Just as daylight appears in the east and goes down westward, supporters of the music superstar will answer the summons for new content. Well before the revenue-generating, game-changing global domination of the Eras concert series, Swift had nurtured a particularly deep and intimate relationship with her followers, including within the worshipful domain of popular music. That relationship, maintained via hidden clues, years long one-sided storylines and possibly her own metaverse, can be authentic and remarkable and sustaining, a steady raft through difficult times – I have experienced it. Yet several years into her peak popularity, Swift’s cyclical feeding of the fan base has started to seem not so much like a two-way dedication and more obviously profit-driven, the numerous special editions and special vinyls and exclusive retail releases comparable to a luxury fee on her dedicated fans.
The newest installment is the cinematic release – or, more accurately, a premiere movie for her recent release Showgirl's Life, available shortly. Officially billed as the Official Release Party of a Showgirl, it includes of lyric explanations, filming glimpses and one music video (played twice), casually compiled into one 90-minute sitting. It’s the type of stuff any other artist would release online, but which Swift, following her proven theater revenue records with her Eras Tour concert movie, opts to place into theaters this weekend. With a projected $30m opening in the US, it is expected to become the highest-grossing film during its run – which is a shame, given that it hardly counts as an enhancement accompanying the music, let alone a significant addition in her extensive catalog of material.
When viewed in theaters, The Premiere Film of a Showgirl somewhat resembles the record it promotes – formulaic, tinnily light, with the lazy execution and unpolished feel of someone up against a deadline. Additional proof of as noted by a reviewer has termed Swift’s burnout era. In a low-fi intro recorded facing the lens, Swift, humbly awkward and self-deprecating as usual, describes the film as an informal trip of the origins of the tracks” representing a thrilling, exciting period”.
However, except for a production documentary on the Ophelia video divided into short segments, the event is predominantly clips that show song words accompanied by a clip from the corresponding filming on loop. It's acceptable as casual watching in a social setting, but an issue as the central offering for a musical work that is best absorbed from a distance, its mild musical style and notably awkward words designed for easy listening without deep analysis. Perhaps one needs to be drunk; other than a single shout for the remarkably unaware the track Cancelled, it was crickets during my alcohol-free family viewing.
Swift accompanies each musical piece with a quick insight of her thought process – typically interesting, not even a hater can claim it lacks appeal – however, they mostly consist of generalizations, declared passion and ensuring legal safety (for instance, obtaining rights from the George Michael estate to interpolate Father Figure). The artist often avoids specifics about songs whose targets are glaringly obvious, but the vagueness here seems particularly unnecessary. She does not reference of the inspiration behind the record, her partner, though she has been unusually open about their personal life in recent media appearances lately. The widely talked about and poorly judged negative comment in the song Actually Romantic is explained as a romantic gesture toward an adversary. (Curiously, a biting “attention is affection and you've provided plenty, makes it worse.) The lusty, pun-heavy Wood, featuring a metaphorical tree, is promoted as a piece on rituals accompanied by a family-friendly, knowing glance at the lens.
She continues to excel at implying connection from the highest perch within the industry; she’s a chatty and engaging storyteller, even if sometimes misleading on her own music. (This is not the hit-filled record so advertised elsewhere.) That especially shines in work mode; the most enjoyable parts, clearly, occur when she steps back to her many collaborators – Mandy Moore, the choreographer, and Rodrigo Prieto, plus additional team members – and to the taut metronome of video production. These peeks behind the curtain – a moment of remote work, banter with performers, perfecting a scene – prove as interesting as they are brief and tantalizing. They glimpse both the collective and the machinery underpinning her empire, the real grist of performer existence.
Perhaps assembling more, in a way both strategic and revealing, proved too difficult for her hectic agenda of diminishing returns. Maybe dedicated supporters of this record – acknowledging their presence – could see merit in this minimal offering of exclusive items valuable. But topping the box office with so little does not constitute an artistic triumph. It results in one more profitable item in her business.
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