More and more often we’re given music videos of near-feature length and epic hype that make comment obligatory even for the most unmoved and uninterested viewer. Of the latest in this genre, Lady Gaga‘s hotly-anticipated “Marry the Night”, there’s almost too much to say. Maybe because–for all its length and scenery and dramatic flourish, there’s just too little going on in it. We’ve long since given up on Gaga as an interesting person: the video is a compendium of all the reasons why.
Ballerinas, self-pity, Runaway-sized hype, there’s just something so 2010 about it all: and like all art films, a thing of beauty and a mess of influences. As lovely and cathartic as it might be to watch an artist re-enact past trauma, there’s something a bit stale, a bit self-important–a bit, dare we say, Franco-ist about it all?
It makes you appreciate the sterling advice Joan Rivers gives to Louis C.K. in her letter to him in this month’s GQ: the minute you start thinking you’re the shit, you’ve peaked. The minute you refer to yourself as an artist, you’ve probably lost touch with what the word actually means. ‘Artist’ is something other people call you at least twenty years after you’ve died. One doesn’t warrant it in life, no matter how many trips to the hospital one’s had.
We can only hope that, having made an art film at last, she might finally leave us alone.