Tag: Lady Gaga

Tutus and Teardrops… and More

On March 3, 2011

I was expecting saccharine. It wasn’t. I was expecting soppy. It wasn’t. I was expecting cloying. It wasn’t. Billy Elliot is creative, timely, and thought-provoking, as well as being one of the best pieces of musical theater I’ve ever seen. Yes, ever.

Based on the 2000 Oscar-nominated movie, Billy Elliot is the story of a boy in a small town who dreams of being a ballet dancer. Set in northern England against the backdrop of the year-long 1984-1985 strike that saw the decimation of the British mining industry, the film was a cheering portrait of someone beating the (considerable) odds. Musical composer Elton John, book and lyric writer Lee Hall, and director Stephen Daldry saw the rich potential for staging that lay within Hall’s original material, and in the early aughties they set about to transfer the film into the theater. Shortly after its 2005 opening, the production became a major success, spawning productions in Sydney, New York, Melbourne, Chicago, Seoul, as well as a touring show. It won ten Tony Awards in 2009, and has been seen by over six million people around the world. Brought to Toronto by Mirvish Productions, the show is currently on at the Canon Theatre in Toronto through to July 10th.

Billy Elliot opens with black and white footage of British miners from the 40s and 50s, then moves into news clips from the miners’ strike, when the picture becomes decidedly more grim. This prologue sets the stage for the struggle that takes place between miners and police and workers and government, but, in a larger sense, the battle is internal, occurring within the people in a small community whose perceptions of the world around them inevitably, irrevocably alter as a result of new harsh economic realities. It’s not accidental that Billy (Cesar Corrales) starts off in boxing class; he’s going to need to how to throw punches, as well as take them, if he’s going to survive in this harsh world Daldry has painted.

There’s something heartening about the way the English theatre powerhouse portrays this world. He stages even the most basic of scenes – blue collar workers chiding their kids or hoisting signs, or finishing breakfast -with the utmost respect and love. No twee presentation of quaint small town folk, this is a show with balls; people swear (including kids), throw punches, get drunk, and get bloody. In one telling moment, Billy’s Granny (Cynthia Darlow) muses on the abusive marriage she endured. In another, dancing bobbies sing about sending their kids to private schools as they wield batons against striking workers. Maggie Thatcher’s England has never looked less rosy (or more contemporary – I couldn’t help but think of recent scenes in Wisconsin). The story of Billy and his love for dance works as a kind of metaphor for hope and regeneration against decay and inertia. It also offers the solace of arts and culture as a means of not only escape, but more importantly, connection -between people, classes, and communities. Culture isn’t the sole domain of the upper classes, either -in fact, it’s frequently what hold communities that are in flux together. Billy Elliot makes this point again and again. It remains to be seen, however, how many from the opening night audience will be buying tickets to the National Ballet‘s next season. One can only hope.

Complementing the musical’s strong choreography is its gorgeous design, which is highlighted when Billy and friend mischievous Michael (Dillon Stevens) invade the latter’s sisters’ closet, and are soon joined by gigantic dancing dresses (& a cancan-kicking pair of trousers). It’s a fantastic contrast to the bleak town sets and riot scenes and is a wonderful expression of the power of imagination. The surreal staging blended seamlessly with the upbeat pop music and the pre-Gaga theme of being true to yourself, and was a true celebration of what “play” really means, and how important it is to engage in it. The scene ended with some fantastic tap dancing from the two young boys, with Stevens especially stealing the show with his big personality and dynamic stage presence.

Kids feature largely in Billy Elliott, and I was also impressed with the gaggle of little ballerinas who dance both within their own group as well as between riot police, miners, and parents; their delicate, diaphanous, white tutu’d presence is a lovely counterbalance to the heavy textures and drab colours costume designer Nicky Gillibrand layers the adult world in. Choreographer Peter Darling is a complete genius in blending the children’s and adults’ perspectives, seamlessly integrating the two to produce something both deeply unusual and visually sumptuous. Billy Elliott doesn’t shy away from engaging in some surreal eye-play, but it’s part of its magic appeal, and it certainly makes the return to the story -the struggle for Billy to attend the Royal Ballet School – all the more vivid and engaging. As their teacher, Mrs. Wilkinson, Kate Hennig brings a ton of heart, attitude, and no-bs honesty to her role; the exchange she has with Billy’s father (Armand Schultz) on a snowy Christmas Eve doorstep is shattering, and touches at the heart of the class-based issues Billy Elliot revolves around. One isn’t left with any certain answers about who’s right and who’s wrong.

What is certain is that everyone who attended the show’s opening night was leaning over or turning around to get a clear view of Elton John.. His music is stellar, shining as only the score of a true Rocket Man can: ebbing and flowing between aggressive, loud sounds, jaunty pop numbers, and quietly emotional ballads, John shows the full range of his considerable songwriting abilities. Billy Elliot’s score references everything from classical (the choral harmonies at points brought to mind Verdi’s Nabucco and Wagner’s Tannhauser) to rock (especially Queen) to sixties favorites (I swear I could hear The Ronettes hovering around the edges of certain numbers), to other musicals (chiefly Les Miserables), each time breaking and exceeding expectations around what a contemporary musical can and should sound like.

The miners’ song “Once We Were Kings” was an especially powerful moment that showed off both the male ensemble’s strong harmonics as well as John’s profound ability to write operatic, captivating music that works beautifully within set designer Ian MacNeil’s haunting stage setting. Set intentionally after Billy’s big solo number “Electricity” three quarters of the way through the musical, the song is a hymn to the fuel that once fueled a town’s fires, a solemn if proud testament to both the intense toil of a community and the extinguishing of a generation’s “electricity”. The miners’ hats provided a starry (if occasionally blinding) cascade of light into the audience, which is made especially dramatic for the shadowy darkness lighting designer Rick Fisher employs to imitate the effects of journeying deep into the pit. The effect was an eerily powerful symbol of the theme that flashes through Billy Elliott: hope.

It’s that quality, shining as a bright as a lighthouse beam by the musical’s end, that fuels an audience’s fire. Billy’s literal “flying” may be technically impressive but it’s the heart of it that really matters: witnessing his literal soaring, we recognize our own figurative capacity to open to new things, eyes wide open, arms spread wide, ready for take-off. Billy Elliot matters because it shows us the electricity for a new way of being amidst the detritus of the past. This is a Big Musical in every sense, but it never for a moment falls into the hokey theatrics that mar so many efforts of its ilk. Funny, frank, moving, and more than a little profane, Billy Elliot is one theatrical experience that wears its heart on its spit-stained sleeve -even as it tap-dances by you, feathers, blue collar, and all. Hold me closer, tiny dancer… and don’t let go.

(S)He’s a S/He

By Catherine Kustanczy

On November 17, 2010

In art, Europe, fashion, history, theatre

“Onnagata” is a Japanese term used in kabuki theatre that refers to a male performer who would play the female role in a work. In the upcoming Eonnagata, a production created by theatre master Robert Lepage along with dancer Sylvie Guillem and choreographer Russell Maliphant, it becomes a metaphor for the exploration of gender, identity and finding one’s place in the world. Lepage uses the 18th century figure of Charles De Beaumont, who worked in the court of Louis XV a a diplomat and spy. Beaumont, known as the Chevalier d’Eon, was a skilled swordsman, and would don female clothing for his spy missions. At the time of Louis’s death in 1774, he was living in exile in London, but was allowed back to France three years later, where he lived as a woman. Even after his (her?) death in 1810, d’Eon’s gender remained a source of debate, though post mortems confirmed Beaumont was anatomically male – not that genitals can or ever should be a pre-determining factor in terms of individual leaning toward frocks over trousers. Why?

The sense of playfulness and provocation that figured so much in d’Eon’s life seems to have seeped into Eonnnagata, with Lepage blending his keen sense of grand theatricality with Maliphant’s muscular choreography and Guillem’s beautiful dance stylings. The 90-minute piece was produced in 2009 at Sadler’s Wells in London and runs here in Toronto for a quick two-night-run starting tomorrow at the newly-refurbished Sony Centre.

At a recent press conference, Lepage sat like an excited parent, with an elegant Guillem and a serious-looking Maliphant both couched to his right, and the director of Sadler’s Wells to his left. Between snatches of French (pour les journalistes Quebecois) and plenty of smiles, Lepage explained the whys and wherefores of choosing Beaumont as the subject of exploration. His answers were long but fascinating, showing a complete passion for the subject matter as well as its presentation. The Chevalier was “a playful character “, a quality that, one realizes, could just as easily apply to the international theatre artist himself. adding that Beaumont’s life “(has) things to say about …our own lives and energies” as well as “how you deal with the idea of identity, not just gender or sexuality” -but the issue of nationality.

The idea of drawing a base identity from gender is one that’s always fascinated me. How does genitalia dictate life choices? Why should it (they)? Professional choices? Sexual choices? Codes of conduct? Codes of behaviour? Even now, three hundred-plus years after d’Eon has passed, we’re still grappling with this notion, even as we both embrace and revile those who might question the strict rules that govern our ideas around what men and women “should” and “should not” do/ look like / react / choose / play / entertain / act in the world (see last post re: female aggression). I can’t help but think of Patti Smith yowling out “Gloria and posing on the cover of Horses, and the accusations of her being gay that floated around. Similarly, I can recall when Annie Lennox donned a brush cut and a suit for the “Sweet Dreams” video back in the early 80s, with the same (stupid/unfair/ignorant) comment being made about her (and me, because I was a huge fan & wound up emulating my heroine by wearing men’s suits for a time, and yes, eventually chopped my hair off too). Nowadays, Antony Hegarty confronts the construct of gender as rumours about Gaga being a hermaphrodite and good-grief-is-James-Franco-gay?!-isms float about. Despite refreshing attitudes in some quarters, I can’t help but smirk: we just have to label, define, know… don’t we? Arrgh.

Charles de Beaumont, or d’Eon as he was called, didn’t think anyone had to know. He did just as s/he pleased, living a stuffed-full life filled with adventure, tragedy, and more than its fair share of political intrigue. He moved between France and England throughout his/her life, and negotiated important historic/political moments (including handing Canada over to England, natch). A sense of self-assured fluidity pervaded everything the Chevalier touched. Such uncommon magic finds its modern equivalent in an artist like Lepage, who, French-Canadian, gay, internationally-sought, multi-lingual, multi-disciplined, and perpetually costumed (he wears wigs after a childhood case of alopecia), has that same embrace of transformation and changeability. His sizable body of work has taken him between continents and cultures for over three decades; from Canada to the U.S. to Europe to the Far East and back, the Quebec-based Lepage is a man in demand. He’s recently directed opera – the Metropolitan Opera Company’s production of Wagner’s massive Ring cycle (Das Rheingold opened the Met’s season earlier this autumn), the COC’s The Nightingale -and created lauded works like the sprawling, nine-hour Lipsynch (part of last year’s Luminato Festival) as well as The Andersen Project (recently produced by the Canadian Stage Company), among many, many more. I’ve always loved the sense of imagination that is so strikingly present in all of his work; you may not come out of a Lepage production completely soothed, but you will certainly come out stimulated, your eyes full of intriguing images, your head swimming with words, your heart bursting with the moving energy of live performance.

Performing isn’t something Lepage has done a lot of recently. With Eonnagata, he’s returning to the stage, attempting to get away from the yoke of verbal expression he feels has dominated his work. “When I started my work twenty, thirty-some years ago, I was much more physical than verbal, but in time I became way too talkative. Blahblahblah. A lot of physical explorations (were) pushed aside. (Eonnagata) was a good opportunity for me to shut up! I do speak a little bit, but it was good to go back to something I wasn’t necessarily trained. It’s more organic.” I think he hit the nail on the head on why I’ve returned to drawing and painting. There’ something much more raw and primal about movement, pure sound, pure light, and pure… experience.

Russell Maliphant echoed Lepage’s sense of liberation in terms of working on something outside his area of expertise. “Sometimes those things demand something of you, “he explained, “something you haven’t practiced before, and it’s a new challenge as a performer. I haven’t worked with props before, and there’s a variety of props in this. I haven’t done any singing before. I haven’t spoken onstage for twenty-something years, so in all those things, they’re very… challenging and interesting to go to as a performer. They demand you go to a place you wouldn’t go to if you were working in your comfort zone. That’s inspiring.”

Sylvie, looking like a Parisienne version of Anna Wintour sans the sunglasses and frowning, agreed with this sentiment. She was interested in what she called the “theatrical” possibilities inherent in combining the life of a fascinating figure with Japanese theatrical tradition; that sense of exploration extended to the costumes in the show, done by the late, great Alexander McQueen. “I didn’t know (him),” she said wistfully, “but I knew his work, and I could see his crazy poetic imagination. I felt he was the right kind of person to do it.”

Over the course of their first meeting with the British designer, the team introduced the project and their vision of integrating dance, music, and live performance with kabuki theatre. By the second meeting, Guillem say “he understood completely what it was, but he said one thing: ‘If I do it, I want my costumes to be part of the show. I don’t want to be just dressing, I want to be part of the story, part of what you do, part of the character and who he is.'”

Commenting on the finished product, Sylvie’s delicate features lit up. “(McQueen) had poetry, refinement… it’s just what we needed.” If only he had lived to see it!, I wanted to shriek. There’s something about the fluidity of d’Eon’s life, his easy movement between the world of the high court and the streets, his courting of controversy, his dedication to living his life according to his own mores and the price he paid for his choices that I suspect the British designer liked. This, combined with the strong poetic theatricality of three supreme artists like LePage, Guillem, and Maliphant, and … well, McQueen would (does) fit right in. And yet, his untimely end implies he never gave a thought to any kind of legacy. Again, there’s a parallel with Lepage.

“I’ve never considered myself a master,” he said carefully. “I’ve always been very thirsty for learning new things. Certainly this experience with amazing artists is part of my learning process, I’m not somebody who looks back at the past too much… I’m always interested in what’s the next challenge,where I can go, what can push me off track to find a new path. If there’s no putting yourself in danger, it’s not worth it.”

Bravo. Brava? Whatever.

Over. Due.

By Catherine Kustanczy

On May 12, 2010

In opera

Pardon my lack of updates lately. In the midst of mad searching for full-time paid communications work, I’ve had to take on what I’m terming a “joejob” and it’s been very draining to balance that with eagle-eyed job investigating and applying, radio interviewing, and creative pursuits.

A good friend of mine called my return to the joejob a form of graciousness, referencing a beautiful compliment I received on Twitter a few weeks back, in fact. Aw. It doesn’t feel gracious, however; the entire experience is rather more grinding, humiliating, and energy zapping. I have to remind myself every day when I return home, cranky and haggard, that all of this energy expenditure pays off in the form of enablement: to be paid for my talents, and to not lose sight of what it is I really want to be (read: should be) making a living at. Blogging is, I’m coming to realize, a way of reinforcing that commitment and desire, and of fortifying my determination.

So, without further adue, a collection of things that have inspired me the last little while:

Busta Rhymes featuring Swizz Beatz – Stop The PartybyHypetrakI can’t say the sequel to Iron Man completely enthralls me though in all fairness, I haven’t seen it; I just know I’d rather see Robert Downey Jr. without all that metal. He could probably convince me he’s Tony Stark with just tin foil. (I wouldn’t mind borrowing that Iron Man suit to wear to the joejob, however.) I’m tossing around seeing the flick itself, which has garnered mainly good notices (and huge box office). The steampunk-meets-high-tech badass design of Mickey Rourke’s Whiplash might be the tipping point -and who am I kidding? Downey’s good medicine for the weary: if he can rise up, then… ! It’s fanciful, but don’t laugh -it’s also inspiring, kind of like this tune, “Stop The Party”, taken from the movie’s soundtrack. Bouncy and ballsy, it’s a good post-joejob pick-me-up and has some swish, snazzy production courtesy of cutie smarty-pants Swizz Beatz. Nicely done.

Bono and Bob Geldof edited Monday’s edition of The Globe and Mail. This has, as you might imagine, provoked a holy sh**storm of backlash, particularly online, where the blahblahblah-richrockstars-hype-hypocrites-how-dare-theys were out in full force since the announcement of their editorship happened last week. Yawn. I’m just happy it made for damn good reading, and gave voice to a range of activists, artists, and authors we don’t hear from enough in mainstream media, especially in daily North American print. Dear Newspapers Everywhere: do this kind of thing more often. Ignore the haters. It’s good for content, and, as evidenced by the Monday edition’s popularity, good for numbers. Please more.

Brian Eno is curating the Brighton Festival, and people really like it. No wonder. He’s brought a new kind of vision to a town that is hungry for unusual ideas and experiments. I’ve always found Eno a scary genius; when I met him many moon ago, I was so intimidated by his aura of… smart. A skilled, confident, razor-sharp kind of cutting intelligence surrounds him, and I barely got out my name, let alone my hand. Even now, the memory is vaguely chilling. It’s a testament to the residents of Brighton and the surrounding area that they’ve so openly embraced the sorts of brave things Eno has introduced, particularly in, around, and on their public spaces. Kudos to them, and kudos to him. But then, that goes without saying. Durrrrr.

Not all new ideas from respected artists are appreciated, however. Graffiti street sensation Banksy was in Toronto, and did a number of works that were later removed or painted over. The latest work to fall victim to a fellow street artist was a clever Banksy piece showing a man holding a sign that reads “Will Work For Idiots” (which I *cough* relate to); the piece was tagged (yes, tagged) over by a ballsy local. Valid? Invalid? I find the whole thing such a perfect symbol of the focused inward-turned narcissism of the city as to be laughable in a really sad, frustrating way. Torontonians are constantly told the city is “world-class” and “cosmopolitan” -labels I’ve consistently smirked at as they’ve become more widely used (and marketed, and swallowed whole). Really? Ha.

More smirking -but this time in a good way -over a piece in The Atlantic exploring the scary genius of Lady Gaga and her relationship with Pop. The piece takes apart her appeal as both a tastemaker and taste-buster simultaneously. This really, really captures the phenom of Gaga, though I have to admit, I was disappointed the writer (James Parker) didn’t mention Warhol, or later artistic counterparts that have so influenced one Ms. Germanotta. Maybe he were too distracted by the hat or the flaring bra.

Next up: musing on a new documentary about The Doors. When the music’s over… wait. It isn’t. Leave the damn light on.

Song Song Sunday

By Catherine Kustanczy

On April 18, 2010

In opera

Lying in bed mid-morning this sunny Sunday, two thoughts presented themselves: ‘why can’t I go back to sleep?‘ and ‘what the heck is the name of that French-Canadian electro band from the 1980s?‘ Several cups of Bewleys, a plateful of waffles, a scan of the weekend paper and a load of laundry later, I set myself the task of answering the latter question (there is no answer to the former, other than the mysterious wonders of the human body). A bit of snooping, and… voila. I thought of The Box in relation to Gorillaz‘s new single, “Stylo” -there’s that same pulsating beat, that bloopy-bleepy bass, that high-ish, scarily monotone vocal. It’s creepy and compelling all at once.

I have no way of knowing if Damon Albarn et al have heard The Box’s 1980s hit “L’Affaire Dumoutier (Say To Me)“, but I do hear a definition connection between the two:

There’s always been a European sensibility to what Gorillaz do, much in the same way with what Quebecois artists were doing twenty years ago. That spirit of experimentation, of pushing pre-conceived norms, of being… just plain different, feels weirdly duplicated and canned these days; ideas of what constitutes “authentic” within the musical realm are hazy at best.

I type this after an evening of half-observing the Twitter insults flying around over Ke$ha’s appearance on Saturday Night Live between sips of red wine and bites of calamari in a busy trattoria; I couldn’t help but feel compelled to observe the nastiness being hurled at the “garbage chic” singer/songwriter, and feel, at least, a bit sorry for her. Online, the running theme was that she ripped off Lady Gaga, in both sound and appearance. People know -or like to think they know -a fake when they spot it, and yet more often than not, the same fickle public openly applauds pre-conceived, packaged musical figures who’ve been primed to be the sassy “rebel” while simultaneously keeping a well-groomed public persona that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with celebrity. What’s original? What’s a rip-off? Is being obvious a hugely bad thing -especially when put beside artists that look (and, oh yeah, sound) like they’ve dropped out of a machine? I’d argue the online culture has blurred our ideas of what constitutes originality, in both good and bad ways. To borrow Warhol’s phrase, people want their fifteen minutes -but with fifteen different costume changes and a team of publicists, stylists, and hangers-on, ever singing the same damn over-manufactured, cutesy-wootsy, auto-tuned song. Some of us notice.

Incidentally, I remember Madonna’s break-out in the 80s, and her getting the tired old “trashy” / “slut” / “ripoff” insults hurled her way, too. Ergo, there’s something about all the hatred towards Ke$ha that makes her way more interesting to me. Fabulously shabby, awkwardly un-hip, and defiantly dirty, the young singer has less of the Gaga glam that so lends Ms. Germanotta to MAC campaigns and Philip Treacy hats, and more of the desperately young, ambitiously sexy vibe of Madonna’s live performance of “Like A Virgin” from the 1984 MTV Awards. She’s out of tune entirely, gets tangled in the wads of white netting and emanates such a vibe of delicious trashiness, you’ll want to take a shower at the end of it -but you can’t take your eyes off of her, either.

Then again, maybe I’m being an old fart. I do think it’s useful to go back and draw threads from past to present, however obvious, or un-obvious, that may be. Finding an original voice takes time, patience, and most of all, living (especially living away from the nefariously homogenizing forces of the record industry). It makes separating, mixing, kneading, and baking the authentic from the inauthentic that much more rewarding. Imagine a meal in a box; now imagine a meal in the oven. Originality is a tiresome old notion to throw around in the 21st century, but it behooves us to think about it, and how we approach our music, and what we expect from its performers, more carefully. Everything really is everything, as Lauryn Hill sang.

Herewith, a probable inspiration for The Box and Gorillaz -and probably everyone else, too:

Who’s That Girl?

By Catherine Kustanczy

On March 17, 2010

In music

Behold, a very young Lady Gaga pounding out her life’s passion in New York City back in January 2006. I love this video. It shows Ms. Germanotta’s incredible musicianship, strong vocals, and most of all, her absolute dedication to her craft. She’s clearly enjoying the relationships she shares with her bandmates, instrument, and audience. She might seem to be an entirely different beast now, with choreographed dance numbers, flaming bras, big wigs and crazily inspired outfits, but I’d like to believe a true artist’s heart still beats within her Armani-clad chest.

Also: this is one damn catchy tune.

“Look at me now, dahlings!”

Chit-Chat

By Catherine Kustanczy

On March 12, 2010

In opera

The new Lady Gaga video is out. One word: wow.

As with many of her other videos, Gaga is pushing buttons here: ones relating to homosexuality, murder, and even rumors of her own androgyny. Directed and co-written by the award-winning Jonas Akerlund, the video -more of a mini-film -makes clear cultural references across the worlds of film, music, art, and dance. I caught nods to Thelma and Louise, Pulp Fiction, the work of Russ Meyer, Madonna (particularly during her Sex phase), Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein and Keith Haring (with the bright, cartoon-like coloring and innate sense of playfulness), – even the choreography of Twyla Tharp (with the sharp jerky movements and upper body swings), to say nothing of the influence Akerlund’s past work has on the vid. How many “mainstream” pop artists inject so much thought -and creative approach -into their work? And how many (successfuly) incorporate Beyonce into the mix?

Kudos, Gaga. Keep pushing those buttons. The world -especially the pop world -needs it more than ever.

I Wanna Be Your Doll

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 25, 2009

In opera

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

So wrote Oscar Wilde. It seems fitting, the day after Halloween 2009, to think about this quote. Were the ghouls, goblins, and dead Vegas girls running up porches, ringing doorbells, and dancing at parties really make-believe? Or do they reveal something deeper about the wearers? Maybe masks are, to paraphrase Wilde, the truth that dares not speak its name.

I’ve thought about the lines that run between, around, and through notions of play, theatre, past, present, and art a lot lately. As a woman in the twenty-first century, my sense of identity should be more fluid than ever, and yet female image -iconography -feels constricted, claustrophobic, and shrunken. The Irish great may have been using “man” in a general sense, but in considering some recently portrayals of women, I’m coming to believe the masks being presented depend entirely on who is is providing the costuming.

Pop star Lady Gaga has provided no end of interest or amusement for the media-hungry masses. Body stockings, planetary rings, masks -Stefani Germanotta is, in many senses, creating her own personal mythology and wider social iconography in a weirdly similar way to her predecessor, Madonna, who did the same thing over two decades ago. Gaga’s mum may have christened her ambitious daughter with a similarly funny-sad/flaky-weighty nickname, but both have earned their wider social royalty; the latter is making it abundantly clear she never needed a counterpart Lord to have her own title. The clash between the perceived upper echelon of societal position and the Dadaist impulse of giving nonsense names is what Stephanie seems to be aiming at. Maybe. Similarly so Madge, who replaced the outdated, insincere societal version of holiness (and the saintly female icon image) nearly thirty years ago with her own brand of melted-down, rough-soft Pop Culture Femme-Prayer. ‘You may adore me,’ her mask implies, ‘but you will never really know me.’

And so we haven’t, even with babies, charity work, divorce. Madonna is shrewd enough to know that pop culture doesn’t care about the deeply personal, that there’s power in the unknowable. Gaga knows it too. Her hit song “Poker Face” celebrates the power of sexual power at the same time as it shakes hands with Mr. Invisible. Bearing in mind the rough sexual allusions, there’s much to be said for the benefits of maintaining a “pokerface” -it is, after all, another mask. Did we hear Madge respond to ex-husband Guy Ritchie’s inane “gristle” comment with any real growl herself? Maintaining the mask at all costs -even in the face of classless accusations related to pat intimacies -seems to be a necessity for the modern woman.

Cindy Sherman has made a career out of donning masks. Within the California girl, the secretary, the socialite, and the sad clown lives an awe-inspiring range of emotion and experience. This isn’t just about using ingenious costuming, makeup, and photography to capture a “look” -Sherman’s work goes one step further than fashion, turning the “look” into a wider storyline that is frequently disturbing, unnerving, and strangely… real. It’s within the artifice that she finds a kind of truth that speaks to our perceptions around women and their relationships to image. Sherman doesn’t just put something out there to be merely provocative -that’s easy -but to ask questions around ideas of beauty, value, and the hypocritical politics of chauvinistic “inclusion.” She does it in a way that in some ways reminds me of Madge around her Sex book days -willful, angry, daring, fearless, celebratory and challenging.

Seeing Sherman profiled recently on Art 21 (on an episode cleverly titled “Transformation”), I was reminded of something a fellow journalist had written about getting the pop culture we deserve. Publicists and managers now, more than ever, sculpt those in the public eye to be utterly envied, relentless talked about (in good or bad terms), and mercilessly duplicated. How much does someone like Lady Gaga actually control what goes out there? How little? The internet age of music and information consumption has meant that the concept of ‘instantaneous’ has been elevated to an artform. Only yesterday the Globe and Mail featured Halloween costumes that could easily transform you into someone famous. On the cover? Lady Gaga. Duh. Old idea; new ethos. What she is -and I’m still working it out -is somehow far less than what she represents: the colourful, noisy, thighs-splayed busting-open of a modern female identity that is merely an implosion in an old, dirty box marked “hawtness.” In their staged SNL catfight, the first thing Madge grabbed, and kept trying to pull off, was Gaga’s white-blonde wig. Through that small gesture of playful comedy, something whispered, “redefinition, reset, revolution… but only if I’m pulling the strings.” Maybe, as a woman in the twenty-first century, that’s both the beginning, and the end, of escaping that dirty little box, while keeping a poker face firmly, squarely, and sadly, in place.