
Suzanne Vega, Keren Ann
Hiro Ballroom, 7:45 p.m.
Medeski Martin and Wood, Sharon
Jones & the Dap-Kings
Hammerstein Ballroom, 8 p.m.
Wed., Nov. 1
Tapes `N Tapes, Cold War Kids,
Dr. Dog, Elvis Perkins, Robbers
on High Street, The Bird & the
Bee (Inara George), What Made
Milwaukee Famous
Bowery Ballroom, 7 p.m.
Steve Earle and Allison Moorer,
Laura Cantrell, Tim Easton
Southpaw, 8:30 p.m.
The Knife
Webster Hall, 11:30 p.m.
10
Thurs., Nov. 2
The Shins, The Album Leaf, The
Thermals, CSS, The Elected,
Oxford Collapse, Loney, Dear
Bowery Ballroom, 7 p.m.
¡Forward, Russia!, Benjy Ferree,
Malajube, Nicole Atkins and the
Sea, Sandi Thom
Mercury Lounge, 7 p.m.
120 Days, Favourite Sons, The
Black Lips, Panthers, Stephen
Brodsky’s Octave Museum, Khlyst
Sin-e, 8 p.m.
Fri., Nov. 3
The Grates, Mew, Fields, Magnet,
Annuals, Kevin Devine
Bowery Ballroom, 7 p.m.
The Decemberists, Alasdair
Roberts
Hammerstein Ballroom, 8 p.m.
Deerhoof, Erase Errata, Mary
Timony, Excepter
Hiro Ballroom, 6 p.m.
Sat., Nov. 4
Shooter Jennings, Oakley Hall,
The Watson Twins, Willy Mason,
The Deadstring Brothers
Irving Plaza, 9 p.m.
Clipse, Trae, Kidz in the Hall,
Jokaman, Catchdubs, DJ Chill
Knitting Factory (Main Space),
10:30 p.m.
Diversity reigns on DJ Shadow’s
The Outsider, alienating some fans
and winning over others.
The Outsider
What to do after making it big
I
By Cyrus Moussavi
n the relatively small world of instrumental
hip-hop and production, DJ Shadow is a god.
His debut album released in 1996, Endtroducing..., was groundbreaking in both sound and
technique. The first record composed entirely of
samples from previous recordings, Endtroducing...
redefined the world of borrowed sounds for the
small group of people who cared to notice.
But a lot has changed in the 10 years since
Endtroducing... established DJ Shadow, aka Josh
Davis of Hayward, Calif., as a unique and powerful new artist. At the moment, DJ Shadow looks
pretty uncomfortable. He is in a boardroom on the
30th floor of Universal Records’ distribution offices in midtown Manhattan, facing a crowd of 25
or so people who are responsible for making sure
his newest album sells well in the tristate area. He
smiles and asks wearily, “So, what do you want to
know?”
These days, Davis has many reasons for being
weary, and his sales team has many reasons for
asking questions. Davis released his third solo album, The Outsider, this past September to impassioned reviews. The album, which is significantly
different from its two predecessors (and almost
anything else released this year), has been hailed
for its remarkable diversity.
But at the same time, some reviewers and fans
seem personally insulted by Shadow’s new direction. Message board wars display a viciousness
one would not typically associate with the helpless record-geeks and DJs who constitute much of
Shadow’s online fan base.
“In my own small world, I made the Star Wars of
whatever it is that I do,” Davis tells the sales team,
referring to Endtroducing... “What starts to happen is people make an emotional connection to
an album like that and feel like it’s a part of them.
They want to keep it going.”
But Davis, unlike George Lucas, has no plans to
remake a masterpiece. The prospects of unleashing the aural equivalent of Jar Jar Binks on an unsuspecting public are scary enough, but mainly,
Davis has bigger plans.
“Everyone I respect or admire is a lifer,” Davis
said. “I plan to be doing this for 40 years. It’s the
total body of work that I’m worried about. It’s too
early to be painted in a corner.”
In order to keep interest high, and his sales team
employed, Davis alternates between high profile
projects and his own more experimental works. In
the past 10 years he’s worked with everyone from
underground hip-hop artists to Thom Yorke of
Radiohead and Richard Ashcroft, the sad guy who
sang “Bittersweet Symphony.” Now, Davis said,
“People are doing the mishmash thing. I looked
and said, ‘What aren’t they doing?’” He answered
this question with The Outsider.
“I didn’t want to make hair salon hip-hop,” Davis explained. “I wanted each track to be completely pure. I didn’t want a rap song with rock guitar
on it. I wanted to take these completely pure songs
and bunch them together on one record.” The result, according to conventional wisdom, is purely
schizophrenic. The album starts out with a funk
track, goes into four bizarre Bay Area hip-hop
songs starring mini hyphy celebrities like Keak Da
Sneak and Turf Talk, and ends with strange white
guys crooning over more classic DJ Shadow instrumental tracks. All this purity is confusing enough
that it made one reviewer at Pitchfork Media say
that “the album should alienate everyone who’s
ever been a Shadow fan.”
But if people can appreciate a rock song from
one artist and a rap song from another artist
equally and listen to them back to back, why can’t
they handle both types of songs from the same
artist on the same album? The Outsider sounds
strange because its emphasis is on music, not on
genre or background. It’s an extension of the same
open-minded thinking that made it possible for a
middle-class white guy from California to become
the world’s premiere hip-hop DJ in the first place.
“Other artists have never been so forward with
their support,” Davis says. He tells of a call from
David Banner, the Mississippi rapper who made an
unlikely appearance on The Outsider. “He called
and said ‘Keep doing what you’re doing man. You’re
just a little bit ahead of what people are expecting.’” The Universal people nodded their heads in
agreement, probably hoping David Banner knew
what he was talking about.
Finally, after about an hour of questioning, the
interview session reaches its end. Tomorrow, DJ
Shadow will go home to his wife and two kids
in California for the first time since leaving on a
world tour to promote The Outsider in mid-May.
He won’t be resting in California for long, however. “I’ve only been working for 15 years,” Davis
warns as the meeting winds down. “I’ve still got
25 to go.” Perhaps by then the rest of us will have
caught up.
PHOTO: UNIVERSAL RECORDS
The Cardigans, The Format, Matt
Nathanson, Dan Keyes
Knitting Factory (Main Space),
6:30 p.m.
California Meets the Delta
A
By Justin Goncalves
band’s quality can certainly be measured by its reception within the just that, playing for friends.
blogosphere. However, in most cases, the relationship is an inverse
“We never had any goal,” Maust professes. “Our early shows weren’t venone. The more a band is blogged about, the greater the likelihood they ues but parties at our house and our friends’ houses. The only place we could
are absolute garbage. No one’s going to be afraid to forget Tapes ’N Tapes in play were parties because we didn’t try playing venues yet.” It was through
a few months, if they haven’t
this setting that the band began
already. Cold War Kids may
to thrive and eventually develop
Cold War Kids bring the spirit of the Delta to New
be the exception, though
its sound. An important moment
York this weekend with a show at Union Hall this
they’ll leave that judgment to
for the band was its relocation
Friday night.
you. Bassist Matt Maust sees
into a house in Whittier, Califorblog hype as a double-edged
nia , a few minutes outside Eastsword. “Hype can be good or
ern Los Angeles. The house, apbad—it is what is. You can’t
propriately deemed “The Bayou,”
spend too much time dwellbecame a haven for the group of
ing on it, you have to always
friends to write and record as
be writing good music,”
much music as possible.
Maust says. Cold War Kids’
“I think that really shaped us
success is very contingent on
a lot. We lived there for quite a
this pursuit.
while, practicing in the baseListening to cuts from
ment, and living in what kind of
Cold War Kids’ recently relooked like a Third World counleased debut, Robbers & Cowtry,” Maust reminisces. “Living
ards, one can hear in singer
there for as long as we did had a
Nathan Willett vocal howls
big effect on our song.” The livreminiscent of Jack White
ing situation itself bled into the
over driving, rhythmic piano
band’s songwriting philosophy,
playing reminiscent of, well,
which included a pact of wordThe White Stripes.
less communication, relying
The comparison should come as no surprise considering each group’s completely and unequivocally on music for the source of inter-group comequally strong devotion to the teachings of the Mississippi Delta blues. For munication.
Cold War Kids, the impact of the Delta comes through because of “the non“Everything’s written together. We always sit in a room and bounce ideas
commercial side of things,” Maust says. “It’s more the spirit of blues and what off of each other. We don’t talk a whole lot when we’re writing. There’s a lot
it originally was—people hanging out with friends and banging on stuff. All of going back and forth, a lot of unspoken language,” Maust explains. Cold
that Delta Blues we hold close to our hearts. A lot of original blues and true War Kids are hopelessly devoted to their sonic creations and one another—
blues from my impression is more feeling and songs people sung on porches emblematic of musicians of the Mississippi Delta and a rarity among hype
or uptown with friends,” he adds. After all, the band first made its mark doing bands.
Album Reviews
PHOTOS: (TOP) PRESS HERE PUBLIICITY (BOTTOM, LEFT TO RIGHT) DARLA, VAPOR RECORDS, CAPITOL RECORDS
Corey Dargel
Less Famous Than You
Los Abandoned
Mix Tape
Kevin Devine
Put Your Ghost to Rest
Brilliant lyrics and
innovative music are
often discrete phenomena in pop music,
so Corey Dargel’s fluid
combination of the
two makes his album
Less Famous Than You
a truly impressive piece of work. His storytelling skills surpass Jens Lekman’s and approach
They Might Be Giants’. Every three minutes
brings a new song and new persona for Dargel,
who brings the same level of sincerity to singing,
“It’s nice to see what beautiful means” in almoststraightforward love songs like “Glasses” as he
does to lamenting that the “gay affirmative Starbucks has lost its charm” in the brilliantly earnest “Gay Cowboys.” The music and the lyrics often fit together more ironically than melodically,
with jarringly layered electronic beats bumping
up against quaintly charming words. His songs
are so tightly composed that he can get away
with delivering his clever rhymes in a swallowed
tenor reminiscent of both Stephen Merritt and
Kermit the Frog. Impressively, Less Famous
Than You proves to be endearing enough to inspire sing-alongs but ironic enough to keep you
on your toes. —Elizabeth Wade
With a lead singer
and ukulele player
named Lady P and
high-energy
live
shows during which
band members occasionally dress up as
characters from The
Royal Tenenbaums, it is hard to imagine the
Los Angeles band Los Abandoned as anything
but a novelty act. What saves them from this
somewhat degrading designation is the intelligence of its linguistic puns and the musical
sophistication that is especially apparent in
slower songs like the subtle bossa nova rhythm
of “Pantalon.” Like their name, Los Abandoned
intermix English and Spanish without reservation and often to great comedic effect. To the
relief of the listener, the only goal is fun and
no attempt is made at any sweeping cultural
statement. The frenetic eclecticism of the music, influenced by everything from ’60s girl
groups to ’80s new wave, helps achieve this
end, along with the often ridiculous lyrics.
Most notable in this respect is the affected naivete of the song “Stalk U,” which opens with a
phone ringing and a nervous girl suggesting to
a love interest that they “talk about music and
maybe art.” —Emily Baierl
All things considered, Ghost is a pretty
pleasant way to spend
an hour. It’s one of
those chameleon albums that can just
as easily provide the
backdrop for a half
hour of catching up on e-mail as it can wake you
up and make you listen. Most of the 12 songs
pair catchy, upbeat tunes with Devine’s earnest
explorations of timeless if somewhat worn-out
themes like substance abuse and the search for
something meaningful in life. While Devine’s
take is worth a listen, self-righteous quasi-political lines like, “And if our constant choice is skimming past the writing on the wall/Then I’m sad
to say we’re lost and I’m embarrassed for us all,”
occasionally detract from his likability, and he
has a tendency to wallow in breathless teenage
poetry, in songs like “Billion Bees.” But the band
plays tight, folk-laced rock, even if it’s not the
most original stuff you’ll ever hear, and Devine’s
insights can be dead-on. The combination is
most effective in songs like “You’ll Only End up
Joining Them” and “Me & My Friends.” Put Your
Ghost to Rest won’t blow your mind or change
your life, but if you like your rock melodic and
inward-gazing, give it a shot. —Hannah Perry
11
film
A Ray of Hope for Indie Movies
Little Miss Sunshine’s producers discuss the state of independent cinema
The original cast of Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs was deemed to be too demonically ferocious to engender the sympathy the film required that the audience afford
its characters. To this day, replacing Abigail Breslin with Michael Madsen remains the
greatest blunder of Tarantino’s career.
L
12
ittle Miss Sunshine is a movie that embraces all the tropes of independent
film—quirky characters, graphic drug use, and heady ruminations on esoteric intellectuals such as Nietzche or Proust. But despite this stigma, the
movie has been a massive success, and is now well on its way to grossing $60 million.
This begs the question—is independent film the new Hollywood? Has the independent sleeper become a summer tradition? Or is Little Miss Sunshine just a fluke of
good writing, perfect casting, and an audience tired of phantasmagoric blockbusters?
The film’s producers, Jeb Brody and Peter Saraf, considered these questions in the
brightly lit NoHo loft that houses their production company, Big Beach Films. With
a bouncy red couch, mini-basketball hoop, and pineapple plants lining the windows,
the place evokes an IKEA living room more than a self-serious indie film company.
It’s clear that their casual, fun attitude towards decor also carries over into their perspectives on movies.
Saraf noted that Little Miss Sunshine does have a wider appeal than typical independent movies. “Independent films are usually films that are made for a certain
segment of an audience, like the arthouse crowd or the queer community. With Little
Miss Sunshine, you could read it as a broad comedy. What we aimed for was a lot of
layers and a lot of depth. It’s a comic-drama,” Saraf said. The all-inclusive appeal is
certainly apparent in the film’s quiet success—it has the best per-theater average of
any Fox Searchlight release.
Brody elaborated upon the remarkable and atypical audience that the movie pulls
in. “The most unexpected reaction we received was from women over 60. The older
generation loves this movie,” Brody said.
Saraf added, “There was a lot that could potentially offend an older audience, but
it goes to show how cautious we are, and how we underestimated their potential to
get past a few ‘fucks’ and Grandpa’s heroin use.”
The indie—once the domain of the disillusioned twentysomething hipster—is
now opening up to soccer moms and senior citizens. With the deluge of independent
fare that overwhelmed last years’ Oscars, the question of such movies is all the more
pressing. Saraf’s take was that “the lines between independent and studio fare are
increasingly blurred because specialized film companies are now owned by larger
studios.”
This doesn’t necessarily mean that it becomes easier to produce independent
films today—almost every article published on Little Miss Sunshine has noted the five
years it took to get the ball rolling. Marc Turtletaub’s previous LA-based company,
Deep River, had the script in development for several years before Big Beach Films
was formed to take over the project. The producers declare that it was absolutely essential to maintain the integrity of the script. “This is a movie you can’t change,” Saraf
said, “[Following the film’s success at Sundance], we had the luxury of choosing from
several distribution companies, but we went with Fox Searchlight because they were
the best at handling this specific film—they got it.”
Being picked up by a distribution company was by no means the end of the road,
as some serious luck played a huge role. Although Saraf said, “When you look at the
history of independent films, we were risking a lot by not having big name recognition,” the ninth inning stardom of cast member Steve Carell didn’t hurt. The producers also stressed the talents of the production team. Jonathan Dayton and Valerie
Faris not only directed with sincerity and finesse, but were, as Brody said, “directors
with a wonderful sense of music.” Their backgrounds as music video directors led
them to pull in pieces from Sufjan Stevens and Devotchka to underscore the emotional road trip of Little Miss Sunshine.
On a more humorous note, the producers also complimented the talents of choreographer Marguerite Derricks, who orchestrated the finer details of Abigail Breslin’s dance to “Superfreak.” Saraf argued, “the challenge of the dance was it had to be
shocking enough to offend the pageant goers, but charming enough to be fun for the
audience.”
But the quiet afterglow of commercial success hasn’t lulled either Brody or Saraf
into complacency. Brody’s latest film was the recent Sherrybaby, and the duo is also
set to produce the newest project from Big Beach Films, Sunshine Cleaning, which
begins shooting next February with Amy Adams set to star. If the big studios are still
cocooned in the delusion that size matters, Big Beach guarantees they won’t be for
too much longer.
PHOTO: FOX SEARCHLIGHT
By Jessica Ling
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Slavery Is So Not Hot
By Michael Dreyfuss
The Minutemen, restless since the erection of the new
fence along the border between Mexico and America,
have begun to take their brand of bigotry global.
If protesting the Minuteman Project gets your
panties in a twist, you’ll
find it hard to stay put during Catch a Fire. Based on
the true story of Patrick
Chamusso, a black man in
Apartheid South Africa,
the film depicts a man experiencing the injustice of
a political system that offers him no rights. In the
hands of esteemed director Phillip Noyce, Catch a
Fire elegantly draws you in
through the psychological shifts that come from Patrick’s abuse under the racist system.
Patrick (Derek Luke, in a commanding performance that begs to raise his profile)
starts with a passive acceptance of his situation South Africa. You respect him because he
is levelheaded and calm while others aspire to destroy the country and praise those who
succeed. He and his friends are wrongfully accused of a terrorist act, taken prisoner by
the government, tortured for weeks, and thoroughly stripped of their humanity. His passivity naturally evolves into an aggressive reaction toward the system. When he is finally
released, Patrick is fully committed to ending Apartheid. He is unable to maintain his passivity in the face of such abuse and cruelty, so he joins a rebel organization aimed at instating a new government and ending Apartheid through violent means. While committed to
the use of violence for his cause, he is not irrationally hateful. His ultimate goal is clearly
to obtain civil rights for the majority of South Africans—Patrick’s decisions become, in
light of his harsh experience, understandable if nothing else.
The film refuses to promote active vengeance as a solution to political problems.
Patrick is not a vindictive person,
and by far the strongest thing his is
able to do is forgive the country that
has caused him so much pain. Once
CATCH A FIRE
Apartheid ends, he struggles to overFOCUS FEATURES
come his desire to seek revenge. He
realizes that, in order to establish a
lasting peace in the country, he must let go of his grievous past and move the country to
racial unity.
While examining the anger of an individual in a harsh situation, Catch a Fire reminds
viewers that the world is not black and white (expressed literally via whites who sympathize with the rebel organization, and blacks who work for the government). The black
population experienced the oppression, but just as their color was an arbitrary reason for
their inequality, the film portrays the Patrick’s experience, as well as life under Apartheid,
as deserving the sympathy of all humanity. —Michael Dreyfuss
PHOTOS: (TOP) FOCUS FEATURES (BOTTOM, LEFT TO RIGHT) NEWMARKET FILMS, MIRAMAX FILMS
Take That, Zapruder!
Chicks Shamed by Bush
By Jennifer Mayer
By Marta Jakubanis
Despite winning the International Critic’s Prize at the Toronto Film Festival, chances
are Death of a President won’t be screened anytime soon at George W.’s private theater.
This “docudrama” travels into the future to take a look at the hypothetical Oct. 19,
2007 assassination of President George W. Bush. Using a brew of archival footage of
the president in addition to staged footage with actors, director Gabriel Range gives the
viewer of 2006 a realistic image of the events on and after that fateful day. Yet the bulk of
the film deals not with the fictional bullet that felled our 43rd president or the motivations behind the hit but rather the aftermath of such an event.
Death doesn’t strive to capitalize on its gimmicky premise or to showcase its special
effects. Instead, Range’s intention is to showcase the liberties taken by the government
in the post-Sept. 11, 2001 world. For example, one of Dick Cheney’s first actions after being sworn into office as the 44th president is to legislate what becomes known
as “Patriot III”—a constitutional
amendment giving more freedom
to the government in incriminating and persecuting suspected
DEATH OF A PRESIDENT
terrorists. The dramatic element
NEWMARKET FILMS
of the movie is the conviction of a
Syrian man as the murderer, even
as forensic investigators and prominent FBI employees attest in interviews that there
was not sufficient evidence to convict. Range also does a sufficient job of weaving mystery into his plotline while retaining the integrity of a documentary. The interviewed
parties talk about Bush’s charming, country nature and his composure on the day of the
events. Although it is openly acknowledged by all that he was certainly disliked, those
that “knew him” show the utmost admiration for their departed chief.
Range also cultivates a certain suspense, as the assassination itself is shocking and
horrible no matter your political affiliations. That being said, the film just can’t be taken
at face value as an impartial documentary. Although the dramatic aspect adds to its appeal to today’s viewer, the liberties taken are exaggerated enough that the viewer cannot
be fully wrapped up in the event without repeatedly being reminded of its falsity. Most
egregiously, the acting by most of the interviewees is not always convincing enough
to make us forget that they are performing.
While Death of a President is a
compelling documentary about one
man’s vision of the American future,
it should be appreciated not for its
cinematic coups, but for its comIn the wake of Bush’s
mentary on the post-Sept. 11 world
2007 murder, a largely
and the government we might come
closeted White House
to expect from our country. Range’s
staff finally assumed the
achievement lies in the fact that his
positions their former
narrative is more disturbing than it is
boss had reserved for
fictional. —Jennifer Mayer
“We’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas”—that one
sentence, uttered by Natalie Maines, a member of the best-selling female trio, the
Dixie Chicks, during a London concert in March 2003, was wildly applauded by the
pacifist British audience. After being quoted by the next day’s issue of The Guardian,
those words triggered one of the biggest political controversies in recent years. Everything went downhill for the band from there—its status as national-anthem-singing
American sweethearts plummeted overnight, making them
“dumb, unpatriotic bimbos,”
booed by their fans, banned
from country radio stations,
and threatened with mid-performance assassinations. Shut
If blonde hair, prominent breasts, and
Up & Sing, a new documentary
fiercely populist music are considered
by Barbara Kopple and Cecilia
Anti-American these days, patriots
Peck , traces the repercussions
and hipsters have finally found
of this controversial statement
common ground.
up until the release of the band’s
latest album in 2006.
The stir it caused and the consequences for the trio’s career, though obviously the
main focus of the movie, are not the only thing we get to see. The Dixie Chicks are also
shown simply living their lives—having babies, eating, laughing, crying, and, most
importantly, making music—while standing united and strong in their struggle for
freedom of speech.
Even though the movie may seem to fall into the same category as Fahrenheit 9/11,
there is no hidden agenda behind it. By not including a narrative voice and editing
footage from various sources together, Kopple and Peck managed to present the real
story of these women’s ups and downs. It is not a liberal extravaganza designed to bash
our current administration, but
a story of people staying true to
what they believe in, against all
opposition. Thought-provoking
moments that look at the footSHUT UP AND SING
age of George W. Bush claimMIRAMAX FILMS
ing the existence of weapons of
mass destruction in Iraq with
such a deeply rooted conviction, juxtaposed against the shots of fans ragging on the
Chicks for their supposed ignorance and unforgivable lack of faith in the Commander
in Chief speak volumes more about hypocrisy than they do the individuals perpetuating it. Seeing all the hatred they got for being right before the war even started leaves
you questioning the very foundation of America—the right of freedom of expression
without persecution. All that, accompanied with just the perfect songs that will keep
on playing in your head long after you leave the theater, makes Shut Up & Sing so
much more than just a chick flick. —Marta Jakubanis
Floridian Representatives.
13
THE ROLLING EYE
The House Always Wins
Into the Woods
Shannon Donnelly
It was nearing Halloween a couple
years ago when some of my friends
floated the idea of road-tripping to
Camp NoBeBoSco, the Boy Scout
camp where Friday the 13th was
filmed. I’m a horror movie junkie, so
I couldn’t resist visiting Camp Blood.
I had not, unfortunately, taken into
account my irrational fear of the
14
woods.
I grew up watching movies like The Evil Dead, The Blair
Witch Project, Deliverance, and Wrong Turn, so as far as I’m
concerned, nothing good ever happens in the woods. Admittedly, I carry this paranoid sentiment too far—it’s not
completely normal to run on gasoline fumes when traveling
through rural areas because of a sinking feeling that dawdling
at a rest stop will result in one’s grisly demise.
It was still early in the day when we set off for northwestern
New Jersey, home of thick groves of trees and thoroughfares
with charming names like Shades of Death Road. The road
trip, however, ran into a mishap early on when we missed an
exit and blithely kept driving north 60 miles past where we
were supposed to have gotten off, landing in upstate New
York.
60 miles. That’s a navigational fuck-up so large you almost
have to admire it. And, yes, I was the idiot behind the wheel.
Thanks to the unexpected detour, it was quite dark by the
time we rolled into the recreational park where NoBeBoSco is
located. Driving through the park is probably difficult enough
by day. Narrow dirt roads snake through a thicket of trees,
making for hairpin turns and sharp inclines and declines. By
night? Let’s just say our mission to find a horror movie’s filming site was appropriate considering how many horror movies start out this way.
We’d taken two cars for the six of us, and my friends had
unwisely allowed my car to take the lead. My terrible night
vision, god-awful navigational skills, and irrational fear of the
woods kept me too busy fretting about roaming bands of cannibalistic hillbillies to keep an eye out for the barely-marked
sign indicating the road where we should have turned.
An hour later, we pulled over to try and suss out where we
were with a map.
“Okay, so are we on this unmarked dirt road or that unmarked dirt road? Which clump of trees did we just pass?”
We could find neither the camp nor the way back home.
And a quick call to someone’s parents informed us that we
should have been worrying less about cannibalistic hillbillies
and more about the coyotes that run rampant in the area.
Eventually, a decrepit pickup truck ambled by. I shrieked
and grabbed my cannibal-bashin’ baseball bat from the trunk,
while my less tightly-wound companions flagged it down.
When we told the driver where we wanted to go, he
scratched his chin and said, “Well ... you’ve driven two mountains too far—you’re now in Pennsylvania.”
Two thoughts occurred to me at this point: A) we were in a
part of the country where distance is measured in mountains,
and B) my navigational failings had brought us across state
lines twice in one day.
In the end, I learned that the worst thing you’ll find in the
woods is probably a pack of stupid teenagers driving around
recklessly. But that’s still pretty awful, so I stand by my decision to remain a city mouse. At least if I get stabbed to death,
people will hear me scream. They may not do anything about
it—Google “Kitty Genovese” sometime—but damned if they
won’t hear me.
And for the record, we did eventually find Camp Blood.
That part of the story, however, involves illegal trespassing
on private property, so it’ll have to wait until all my pre-law
friends get savvy enough to keep me out of jail.
Come to think of it, a lot of my best stories depend on that.
A Cold Pack of Lies
By Mark Gonzales
“Cold Stone Creamery offers infinite possibilities.”
I have to read it again.
Infinite?
Hardly.
I call Gary “cracker.”
He calls me “creep.”
Or possibly “chink.”
It’s hard to hear over my crying.
“How’s it feel to work for liars?”
Gary feigns ignorance.
“You know they’re lying to America, don’t you?”
Gary asks if I’m going to buy something.
“I’m not buying anything until you acknowledge the
lie.”
His hateful silence will never be forgotten.
“It’s math, Gary. You have x ice cream flavors and
y mix-ins.
There’s a very real limit.”
He tells me that it’s “practically infinite.”
Practically infinite?
Practically infinite!
“What the fuck is that, Gary?!?
I’d expect that shit from the suits,
But not from you.
I trusted you.
I gave you money and you sang for me.
But you’re no different from the rest.
I see that now.”
He throws me out.
If only it were true, Gary.
If only the world was filled with possibilities.
If only infinity equaled a little less than seven hundred and eighty-five thousand four hundred and
sixty-two.
If only I could allow myself to be lied to.
We might have been brothers.
I’m not
even
Chinese,
Gary.
ILLUSTRATION BY JULIE CHUNG
Flavor of Phelps
(Or: I’m Sorry Mr. Bollinger, but I Am for Real)
By Eddie “Nobel” Phelps
(additional reporting by Dan Haley)
Do you ever wonder what it’s like to win a Nobel Prize? Well, it’s kinda like winning $1.37 million.
Actually, it’s exactly like winning $1.37 million.
Sheeet. This is some good stuff. Back in the day, homies were all like: “You ain’t never gon’ make it
Eddie. You ain’t gonna find no correlation between inflation and unemployment.” First they didn’t
want me, now they all on me. Hands everywhere, all want a piece of Eddie Nobel. Well, check yoself. I worked for this $1.37 millie. That’s hard, straight cake, boy. Everyone thinks that just cause
I’m an economist Imma invest it or something. I’m investing in some Jordans, I’ll tell you that
much. Economies of scale? Nah boy, this shit ain’t got no scale. We’re talking yachts, motorboats,
Hummers, and mad, mad bitches. Before I fell into this Nobel cake my budget constraint line for
bitches and ice was nonexistent. Then ... oh snap, I win the Nobel and my budget constraint’s blowing up something serious. We’re on a whole new indifference curve now, boy. 3000% mo’ bitches,
3000% mo’ ice.
I got chains, I got hoes. I got mooooonnnnniieee. Peoples be all up asking me, “You still gonna
teach school, right?” Yeah, Imma teach school. Everytime I walk in the room Imma school everyone. Imma take all yo’ women and then I’ll draw some graphs, let you get some learning while I get
down, Eddie Nobel-style. Jeff Sachs ... you best watch you back, cause I be ridin’.
ice
60
pieces
whole new
indifference curve
2
pieces
old indifference
curve
1
entire female population
of intermediate macro
bitches
eyeSITES
10.26.06>>11.1.06
24-HOUR HALLOWEEN
MARATHON
NEW YORK’S VILLAGE
HALLOWEEN PARADE
OCT. 31
5:45 A.M. ON AMC
Michael Myers—one of the
original on-screen terrors from
before the days of Scream and
Sarah Michelle Gellar—spends
an entire day on television in the
ultimate horror film. Halloween
through Halloween Resurrection
(there are Halloweens 2-5 in there
as well) will be played all day in
order to get you truly pumped
for the holiday. Because it’s really necessary to see six movies
about an escaped mental patient who murdered his sister on
Halloween. What happened to
this day being about free candy
and costumes?
OCT. 31, 7 P.M.
SIXTH AVENUE FROM SPRING STREET
TO 21ST ST.
New York City is known as the city
where all the crazy people come
to live. While one may be able to
live day-to-day pretty comfortably, Halloween is when all the
freaks come out and congregate
at the Village Parade. Nowhere
else can you find more people
in costume, both as participants
and voyeurs. And the subway ride
down is often the most entertaining part of the whole event, trying to find breathing room amid
wings, tails, and other special
accoutrements.
>>
>>
CROBAR AND PINK
ELEPHANT PRESENT
MARKET OF MASSACRES
>>
TOSHI HALLOWEEN PARTY
PARK AVENUE ARMORY
OCT. 28, 9 P.M.
643 PARK AVE. BETWEEN 66TH AND
67TH STREETS
Halloween is notorious for being the day when “good girls”
bring out their inner bad and dress as what some may call sluts. At
Toshi parties, girls aren’t really required to wear much of anything,
as body paint and glitter is the required uniform for the bartenders.
Bringing people from all the nether regions of New York, this is a
surefire out-of-control time, with an open bar, loud music, and nearly
naked people—Toshi’s recipe for success.
15
HALLOWEEN
SPOOKTACULAR ’06
NATIONAL COMEDY THEATRE
OCT. 27 AND OCT. 28, 7:30 AND
9:45 P.M.
347 W. 36TH ST. BETWEEN EIGHTH AND
NINTH AVENUES
Friday the 13th meets Whose
Line is it Anyway? in this improvisational show geared toward
Halloween. Sure to bring out
all the skeletons hidden in the
closet, this Halloween-themed
comedy battle aims to make
Halloween as sugarcoated and
fun as the M&M’s in a trick-ortreater’s pillowcase.
>>
CLEMENTE SOTO VELEZ CULTURAL CENTER
107 SUFFOLK ST.
$20 AFTERNOON, $25 EVENING
This is not your childhood haunted
house with a hand that pokes you or
peeled grapes that are supposed to
be eyeballs. A half hour of terror is
definitely not for the faint of heart (or
stomach) but rather for those truly
looking to get spooked. This interactive experience promises to be a psychologically terrifying experience, as your worst urban horrors are brought to life before your very
eyes in a truly haunted tour.
>>
NIGHTMARE: FACE YOUR FEAR
HAUNTED HOUSE
OCT. 31, 10 P.M.
530 W. 28TH ST. (CROBAR)
527 W. 27TH ST. (PINK ELEPHANT)
21+
Some of the city’s best parties
are at these two downtown locations, which are now out to
cause double trouble on Halloween. Since you’re a little old
to go trick-or-treating (and since
New Yorkers do it at stores as
opposed to houses, which is
just bizarre), spend your evening dancing the night away.
Who knows—maybe there will
be free candy at the end. Or at
least an orange drink.
>>