Madonna, Justin Timberlake, Timbaland – “4 Minutes”

  We start out with Timbaland on a stage somewhere, standing in front of a giant clock display. The clock is supposedly showing us the four minutes that we’ve got left to save the world from… well, it’s never made clear, but it actually appears to be showing us four hours. Unless we’re counting the milliseconds? Why would we count those? Those things only matter in Tom Cruise movies where he has to push an important button right now or Manhattan will be turned into a decaying wasteland, just like the Republican National Convention.

  Odd clock aside, Timbaland is currently invested in making some interesting noises that go along with the ominous opening notes of the song. But more importantly, we get our first images of this creepy triangle-based mass that appears to be eating parts of the set around him. Timbaland doesn’t seem to care, since he’s got the music in him and that’s all that’s important, but we get a close-up of a dusty speaker component that is trembling in fear because he’s further down on the cast list and will probably be the first casualty. (Maybe he should have had a better agent.)

  Brief montage of some gears spinning and cocktails on the verge of being spilled. No idea.

  First image of Madonna, wearing some form-fitting night-night clothes and facing away from us. (I guess we should have purchased the higher-priced concert tickets if we wanted to see more.) Then Justin debuts, again not facing us, wearing basically the same outfit that he has worn since moving on from the Mickey Mouse Club. Interspersed with all the introductions are shots of Timbaland still enjoying the noises that his mouth can make, then we cut to a fancy car rolling towards somewhere.

  Oh look, the car is being pushed by Madonna, now wearing a black outfit that involves parachute pants and a matching puffy blouse that practically scream “1984”. But we can forgive the debatable fashion choice, because you really shouldn’t question couture decisions made by a woman who has thighs capable of repositioning vehicles. (I guess it really does pay off to have a personal trainer who will holler in German and force you to do enough leg lifts that you could raise the Titanic.)

  Okay, I guess Madonna loses interest in impressing us with the number of squat thrusts that she’s apparently done in her day, so she sexily slides off the front of the car onto… a dinner table where a random and sad-looking family is eating leftovers. The family pays no attention to what is actually happening in the real world (do they watch Fox News?), slurping their soup and ignoring the woman on their table who already has more secrets in her parachute pants than they will ever have in their lives.

  Meanwhile, we keep getting quick glimpses of the Triangle Monster munching on everything in its path and not caring what it swallows. I could make a Rush Limbaugh reference, but that would be too easy.

  Madonna marches away from that set where all the lonely people are, and launches into her part of the song. This requires her to wander through a loft apartment where a young couple is preparing for a bath and kissing one another. (No idea, part two.) Cut to Justin in the same apartment, singing to himself in a dirty mirror and admiring his nifty neck-scarf that one would normally wear in an artsy movie where British people talk about nothing and wait for redemption that never comes.

  Cut back to the kissing couple who apparently don’t mind having international superstars show up at unexpected times, and we can see that part of their flesh is missing as they smooch, showing bone and such. This is possibly the least erotic thing I have ever seen, and I’ve been to some very questionable websites. Then we’re back with Madonna somewhere else in the apartment. (Is she in the couple’s bedroom? Not clear, but it’s definitely not a place where she or her staff would ever sleep.)

  Madonna rips off her puffy parachute jacket (my prayers worked!) and possibly straddles the bed, but then we cut to the kissing couple again and they are missing more flesh, so we are now basically watching two of those life-size dissected-body models from high-school biology class sucking face.  With tongues involved. Ugh. This is a world I would not want to save, I don’t care how many minutes we have.

  Then Madonna and Justin meet up and hover around the bed where the Skeletors are procreating, and just as quickly hop out some convenient windows that are nearby. Outside, they find a bunch of cars parked in a haphazard manner, with two guys wearing red plastic doing street moves on top of one of them. This is an additional sign of the apocalypse, so our stars should just keep running, but they don’t. Justin has to get something important out of the trunk of the car where the jacked-up Oompa Loompas are gyrating. (Is it his recording contract? Yeah, probably should grab that.)

  Madonna, on an agenda of her own, as she always is, decides that she needs to jump in and out of some of the cars in a sexy but unclear manner. Not to be outdone, Justin decides to run across the top of the cars using the same mysterious motivation. They manage to meet up in the front seat of one of the cars, where Madonna briefly flirts with Justin, whispering in his ear and either hinting at a future hook-up  or promising that she will one day make a movie that doesn’t require serious editing before it can be released.

  The frolicking with the cars continues for some time, with both of them proving athletic prowess and the ability to strike poses right on the beat, but without anyone explaining the critical bit about what needs to be done to save the world or at least make the two dudes stop dancing on the one car. Those guys really need to find a better purpose in life, because they are just a few online votes away from surpassing The Skeletors as Most Invaluable Players.

  Hold up, now Madonna and Justin have made their way (via modern technology) to a supermarket of some kind. We have an extended scene with the two of them alternately flirting with or threatening the various products lining the shelves of the aisles, nuzzling up to the granola and slapping the canned tuna. They eventually reach the front of the store, where each of them jumps on a conveyor belt at the checkout counters so they can dance while essentially running on a treadmill. (Is it always about physical competitions with Madonna? Honey, can’t you prove your supremacy with a non-strenuous card game or maybe a nice round of Jeopardy?)

  Happily, they both give up with whatever they were trying to accomplish in the checkout lanes at Wal-Mart, and they both suddenly appear on that stage with the clock that I don’t understand. (Timbaland is gone, so he’s probably off at yet another awards show.) Madonna is back in her naughty night-night ensemble, and Justin is back in the outfit that he’s never changed since Mickey.) They are both breaking out some serious dance moves here, but it seems a bit odd that they are rarely in the same shot. Do I smell a contractual clause of some kind? (“I want 36 flavors of vodka in my dressing room, 24 varieties of massage therapists, and only 12 moments when I am in the same room as my co-star.”)

  We have some quick scenes here and there of someone wearing aggressive high-heels and stomping around an office environment. We’ll just assume it’s not Justin. Not that there’s anything wrong with that if it’s really him.

  Wait, now Madonna has just stormed into a public bathroom. She’s back in part of her black outfit, so I’m not sure where this fits in the space-time continuum. And now she’s looking in the mirror and Justin is staring back at her. They do some mess where it appears that they exchange clothing but they really don’t, with each of them throwing the unwanted garments off toward the less-popular toilet stalls. Then they tromp out of the restroom without even bothering to leave a tip for the attendant who is probably hiding in a corner, weeping and wishing that s/he had paid attention to their mother  when she proclaimed “do your homework or you’ll have to listen to people pee for the rest of your life.”

  Okay, NOW we have Madonna and Justin on the same stage at the same time, and they seem to be involved in yet another dance-off. Justin is very good with his street poses and arm-flipping, but he’s up against Madonna, who was already artfully thrusting her crotch when Justin was still trying to figure out which end of his baby bottle offered the most promise. Still, they’re both very energetic  and each manages to hold their own, despite Justin’s insistence that he keep wearing that scarf from the British play where nothing actually happens.

  As we roll to a close, Madge and Just-In start ripping parts of their couture off of each other. In most diva camps, this would result in a drive-by shooting, but they both handle the ripping and flinging in a professional manner. Then Timbaland arrives back from his awards show just long enough to holla “breakdown” on the soundtrack, which sends M and J into overdrive.  They amp up the dance moves, trying once again to prove who has the most flexible whatever while Timbaland makes noises off to the side.  The “oh yeah, we almost forgot about that” Triangle Monster arrives onset and starts chewing the scenery, as well as our illustrious co-stars, causing flesh to disappear without leaving a forwarding address.

  Our last image is of Justin, with an exposed rib cage, leaning in to kiss Madonna, who has an exposed jaw. Just like Romeo and Juliet. Only completely not…

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Timbaland, One Republic - “Apologize”

We start out with a shot of Timbaland sitting at a mixing board in a recording studio, his hand splayed out over the buttons to remind everyone that he has complete control of everything, then we cut to somebody’s anonymous hands playing a piano. (They’re wearing fingerless gloves, so you know they have issues.) Then the camera rolls around a bit, introducing the rest of the band’s feet. (Is the camera person really short?)

We finally get to see some actual faces, first with Timbaland apparently conducting a gospel choir that we can’t see, and then lead singer Ryan Tedder, sitting down and making anguished faces. (I guess it hurts for him to sing.) We study his facial anxiety for a bit, the we check in on some of the other band members, who are basically doing nothing right now and waiting on the more exciting part of the song. (The drummer looks especially peeved, gripping his silent drumsticks like he’s got something lodged somewhere.)

Suddenly, there’s a startling image of a woman’s eyes filling the screen, followed by another startling image of a man who doesn’t own a brush. (Quick jump back to the studio, where the rest of the band is finally getting to play.) Then we’re with the couple again, and the man is approaching the woman as they are attending what might be a prom, a reunion, or an event at a really bad dating service. (Think cheesy decorations and people pretending to be happy when they’re not.)

Speaking of dissatisfaction, the woman is staring at the man with exactly that, although we don’t know why. (I’m guessing the hair.) But before we’re allowed to raise our hands and ask questions, we cut back to the studio where we learn that… the band is still playing and Timbaland is still in control of the entire music scene. I think we’ve got this part down, folks. No need to come back here.

We drop in on the prom again, where Hairy is suddenly smooching on some woman that we don’t know about, in that really dramatic, swoopy way that people kiss when they want other people to know that they are kissing. The first girl watches this with the same dissatisfied air, so she just might be one of those people who can never be happy. (She’s holding a cocktail, so it can’t be all bad, honey.) Another brief snippet of the band, and now Hairy is staring at a blank spot on the floor while some Meatloaf-dude is laughing off to the side.

What the hell? Oh, never mind, I’m not that invested.

And we’re with the band again, where Ryan is still scrunching his face to get those words out. (Might want to see someone about that condition, guy.) The camera pans to the other band members, but no one is doing anything very interesting, so we shuffle off to the prom again. Sadly, Hairy is just standing there and possibly doing deep-breathing exercises. Let’s pick things up, people. We need an explosion or something.

We don’t immediately get one. Instead, we spend some more time in the Jesus and Apostles Recording Studio, where we learn that Ryan might actually be giving birth as he belts out the higher notes of the song. Brief shot of Meatloaf-Guy drunkenly hugging Hairy, so who knows how that’s going to turn out. This is followed shortly by one of the guitar players so bored out of his skull that he’s staring at the ceiling.

Did they just not have a lot of film for this shoot?

Oh, now we’ve got something going on at the prom. It seems that all of the people except Hairy are now frozen in place. I’m fairly certain they’re not playing Simon Says, but I’m not ruling it out. Hairy wanders around the stiff people for a bit, probably wondering if there’s memo he didn’t get. Lo and behold, he finds Unhappy Girl lip-locking with another human statue. I’m guessing she’s moved on from Hairy. Well, she was trying to move on before somebody threw a circuit breaker up in this grill.

Now we have a montage of the band playing and Hairy looking really sad, complete with arm flourishes from Timbaland. Hairy stumbles around until he sees a “Happy New Year!” sign, which somehow signals everybody to unfreeze and continue with the drinking and hooking-up. We end with a clock ticking to zero, Hairy not really learning anything because he still hasn’t brushed his hair, and Ryan gives birth to a final high note before we fade to black.

No final word on Meatloaf. Maybe we’ll learn what happened when he releases his next album, Brat Out of Hell III: I’d Do Anything For Love. Period.


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Timbaland, Justin Timberlake - “Carry Out”

  So we start out with a couple of scantily-clad women bouncing around in front of a giant neon sign for some “Drive-In”. I guess this video was made in California during one of their infamous “rolling brownouts” because the lights keep flickering and it’s really not clear what anyone is doing.

  Then one of the heavy-breathing girls moves out of the way and we can see a second part of the sign which informs us that this Drive-In serves “Hot Cakes”. I think we’re supposed to take that as a not-so-subtle reference to the sluts on parade, but all it did for me was make me want breakfast.

  Now we have some shots of Timbaland and JT standing around, wearing ball caps and leather jackets because the costumer designer on this gig is just really original, we’ve NEVER seen that getup before. I suppose they’re trying to dance in that down-low way where they just sort of twitch, but I may be mistaken.

  This is followed by Timbaland sitting in a car, with some dude that I don’t recognize. I don’t know where JT ran off to, maybe it was time for him to host “Saturday Night Live” again. There are several chicks skating around the car, acting like mobile waitresses trying to take orders on cute little pads, but I seriously doubt any of them can actually write. The waitresses do, however, know how to lean over and practically shove their breasts in the car windows. Everybody needs a skill.

  Oh look, JT’s back, and he and Timbaland are doing the standing around and looking cool thing again. Now it’s time for them to do the “me, you, you, me” part of the song that gets really monotonous. They try to spice it up with some hand movements as they say each word, but it’s not really working out and just looks stupid. Is there actually a director on this video, or is it really somebody’s assistant recording all this on his cheap cell phone?

  Now we’re presented with a montage of lovely ladies cavorting about like their lives depended on it. One poor girl in front of the Drive-In sign starts jerking so wildly that I’m concerned she may have stepped on a fallen power line. There’s another featured “dancer” wearing puffy pink pajamas and wrapped in so many necklaces that I don’t see how she can breathe. Maybe that’s why she drops to all fours and wiggles. The guys think she’s being really sexy but she’s actually motioning for someone to call 9-1-1.

  More montage scenes, with the rolling waitresses still trying to get the order right, some line dancers who are very proud of their crotches, and the boys still thinking that making hand gestures somehow improves the lyrics. And the girls seem very invested in taking off bits of clothing. It’s apparently hot on that stage. The brownouts must be affecting the AC as well as the lights.

  Then we have an extended scene with JT being worshipped by salivating women. First he just stands there while two women paw at him while wearing modified baseball uniforms (meaning panties instead of pants). These two are also trying to lick their lips while looking provocatively at the camera, but they don’t seem to know where the camera is located and they come off as a little simple.

  Then JT apparently gets tired and has to sit in a white chair. As he recuperates, trollops in French-maid outfits proffer him desserts and such. He doesn’t seem to be hungry, so the maids dance around holding the unconsumed food. There’s a close-up of one girl with a cherry in her mouth and a mourning veil over her face. What, was she on her way to a funeral when she got the casting call and she made a U-turn?

  Meanwhile, Timbaland has secured his own chair and his own personal troupe of gyrating hoofers. He shows that he’s a true professional, managing to continue with his singing while yet another horny dancer maps out the side of his head with her tongue. Timbaland doesn’t even blink. Maybe he’s used to this sort of thing happening.

  And once again we have some more of the “me, you, you, me” crap. This time around they’ve decided to just do a whole bunch of jump cuts: Timba and JT with the hand gestures accentuated with leaning left and right to the beat, a really high-strung dancer in red fishnet stockings who is prancing about so energetically that she could probably power the city of San Bernadino, and a whole assortment of lesser-dancers whose signature move is struggling to keep their breasts covered as they twirl.

  Then JT joins the line dancers in front of the Drive-In sign. The girls are all involved in some synchronized choreography that features a lot of squatting and thrusting, but I guess JT didn’t pay attention during rehearsal and is just winging it. He resorts to holding his hands out a lot and stomping his feet around like he just saw a cockroach.

  Cut back over to Timbaland, who is still in his chair. (Maybe he’s anemic?) Here comes face-licker girl again. She must have missed a spot, because she’s back at it with her power-drill tongue while also waving her fanny at the camera. She is VERY talented. I hope she goes far.

  Another long sequence, this one with Timbaland and JT presumably dancing. I’m not really impressed with this “I’m too cool to actually DANCE” style of dancing. They are taking one step forward, bouncing a little bit, then taking another step forward, more bouncing. How do you stay ON the dance floor if you’re doing that? Have these people not seen “Dancing with the Stars?”. They would be SO voted out.

  And yet another montage. (Seriously, there’s no director on this thing, right?) Basically, more of the same stuff. There’s only two new things of any interest. One involves a startling scene where somebody’s leather-clad hips come flying through the air at the camera (was there an explosion?), and a new dancer sporting a giant afro and apparently titillated by the helium in the odd, why-are-they-there balloons floating behind her.

  We wrap it up with Timbaland and JT just standing there, flipping their hands in front of their chests, simulating heartbeats as the final notes of the song play. Great suggestion, guys. Let me just punch the button on my medic alert bracelet. Hopefully, some EMT will race in the door and use those jolting paddles on my chest to try and bring me back to life.

  Because I need it after that mess…


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