Lisette Atiyeh's Blog

The Louboutin Lawsuit: Heart and Sole

2012-02-05T12:51:00.000-08:00

Tho' it happened back in August, I am still thinking about Louboutin's red sole lawsuit. We all know what happened: Christian Louboutin sued YSL for copycatting his famous red sole and lost because the judge felt that Louboutin had no right to have a monopoly over one color, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah, despite the fact that Louboutin registered the sole as a trademark years ago. Louboutin rightly continues to fight this fight, and I am completely on his side in this matter. Why? Because it's not really about soles. It's about soul.

If people truly understood the mind -- and heart -- of an artist (a true artist, one who is such to the core), they would realize that this issue is not petty, nor is Louboutin being unreasonable. This isn't a matter of monopolizing a color, it is the unique placement of this color that makes it his intellectual property; he first thought of/exectuted it, so it was, simply, his idea, the brainchild born of his own peculiar creativity. The man built a reputation, a look, a style, and indeed, an empire, out of red soles -- quite literally. He had the sole trademarked because it was his trademark; everyone knew a Louboutin by the famous red sole, and everyone wanted one because of it.

For an artist to see his unique vision knocked off -- yes, I said it, knocked off -- by a competitor, is not only aggravating because of the obvious commercial issue involved; it is aggravating because Louboutin's red sole represents his persona, his vision, his soul, as it were, as an artist. An artist's art, whatever the medium, is an extension of his being and personality, what he stands for, his aesthetic, and his world view. To imitate that is disrespectful and often, unnerving. To adapt someone else's creation for one's own use, benefit, edification, or what have you, is indelicate and tantamout to identity theft. As someone who despises self-profiting copycatting, I would go so far as to argue that such blatant imitation is, artistically speaking, dangerously close to soul stealing. It is unjust, it is ugly, it is twisted, it is hurtful, and it can be frightening.

Because of this, I applaud Louboutin for continuing to fight and defend his work, and I applaud Tiffany & Co. for standing by his side. Obviously, I believe Louboutin should win the case, and not really because he did, legally, copyright the red sole in 2008 (which should, in theory, make this a non-issue). I believe he should win because it's in poor taste to imitate another artist's calling card. As we are emotional, creative human beings, and not unfeeling robots or functional cogs in a machine, the only humane thing to do would be to recognize Louboutin's right to practice his art in his own unique way and award him the suit.

Indeed, art is born of emotion and sentiment. To reduce an artist's claim to a nuts-and-bolts understanding of commerce and the color wheel is not objective and just; it is nearsighted and inhumane. Without quirks, details, and uniqueness, there is no art. If one were to deny Louboutin his right to reestablish the red sole as his alone, one might as well do away with art altogether. Without unique thinkers like Louboutin, art cannot thrive, so the implications of this case reach further than one might think, at the outset. A win for Louboutin would mean a win for art and artists, and as art is both the expression of a society's soul, and the means by which it is nurtured, such a triumph would actually resonate across all human lives, whether they realized it, or not.

- Lisette

One Woman's "Pretty" is Another Woman's "What-Was-She-Thinking-and-Who-Let-Her-Leave-the-House-Looking-Like-That?"

2012-02-03T17:10:00.000-08:00

Where do we draw the line between subjectivity/preference, and complete and utter lack of taste? People often have a reluctance to judge what is sloppily referred to as "taste" because it is supposedly, and sometimes, truly, subjective, personal, a matter of opinion. While differing tastes/preferences do exist, and are valid, as such, I believe there is an objective side to this issue -- the same objectivity that enables Project Runway judges Michael Kors, Nina Garcia, and Heidi Klum to unanimously agree on a given designer's taste level. I believe the key is consistency, or lack thereof.

Consistency is, in turn, related to style, which, of course, touches on matters of taste. It is this that makes us say, "She/he has no taste in clothes," or, perhaps, "She/he has no sense of style." This declaration is often met with a nod of agreement, an eyeroll, and an "mmm-hm" from our fashionable interlocutor, the one whose eyesight has been equally offended by the jumble of faux pas that were bundled together into what the offending wearer dubbed an "outfit."

Yet, this same offender may, once in the bluest of moons, inexplicably don an ensemble that is, to our very great surprise, passable, and in fact, even fetching! After the shock has worn off a little (tho' not entirely, as such a rare occurrence would, understandably, catch us unawares and throw off our equilibrium), our brains get to work: "I don't understand. Miss UglyDuds is wearing a cute outfit. How did she manage that? I thought it was impossible! Maybe a friend helped her. Maybe she got some tips from the personal shoppers at Saks. Maybe..." Gobsmacked, we try to think of explanations for this moment of fashion brilliance. Of course, the moment doesn't last long, as the next time we see Miss UglyDuds, she is back to her usual "bag lady chic" aesthetic. This dichotomy is, in a word, inconsistency. Someone who doesn't have a definite style, or good/refined taste, or an eye, is bound to make inconsistent choices, sometimes yielding good results by sheer chance -- tho', most often, failing -- because there is no real unifying vision, merely a desire to "look good" and an unreciprocated "love" for fashion (or what he/she hazily perceives fashion to be). In fact, due to their lack of vision, the more such ones insist on having a particular style aesthetic, the further away they get from their verbal claim, in actual execution.

Inconsistency is both symptomatic of, and a cause for, the lack of a defined -- and definable -- aesthetic, without which there can be no sense of style or taste. This type of shot-in-the-dark floundering is not to be mistaken for eclecticism or artsiness, tho' it frequently is, both by the offender as well as some misguided onlookers. Eclecticism is a celebration of variety, not confusion, and artsiness relates to creativity, not disunity. (This misinterpretation/misrepresentation is, of course, is an affront to eclectics, whose tastes are sundry, but not random, and to the artistic community, whose pursuit of beauty bears little resemblance to Miss UglyDuds's gallimaufry of garments.) In other words, inconsistency is, simply put, "not good." Born of mindless copycatting, aesthetic deficiency, brainless trend following, or what have you, it is uninspired and ultimately impersonal, and can therefore yield no good lasting results. Thus, inconsistency is the means by which we may judge, objectively, someone's clothing choices and conclude that they "don't dress well."

In the face of such discussions, many would shrug and toss out the old, familiar phrase, "There is no accounting for taste." But, clearly, in this particular case, I believe there is, at least to a degree. And I might argue that there ought to be accountability for it, as well, such as does not allow for unprovoked visual assault, especially when excused by misapplied adjectives and the egregious misuse of English vocabulary.

- Lisette

The Problem with Poseurs

2011-10-12T17:18:00.001-07:00

What is it about poseurs that bugs us so much? Is it their inauthenticity/dishonesty? The idea that they seem to think we don't see through them, that they've put one over on us? Or, is it the fact that they do seem to fool so many people? Or, is it because they seem to travel in packs, all of them browning each other's Pinocchioesque noses? All of the above, most likely. At least, that would be my answer.

In the Land of Poseurs, citizens come in all forms, all of whom are annoying, tho' to differing degrees, to different people. In the interest of time, let us consider two examples, one that particularly irks me being the faux foodie. Said poseur is one who has come late to the gastronomical game, and without any skills, tho' professing many. This type of imposter has a tendency to follow trends, taking them up with such vigor that they appear to be deep-seated passions, both to observers and to the poseur himself. This is the part where genuine foodies get really, really irritated because they truly love food; it is both art and therapy to them, and may, in fact, be tantamount to a lifeline. They watch silently while the faux foodie dazzles people with empty shows of culinary knowledge and prowess, knowing that it's really all smoke and mirrors -- from snuffed candles and shattered looking glasses. They don't buy it, they certainly don't want to eat it, and they can't see why anyone else would. But they do. And they often gleefully follow suit... like lunkheaded lemmings. Those of us who refuse to follow anything -- be it a trend or an order -- that does not sit well with who we are and what we represent, get fighting mad over such displays because they seem to mock our vehement individualism. Where we choose to live honestly, authentically, as staunch individuals, poseurs do not; rather, they choose to live as copycats cloaked in the (knock-off) cat's pajamas. Naturally, this spuriousness is bound to, well, get our backs up.

The artificial Artiste, "with a capital 'A,'" to paraphrase Karnock in A Stolen Life, is another such thorn in the side. This type of wannabe makes it his business to display so-called artistic interests and capabilities, be they in music, painting, dance, fashion, or what have you. He is likely to be found sharing photos of his atrocious watercolors, his favorite being the one of a tumbleweed-tailed bunny in a field, nibbling -- with saber teeth -- on a carrot twice its size. The lack of talent is, however, evident only to a handful, and this, naturally enough, is irksome. Or, you might spot him showcasing his limping Latin dance skills; nobody can do the "syncopated" salsa like he! He basks in the accolades of the undiscerning while the rest of us hold our heads in our hands and pray for the ballroom butchery to end. We hope that withholding positive reinforcement might stop the horror, but it doesn't because it simply isn't needed; this type of poseur gets all the positive reinforcement he needs from his own deluded self, which is, sadly, a never-ending font of encouragement, and one of legendary proportions.

It would appear that there is, really, nothing we can do about it. Against the poseur’s ego, there is no weapon great enough. None, perhaps, except time (tho' this is not at all a certain remedy). So let the poseur paint. Let the clodhopper (lindy) hop. Let the faux foodie dabble in cookery; all it may take is time... and enough kitchen twine to "hang himself with."

- Lisette

Defining "Chic"

2011-10-05T05:38:00.001-07:00

"I mean French is really very easy, for instance the French use the word 'sheik' for everything, while we only seem to use it for gentlemen when they seem to resemble Rudolph Valentino." - Lorelei Lee (from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos)

Aside from the misuse of the word "curvy," I resent the reckless abandon with which the word "chic" is flung about in pop culture these days. The reason for my couturial crankiness is twofold: both the wordsmith and the fashion lover in me are offended.

The perverse ease with which people use certain words (the meanings of which they often do not fully grasp) is disconcerting because it cheapens those words. Talk may be cheap, but language isn't. The word "chic" is frequently plastered, like a universal label, on anything deemed aesthetically pleasing in the fashion/design world. I would argue that just because something is pretty, or creative, or whatever, does not make it "chic," as such. We all know that the word basically refers to something that is stylish, smart, and/or sophisticated, especially in that particular, peculiar, indefinable way that puts the "je ne sais quoi" into a certain look. Similarly, many acknowledge Audrey Hepburn as one of the most famous poster girls for the word, recognizing something in her that bespeaks "chic." However, its flexibility, elusiveness, and our common understanding of the word do not warrant its abuse, nor its overuse. Elie Saab's work is chic (it is painfully beautiful, simultaneously innovative and classic, dramatic yet refined, thoughtful, well-realized, unbelievably tasteful, and "tiré à quatre épingles"), while another designer's [insert your choice here] may not be; it may be equally beautiful, but not "chic," per se. For such a small word, "chic" has such great meaning, and while it may mean different things to different people, its integrity should still be maintained, within personal parameters, if nothing else.

I believe that the key to understanding the essence of chic lies in the fundamental difference between that which is retro/vintage, and that which is dated. Or, it can also be exemplified through the difference between that which is eternally modern, and that which will easily and quickly become dated. Chicness cannot be achieved simply by acquiring a certain skill set. I suspect it is innate and, in this way, akin to talent (it's either there, or it isn't). It is, I believe, a byproduct of one's vision, or fashion philosophy, and, to a large extent, taste level. This is why one cannot don what essentially amounts to a glorified nightgown (perhaps surreptitiously -- and misguidedly -- procured from Grandma's attic o' atrocities) and expect discerning fashionistas to hail it as a masterpiece of vintage clothing craftsmanship,... because it wasn't even chic then! Ergo, it never will be.

While the word, "chic" is often associated with modishness, I think it is more elemental and timeless than that. It is the common thread, as it were, that allows us to declare a Victorian dandy chic while simultaneously praising our fashion-forward next-door neighbor for her chicness. The times and trends may change, but in my opinion, that quality which we call "chic" transcends all boundaries. Ironically, it is this very pervasiveness and omnipresence that makes it both so specific and indefinable, rendering it a very special quality and a very special word, and therefore, meriting very special care. Giving the word "chic" such care and thought in usage and application is only appropriate, really; after all, careful thoughtfulness is one of the earmarks of all that is "chic."

- Lisette Atiyeh

The (Dis) Illusionist: Sylvain Chomet’s L’Illusionniste

2011-09-03T05:08:00.000-07:00

It’s “curtains” for Sylvain Chomet’s Oscar-nominated film, L’illusionniste (The Illusionist) -- or so it would appear. In a cheeky poke at the rickety, magical, make-believe world of entertainment, Chomet’s beautiful animated movie opens with a French-accented, disembodied voice’s presentation of “Ze Illusionist,” while an unseen figure struggles to draw the stubborn stage curtains. Thus, with cinematic sleight of hand, the French director deftly sets the tone for his adaptation of writer-mime Jacques Tati’s semi-autobiographical tale of illusions and disillusions. Against this backdrop, Chomet, creator of The Triplets of Belleville, spins Tati’s father-to-daughter love letter into a plaintive ode to the fantastical, fragile worlds of art and parenthood.

The action begins in France, in 1959, with a French musical score to boot. At the Music Hall of Paris, we are introduced to the besieged, passé magician, Tatischeff, whose plight is extensively illustrated, literally, through the bites and attempted escapes of his renegade rabbit. In what amounts to a poignant commentary on the lack of understanding of artists and their art, a theater worker finds the rabbit and returns it, after which he, seeing no difference between the animals, tries to hand Tatischeff a rat.

Having been fired, the magician heads for England, a setting that gives Chomet the opportunity to present us with a stunning, impressionistic view of a rain-soaked London. This imagery draws, so to speak, a self-conscious connection between the art world, and the film, as both an animated piece, and a movie about artists. It is in this environment that Tatischeff faces further disappointment, being upstaged by the “Britoons,” a flashy, youthful rock band for whom the curtain always rises -- again and again, by way of encores.

Upon the recommendation of a kilt-clad, perennially soused, but loveable Scotsman, Tatischeff next takes a job in Scotland, this voyage also providing the audience with breathtaking animated cinematography. Here, we are introduced to Alice, who becomes Tatischeff’s unofficially adopted daughter. She and Tatischeff, speaking different languages (Scots Gaelic and French, respectively), communicate through gestures of kindness and humanity. His gifts, along with circumstantial coincidences, lead her to believe that he is magical. The young girl decides to follow him to his next destination, indicating, once she is aboard, that he should magically provide her with a ticket, which he does, or so it seems.

Throughout much of the film, Tatischeff finds himself “pulling rabbits out of hats,” as an artist-father -- succeeding, failing, and taking on sundry jobs to provide Alice, who is coming of age, with those little material things that set a young lady’s heart aflutter. He attempts to disillusion her by saying that he is “pas magique,” not magical, a cleverly pithy encapsulation of a father’s desire to correct a child’s mistaken view of his superhero status. But, Alice is not ready to hear this, and chooses to remain in the realm of illusion, or perhaps, delusion. Indeed, the visual, which she associates with the tangible, exerts a stronger influence on her. Who cares about words when a father can seemingly produce, “out of thin air,” and at her will, the high heels she has had her eye on for some time?

As the ending credits roll, Chomet’s wonderfully bittersweet, yet comical waltz is sung by various quirky-voiced “characters.” Thus, in a move that is poignant, tongue-in-cheek, and thoroughly French, the animator-composer sustains the magic of art and make-believe, even as he reveals the very people who made this whole “illusion” possible.

- Lisette Atiyeh

Much Ado About Wording

2011-08-23T04:59:00.000-07:00

I am a wordsmith,
It is true.
But there are moments,
Be they few,
When words do fail me,
And after much ado,
All I can manage
Is to say, “Ew.”

- Lisette Atiyeh

See My Work on Stylishbehavior.com

2008-08-27T12:47:00.000-07:00

Hello, all!

Just wanted to tell you that I have written several pieces for Stylishbehavior.com. Pls. visit the site and search for the following articles:

"Don't You Just Love Being SingleWhiteFemaled?"

"'80s Belts: Just Plain Loopy"

"Cut Out the Cutouts"

"The Fall of an Empire"

"Bound and Bagged"

"The Bolero: Olé or Oh No?"

- Lisette Atiyeh, a.k.a. TangoDiva

Do Clothes Really Make the Woman?

2008-05-31T06:02:00.000-07:00

A suit walks through the door. "Ah," we think," he must be an elegant, respectable, responsible fellow." Meanwhile, a second glance reveals that he is prone to public nasal spelunking... In one respect, I suppose, clothes do make the man/woman. In a pragmatic and, frankly, cynical sense, when it comes to making a visual impression, a person may size you up, as it were, based on what you're wearing. However, personally, I prefer to own my look. I do not like my clothes wearing me, rather, I consider them to be an expression of my personality.

That is why I consider imitation to be a nuisance rather than a form of flattery; slipping into a knockoff of someone's outfit is, in many cases, akin to attempting to absorb and reflect that person's inner self. I am not referring, of course, to gaining inspiration from others. I am referring to out-and-out copy-catting which, by the time we reach age 20, should be a thing of the past.

Sadly, there is a great deal of double-talk in the fashion realm. We are verbally encouraged to "be different," have our "own look," all the while being bombarded by dress after dress or shoe after shoe in the same style, or permutations thereof. So, while we are told to "make a statement" with our clothing, through trend peddling, we are pushed into making the same statement as everyone else! Too many buy into -- literally -- the images they're assaulted with: impossibly trim women (it's called air-brushing, which is what they do to your picture after you've had liposuction) tripping lithely down the street in breezy dresses. Such images tell us that we'll turn heads too, if we wear Mr. X's version of the trapeze dress (you know, the one that looks a lot like Ms. Y's latest creation, but in a different color).

The problem is, not everyone is as trim as the women in the photos, nor should be. Some people simply should not wear trapeze dresses, or baby-doll dresses, or certain fabric treatments because they are not built for them, and that's okay. Furthermore, they have no particular love for a given style, no knowledge of its history, they have no definite opinions, no "fashion conviction," really, no sense of style; they just follow the crowd. A cheerful ruffle may not match a particular wearer's Spartan sensibilities any more than demure Audreyish flats would a flamboyant spitfire's. The trick is not in changing your temperament, but in being proud enough of who you are to dress accordingly.

So, from this writer, this is the highest praise a copy-catter will get:

Copy Cat, Copy Cat,
Where Have you been?
I've been to Divaland to check out the queen.
Copy Cat, Copy Cat,
What did you do there?
I tried very hard to imitate everything she wears.

The moral of the story? Don't be a copy-cat. Do some soul-searching, find yourself, then, let everyone know who that is through what you wear. Wear what you like, but first, ask yourself if you truly like it. A dress is all the more beautiful when the soul wearing it is such.

- TangoDiva

Another ABBA Article

2007-09-26T15:53:00.000-07:00

Hello, all --

I have another ABBA article on Shoutmouth: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/ABBA_in_Polyester%3A_Mamma_Mia%21_to_Hit_the_Big_Screen.

-TangoDiva

Queen Latifah Article

2007-09-20T13:17:00.000-07:00

Buon giorno, ragazzi!

I've got yet another article on Shoutmouth. This time, it's on Queen Latifah. Just follow the link: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/Trav%E2%80%99lin%E2%80%99_Light%3A_Queen_Latifah_Packs_Her_Bags.

- TangoDiva

Keane Article

2007-09-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, mes amis!

I have an article on British band Keane up on Shoutmouth: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/War_Child%3A_Keane_to_Release_Single_in_October.

- TangoDiva

John Legend Article

2007-09-12T15:49:00.000-07:00

Hello, all --

I have a new John Legend article up on Shoutmouth: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/%22Savor_the_Night%22%3A_Cruisin%27_With_John_Legend.

- TangoDiva

ABBA Article

2007-09-10T18:18:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone!

Please check out my new article on Shoutmouth: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/Thank_You_For_The_Music%3A_ABBA_to_Release_Deluxe_Edition_of_The_Album.

- TangoDiva

Pavarotti's Passing Away

2007-09-06T13:39:00.000-07:00

Dear visitors,

Today is truly a sad day. I just learned that Luciano Pavarotti, one of the greatest tenors of all time, passed away today. He was one of my favorite opera singers and this news has brought me to tears. If any would like to express their feelings on the subject, please feel free to comment here.

- TangoDiva

New Michael Buble Article

2007-08-28T17:20:00.000-07:00

Buon giorno, ragazzi!

Check out my latest article on Shoutmouth: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/25707

- TangoDiva

A-Ha Article

2007-08-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, mes amis --

I have yet another article on Shoutmouth: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/25175.

- TangoDiva

The Little Bosta That Could

2007-08-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

Hello, all --

I wrote this review a while ago regarding DC's annual Arabian Sights Film Festival for a magazine, but the editor kept putting off publication until -- after a display of much patience -- I pulled the article and am now self-publishing it, so to speak, in this blog.

"A Lebanese musical – this should be interesting," smirks the young American woman in the row behind me. A diverse audience, including African-Americans, Anglo-Saxons, Asians, and, naturally enough, Arabs, has packed into the modest, somewhat Art Deco-inspired AMC Loews Theater to watch Bosta (2005), one of several films in the lineup of DC’s 11th annual Arabian Sights Film Festival (Oct. 27-Nov. 5). As quoted on the organization’s official website, festival director Shirin Ghareeb explains that the event was arranged in order to "heighten added interest and awareness of Arab film," and to "emphasize the diversity, creativity and artistic expression which is evident in all these exceptional films." Some of the films included are Beur, Blanc, Rouge (France/Algeria); The Night Baghdad Fell (Egypt); Ahlaam (Iraq/UK/Netherlands); and Waiting (Palestine/France).

Bosta traces the trials and triumphs of "DIGI Dabké," a Lebanese troupe, as they wend their way to Baalbeck in the hope of performing their modern version of the traditional stomping dance, the dabké, at the region’s famous international arts festival. The film forces the Lebanese to take a look at what they were, what they have become, and asks them what they choose to be.

The opening scene introduces us to the bosta, or autobus, whose stalled engine creates a traffic jam. The scene features – among others -- a mustachioed, olive-skinned driver, who, like any self-respecting Lebanese road-rager, yells, "Arrib, ya hhmar" (move up, you ass), a line which prompts laughter from the audience. In fact, writer-director Philippe Aractingi’s typically Lebanese one-liners and dry cynicism tickle these multicultural movie-goers throughout the duration of the film.

Laughter, for the Lebanese, is a part of life, and a necessary one, at that. Humor and a sort of relentless, willful joie de vivre is what helped the Lebanese face the emotional and physical ruin brought on by the civil war. This wreckage is simply, yet effectively encapsulated in one of the film’s early scenes, in which Kamal Maffousse (Rodney Al Haddad) revisits his father’s Utopia College of Aley and soberly drinks in its pitiful remains.

There, he discovers Naim (Mahmoud Mabsout), along with the 1943 bosta, which has been left completely intact, untouched by the war, much like the Lebanese spirit and willpower which keeps them laughing, singing, and, quite literally, dancing through life.

Traveling by bosta, the actors and audience are treated to some rare scenes of Lebanon’s natural beauty which stand in stark contrast to the hole-ridden buildings constituting M. Maffousse’s decimated Utopia. Indeed, the cinematography is one of Bosta’s stronger points. The vibrant greenery, graceful hillsides, majestic cedars, and seemingly architected bodies of water are captured with a limpid simplicity and reverence by Director of Photography Garry Turnbull.

Turnbull makes use of many different types of imagery, and while this leads to some overkill, it is nonetheless effective. A blend of realism, surrealism, linear action, and flashbacks, the film illustrates that past, present, and future are inevitably enmeshed ("Our future is who we are/our past remains part of us," goes the concluding song).

The use of exaggerated make-up, caricature, and archetype is all too strongly reminiscent of Baz Luhrmann’s Strictly Ballroom, in which rigid fogyish older men butt heads with free-thinking ambitious young bloods. While the parallel is too blatant and clumsy to be classified as a clever homage to Luhrmann’s film, the dialogue sets it apart from its predecessor, making it distinctly Lebanese, both culturally, and in terms of its own particular, idiomatic significance. "No Lebanese speaks Arabic anymore. All our girls are blonde," complains the aptly named president of the Concours National de Dabké, M. Mahfouz (preserved) Barakat. The audience laughs, and so do I.

The work of composer Vangelis would seem to be another influence on Bosta, this time in relation to the film score (Ali El Khatib, Simon Emmerson, Martin Russell). Certain moments in the score create an atmosphere of dismal disembodiment, hearkening back to the synthesized soundtrack Vangelis wrote for Ridley Scott’s 1982 Blade Runner.

Bosta also borrows from the traditions of the Bollywood musical in which the actors launch into song and dance numbers for apparently very little or no reason. Bosta’s routines, while motivated, are only tenuously so, and while this may prove irritating only to fans of Western musicals, our Indian brethren would undoubtedly blink in confusion at these musical moments’ lack of splash and intricacy. Furthermore, the sound editing has been poorly realized, the numbers’ in-studio acoustical quality failing to correspond with the actors’ outdoor environments.

Partial blame for this disconnect must be assigned to some of the actors themselves, who often only take into account the lip-synching aspect of the dubbing process without paying much attention to the fact that singing also involves the use of the throat and breathing mechanism. In fact, the performances in this film are largely amateurish and often self-conscious. That being said, all of the actors essentially possess their own charisma, in addition to a natural Mediterranean passion and emotiveness that renders them interesting and magnetic.

The most talented actress of the bunch is the beautiful Nadine Labaki, who plays Kamal’s love interest, Alia. Understated, yet emotional, tender, honest, strong, and thoroughly likable, Labaki has us in her corner throughout the piece as we witness her struggling with her feelings for the fickle, but ultimately noble, Kamal. Liliane Nemri’s loyal and decidedly uninhibited Arzé carries much of the movie and often, the dance troupe, with her good-natured brand of sarcasm, positive thinking, and lovable goofiness. This point is not surprising when one considers that her name means "cedar," the evergreen symbol of Lebanon. While Nada Abou Farhat (Vola), Rodney Al Haddad (Kamal), and Rana Alamudin Karam (Isabelle) are capable and show much promise, their raw talents have yet to be refined and channeled with more precision.

Despite many weak performances and the film’s overly ambitious tendency to do too much and be too much, with its awkward genre-blending and film-school technicality, Bosta does have its triumphs in cinematography and performance.

The movie is filled with moments that are sublime, tender, genuinely funny, and its theme is noble and sincere; its heart is in the right place. Through its concluding joyous, freestyle dabké, Philippe Aractingi offers the hope that Lebanon can change for the better -- one step at a time. Bosta’s own determination and pluck is apparent in its having vied for a place amongst the nominees for Best Foreign Language Film, though ultimately, the movie failed to win a spot amongst the five contenders for this year’s Oscars.

As the final scene fades, the audience, a cross-section of all ages and cultures, responds to the movie with applause, solid, though brief. Perhaps after glimpsing the rich tragicomedy that is Lebanese life, some perceptions have changed. Perhaps Bosta, as art, is a vehicle through which perceptions may continue to change – one audience at a time. Perhaps, in time, Bosta will prove to be the "little engine that could."

Two More Articles on Shoutmouth

2007-08-16T13:26:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone --

I've got two more articles on Shoutmouth. You can find them by clicking on the following links:

Dean Martin: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/24694

John Legend: http://www.shoutmouth.com/index/php/news/24943

- Lisette, a.k.a. TangoDiva

Music News on Shoutmouth.com

2007-08-08T06:50:00.000-07:00

Hello, all!

If you enjoyed my Pink Martini review, there's more where that came from! I somewhat recently wrote an article on Michael Buble's stint in NYC. If you'd like to read it, pls. go to http://www.shoutmouth.com/index.php/news/22927. The name I'm writing under is TangoDiva.

For all of your other music news needs, check out http://www.shoutmouth.com/. You can also get there by clicking on any of the sublinks in the Shoutmouth widget located on the lower left side of this blog.

- Lisette, a.k.a TangoDiva

Pink Martini's HEY EUGENE!

2007-08-03T18:50:00.000-07:00

Pink Martini's latest release, Hey Eugene!, is truly an international musical cocktail. A celebration of differing musical cultures, Eugene features songs in such disparate languages as Japanese, Portuguese, Spanish, French, and Arabic.

"Tempo Perdido" is a hip-swaying, shoulder-shimmying song -- à la Rio de Janeiro -- with an unexpectedly tragic story. The track is a good example of the group's ability to juxtapose disparate elements with a result that is both mildly (and appropriately) jarring and finessed.

"Mar Desconocido," a melancholy but sparkling waltz, pays homage to both Latin and Classical genres with its Spanish lyrics and quotation of Chopin's "Waltz in C# Minor."

Breezy Latin rhythms meet dreamy French poetry in "Ojala." The group's penchant for layering is evident once again in this number. It is light and easygoing musically, but upon inspecting the lyrics, one discovers its underlying wistful sadness.

Lead vocalist China Forbes displays her innate comprehension of culture and musical styling in the Arabic-language "Bukra Wba'do." While her accent is a cross between Egyptian and American, it is charming, and she does hit some of the more difficult Arabic vowels and consonants with great accuracy. Further, her vocals indicate an understanding of Middle Eastern vocal production, ornamentation, and attitude.

One of Pink Martini's most sophisticated and all-embracing CDs, Hey Eugene! is as urbane as a Cosmopolitan and as warm as a bear-hug.