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The Friday Article Roundup

The FAR hails kings (and queens)

Paying tribute to the best pop culture writing of the week.

This week, you will honor:

  • The cinematic convergence of two kings
  • The joy of rocking out
  • The power of sticking it to corporate assholes
  • The uneasy merging of horror fictions
  • The storytelling background of an underseen director
  • A badass ride

Honor the FAR with your submissions! Send articles throughout the next week to magpiesfar [at] gmail! Post articles from the past week in the comments for discussion, and have a Happy Friday!

Bruce Bennett digs deep into Elvis Presley’s collaboration with Don Siegel — and some lesser talents — for Metrograph:
Flaming Star also marks an all-time low in the number of musical sequences Presley was obliged to endure. Not counting the theme , Presley performs exactly one song, “Cane and a High Starched Collar,” done and dusted less than five minutes into the film. Music and lyrics are the work of Sid Tepper and Roy C. Bennett, whose increasingly idiotic contributions to Presley’s screen musicals to come are some of the most memorably awful things about the films themselves… In Flaming Star, Tepper/Bennett contribute a mercifully innocuous faux folk tune solely notable for being (after the G.I. Blues title song) their second Elvis screen number in a row containing a verse that rhymes the word “chow.”

At Crooked Marquee, Jason Bailey looks at the endearing charm of the re-released Linda Linda Linda:
Linda Linda Linda sets itself apart from the movies that premiered before it by focusing on the process of becoming a band. We see the members of Paranmaum, or ”Blue Hearts” in Korean, learning their instruments and stumbling through cringe-inducing rehearsals. In some scenes, the band deals with issues that other young musicians can relate to, like scheduling rehearsal times with other bands that need the equipment room or Kyoko’s embarrassment when her ex-boyfriend lingers too long at their rehearsal space. Other scenes depict the problems that only the members of Paranmaum would experience, as in a slyly humorous scene when Son uses her shaky Japanese to get a discounted karaoke room so she can memorize the three Blue Hearts songs.

At Jacobin, Joey La Neve Defrancesco details how musicians in Maine stopped the expansion of Live Nation:
Live Nation launched its own propaganda push to squash the moratorium [preventing them from building their venue], but MEMA answered by redoubling their efforts. They secured support from national groups like the National Independent Venues Association and United Musicians and Allied Workers (UMAW). They screened documentaries about the music industry, covered the town in posters calling Live Nation “An Old School Robber Baron” and “The Music Mafia,” kept pressure on city councillors with email drives, and presented a petition signed by twenty-one Portland music arts businesses and organizations — including nearly every venue in town — and more than two thousand musicians, arts workers, and fans.

For The Bulwark, Bill Ryan examines the connections between a famous Ursula K. Le Guin short story and a novella by Christopher Slatsky:
The most mysterious aspect of Mina’s work at the massacre site is the presence of a small hut, or shack. It’s flanked by heavily armed guards, for reasons nobody seems to know…. But if you’ve read Le Guin’s story, the question becomes, What’s in that shack? Of course, without knowledge of “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” the idea that [a missing character] might be in that shack could easily be arrived at, once you learn [they] hasn’t been found. What you won’t have without Le Guin is a possible answer why. It’s rare to find, in one writer’s story, an explanation, or possible interpretation, in the story of a completely different writer’s quite different story.

Zach Lewis traces the background of Dani Kouyaté’s Sia, Dream of the Python for In Review Online:
One of the most celebrated Burkinabé filmmakers came from one of the most prestigious lines of griots dating back to the 13th century: Dani Kouyaté. Though he was never formally trained as a griot, his father (Sotigui Kouyaté) was a celebrated griot and actor who was able to blend the traditional griot’s responsibilities into the storytelling art forms of the twentieth century. Dani followed his father’s path and left his native Burkina Faso in order to learn acting and directing from the richer, resource-laden land of France (long the colonizer of Burkina Faso’s previous iteration, the Upper Volta). He then literally followed the elder Kouyaté as he traveled the world in a griot-inspired theater troupe before returning to Burkina Faso in 1989 to make films inspired by this traveling theater in his home country.

At his substack, Max Read gives a close read to the choice of vehicles in One Battle After Another:
To most Americans, the B13 Sentra is a mostly forgotten car of which very few remain on the road–almost as far from “iconic” as Willa’s friend’s Yaris.3 But just a few miles south of Anza-Borrego across the border in Mexico, the B13 Sentra–there known as the Nissan Tsuru–was produced and sold as one of the country’s most popular vehicles for 25 years. If you’ve ever taken a taxi in a Mexican city (or, indeed, almost any city in Central America), you’ve likely sat in the four-door version of Bob’s car; it wasn’t until 2017 that Nissan stopped producing the model at its Mexican factories. The scene-stealing “cavalry” of the final chase isn’t merely a Japanese compact vying against American muscle–it’s the sport version of a working-class Mexican icon, pulling up behind two notoriously aggressive cop cars.