MEDIA IMMERSION 002

MEDIA IMMERSION is a collection of thoughts, ideas, and questions about the media I’m consuming. The title is a reference to Degrassi Next Generation, ifykyk.

Japanese poster for The Swimmer

The Swimmer (1968) dir. by Frank Perry

My husband is partially to thank for my enduring love of the moving image. Tracy watches 3-5 films per week and has enough charm to get me to put my book down long enough to indulge in nightly programming. At roughly 9:45 pm on Sunday, Tracy turned on The Swimmer. Mind you, I was already horizontal with a heating pad on my back, facing a joint. My to-do list for the next day was complete; I’d flossed, brushed, washed, lotioned, all of it. But this movie kept me awake. Based on the 12-page short story “The Swimmer” by John Cheever (1964) and starring Burt Lancaster, The Swimmer is a strangely psychosexual film about one man’s “journey home.” Ned embarks on this return trip by swimming in his neighbor’s pools within this elite, white, suburban community. With each dip in the water, we’re introduced to new characters—mostly women who Ned had fucked over, former friends who pity him for an incident that’s never fully explained, and people he owes a great deal of money to—and reality, as well as narrative structure, starts to slip away.

We witness a man become increasingly pathetic, clamoring at the people he hurt in the past. They play along to varying degrees, both in and out of the water, but about 20 minutes into the picture, I realized that there was no redemption coming for Ned. And I liked that. Visually, this movie is a trip. Scenes are fractured, and at times, Ned is superimposed over himself within a single frame. Some shots have a hazy filter that reads less dreamlike and more post-blackout. Relying on Lancaster’s reputation as a hunk, the male body is foregrounded in an almost homoerotic way. His miserable descent on foot and via water is punctuated by an overwhelming visual emphasis on a fleeting body—in the end, Ned’s broad bronzed chest and piercing blue eyes can’t save him from the consequences of his actions. Hell comes to Lancaster in the form of an unwieldy storm, a crowded public pool at the bottom of the hill, and a home that refuses his entry.

I’m tickled by stories that refuse atonement, making a case for community mortification as a kind of deserved purgatory. Ned’s pursuits of self-baptism fall short in the face of people who are sick of his shit.

Lillias White, “Don’t Rain On My Parade”

I watched Funny Girl (1968) for the first time a few nights ago because of this clip. Summarily, Babs’ Fanny Brice is sensational because it’s a deeply embodied, original performance. There’s no arguing against the fact that Streisand gave vocals, glamor, body-comedy, chemistry, full out. Not that the Oscars are a barometer of actual talent, nor have they ever been, but she did win Best Actress at the 41st Academy Awards for this performance!

But back to the above video, I was unfamiliar with Lillias White’s game before my Youtube algorithm suggested this rendition of “Don’t Rain On My Parade.” Performed at an Actors’ Fund benefit production of Funny Girl in 2002, White received a deserved standing ovation for her take on the classic song. The Tony award-winning artist was already a decorated and celebrated theater veteran by the early 2000s. Portraying Dorothy in the 1976 national tour of The Wiz, as well as Calliope in Disney’s Hercules (1997) and Funmilayo in Fela Kuti’s Fela!, White is known for her vocal finesse and potent emotion on stage. After a perfect line reading at 0:47, donning a stunning fuchsia, taffeta halter number with the perfect short, bleached cut, Lillias White successfully breathes new life into a song and a performance that tends to be overwrought. The comments section of this video is filled with people titillated by the idea of White making the selection her own, emphasizing how most singers fail to sing Barbara’s music, resigning to doing an impression of the legend. More microaggressive than complimentary, notes on White’s “sass” are unsuccessful in distracting from the singer’s craft.

I’m less keen on exploring White as a “black Fanny Brice,” and more so interested in this video as a document of a black woman artist rightfully being respected and received for her vocal and performative experimentation.

Must-reads and must-listens:

“If You’re Done Having the Same Conversations about AI…” by Sol Elias

“Pan Africanism under elite capture” by Naila Aroni

Sands Of Time by The SOS Band

When my sister was in her early 20s and I was in my late teens, we spent an exorbitant amount of time running amok around Portland and listening to SOS Band’s Greatest Hits album. We’d grown up on their music, and both of us still jokingly use the group’s songs to measure time. For example, the journey to WinCo on 122nd takes the entirety of “Finest” and “Weekend Girl,” plus about half of “Tell Me If You Still Care.”

Oh Taste and See by Twinkie Clark

This rendition of the gospel standard “O Taste and See” is a testament to Twinkie Clark’s singular musical predilection. Featured on the incendiary 1979 album Praise Belongs to God, the Hammond organ and an electric bass are in accord with Elbernita’s homily. When I close my eyes and listen, I like to imagine myself running in a spiral pattern with my arms in the air.