Armond White:"Can Jay-Z and Diddy save hip hop?"

this is pretty funny.

http://images.google.ie/images?q=tbn:dce0zKbAxUcJ:www.timelinestudios.com/images

i don't see how this video doesn't contribute to the "mean-streets myth," even if it does so with presumably greater verisimilitude (or wider lenses or whatever)

The article is about how New York is portrayed through rap. Your statement has nothing to do with the article as it exists, everything to do with your rather rabid defensiveness w/r/t current hip-hop, and betrays near-total ignorance of White, who may well be insane, but is a smart guy nonetheless.

none of his comparisons are from anywhere close to nyc, smart guy.

(xp)

Haha! (This had in fact crossed my mind but I decided to wait on saying it...)

"It was not a great day for the race when the entertainment industrial complex took on the artisanal productions of urban youth, eventually taking over their dreams."

Right, because it's fine to let urban youth dream of being celebrated for their talents, so long as they have no chance of actually making any money out of it.

first time for everything, right Phil?! ;-)

I used to watch rap videos all the time in 1991 and I don't remember them all looking the same at all. I remember pink cadillacs flying in front of the moon, another car ploughing into a burning cross, Queen Latifah knocking giant chess pieces off a board, and scenes shot in Egypt.

Sideburns, ducktails, money, blood and sex–that’s the satirical surface of 3000 Miles to Graceland. Underneath is a pretty fair assessment of American ambition gone wrong. Kevin Costner plays Murphy, a sociopath obsessed with Elvis Presley who rounds up a gang to rob a Las Vegas casino during an Elvis imitators’ convention. If the symbolism’s bloated, so is the idolatry that Costner and director Demian Lichtenstein deride. Presley’s legend haunts the movie as a fat, gaudy, bankrupt ideal that still serves to motivate the disheartened.

Murphy and his partner Michael (Kurt Russell), desert mom Cybil (Courteney Cox) and her ragamuffin son Jesse (David Kaye) aren’t doomed, they’re pathetic, double-crossing each other in ways that suggest the hollowness of life predicated on money; losers who console themselves with the world’s plunder. 3000 Miles’ early climax–the robbery sequence–is the most calamitously violent action scene ever to put a thought in the audience’s mind. Unlike Kubrick’s inexorable fatalism in The Killing, this sequence is just blunt. "As wild and as daring as anything on the American landscape," says a startled tv reporter. (Or else, simply the best contemporary shootout Walter Hill didn’t direct.) Though it’s similar to the kind of pointless bang-bang moviegoers accept as a Saturday Night Special, I vouch for the split-second editing that catches a bullet going through an Elvis cape. And I salute the cut to the exterior that shows a chopper coming to rendezvous with Murphy’s band. Suspended in midair–and time–this image, hovering over the casino, is breathtaking.

The entire movie has the feel of being in moral suspension. Despite the caper plot and bloody intensity, this isn’t a typically cynical neo-noir. That War in Vegas sequence establishes a spangly, neon miasma so that we watch the peacetime story appropriately aghast at the evidence of contemporary dissolution. 3000 Miles tracks pessimistic ex-cons, broken families on the road, boys without role models, casual venality, the familiarity of violence. It’s flashy but it’s also uncanny. The story of Michael’s corruption opposes Murphy’s hopeless corruption (announced in the 3-D credit sequence). It seeks decent, humane gestures (among them, Ice-T keeping thieves’ honor through a spectacular sacrifice) and, with a sense of topsy-turvy grace, moves toward light. Michael, Cybil and Jesse sail off into uncertain political waters just like the characters in Peckinpah’s The Killer Elite. If critics mistake 3000 Miles for a Renny Harlin jamboree (or instead, find it inferior to such trash), it will prove how far we’ve fallen, no longer looking for meaning or emotion in action movies.

No actors are more empathetic than Russell and Costner. Both leathery and wizened, they’re surrounded by character types (David Arquette, Bokeem Woodbine, Howie Long and Christian Slater) distinctive enough to sharpen Jesse’s–our entire culture’s–sense of role-model fatigue. That Murphy, with his scorpion belt buckle, was a Nam medic before going bad signals deep distress that might be vague to today’s audience. Still, Lichtenstein, searching for the right, meaningful detail, uses the action genre as a dramatic form expressing the modern generational dilemma–without being lugubrious like Sean Penn’s The Pledge. Lichtenstein and cowriter Richard Recco come up with a saying for our times when Murphy, in a fight, is told, "That’s your criminal right!" The line transcends sarcasm; it bravely discloses a genuine social imbalance–as in such nonpresumptuous action flicks as George Armitage’s Vigilante Force. I fear that 3000 Miles might speed past many people’s heads just as the 70s road-movie alienation of Duets did last fall. These entertaining little movies hint at Americans’ barely articulated desires for a change of priorities and enlightened models of behavior. That overworked, blustery Elvis image (which serves as a conscripted uniform for Murphy’s gang) should provide a wake-up call even to those who share Greil Marcus’ wet dream.

Seriously, looking at the original article again, what the flying fuck. You couldn't have done a better parody article on the subject if you tried.

He has a hard-on for DePalma, Altman, Walter Hill, Alan Rudolph, Tupac, the Smiths, and few others.