New Moon = Women’s Fantasy

undying and undead love in action
undying and undead love, in action

I am a bit too proud to “let it go” when critics pan something I like. So I have to justify, through thought and theory, why something is good. And perhaps I should just let sleeping vampires lie… but I enjoyed almost every minute of New Moon, a movie most critics said was inferior to its predecessor.

So first I must start earlier in the franchise. This past weekend I re-watched Twilight, and was re-creeped out by Edward being such a fucking stalker.

Twilight‘s version of love is deeply melodramatic and unfeminist; but it speaks to cliches that are apparently still quite deeply embedded in little girls. Ed is exactly the kind of guy young women should avoid; he confesses he’s extremely protective of Bella; he watches her while she sleeps without permission; he stares at her unnervingly in public; his moods are unpredictable; he lies to her all the time; he even threatens to fang her. She laps it up. Yet it’s still easy to see why this portrait of clandestine love is appealing. Ed’s single-minded obsession is really hot; who wouldn’t want to be the fixation of a deliciously sexy Victorian goth boy? It also speaks to the narcissism of some types of love; we want to be craved, to be the focus of somebody else’s life. It’s also narcissistic because that consuming sort of love allows us to hide in that love and shut out the universe, thus becoming an excuse for all sorts of selfishness on the lovers’ behalves. The point is, the first movie is pretty fucked up. A better argument than I could ever make regarding this topic is featured in this hilarious youtube mash-up of Buffy and Edward.

Many critics regaled the first Twilight movie for being an ode to teenage love; but for real? Twilight offers mystical magnetism as the only explanation for Bella’s and Edward’s love. B & E apparently have nothing in common, and the only time they are shown to have what looks like a normal conversation occurs during a montage sequence with no sound but the music track. What the two lovers say during pedestrian conversation remains a riddle wrapped inside of a question mark! The only thing those two have in common is that they’d both like to die for each other. Not so realistic, methinks. (Mehopes!)

New Moon, despite featuring further proliferation of the supernatural, portrays the most realistic version of “teenage love.” And it doesn’t take place between Edward and Bella, but between Bella and Jacob the Wolfman. Jacob is such a muscled sweetie-pie, literally an All-American hunk o’ love; maybe our first Native American heartthrob? (Sadly, the actor isn’t really Native American, though he claims to be part Potowatami and Ottowa through his Michigander’s mom side.) Jacob and Bella pursue a common hobby (motorcycles), they take scenic drives, see movies called Facepunch, hang out with friends, etc, and do pretty normal stuff. Their attraction is grounded, it makes sense, and it is no less hot just because it is more realistic. (How could it not be hot? Those MUSCLES! Here is a slideshow of them. [Thanks, Rach])

Next critique: New Moon is long and boring, they say. Well, sure, it’s long, but is it drawn-out? That depends on your perspective. The awkward pauses, long glances and hesitant touches between Bella and her two loves make for luxuriously drawn-out courtship rituals. My sister and I squealed with delight every time it looked like something might happen between the romantic leads.

Which leads me to my next point (bear with me). This movie is fundamentally feminine in perspective and an escape from the drudgery of daily life, like a harlequin romance would be. And that’s why everyone thinks it’s stupid. New Moon really takes female desire seriously; Bella is at the center and the plot turns on her being the fixation of two really hot dudes (one of whom is shirtless in almost every scene). Bella isn’t as good looking as her two love interests; she’s an everygirl. She has brown hair, not blond, thank you very much, and she wears frumpy-ass poofy coats to school. She is the blank page on whom we project ourselves. And you know? This movie’s pace is feminine, as opposed to masculine. Fantasy movies for guys are full of car chases, then some sex scenes, probably some gadget scenes, more sex scenes, battles, etc. This fantasy movie is not so much full of events as it is the possibility of events: again, the luxurious pauses, etc. Desire simmers slightly below boiling for most of the movie, and what we’re left is the possibility of the gratification of desire.

We women just love that. I’d rather use my imagination than see a fantasy created for me on screen; New Moon is all about possibilities, and that’s why I can’t wait to watch it again.

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Ghostdini is sometimes Sexistdini

I am always super-hesitant to comment on, express thoughts about or write up reviews of any albums by a former Wu-Tang Clan member. Peeps have been dedicated to these guys for several decades; I’m a relative new-comer to hiphopdom, and I don’t want to come off sounding stupid about this group of living legends.

That caveat aside, can I just say, I really love “Ghostdini: The Wizard of Poetry?” I know this album is a big departure from previous Ghostface Killah, since it’s more R&B and less hip hop. The album is full of soul samples and catchy hooks; there’s even a classy rag with Estelle. Ghostdini nods to contemporary commercial hip hop (with some auto-tune) but does not cowtow to it; the first few seconds of the first track punches you with a RUN-DMCesque sample, asserting that this is still the work of a hard Shaolin mofo. Among the album’s curiosities, the song “She’s a Killah,” is a surprise and a half. Part party jam (complete with Patron reference, homies sayin’ “Oh!”) and part call to prayer (a minaret warble like something from Radio Algeria), this song has the most creative use of auto-tune I’ve heard yet. You really have to hear it to believe it.

Ghostface and all his guest artists on Ghostdini are all like, oh, baby baby, let’s make love, I’m so tender, I love this baby we’re makin’ together, blah blah.

So if you love ladies so much, Ghostface (aka Dennis), why you gotta be like: “That’s what’s wrong with our people and shit… They put our women equal to men. We’re not equal.” ?????

You will be amazed at how much he trails off mid-sentence and says “n shit…” in this video. Pretty sure he smoked an acre of weed the morning of that interview. This is a dude who makes his money off his way with words and calls himself a ‘Wizard of Poetry,’ though you wouldn’t know it from all the shit he talks n shit in this video, n shit. He rambles incoherently for a little while until he begins ranting about promiscuity in women:  suddenly he has amazing clarity about the mathematics of hoe-dom: 12 men a year x a couple years = Ghostface will “never wife” a lady who done that.

WHY GHOSTFACE WHY? The only thing I will give him credit for is at least he is logically consistent. Right wingers, MTV and most of America reinforce a chastity double-standards (women who have sex = shameless sluts, men who have sex = celebrated as paragons of their gender) while still pretending to believe in the equality of men and women. Ghostface starts on another principle entirely (inequality) and runs with it.

Dude, if a lady you were interested in were to see this video, you’d definitely have to ask her for a “Do Over.”

The Hegelian Dialectic and “Indie”

If I were alive today, I would most likely be in the "thesis" contingent of indie--I'm sentimental like that. Loved Garden State.
Yo, I'm Hegel. If I were alive today, I would most likely be in the "thesis" contingent of indie--I'm sentimental like that. Garden State showed so much Spirit manifest.

A long time ago, there was this guy Hegel. He really lit the world of ideas on fire back in the 19th Century; the burgeoning Russian upper-class began to see God’s will manifest in something so insignificant as dropping their coat (Pretty sure Isaiah Berlin quoted Herzen something along these lines in Russian Thinkers); French people really got off on the triad [thesis, antithesis, synthesis] and still make their college students write papers according to Hegel’s system; Marxists adopted the triad combined with a de-mystified version of his concept of history in order to patent their philosophy of history [roughly: society progresses from feudalism to industrialization to the ideal state of communism]–we call that historical materialism; blah blah.

Don’t quote me on any of that stuff–I’ve been out of grad school for a while now. The point is, Hegel: big deal.

Regardless of whether or not you are a dialectical materialist, a believer in the Absolute Spirit, or whatever, it’s easy to see the appeal of his dialectic. It offers a clear way to organize the universe, whether you use it as a way to develop an academic theory (as they do in France) or as a way to conceptualize history and reality.

It works especially well when discussing warring factions. One example you hear often to explain the dialectic is French Revolution (thesis) to Reign of Terror (antithesis) to establishment of a Constitution (synthesis).

Nitsuh Abebe, a Pitchfork vet, wrote an interesting, at times hilarious, and slightly repetitive reflection on the development of ‘indie’ over the last decade, and what he comes up with is an isolation of the thesis and antithesis of the umbrella music/subculture/lifestyle known as indie. He concludes by saying as long as the tension between thesis and antithesis remains in place, he is excited about the places indie might go in the future.

The thesis:

…(S)oon enough any film, book, or cultural product that came anywhere near a certain sensibility– anything anyone would describe as “quirky” or cleverish or tender– fell in the indie bucket, too: Garden State with its hilarious Shins scene, Wes Anderson movies, Dave Eggers (??), Juno, Zooey Deschanel’s general existence, private colleges, button shirts, the Internet, IKEA, Miracle Whip, literacy, you tell me.

The antithesis: People who hate that (above listed) shit.

Yeah, his antithesis is pretty ill-defined, but I knew what he was talking about, because if I’m in the anti- category. Come to think of it, I don’t think any of my friends are in the thesis camp, and I suspect that the “I’m special” part of all of us is more attracted to being contrary.

Maybe I can use Abebe’s words to better describe the antithesis:

Stephenie Meyer, author of Twilight, not often accused of lacking insight into the hearts of America’s young, just told the world what her favorite records were this summer– Grizzly Bear and Animal Collective among them. (Do you think that’s awesome, or does it make you want to listen to nothing but rap mixtapes and noise?)

It makes me listen to rap mixtapes.

I wish Abebe had mentioned all the good reasons the anti- faction have to react. He makes it out to be a matter of aesthetics: the twee v. the hardcore. Sure, he had limited space, and summed it up pretty good. But here’s my two cents.

In about 2006, I totally rebelled against indie. I was never into precious things, never into quirky sadness. Nevertheless, I was pretty indie for a little while.

But soon I rebelled against the whole gender politics of the situation. Indie, to me, was a boy’s game. Drinking PBRs, smoking Parliaments, sweating, flannel shirting, smirking, having a generally subversive manner–these activites are all becoming on men in certain circles. Women were/are expected to admire this, but not to have an active role.

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that since the middle of this decade, women have made significant in-ways in the indie world.  We didn’t have a riot grrl movement, but at least Sleater Kinney existed most of this decade. Awesome bands like Electrelane and the Long Blondes (both British, incidentally) came and went, and today we’ve got Bat For Lashes and St. Vincent. I could mention Cat Power, because Chan Marshall is totally famous, but I don’t really like her music, and I can’t count Neko Case, cuz she ain’t indie but country, which is a genre that makes room for robustly voiced women. Pfork and the indie world sing the praises of the afore mentioned artists, (though in different language than would be used for male musicians/songwriters, but you know, I deal). (On second thought, I don’t really deal, but I don’t want to talk about that now.)

So things are going better for women lately. But back then, it sure didn’t feel like it. Me and Cate would play shows and everyone would pat us on the back and tell us in warm, slightly surprised tones how good we were. I just didn’t belong to the club, I wasn’t a dude, and I didn’t want have anything to do with it after that.

Then I started listening to NaS, and the rest is history.

But probably fewer people have visceral hatred of certain kinds of indie because of gender and more because of tacit class hatred.

If the bands Abebe lists–the Shins, B&S, Yo La Tengo, whatevs–are the poster children of thesis indie, then these people clearly have no real problems. They whine about feelings. Their life goals include being cute and finding love. They are very rarely political and very often trivial. As Abebe mentions numerous times, thesis indie is polite. He doesn’t come right out there and its also trite; in many ways, it reflects the anxieties, hopes, fears, etc, of a certain average middle class, middle American white hipster. So that’s kinda lame. Even if we are a middle class, middle American white hipster (I know I am!), we want to distance ourselves from the identity… no?

So what’s the synthesis? Will thesis indie start being recognized as too commercial, co-opted as it is by advertising to sell shit to us? Will people distance themselves from Converse (owned by Nike) and tight jeans (cranked out by the ton in Romanian sweatshops)? Will antithesis indie and its slightly more anarchic leanings win out? Is there any meaningful combination of the two? Something they can learn from eachother?

Though Abebe doesn’t formulate the questions quite like I just did, I think nuggets of his argument show what the future holds. Youth culture used to be about finding something different, something new, something untread and uncodified by corporations, your parents, ideologies. You know, that’s what punk is supposed to be about. If thesis indie people are satisfied with their taste being arbitrated by advertisers, well, that means culture is pretty much dead. But it would inevitably, in a corporate and compromised state, fade from cultural relevance: it would be the soundtrack to the lives of productive Campus Dems, wearers of Northface and all that shit. If the youth still want to damn the man, well, they’ll find a new way to be hardcore. I’m rooting for the latter instance.

Pitchfork Continually Surprised by Talented Women Musicians

Pretty, pretty princess who you maybe could possibly take seriously, i mean, if you're into the earth mother goddess sort thing, dude.
Pretty, pretty princess whom you maybe could possibly take seriously, i mean, if you're into the earth mother goddess sorta thing, dude.

Like many music enthusiasts in the world, I have a love/hate relationship with Pitchfork. My most exhilarating encounters with music criticism occurred while reading Brent DiCrescenzo’s outrageous (yet emotionally stirring!!!) reviews while I was still in high school. Pitchfork has informed the way I conceptualize music; it created the first paradigm for richly informed, detailed, obsessive music criticism, thereby driving the blurb-driven snark machines of Rolling Stone and Spin into the bitter, bitter dirt of irrelevance.  Also, Pitchfork has contributed to my vision for a blog like this one, in which I deconstruct a Beyonce single in like 1000 words.

Back in 2005, DiCrescenzo wrote a column chronicling various indie prototypes created in Pfork’s reviews, among them an intellectual female artist known as “The Stef,” and the freak-man-boy known as “The Sloth.” In it, he describes Pitchfork writer’s analyses (both underlying and upfront) of women musicians:

Specifically, writers paint Fiona Apple and Cat Power’s Chan Marshall as hormonally capricious victim-savants and read all their lyrics like Psy.D parents unlocking a daughter’s pink diary, while Devendra Banhart’s jabberwocky skews as fecund genius.

and later…

When convenient, male songwriters slip into omniscient skin to amuse and illuminate, while female songwriters meddle in their first-person emotions, unable to escape the black hole of their romantic astrology. Naturally, emotional analysis always overshadows technical musicianship in Stef reviews.

In other words, reviewers focus on the emotional qualities of women artists’ work, while they are more generous with men, granting them agency over their identity.

Too bad no one ever heeded his words over at the magazine. Despite Pfork’s “Best New Music” section featuring a larger proportion of women-led acts than perhaps ever before, the language of the reviews stirs in me a reaction similar to that of feminist bloggersresponses to The New Republic’s recent profile of Sonya Sotomayor. (That’s a whole ‘nother controversy, but one that revolves around the reading of a female subject through a lens of motherhood and unhinged emotionality.) Do a close, or fuck, a distant reading of some of these reviews, and all the acceptable feminine identities are neatly rolled out in a matter of four goddamn sentences, then the woman artist in question will be shoved into each and every niche, until she is a sex symbol, a princess (!!), a mother, and an earth-goddess.

So, czech out the latest example, from the review of St. Vincent’s Actor.

Annie Clark, the musician otherwise known as St. Vincent, projects an aura of eerie perfection– beautiful, poised, good-humored, and well-adjusted to a degree uncommon for rock performers, let alone ordinary people. She’s clearly not oblivious to her disarming qualities. On the covers of both her albums, her wide eyes and porcelain features give her the appearance of a cartoon princess come to life, and in the songs contained therein, she sings with the measured, patient tones of a benevolent, maternal authority figure. The thing that separates Clark from any number of earth mother Lilith Fair types, however, is her eagerness to subvert that effect. Her album covers may showcase her pretty face, but her blank expression and the tight framing leave the images feeling uncomfortably ambiguous. Her voice and arrangements are often mellow and soothing, but those sounds mainly serve as context as she exposes undercurrents of anxiety and discomfort hidden just beneath a gorgeous façade.

Clearly, St. Vincent has an authoritative presence; but the critic here qualifies her assertive vocal tendencies as “maternal,” for no reason I can tell other than Ms. Clark has a woman’s voice. And, Lilith Fair? I don’t hear much 90’s lesbian music going on here; St. Vincent is more akin to those indie musicians pushing the classical envelope. Again, the only thing I imagine would conjure such a comparison would be her womanly voice.

Also, she’s a pretty pretty princess.

If Dicrescenzo is arguing that critics assume an insulting lack of agency on the behalf of women artists’ identities, this review pats St. Vincent on the back for being shifty; she has stealthily avoided all the traps pfork has set up for her.

Behold:

With that in mind, the album is perfectly titled, as Actor proves St. Vincent as an artist capable of crafting believable, complicated characters with compassion, insight, and exacting skill.

“Thanks, guys! I am capable!” I’m certain that’s what Ms. Clark was thinking when she read that.

You know who else is capable? Bat For Lashes’ Natasha Khan. Check out the last sentence of the recent review of Two Suns:

Not only does Khan hold her own, there are moments when she holds his, too [on the song The Big Sleep]. That she’s capable of doing so is evidence enough that we should be paying attention.

Apparently Pfork needs a lot of proof from the women artists they review. I find it uncanny, not to mention lazy, that these two reviews end almost identically. Furthermore, the fact that Khan “holds her own” with a man is supposed to prove to us we can pay attention now? Thanks for the permission.

Then again, I am relieved that the critic even came to that conclusion, given his best efforts to totally undermine the seriousness or aesthetic worth of Bat For Lashes in his opening sentence:

Natasha Khan likes pretty things: fur, gold, melody, the moon, feathers, things that sparkle, chords that resolve.

The thing I am most shocked about is the weird lack of awareness running through these articles. Aren’t these music critic dudes at all sensitive to the potentially cringe-inducing usage of words like, “capable” or “pretty” or “maternal?” Didn’t these hip young men ever take a gender studies class? Don’t their girlfriends get annoyed with them? Have they ever talked to a woman?

I am not proposing censorship, I am proposing a little sensitivity. I am delighted that women artists are being reviewed favorably by Pfork, but I won’t be satisfied until they apply the language they use in reviews of dude bands/acts to the womenfolk.

Star Trek: The Feminist Generation

I'm understanding, but I'm capable too. Don't fuck with this.
Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

The XX Factor, Slate’s feminist blog and one of the Internet’s foremost feminist blogs, recently ran an interesting analysis of the show Battlestar Gallactica, and asked if the show is indeed as feminist as it is purported to be.

The post veers off from Battlestar and does a spot-on critique of women’s role in the genre of science fiction. However, I’ve got a bone to pick with their mention of Star Trek: The Next Generation, which seems to me an all-too-quick dismissal of the show based on the attire of Deanna Troi.

To fans, this show is simply known as TNG, and I will refer to it as such here on out. I think now and will think forever that TNG is the most politically progressive thing ever shown on television. For those who have not had the pleasure of watching it, please understand that TNG is not about shooting lasers at aliens or fantastic battles in space (well, most of the time). The show is a sincere study of the questions of the universe, including but not limited to: What is being? How do we define humanity? What is the ultimate goal of human existence? It grapples with the delicate balances of interpersonal relationships. It examines the role of humanitarian intervention and asks how best to proceed with interplanetary diplomacy with concern for cultural difference. In short, this show is deep.

As for its take on gender, an old friend once pointed out to me that all the main women characters have jobs that could fall into a stereotyped category, such as care-giver (doctor) or feelings-examiner (counseler).

And as XX points out, Deanna is quite scantily clad, at least in the first season (she is wearing a rather 60’s looking mini-dress), but this omits the fact that Tasha Yar is the CHIEF OF SECURITY in the first season. That’s right–a woman is the pre-Warf head of security! And she’s not just a man in a woman’s body–she can be sexy if she wants to and her toughness is derived from escaping the rape gangs on her civil war-torn home planet. One of the most feminist episodes has to be “Code of Honor” (although, unfortunately, this episode is rather racist, employing stereotypes of macho tribal cultures to heighten our sense of the Enterprises’ progressive attitudes toward gender). When the macho leader of the planet arrives on the Enterprise to discuss giving the Federation a much-needed vaccine, he becomes enchanted by Tasha Yar’s strength. He explains that on his planet, women aren’t in positions of military power.

So he kidnaps Tasha and plans to make her his lover. On the macho tribe planet, Tasha goes to battle with leaders lover (and financier) and she TRIUMPHS with weapons she’s never even practiced with before! Jean Luc Picard politely explains to the leader that where he is from, people believe women are just as strong and smart as men. Other characters snicker about the barbarism of a people who could possess such an antiquated attitude.

Too bad Tasha is portrayed by terrible, humorless actor Denise Crosby (who, after being kicked out during the first season, mysteriously returns a few years later to play a Romulan [who turns out to be Tasha Yar’s daughter in a parallel universe, or something like that]). ANYWAY! If you’ve seen nearly every one of the 178 episodes, explaining the plot begins to be a problem.

TNG also tactfully avoids sex and romantic entanglement beyond the PG-13 rating. All characters prioritize their careers above romance, including the women. Women are also to be observed in the highest ranks of Star Fleet, thank you very much.

Finally, the beloved Deanna Troi, though something of a sensitive, new age 90’s stereotype of a person, is a lovely character who derives strength, wisdom and even power from her emotional prowess. We are supposed to value her for her mind, not her bod. In later seasons, Deanna even decides to train in order to captain the ship, if need be. She learns all the technical stuff women aren’t supposed to learn and even trains in combat, all while maintaining her rather feminine mystique.

In other words, TNG is not sexist, but a nuanced portrayal of a team of characters. Most of the time.

Beyonce Slowly Turning into Robot

Darth Vader may be my father too
Darth Vader may be my father too

By now most of you are certainly familiar with the concept of Beyonce’s album I Am…Sasha Fierce. The ‘I Am’ portion, by Beyonce’s own admittance, is the musical revelation of her true self–it’s full of sappy balads and home to the new cathartathon single “Halo.” The other half portrays the aggressive personality ‘Sasha Fierce,’ and is the album portion responsible for the first single “Single Ladies.” Said song is the urban soundtrack du jour, as many a young lady has changed her ringtone to the liberated-woman anthem, providing much needed respite from A Milli’s 2008 ringtone monopoly.

“Single Ladies,” despite its energetic Motown robot-minimalist stomp, is nothing new for the Beyonce oeuvre, as it is basically rewording sentiments previously expressed in “Independent Woman.”

But “Diva,” the new Sasha single, asserts Beyonce’s stardom in new and stark terms. This song and the VIDEO, good lord, are remarkable for a number of reasons. (I apologize for not embedding it directly onto the website; Beyonce and Sony Music won’t let me.) In order to prevent myself from writing a term paper about the video/song onslaught of signifieds, I will break it down into categories:

Musical Inspiration:

This is the most ferocious song Beyonce has had anything to do with to date. Sure, “Upgrade U” was a good old fashioned Jay Z money power jam, and the track was so hot that Wayne sampled it immediately. But “Diva” has the menacing strings of a Southern Siren crunk song–not siren like Odyssean siren, but siren like DMX siren, sirens announcing that a riot is about to burn down your block.

Vocal Motifs:

Beyonce is clearly a little out of her element with all the post-Dizzee vocal swoops going on here. She’s not a rapper, but she’s tapping the market in the absence of a mainstream lady hiphop sensation a la Lil Kim. Diva vocal performances normally entail masterful manipulation of one’s pipes; Beyonce’s vocal track subverts the former concept of “Diva” (for the duration of the song, at least) by having nothing to do with the definition provided for us at the beginning of the video.

Visual Cues:

ROBOT! Constructivist-inspired dresses form an armor on B’s body; her clothes are not garments but architecture–the shape of inhuman things. Where in “Single Ladies” she was wearing essentially a bathing suit and a robot glove, here she’s got a whole arsenal of Blade Runner vests, arches?, jackets, and dresses (and the glove appears briefly for one moment).

Textual Themes:

This song is soooo post-Paper Planes: “This is a stick-up stick-up/Where’re them bags of that money?” But it’s also just Jay Z. What I want to know is how much B had anything to do with the writing of this song. If I were to look at this from a relationship perspective, I would say this song is a reflection of an unfortunate power struggle going on between B and her spouse. The song asserts an equivalency between divas and hustlas, and clearly, Jigga is one of the most notable “hustlas” in the game. It makes me, a feminist, uncomfortable that I have to point out this uncomfortable comparison being drawn between the two. But on the other hand, it’s B who’s saying “A diva is the female version of a hustla/of a hustla/of a hustla.” She is not casting her identity in new terms, she is co-opting one that is already familiar to us. But is this to her detriment or to her advantage? As a feminist, I would have to say it’s to her detriment. B, you can be the best supermegahuge star in the world and not have to be the female version of a hustla! I swear!

But then you could accuse me of narrow-mindedness and a belief in prescribed gender roles for musicians–that is, women can be Divas and men can be Hustlers, but fray not the lines between them. But I ain’t saying B isn’t allowed to be whatever she wants to be, I’m just saying she already is ENUF as it is, without having to add on a hiphop persona.

However, the video would only signify that Beyonce is only in competition with other women, not male superstars like her husband. In the beginning of the video we get a shot of a creepy hairless white mannequin. At the end of the video she slams the door on a trunk-load of white mannequin legs. The video is telling us that Beyonce is no Britney or Lindsey; she smashes the competition, then she lights them on fire. They are all the same! They are dispensable! Exterminate! Delete! Exterminate! Delete! FUTURE BEYONCE: 1 OTHER POP STARS: 0

ROBOT BEYONCE WINS.

Do you like my Kanye glasses? I one-upped his ass.
Do you like my Kanye glasses? I one-upped his ass.