The Killers - “Mr. Brightside”

We start off with the band onstage in what looks like a cross between a fancy nightclub, a Chinese Buffet and a bordello. There are lots of people off to one side, lounging around in the V.I.P. area of the buffet, with the women all dressed like unfocused hookers. (So much for not objectifying women, eh? Oh wait, just look at the album cover.) There’s one woman in particular that we are supposed to pay attention to, because the camera keeps doing so. She’s got pale-white, baby-doll skin and enough frizzy white hair to fuel Amsterdam for a month.

Oh wait, was that Eric Roberts sitting in a throne-like chair and wearing a bathrobe? That can’t be good.

Lead singer Brandon finally starts singing, and he makes sure that we can see his snazzy threads, a mix of Willy Wonka and David Bowie going to church. Then we have another shot of Eric, and a shot of Frizzy Hair looking bored because she doesn’t have a gentleman that she can straddle while all of her little slut friends do. Suddenly, Eric throws her an apple, which she happily snatches out of the air with uncontrolled lust.

Frizzy is now inspired to start pawing on a few of the gentleman callers, which in turn inspires her little slut friends to up the ante with their provocative poses and thigh-exposure. It’s suddenly very hot in there as people yearn and stretch and wiggle their tongues. Brandon keeps singing about not wanting to see all this mess, but it doesn’t stop him from looking. He might have some unresolved issues.

Eric throws another apple at Frizzy, since she apparently isn’t being trashy enough. Frizzy gets back to work with latching on to old men while Eric sweats and smiles. Like he’s not creepy enough when he’s dry.

Oh wait, Frizzy and Brandon have run behind a curtain and seem to be back together again, so I don’t know why Brandon is still even singing this song. Hmm. We’ll have to figure that out later, because now all the slut girls dismount from their aging partners and head out to the dance floor. Once there, they start doing some choreography that mostly involves twirling without letting their massive hairdos unravel or the body paint to start flaking off. Whoops, they just lifted their tawdry dresses so we can see their barely-clad crotches. Then they do the same with their hind quarters. That mess was really important to the story.

Quick shot of the patiently waiting but still unattended gentleman callers in the V.I.P. lounge, with the only young one looking a bit too much like LeAnn Rimes for my comfort.

Anyway, while the Slut Dancers finish up waving their love boxes, we cut to an outside balcony where Brandon hooks up with Frizzy again. They clench hands romantically for 3 seconds, then Frizzy runs back inside and hops on Eric’s lap. Frizzy really needs to make up her mind. To be fair, maybe she can’t see with all that hair, so she’s sleeping with everybody just to make sure she gets around to her real boyfriend at some point.

Well, it seems Frizzy can’t keep her eyes off Brandon even while she’s riding Eric, so Eric throws her to the ground. (Don’t worry, the hair cushioned her fall and she’s just fine.) A few scenes later and Frizzy is back with Brandon in another secluded area, but we know not to trust that skank at this point. There’s still a few men hanging around that she hasn’t sampled.

And there she goes, snagging up yet another beau so they can do a sexual tango in some ballroom, which quickly becomes Frizzy and Brandon dancing, then back to Frizzy and Alejandro, then Frizzy and Eric, then back to… oh, who cares. There’s some dancing, people. Accept and move on.

The Waltz of the Multiple Personalities goes on for a bit, with absolutely no resolution so I’m not sure what the point was, then we’re once again on that outside balcony, where it’s now daylight and Brandon is clutching Frizzy, who has managed to find another outfit, probably borrowed from that odd LeAnn Rimes boygirl.

Aw hell, here come the Slut Dancers again, hooking it out to the dance floor even though you know they’ve got to be tired by now. This time they are even more invested in showing us their personal jewelry collections and flashing their underwear at the Peanut Gallery. Some of them even hold one foot over their heads while belching the words of the chorus with their hoo-hoos. It’s really inspiring.

Cut to Eric and Brandon playing chess, because that’s exactly what I would do in the middle of a Chinese Bordello Buffet. I guess Brandon’s not a really good sport, because when he realizes that he’s going to lose he knocks the table over and stomps away in a little snit, while Eric licks his lips and sweats some more.

We end the song with a whirl of images. We have gauzy scenes of a couple getting married but we really can’t see their faces. (If any of the guys are marrying any of the girls up in this place, they better get a pre-nup.) Shots of Brandon and Frizzy having a tender moment, even though we know she’s only resting before she couples with the next man who walks into the place, even if he just needs directions to Wal-Mart. She’ll offer him the bonus plan.

Final shot is of Brandon walking away and leaving little Frizzy, bereft and all alone with just her raging libido and insatiable hair to keep her company. Poor thing. Oh wait, someone else just came through the door. Yay!


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Coldplay - “Viva La Vida”

We start with what looks like the image of an unfolding rose, which is pretty and all, but then it sort of changes into…I don’t know what that is. But before I can figure it out, we cut to lead singer Chris Martin wearing a very serious expression and studying something off to his side that we can’t see. But we can see that something appears to be odd about the texture of the video, and this is confirmed when we get a closeup of somebody banging on a drum, and the drum skin has that crackle effect that was popular on walls a few years ago. Did Martha Stewart direct this video from her prison cell?

Chris sings for a while, as we get quick images of other band members banging and stroking instruments. Then the band members start shoving their guitars and such directly at us, very dramatically, so I’m thinking maybe this thing was supposed to be in 3-D, but somebody forget to do something important. Like make the 3-D work.

The technology glitch apparently doesn’t matter, because Chris is determined for us to get the effect anyway, constantly waving his arms around and thrusting his hands at the camera. He looks a bit overly-frenetic while he’s doing this, and his actions do nothing to dispel the odd rumor I once heard that Chris Martin is actually Paula Abdul on crack.

Chris also likes to bounce. I mean really, really bounce. And thrust about. Incessantly. I understand that the rhythm of the song is infectious, and some people naturally express their appreciation of a good song by shaking their groove thing, but really, Chris, do you need to make it look like you and Gwyneth are procreating another child, this one named Starfruit?

And there he goes with shoving his hands at the camera again. Despite the stirring emotion of the story, this bit of theatricality is starting to annoy me. I don’t like to feel mildly threatened while listening to a pop song with a Spanish title. It’s just not something that I look forward to. So stop it.

Short bit where Chris does pushups incorrectly.

And somebody else keeps banging on a cast-iron bell. Is it time for supper?

Then we slip into the really dramatic part of the song. Everybody is still basically doing the same things, it’s just louder. Oh, and they let us see the screen waving behind them, which has images just like the album cover. That’s a nice touch. I still don’t really understand what this song is about or why the band is dressed in vaguely French-Revolution era couture, but at least the confusion is consistent.

Geez, that one dude really loves that damn bell. I wonder what happened in his childhood that led to this?

Oh no, it appears that Chris may have stepped on a live wire that some idiot left stretched across the stage. His arms are flailing and his eyes are rolling back in his head. Poor guy. I may not care for his dancing, but I certainly don’t wish him electrical harm. That would just be rude.

We cut away to the other band members, all of whom have that requisite “I’m really bored out of my skull but I’m going to pretend like I’m having a swell time when the camera turns my way” look, an expression that all non-lead band members have to learn how to make per union rules. I’m assuming we’re cutting away so that medics can rush out and patch up Chris so he can finish the video shoot. Time is money, people.

Okay, Chris is back singing, and for the first time I notice a giant “V” on part of his shirt that is mostly hidden by his French Lieutenant’s Woman’s jacket. I don’t know if that symbol was always there, or it’s the result of his recent shock therapy, or if he really, really likes sci-fi series concerning Lizard People taking over the planet and making us all wear uninteresting clothing. Whatever the case, Chris has modified his dancing to now emulate a mime who has taken too much sinus medication. Okay, maybe a mime that doesn’t understand he’s not actually supposed to speak.

Then Chris gets a really bad migraine and has to hold his head in his heads. (This is really just not his day.) Luckily, the moment passes just in time for Chris to pretend that he is a marionette during the “puppet on a string” bit of the song. He’s very convincing at not having any life in his body. He must have taken classes or something.

Whoa, where the hell did Chris get all those rubber bracelets? Has Madonna been doing some spring cleaning?

Anyway, the song goes on for a while, with nothing really new to discuss. Chris is still pogo-ing around the stage, the band members are thrusting violin bows and guitar arms at us, and supper is getting cold and the bell-ringer is getting frustrated with our tardiness. (There is one quick shot of Chris singing the “St. Peter” part of the song while grasping at his crotch. I would normally get three paragraphs out of a move like that, but it’s getting late and I don’t have time for that.)

Short update from the Weather Channel. Something about a hurricane headed toward where the band is playing. Then it’s over and no one dies. Yay.

We finally get to that fun group chorus thing at the end where the whole band sings together, and you can see that they were all waiting for this part. The rest of the band goes from Slacker Cool to Glee Club in two seconds, wailing away with really wide mouths and their heads thrown back like they’re in the throes of extreme personal satisfaction. Good for them.

The song ends, and then we get short clips of the individual band members. Each just stands there for a bit, then they look off to the left while what looks like little rose petals fly off their bodies in slow-motion.

I have no idea.

Fin.


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Lady Gaga - “Paparazzi”

Okay, Gaga’s put together another little mini-movie. This one starts out with pretty images of a fancy estate somewhere, complete with well-tended gardens and the absence of anyone wearing non-couture outfits. The title credits roll, and we see that Alexander Skarsgard is also in this. (Eric from “True Blood”! Yay! I hope he exposes as much of himself as Lady Gaga does, because you know she’s going to be waving her hoo-hoo around, whatever the song might be.)

We get scenes inside the house, and it’s clear that whoever lives here makes so much money that they just have to leave stacks of it lying around, they’re so bored with trying to spend it all. Cut to a bedroom, where Lady and Eric are astraddle each other in bed. Sadly, they are both wearing clothes. (Well, in Gaga’s case, she’s typically wearing whatever she could find in Liberace’s tool drawer.)

The two of them are having some insipid conversation about whether or not they love each other, but I’m distracted by Lady’s “tribute to Liza Minelli” wig. Then they smooch for a while, but no fangs appear, so I’m a little disappointed. The love-making gets a little more passionate, which naturally inspires Eric to lift Gaga off the bed and carry her out on a balcony. (Hmm. Does Gaga have something that needs to be aired out?)

He plops her down on a convenient railing that is just the right height for some vertical lovin’, and we suddenly realize that someone is taking pictures of them. Gaga surprisingly gets a little bent out of shape. (Did she hear the cameras? Surely she’s not bothered by them. Girl has cameras over her bidet.) Whatever the case, they tussle a bit and then Gaga slaps Eric. He doesn’t really care for that so he just shoves her ass off the balcony. Oh my.

As Lady Gaga falls, she does a nice tribute to the movie “Vertigo”, complete with dramatic poses and some hand choreography. Cut to Gaga splattered on the pavement below, with paparazzi rushing to take her picture. Even in death, Gaga looks artsy and chic. Newspaper headlines start flashing across the screen, announcing the end of both Lady Gaga and her career. How sad. (Well, except for Madonna.)

Hold up. Looks like Gaga survived, because we next have her being assisted out of a limo and placed in a wheelchair, while she wears a cinnamon bun on her head and happy servants do a line dance. While that mess is going on, we start seeing another Lady Gaga, this one wiggling around on a fancy couch while wearing a modified version of those plastic-ring things used to hold cans of soda together. This Gaga likes to do things with her tongue and show us her pretty leather gloves.

Back to the wheelchair business, where Gaga is being wheeled into (presumably) her house. Just before they cross the threshold, she and her servants do a rousing jazz-hands thing. I don’t know if that was for good luck or they just have the music in them. Anyway, they get her ass inside, and the dancing servants start assisting her with changing her outfit. (I guess she was too tired to go somewhere private and do this.)

Quick shot of a dead Playboy bunny in a bathtub. What in gay hell?

And don’t forget about Couch Gaga, who is still trying to prove something which pretty much requires that she ride that couch like it’s a rodeo and a bull just shot out of a chute. Of course, none of her movements mess up her hairdo, because that would just be too tragic for anyone to take.

Anyway, back at the Rehabilitation Clinic, Gaga is now wearing an outfit inspired by “Metropolis”, and is struggling to get on her feet using little walker things. To provide moral support, more dancers come in from the sides and do a routine. It’s over the top, and I think we can all agree that we will never see a line dance quite like this one again.

Shot of another pretty but dead woman, possibly in the garden. Then we have a dead female impersonator wearing Statue of Liberty headgear. What’s up with these dead people? Somebody around here does not like to be contradicted.

More fun with Couch Gaga, as she continues to get the antique furniture all sticky, and additional shots of glamorous dead people sprawled around the estate. (Oh look, even that nice maid apparently plummeted from an upper floor onto the tiled entryway. I guess she didn’t bring someone’s tea on time.) Wait, now Couch Gaga has some friends joining her on the couch, and they both look like Greg Allman. Then they’re gone. And then they’re back, so inspired by Gaga’s writhing that everyone decides to shove tongues down each others’ throats. How nice.

Oh boy, another Gaga, this one wearing a drug-inspired senorita outfit and marching into a room with a bevy of similarly-dressed attendants. Naturally, it’s time for another line dance, and away they go. If I had to give their routine a name, it would be along the lines of “Reenactment of That Time When the Flock of Psychotic Hummingbirds Attacked Picasso during the Running of the Bulls. Part Two.” Or something like that.

Well, look at that. There’s a third Greg Allman sucking face with Gaga.

Anyway, The Hummingbirds fly back to wherever, and now we have another Gaga. This one also likes doing things with her tongue, and has a fondness for feathery headdresses and tributes to Napoleon’s horse. (This is intercut with shots of more supermodels that will never hit another runway.) There’s also something about Dalmations, but this is very obscure.

And we start to wind things down with Lady Gaga and Eric back together again, no explanation given. His fashion statement in this scene is a metallic eye patch and the lack of pants. Her motif is a Minnie Mouse rip-off paired with odd black lipstick that makes her mouth look tiny. They’re in one of the sitting rooms of the estate, where they have just been brought refreshments by presumably the last surviving member of the household staff.

As newspaper headlines flash that, whoops, our bad, Gaga is really alive and still dominating the entertainment world, Gaga hops up and fixes Eric a nice cocktail. We see her slip what looks like poison into his drink, so I guess she’s not quite over his having tossed her butt over the side of the building, but then she licks the spoon after stirring the concoction. Hmm. Is this going to be a Romeo and Juliet ending? Probably not. Gaga still has a few albums left on her contract.

Gaga prances back over to the couch and hands the drink to Eric and his eye patch. He takes a swig while Gaga patiently sips her own tea, and then he dies, rudely dropping his glass onto the fancy carpet next to his purple silk socks. Gaga grins weirdly, puts her sunglasses on Eric, then slips out of the room to see if the Allman Brothers need anything.

Next we have the police and such checking out Eric’s body, then wheeling it out of the house. Cut to Lady Gaga and her traffic-cone hairdo being escorted to a waiting car while the paparazzi goes crazy with attention and devotion. More newspaper headlines inform us that she’s been found innocent and all is well. But we still end the flick with Gaga and her metal bustier in a police lineup. In typical Gaga fashion, she makes even potential incarceration sexy and fun…



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