Top Shelf, Low Brow: Singing and Squirting in Beautiful Venice
Top Shelf, Low Brow: Singing and Squirting in Beautiful Venice
Mourning Bennifer 2.0's tragic demise, Nicole Kidman gets nasty in Italy, the tragedy of a Netflix acquisition, Charli XCX's rodent infestation, and more rated Top Shelf to Low Brow!
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You know what they say: You just can’t go wrong with the classics! (That is, unless the classics in discussion are British pop-rock band Chumbawumba’s 1997 hit “Tubthumping” or the 1979 Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie film Don’t Look Now—either of those come on and I’m out the door.) Yes, it’s true, I fibbed a little bit in last weekend’s official relaunch post; I did know when there would be a new Top Shelf, Low Brow roundup edition coming. But it’s important to keep people on their toes, never let ‘em know your next move. You deserve a little surprise on the Saturday of a holiday weekend, anyway. (For those outside of the United States and not celebrating Labor Day…happy regular Saturday, and I’m sorry for writing like an American-centrist pig!)
Lots of new subscribers this week and since the last titular edition of Top Shelf, Low Brow was sent out in April 2022, so here’s a quick rundown of how it works. Each edition compiles a smattering of pop culture moments from the week before the post’s release, and each one is rated either “Top Shelf” or “Low Brow,” using a set of truly baseless criteria: all the information that exists in my cerebrum. It’s not a rigid scale, which is part of the fun. There’s also “The Music Section” and “The Horny Section,” two recurring segments that provide a grounding presence to the most off-the-walls vertical that exists under this newsletter. Alright enough yappin’, let’s get into it!
Top Shelf, Low Brow: August 23-August 31
Bennifer Bounds Bleakly into a Barren and Black, Bottomless Breach
I’m not someone who feels any sort of special, personal connection toward celebrities, but I do think that Jennifer Lopez was supposed to be my aunt. When I look at her, I am keenly aware that there was some clerical mixup on one of the Google Sheets that God uses to track which people are supposed to be closely related. An angel showed up hungover to their shift in Heaven one morning and spilled a canned La Colombe oat milk latte all over a keyboard, causing a big panic and a massive loss of information. Said angel was cast out of Heaven for this—and good, because no punishment is too severe when J.Lo and I were meant to sip eggnog and gossip together every Christmas Eve.
This knowledge, which rests deep in my heart, exists because Jennifer Lopez and I are both hopeless romantics with a penchant for garish displays of artistry. These two facets of our personality can either be complementary or entirely at war with one another, there is never a happy middle ground. Call it the life of an artist, I suppose!
It was a celebration two years ago when Jen announced her second engagement to Ben Affleck. Rekindling a romance 20 years later after you’ve both been through various trials, tribulations, and cinematic flops (The Boy Next Door for J.Lo, everything post-Gone Girl for poor Benny Boy) is the single most dreamy and amorous thing that could ever happen. Lost souls, adrift on life’s endless seas of lovelorn yearning, gained a little bit of much-needed hope: If these two paramours could put their differences aside, reconnect, forgive, and fall back in love, surely it was definitive proof that fate exists and soulmates are real.
But in the immortal words of Cara Quici—the “singer” hired to perform at Aviva Drescher’s anniversary party in Season 5 of Real Housewives of New York—it wasn’t to be. You’ve surely heard the news by now that Jennifer filed for divorce from Ben on August 20 (yes, a few days before this newsletter’s listed coverage dates period begins, but what matters is that we’re addressing it together, not that I am telling you tiny lies…but then again, maybe that’s how most relationships start to fizzle!). This earth-shattering event came after months of the couple looking repulsed by each other’s presence publicly, a great shame after they genuinely seemed enamored with one another in The Greatest Love Story Never Told, Jen’s Prime Video documentary, which I reviewed at The Daily Beast as part of my spontaneous role as our staff’s Jennifer Lopez historian.
It was a duty I took on with humble gratitude, writing investigations about the whereabouts of her missing album This Is Me…Now (which I believe prompted her to announce its release a week later, though I have no concrete proof of this), a review of her line of low-alcohol spritzes, praise for the irrefutable, CGI charm of This Is Me…Now: A Love Story, and a pointed critique of the terrible misfire that was this year’s Atlas, among several other things. I put all of my eggs in Jennifer Lopez’s basket, championing this love story in an entirely parasocial way because, god damn it, I believed in it! I couldn’t even be mad when reps chopped up a quote of mine to fit the documentary’s agenda because it was a matter of the heart I earnestly supported.
But in her newsletter, On The JLo—which, to no one’s surprise but to my chagrin, has all but come to a screeching halt with its delivery rate—Jen’s desperate tone and pleas for peace revealed something far more unsettling happening behind the scenes
“Negativity.” “Drown out.” “Soooo much love.” Five exclamation points. The clamoring for great news of any kind, even if it’s about your absolute dreck of a movie. Things were already amiss in summer’s early days, and because summer is the time when everything changes, they didn’t stand a chance. The writing was on the wall, or perhaps—as J.Lo might say—on the floor.
Speaking of, however, this does present a perfect opportunity for Jennifer Lopez to discover the love that was right there all along: Pitbull. My best friend and I have long theorized that Pitbull has been pulling the strings to play matchmaker for Jen, scheduling the recording sessions for his collabs with her and Marc Antony on the same day in a Parent Trap-esque comedy of follies. At the last second, one of them bails and reschedules, and Mr. Worldwide/Mr. 305’s plans are foiled again. But maybe, just maybe, Jen will seek comfort in her old friend Pitbull, look into the soulful eyes underneath his sunglasses, and find refuge in the rapture of his heart. I know I would.
On one final but related note, Leah Remini and her sexy ass husband of 21 years, Angelo Pagan, are also divorcing. We kid and joke, but this one really did make me sad! I am praying that Jennifer and Leah can put whatever differences they have that have dampened their best friendship aside to be there for each other in this moment.
In the meantime, the life-changing realizations will continue. Jennifer has read Nietzsche’s theories about protection by projection, and the mask is off. Onward we trek.
(Rating: Low Brow, sunk as low as a broken heart)
Who are you calling a RAT?
The Charli XCX (or is it the “xcx” lowercase now? Can she put our a definitive statement on this for writers because this is getting ridiculous—it’s lowercase on her streaming platforms but still in all-caps in other places!) profile in New York magazine is very good. It’s exactly the kind of musician profile that I am desperate to read, because it’s the kind that has gone out of style in recent years. Artists are far too guarded (read: boring) nowadays, preferring perfected PR answers over vulnerable and compelling insights into art and their approach to it.
There used to be a day where you could pick up a magazine at the airport and the cover profile would actually be fucking interesting. I think all the time about the March 2011 cover story that Vogue did on Lady Gaga, where she talks about how she self-soothes by rubbing one foot over the other, and I’ve thought about that every single time I have practiced the same method since. That’s the kind of detail writers should be seeking to uncover, the small minutiae that lend a necessary humanity to a splashy profile. There should be a constant push-pull to keep the reader invested. Frankly, I’m still livid about that egregious profile of Taylor Swift that Time did at the end of 2023. If you want to know if an artist is worth their salt, find out whether they’re someone who bans certain questions or topics in interviews prior to the conversation taking place. (Obviously, within reason.)
The proper response, which Charli practices here, is to welcome those questions being put on the table but to answer them however you like. See: This wise approach to the question about whether “Sympathy is a knife”—one of the best songs of the year, by the way—is about Taylor Swift.
At face value, that might look like media training, but it’s really more of Charli being Charli. She’s not an operator, she’s an orator. She reveals details on her own timeline and within the art. Anything she says is calculated and cunning, but not covert. Charli seems intent on bringing back mystery to pop music, and thank fucking god. Shit was getting so dreadfully dull around here. Well, “mystery” in some cases. The following bit is a perfect addition of colorful detail, but it’s not exactly teeming with casual mystique.
But that’s just what makes Charli so fun to follow and examine! The accompanying layout, shot by David LaChapelle, however…it’s um, fine! Certainly better than most contemporary photo spreads for this kind of thing, but I saw what felt like 3,000 people saying it was LaChapelle’s best work since the early 2000s, which feels like a low bar considering his cover shoots for Megan Thee Stallion and Ice Spice earlier this summer. Megan seeing the response to this cover and swapping it out for a different image for the official version really did tickle me. (That alternate cover LaChapelle shot for Ice Spice’s album was fantastic, though.)
The New York mag cover, however? Well, that’s pure perfection. And positively hysterical to put the word “RAT” on the cover. I don’t care if it works in context, it puts me in stitches either way.
“Rat” is one of the funniest and most scathing things you could ever call someone, by the way. Take that insult to the bank for your next fight. I should know, as it has been a favored term by Katycats, Barbz, and Swifties whenever I write anything remotely critical about their God.
(Rating: Top Shelf, where the rats can’t get any of the food)
Anyone know who this is?
Been trying to work this one out! Pretty sure it’s Courteney Cox but I can’t remember what movie she was in with Adam Driver. Might be Greta Gerwig but I’m not entirely sure. Scarlett Johansson? Fucking god this is hard!!!!!! Uhhh PASS. Next question.
(Rating: Dance in the shadow of the Top Shelf)
Nicole Kidman stars as…
Bodies Bodies Bodies director Halina Rejin’s new film Babygirl has just premiered at the Venice Film Festival, where I, sadly, am not because I still don’t have a passport. (And at my big age too! Although I can travel to Canada or Mexico by land, sooo.) The film stars Nicole Kidman as a high-powered CEO who gets into a torrid and rhapsodic relationship with her much younger intern, played by Harris DickMeSon—oh wait, sorry, Dickinson. Harris Dickinson. Rejin wrote the film with me in mind, which I know just because it’s set during Christmas and stars Nicole Kidman, and I’m going to be ecstatic to add another Kidman-starring holiday thriller to my annual watchlist, double featuring it with Eyes Wide Shut.
If there’s one thing I love about Nicole Kidman—and there are many, hundreds if not thousands—it’s that she is the most fearless actor working today. The very fact that I can mention Eyes Wide Shut in relation to Babygirl is all the proof I’d need to back that statement up, but even a cursory examination Kidman’s filmography will demonstrate its veracity, too. Just the way she talks about Babygirl in this piece for Vanity Fair is raw and exciting. How can you not be foaming at the mouth to see a movie after hearing an actor discuss it like this?
When it came to choreographing the sex scenes, which Reijn captures in radically long takes, safety was emphasized. Kidman and Dickinson worked with intimacy coordinators who could precisely structure a given sequence’s many twists and turns, signaling moments of pleasure, discomfort, and everything in between for the actors to play authentically. These were blocked out in rehearsals and then adjusted during actual production as necessary. When it came down to it, the actors were dialed in, with Reijn’s camera just rolling and rolling. “I never came out of it, really,” Kidman says.
When Kidman digs in, there’s nothing quite like it. “It left me ragged. At some point I was like, I don’t want to be touched. I don’t want to do this anymore, but at the same time I was compelled to do it. Halina would hold me and I would hold her, because it was just very confronting to me,” Kidman says. She admits this remains the case, months after filming: “It’s like, Golly, I’m doing this, and it’s actually now going to be seen by the world. That’s a very weird feeling. This is something you do and hide in your home videos. It is not a thing that normally is going to be seen by the world.”
“I felt very exposed as an actor, as a woman, as a human being,” she continues. “I had to go in and go out like, I need to put my protection back on. What have I just done? Where did I go? What did I do?”
“This is something you do and hide in your home videos” is a banger quote. I love it as an observation because, sadly, the idea of a “home video” seems so obsolete. Everything is buried in our camera roll, and will probably never be stitched together into anything that resembles the compiled vignettes of your traditional home video. She’s touching on a level of intimacy that barely exists now, which is how you know this has the potential to be nerve-shattering.
Meanwhile, there’s this glowing review from someone who was at the Venice screening:
I almost choked to death laughing last night after I took an edible and thought about how funny it would be to see the Babygirl trailer in theaters and a pull quote flashes across the massive screen that just says:
“SQUIRTACIOUS -Variety”
(Rating: Top Me, sorry, Top Me Now, sorry, oh my god, Top Shelf)
Having night terrors where I scroll Twitter and only see “Netflix has acquired distribution rights to this film you are highly anticipating”
I am really looking forward to seeing Maria, Pablo Larraín’s upcoming film starring Angelina Jolie as opera legend Maria Callas. Surely, a movie depicting the final days of such an enigmatic and important figure deserves to be seen on a screen as large and grand as Callas’ beloved voice. Which is why I think it’s awesome that you’ll get to watch it on your phone.
Yes, Netflix has unfortunately acquired the United States distribution rights for Maria. And though the film premiered to initially mixed reviews out of Venice, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s devastating that this film will likely receive a one-week qualifying theatrical window in a few major cities to make sure Jolie will be able to snag her Oscar nom, per Academy rules.
Accessibility is an essential part of getting films seen, but the Netflix model makes things murky. Their reluctance to back films for theatrical screenings is relentlessly disappointing, and a movie like May December being dumped onto their service after a microscopic theatrical run a few weeks earlier will never cease to baffle me. There is no doubt in my mind that the Netflix release hampered the film’s Oscar chances, never mind that it created a whole slew of unnecessary discourse that kept the actual thematic meat of the film distant from so many viewers. Logging onto Twitter last December was like cannonballing into a vat of toxic sludge and backstroking through absolutely braindead takes from the daftest people you’ve ever seen. I’m not saying that everyone with a Netflix subscription is uneducated, but rather that the Netflix model contributes to the occasional degradation of films that need to be considered more deeply than, say, Bird Box. And while I doubt Maria will be quite as prickly, it’s no less aggravating that it will meet the same fate.
I remember what it was like to watch Larraín’s gorgeous Spencer in theaters. I found myself completely entranced by its rhythm and the deeply felt emotional sincerity that boiled just under the surface. Kristen Stewart’s tender depiction of a trapped Princess Diana threw me for such a loop that I sobbed during the end credits, on the train ride home, and again in the shower that night. It was a stunning tragedy, and I can’t imagine the experience would’ve been so immersive and affecting had I not seen it in a theater. In my living room, on my large television, sure. Maybe. Probably, even. But I honestly find the idea of hearing Netflix’s ridiculous “TUDUM!” sound before this movie sickening, and the notion of someone watching this in the background while they scroll on their phone positively disastrous.
Anyway, sorry to get so evangelical about the theatrical experience. But I’m a professional critic, what do you expect, really? Speaking of, I’ll be reviewing Maria out of this year’s New York Film Festival, so look out for more sermons in a couple of weeks.
(Rating: Low Brow)
The Horny Section
Speaking of Maria, let’s hear it for Pablo Larraín at the Venice Film Festival everyone!
Oh, I’ll be singing an opera, alright. High notes. Low notes. Up and down the whole register, baby. I have trained my throat for months to prepare.
Willem Dafoe is also in Venice, with photographers shouting to him and calling him “William,” which I would simply never do because I respect and value my man.
The suit…the gap tooth…the fact that he’s 69!!!!
Lil Nas X has only continued his reign of terror over my life in the two years since I’ve written this section of the newsletter. Now if he would just release something! Music, I mean, though I can see how you might misunderstand.
I’m a full six on the Kinsey Scale, but I will admit that seeing Demi Moore photographed in power positions does do something to me. I also trust you’ll all be flocking to see her in The Substance when it’s out September 20!
And finally, I have not seen the remake of The Crow yet, and probably will not unless I have some free time one afternoon and decide to use my Alamo Drafthouse season pass to catch a showing. But I am very much interested in Bill Skarsgård and this glimpse at him training for the film…
The Music Section
FKA Twigs, co-star of The Crow (lucky, brag), has given us the first taste of her new album Eusexua, which is inspired by the rave music in Prague.
Beyond my excitement for Twigs’ return to making her slutty Silent Hill music, I cannot stop quoting this video of her on Jimmy Kimmel. I’m not sure why RuPaul is guest hosting (please don’t tell me, I’d like to go on thinking Ru has trapped Jimmy Kimmel in the basement of his fracking ranch until Kimmel agrees to leave show business, give the talk show to Ru, and spend the rest of his days drillin’ for oil), but I’m glad he was. My boyfriend and I can’t stop saying, “Eusexua.” “Eusexua?” “Eusexua.”
My beloved has been stomping around our home, mad that FKA Twigs can’t banter. “She should’ve responded to, ‘You know, there’s an ointment for that,’ with, ‘Is there an anal option, Ru?’” He’s completely correct, and had Twigs briefed herself on RuPaul’s 10 favorite jokes to cycle between and been ready with that reply, I think RuPaul might’ve laughed so hard that we would’ve witnessed a tragedy on live television. I can see the New York Post headline now:
THE CROAK
British singer causes American drag queen to kick the bucket live on the air, dedicates new album to his memory: “Can I get an amen?”
Elsewhere, MARINA—formerly Marina and the Diamonds—is following in Jennifer Lopez and Coleman Spilde’s footsteps with her own newsletter. I have no recollection of signing up for this, but it somehow reached my inbox, and I was all but sublimated seeing her talk about that horrible double album she did, LOVE + FEAR.
This actually gave Miss Marina some major points with me. I’d love to see more artists talk about their least-favored work so candidly. I will remain a “Handmade Heaven” defender until the day I die, though. She put something special in that one, ancient Greek herbs or something.
While scrolling on Instagram, I have been inundated with ads from MISTR, a sex-positive pharmaceuticals brand (just vomited typing that) ready to ship PrEP and other shit straight to the door of any gay man all around this great nation. Their ads are some of the most atrocious things I’ve ever seen, but I was, unsurprisingly, drawn in by this one featuring Drag Race phenom Roxxxy Andrews.
It wasn’t Roxxxy that stopped me in my tracks, but rather that I thought Roxxxy was burgeoning trash pop sensation and the woman keeping the ugly teeth jewelry industry afloat, Snow Wife. You can’t tell me that Roxxxy and the “Wet Dream” singer don’t bear a striking resemblance.
Speaking of blondes, Kate Hudson has bested Sky Ferreira in their battle of the platinum prima donnas. Hudson officially released her cover of ‘Til Tuesday’s “Voices Carry” this week, ending what I imagine was a years-long race between the two contemporaries to get their cover out first.
I will say that watching Sky perform this live at her Webster Hall show in December was staggering. All love to my cousin Kate Hudson, but you can’t compete where you don’t compare.
Finally, I have listened to “Coke and Mentos” by Harmony around six million times in the last 48 hours. Something really hypnotic about this one. Starts like your average glitchpoppy Alice Glass imitation and then transforms itself into something entirely its own. I can’t get enough of it.
That’s about it for this edition! I’ll leave you with three things. The first is this clip of Glenn Close in the new Lee Daniels horror movie The Deliverance, which I am running to watch on, you guessed it, Netflix.
The second are these pictures of Jamie Lee Curtis flinging herself onto a car while filming Freakier Friday.
The second is a few film recs! Each time a Top Shelf, Low Brow titular edition hits your inbox (and, like I said in the relaunch post, I’m not sure how often that will be, considering that these each take a pretty significant chunk of time), I’ll leave you with a few films to add to your watchlist that I’ve seen recently and would love to endorse.
This week’s Top Shelf, Low Brow film recs:
Ultraviolet (2006): A largely incomprehensible mixture of watered-down computer-generated graphics that make the exterior scenes in Catwoman (2004) look like a fucking cinematic achievement (they kinda are), and Milla Jovovich strutting around, snatchiana, with a sword. So stupid, I loved every second.
Elvira: Mistress of the Dark (1988): Had my first watch of this ever this week and it left me in stitches. Some really unforgettable joke setups here, and the perfect film to hold your hand into horror movie season.
Oddity (2024): Passed up the chance to see this at SXSW this year and have self-flagellating all week with regret. Some of the most finely crafted scenes of horror tension I’ve seen in years, even if the plot around it is a bit more rudimentary and straightforward. Almost had to turn this off because I got so freaked out (had an edible beforehand, though, so.)
Trap (2024): Out on digital now! Far from Shyamalan’s strongest, but a sturdy thriller that really finds its footing when it kicks into its sicko second half. Lady Raven looks like someone Scheana Shay and Woahvicky ran into each other really fast. Josh Hartnett great, Alison Pill better!
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