Smarmy Sam: A Plea to Lady Gaga

I’m post-Gaga.

There, I’ve said it. And this is a pretty big moment given that “Telephone” was my favorite song for about 6 months (“She’s so right! It is to hard to text someone with a drink in your hand-eh!”), right after “Paparazzi” was my favorite song for 6 months. But let’s face it: most of Lady Gaga’s new album, Born This Way, is downright boring. And, as a disappointed fan, Sam is pretty smarmy about it.

I was talking to a friend recently about Lady Gaga’s most recent musical endeavors, and said friend pointed out, “Nothing will ever compare to the way I felt when I watched the music video for ‘Bad Romance’. No matter how weird Lady Gaga gets, she will never be as unexpected as she was during that music video.” And she’s totally right. In the beginning with Lady Gaga, one never knew what to expect: Remember the bizarre tele-drama that was “Paparazzi”? Remember the novelty of the phrase “disco stick”? Remember how people thought she was so weird that she had to be hermaphroditic? Remember how “Bad Romance” was basically an Alexander-McQueen-induced psychotic break? And remember how she broke it all down and turned “Poker Face” into a dramatic piano ballad? She never turned off the Gaga and became Stephanie Whatever-her-name-is (even, to her critics’ derision, at her own sister’s graduation); she was always a pastiche of modern music culture, an amalgamation of high fashion, base sexploitation, and lyrical nothingness disguised by a brilliant dance beat. What was great about Lady Gaga was that you could just claim the haters didn’t understand her, couldn’t grasp that she was criticizing post-modern consumerism by become its most perfect product, offering absolutely no substance behind a shiny spectacle.

And as much as Gaga likes to avoid adding substance to form, the only way that works is if her songs are painfully catchy and weird. And the issue with this whole new album is that only a minority of the songs are catchy and absolutely none are weird, because her attempts at strangeness completely miss the mark. “Highway Unicorn (Road to Love)”, for example, is about—you guessed it!—a unicorn that leads a woman on the road to love. And Smarmy Sam just wants to sit The Gaga down and say, “Yes, I know, Gaga, that you think the only thing better than a unicorn is a gay unicorn, but here’s the thing: Ke$ha already released a music video with unicorns, and it featured James Van der Beek, who’s, like, the gayest unicorn. The also shot rainbow ray guns at each other. So let’s call that one a loss and find something else, shall we?”

I’m not even going to talk about the fact that she ate David Letterman’s cue card. Gross.

But Smarmy Sam will be honest with you here: at first, I was really disappointed with the boringness of the album more so than the cheap irony of it. “Edge of Glory” is just so un-Gaga, you know? It’s about a one-night stand, yes, and it makes some peculiar metaphors, sure, but the chorus is weirdly uplifting and decidedly accessible. Same thing goes with “Born This Way” (the song). Suddenly there is meaning behind her music? She now sings on behalf of something she believed in? But when the songs that were intentionally bizarre (“Judas”, the aforementioned “Highway Unicorn (Road to Love)”) felt like vapid echoes of her former strangeness, I realized that Lady Gaga had become unable to out-weird herself. Now that her audience expects the unexpected, is constantly waiting for her next bizarre outfit, meaningless song, melodramatic music video, then her weirdness just becomes normal and downright passé. So it isn’t the mainstream, more accessible songs that make this album boring; it’s the ones that try, unsuccessfully, to capture the strangeness and unexpectedness that defined Fame Monster. “Edge of Glory” is a fun pop song, worthy of a place on a summer playlist. “Highway Unicorn (Road to Love)” was over before it even started.

So I guess what I’m saying is this: In a world where everyone (Ke$ha, Katy Perry, Nicki Minaj, Britney, even J Lo) is trying to become more like Gaga, I think it’s time for the Lady herself to join me in being post-Gaga. Let’s dispense with some of the weirdness, and let the music speak for itself. The more mainstream singles are the ones that seem fresh, and trying to reach a new level of absurdity has fallen short. Lady Gaga made her name on the bizarre, but she is in no way dependent on it; she’s a talented entertainer with a real knack for the catchy. She could be the next Madonna, but, if she gets real now, maybe without the awkward sex phase.

So join Smarmy Sam in being Post-Gaga, Lady Gaga. Being so strange all the time has got to be exhausting. And it’d be cool if you didn’t burn out after two albums.

Smarmy Sam: Natalie Portman

Due to circumstances outside of my control, I haven’t seen last week’s or this week’s episodes of Glee, which unfortunately means that I can’t offer witticisms about how Gwyneth Paltrow is the physical and emotional equivalent of a My Size Barbie for Cate Blanchett, or about how those original songs go against the very regurgitated essence of Glee. Instead, in homage to one of my favorite Blogulator contributors, Angry Amy, I’d like to tell you about what makes Sam smarmy.

It all started with the Oscars. Now I know that everyone’s been boarding on the U.S.S. “I Hate Anne Hathaway” in the past weeks (I’m talking about you, Qualler and Doktor Peace), but I feel like in our haste to blame Anne Hathaway for the train wreck that was the hosting job, we’ve ignored an extremely aggravating fact: we’ve lost Natalie Portman.

Not literally, of course. I’m sure Natalie

could easily be found in the arms of her gorgeous, French, ballerina husband. If she’s not there, try looking for her on Ellen where she’s probably gushing about how great her pregnancy is. And if all else fails, try the foyer whereshe keeps her Oscar and her Golden Globe and smiles with gracious humility whenever she sees them.

What I mean is that the Natalie Portman as we know her is gone, and in her place is yet another reiteration of America’s Sweetheart, cute and cuddly and totally conventional. Gone is the Portman who suddenly appeared in the tabloids with a shaved head and strangely rocked it. Gone is the Portman who gave up making movies to go Harvard. Gone is the Portman who was annoyingly and naggingly vegan. Gone is the Portman who was often mistaken with the much more angular Keira Knightley. All we have now is this cute, quirky RomCom starlet who goes on Ellen and laments how much of a cliché she is and who gives acceptance speeches about how much her amazingly attractive fiancé wants to shag her. And three or four years down the road, that same outrageously good-looking fiancé will probably break her heart in some way, and then she’ll just be Sandra Bullock or Reese Witherspoon and be all cute and talk about how she’s coping. Why, Natalie? Why must you doom yourself to being a future America’s Sweetheart?! Gee, I’m smarmy!

Yes, I know. Portman’s role in Black Swan was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen, in a good way. And yes, I’m happy that she scored the hottest dancer ever and is bringing to term the “little dancer” in her belly. But come on. Being a mom is her “most important role ever”? Dear Jesus, Natalie. Why don’t you just become Julia Roberts? I mean, at this point, the only person who dislikes you is apparently Mike Huckabee and that’s just because you make being an unwed mother look so freaking cute!

I’m probably just jealous. She has that fiancé (have I mentioned that he’s a wildly attractive French dancer?), an incredibly successful career, and critical acclaim. Plus, she’s prettier than me. Maybe I resent that she’s so gracious and humble when, in the same circumstances, I’d be rubbing my greatness in everyone’s face. “See this Oscar?” I’d say. “I won this for my universally acclaimed and horrifying role in Black Swan. I spent a year learning ballet from this really hot guy who I’m now going to marry in order to play this part. I’ve so got this baby in my belly that’s probably going to be so adorable that you won’t be able to look at it without protective googles. Oh, but I’m sorry, what did you do this year? Really? That’s it? How quaint.” And I think the truth is that Smarmy Sam is really just smarmy because Sam likes Natalie Portman, conventional or not, even though everyone else is so freaking gaga for her. But I guess it’s time to find a new quasi-starlet to obsess over until she gets too famous and well-received. Michelle William’s perhaps? She does have that pixie cut…