Best Picture Oscar Nominees – 9 Movies About Change

Article first published as Best Picture Oscar Nominees  - Nine Movies About Change on Blogcritics.

It’s only a week before February 26 Oscar Sunday when we find out which of the nine excellent nominees will be awarded Best Picture this year. Many predictions have been made, analyses written, and here are two lists to begin with – by number of nominations and by the critics’ scores.

Number Of Oscar Nominations Line-Up:

Hugo (11)

The Artist (10)

War Horse (6)

Moneyball (6)

The Descendants (5)

Midnight In Paris (4)

The Help (4)

The Tree Of Life (3)

Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close (2)

      Metacritic Score Line-Up: 

The Artist (89)

Moneyball (87)

The Tree Of Life (85)

The Descendants (84)

Hugo (83)

Midnight In Paris (81)

War Horse (72)

The Help (62)

Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close (46)

Arts For Arts Sake

Many of the Best Picture Oscar contenders are about creators and their struggles, about the necessity of evolution in creative methods in the name of mere survival of creative forms but also about the importance of creative memory. This year three movies in the Best Picture category hinge on the struggles of artistic personalities, and all three – Hugo, The Artist and Midnight In Paris – are strong contenders for the most important Oscar in 2012.

Elitist vs. Crowd Pleaser

Four Best Picture nominated movies are told, at least in part, by unreliable naive narrators trying to make sense of chaotic, unfair reality (children’s perspectives in Hugo, The Tree Of Life, Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close and a horse’s in War Horse). In terms of pretentions to universality, Hugo is the most post-modern as it clearly positions itself as three movies in one: one for the children, one for the adults, one for the critics, aiming to please all in equal measure. (War Horse does the same but since Spielberg, unlike Scorsese, has done it since time immemorial, it isn’t as obvious). The Tree Of Life is the most innovative; in fact, it’s something that has never been done before, with a poem for a script and a prayer for narrative, a wonderful multivocality of whispers. The most accessible Best Picture Oscar contenders are War Horse, The Help, Hugo; the least accessible and viewer-friendly is The Tree Of Life.

The Dynamics of Change

All the contenders for Best Picture Oscar deal with change in one way or another. In the widely acclaimed The Artist tragedy occurs when the talkies are introduced and the familiar world of silent movies collapses almost instantly. In Moneyball a new approach to sports logistics challenges the foundations of baseball, and, on a more private level, the life of one talented coach. Midnight In Paris deals with change directly, on a narrower scale, commenting on the complex of seniority in arts, the spastic prejudice that the older a work/form of art, the more prestigious and precious it is. The Help is set during the turbulent civil rights era in one of the most turbulent states. The Tree Of Life deals with the ultimate, apocalyptic injustice – a death of a child, and the eternal question ‘Why do good people suffer?’ The protagonist of the tragic-comic The Descendants deals with death and change of perception caused by betrayal, trying to calculate the price for heritage, memory and continuity all at the same time. The characters of Hugo and War Horse are directly affected by World War I; Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close deals with the events of 9/11.

The Black Sheep

The inevitable black sheep are Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close and Midnight In Paris. The first stands out with the lowest critic scores and the fewest nominations; the second is simply very different in tone from the rest of the movies, as well as almost microscopic in scope and ambition (possibly too ‘light’ for the academy to be considered Best Picture).

The Questions

To say that I have enjoyed each and every movie contending for the Best Picture Oscar in 2012 is an understatement. They are all flawed, yet all worthy movies, even the hysterical Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close. Many of them ask the big beautiful questions: Why do strangers fly planes into buildings killing people they don’t even know? Why do humans use the most developed intelligence among the species to create weapons to exterminate each other (a question asked by a horse)? What are creators without their legacy? What is freedom without equality? Where were you (a question addressed to the ultimate Creator) – the most blatant, most painful of them all…

Intimate Stories, Universal Truths

I was surprised by the type of Best Picture nominees that left me completely entranced (and transformed). Seems like the struggles of the artistic bunch would be closer to my own artistic skin, but even though they were thoroughly entertaining, and rang a few bells, they left me cold as ice. The Descendants and The Tree Of Life, deeply intimate and abstract at the same time, left me speechless, on the contrary.

In The Descendants, the combination of unspeakable tragedy, deceptively tranquil hula music and wickedly explosive humor against an almost inaudible philosophical rumination on history, heritage, eternity, backed up by an outstanding performance by George Clooney (hope he wins Best Actor), left me smitten.

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

The Tree Of Life deserves a few paragraphs on its own.

The Tree Of Life is a movie that every cell in the modern movie goer tries to resist; but it is imperative for anyone who cares about cinema genuinely to silence those disobedient cells and surrender to something we haven’t been used to for a while – art. The first time I attempted to watch it, everything against me rebelled, and I stopped. Something hooked me, however, and I started again, from the top, introducing a small change – a watching partner, my almost-five-year-old daughter. The second time worked.

The Tree Of Life is marvelous to watch with a child, providing the soundtrack for the nearly silent movie (Birds. Sky. Dinosaur. Baby.) and perspective – try to be five years old again and look at the wonder of clouds, sunflowers, cows, sand, water, wind... It’s not a movie easy to gulp down (like many other tear-jerking, exploitative contenders). That movie is made with complete freedom, no strings to boxoffice obligations/critic appraise ambitions attached, a pure rumination, a question mark – yet fully satisfying.

It’s about balance, about harmony, a movie that talks unapologetically not only about God, but to God. In the midst of apocalyptic fears and screams about degraded morals, Malick tells us that despite constant change, evolution and transformation, paradoxically, the essence of things, both qualitatively and quantitatively, has not changed one bit, and just like a hungry predator can lend a gift of life to the struggling prey, the kind loving Creator can take an innocent life away – two events millions of years apart, two events out of reach for commonplace analysis and comprehension. Strangely, The Tree Of Life made me feel simultaneously like a speck of sand under someone’s busy foot, and a mighty eagle, soaring above all creation; no contradiction, happy to be both.

Many contenders for the Best Picture Oscar try to make sense of the things around them. The Tree Of Life offers the bravest suggestion: not all things can be understood; not all things should be understood.

Many contenders for the Best Picture Oscar talk about creators. The Tree Of Life is a conversation with the Creator; a new genre in cinema – movie-prayer.

Many contenders for the Best Picture Oscar talk of change. The Tree Of Life is the only movie that not only talks about change but delivers it – inside the viewer. That’s catharsis, once believed a necessary ingredient in art.

Whoever wins Best Picture, the line-up of strong, interesting movies this year fills me with hope. And I think when it comes to arts, we can all do with a little hope.

The Grammies 2012: Two Days Later

Article first published as The Grammys 2012: Two Days Later on Blogcritics.

After a severe cut in ethnic Grammy categories, the Grammies 2012 don’t look like a celebration of ‘music, truly universal and healing’ anymore, to quote the night’s host LL Cool J. Music may be still healing, helping us to deal with events like the untimely death of Whitney Houston, but it surely isn’t universal, not at the Grammies 2012, at least, where besides rock, pop, rap, r&b and country, nothing else seems to exist. So what is left of the ceremony two days after?

Time To Attend Nature’s Calls

Lady Gaga with a caged face (‘the black one is the Queen’, said my little daughter, and was wrong for the Queen of the night was beautiful Adele, with the best voice and makeup, cool as a cucumber even when she said ‘snot’, gum-chewing and sweetly smiling). Gold-wrapped Bruno Mars. Chris Brown skipping on and off colorful blocks, parkour for nursery school (is he the one who beat up his girlfriend, these r&b faces are interchangeable). Rihanna and Coldplay (did someone say Lana Del Rey was bad on SNL?). Katy Perry (barely keeping her eyes open because of the darned lashes). David Guetta (music, what music?). Nikki Minaj (with her alter ego Roman – this girl has never been in serious trouble, otherwise she wouldn’t be treating the issues of good and evil with such frivolity, and rightfully angering many people).

The Real Deal

The hopeful beginning with Bruce Springsteen lamenting our lack of concern for the ones in need, conveniently placed first, in fear of not leaving an unpleasant aftertaste, God forbid, of social injustices and inconvenient truths. Alicia Keys and Bonnie Raitt’s touching tribute to Etta James. Kelly Clarkson and Jason Aldean. Foo Fighters (both the feisty open air performance and the moving speech about recording in a garage and acknowledging the ‘human factor’ in music). Taylor Swift (simple and understated with a strong, timely song). Adele (effortless and well deserving the standing ovation she got). Tonny Bennett and Carrie Underwood (both cute). Paul McCartney (Sir Paul McCartney, apologies).

A Note To Producers

No matter how elaborate the productions, lavish the costumes, ape-like the choreography the people want music, and they won’t be fooled. Two acts particularly – Adele and Foo Fighters – have proven on February 12, 2012 that a voice and a couple instruments are enough, even today. So cut the feathers and the autotune. What we could do with is a bit of Native American, or a Latin Jazz, or Cajun. Peace.

Whitney Houston, The Most Beautiful

When I was a little girl I couldn't sleep often. I would lie in bed for hours listening to the television in the next room – sounds of gun shots, ambulances, lovemaking. If I got up I would be in big trouble. I had to pretend I was asleep.

One night I heard a voice that sounded like nothing I’d ever heard before, the most beautiful voice. I forgot everything and rushed to the television screen. I saw a face so beautiful I could not believe it could be a real person, a face surrounded by dozens of shiny beads streaming down the forehead and around the cheekbones, like frozen tears.

It changed my life forever; it is why I do what I do.

I still think Whitney Houston has the most beautiful voice. I still think Whitney Houston has the most beautiful face.

Let’s boycott the tabloids and gossip sites today. Let’s even boycott the news sites, the respected dailies. Let’s listen to the songs.

We know what happened already. The accounts of Whitney Houston’s struggles, recounted over and over again, are nothing but parasitical prying, yet again, disguised behind the chipped facade of objectivity – ‘the public has to know’.

Let’s not be the public. Let’s be people. Many of us have our own shit; the only difference is that it isn’t discussed on national television.

Let’s give Whitney the right to be one of us, to share with us what she came to be known for int he first place – her beauty, her voice.

It’s hard to write today. But it’s easy to sing.

Lana Del Rey 'Born To Die' Review

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No one has heard of Lizzie Grant, but everyone knows who Lana Del Rey is, at least after the notorious SNL performance. She is all out trashy Americana with elaborately designed plastic nails, heart-shaped glasses, faux patriotic poses against the national flag and a hyped over album Born to Die, out January 31.

At the same time, Video Games, which Lana Del Rey penned, together with the rest of the album, is probably one of the best pop songs I’ve heard in a while. It’s weird, haunting and musical, let alone it sums up the tragedy of a generation in two words. It’s about the complete isolation of self from the world of other humans, the non-existence of ‘us’ in the most intimate physical spaces. While other pop divas preach the audience how ‘everyone is beautiful’ and ‘women run the world’ Lana Del Rey laments that her boyfriend won’t fuck her. If you have seen Lana Del Rey, you will understand how disturbing that is.

On Born to Die Lana Del Rey is secure enough not to scream her heart out or show off an impressive range just for the heck of it. Of late, especially with the emergence of the stupid talent shows, good singing has been equated with pure vocal ability. Had the choice of musical figures been left to natural selection, we would see more interesting vocalists like Lana Del Rey, who trembles like a petrified animal in front of a microphone, shimmers like a champagne flute about to tip over, and whose transitions can be jarring enough to embarrass the listener into holding their breath – all good things, if you ask me.

As often happens nowadays, since her first single, the Internet focused on the things that don’t matter: rich Daddy, fake lips, weak live performances; instead of focusing on the important thing – why did she strike a chord? Now with Born to Die out, there is a chance for an honest answer.

But before that, something must be said for her stunning alter ego. That girl looks like a pliable but creepy plastic doll, with her perfect pout and hair. Like a faithful Stepford wife she passionately desires to please her lowlife sugar daddy lover, whose bottomless desire cannot be quenched by definition, so she self-destructs at the hands of the said lover, orgasming all the way. Lana drowns in victimization so delicious she couldn’t care less for feminism, or her mere survival.  Every song on the album is about abuse and the love of that abuse, the anticipation of S&M delights and the dangers of too much pleasure.

Maybe that’s why Born To Die is reminiscent of Tarantino and Scorsese, as well as David Lynch, both in terms of mood and sound. The mock-epic orchestrations, strings, harps, bells and eerie sound effects versus hip hop beats are simple but enchanting. The strongest songs are the first four, obviously, perhaps unwisely grouped together only to be skipped by those who’ve already heard them online.

Born To Die smells of death, and the ‘Hollywood sadcore’ melodrama is continued throughout the album, in monochromatic monotone. Given the consistency of the dark, self-effacing alter ego, the repetition, melodic and lyrical, Born To Die could be considered the most coherent concept album in years. While everyone screams of Lana Del Rey being surface deep and fake (whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean), it is not even clear if the character of Born To Die equals Lana Del Rey, or Lizzie Grant, or is pure fiction. (There seems to be an invisible line between the speaking persona and the singer, because Lana seems quite confident in interviews when speaking up but as soon as she is asked to sing she trembles and twitches uncontrollably, as if something possesses her. Fans say she is nervous. Haters say she can’t sing. They are both wrong.)

Blue Jeans is a great love song that shows exactly what kind of potential Lana Del Rey has. Off To The Races is about a bad man who ‘grabs her’, and she loves it, DUH. Radio is another melodic number. Million Dollar Man is dramatic and lyrical, taking her tragic diva persona to a whole new level of sad. The rest of ‘filler’ material hinges on self destruction, odious materialism, live-for-the-moment attitude and all encompassing passion: on National Anthem she sounds like a rapping Paris Hilton with blasphemous lyrics ‘money is the reason we exist’; Diet Mountain Dew is spastic and primitive; Dark Paradise clichéd; This Is What Makes Us Girls celebrates easy morals and reckless sex.

It looks like after the Internet sensation of Video Games, the rest of the material was simply rushed. The one-note approach seems to be a calculated decision because every song is an echo of the last song, lyrically and melodically. Of course an album like this couldn’t do without Lolita, a cheap unnecessary thrill of a song, doing no justice to its source.  Depression, degradation, submission to passion and complete erosion of moral principles, danger, drugs, self destruction, insanity, promiscuity and pain – ain’t nothing new on the news...

Regardless of the album’s success, Lana Del Rey is already a character and a vision (if not a visionary). Her appearance and music have a ghostly ethereal presence; it is hard to see her eyes underneath the heavy lashes; her porcelain skin looks like pliable silicone. If there ever was a spokesperson for an expensive, pampered sex doll with her own websites and fan base, and her doting sadistic owner in tow, Lana Del Rey would be the perfect candidate. The undercurrent hysteria, the self-loathing is all there, and maybe that’s what sets her apart from the army of females singing about loving themselves, putting their heels on and not needing a man.

Lana Del Rey is just plain strange, which is refreshing. Her twitchy SNL performance, self-conscious and detached at the same time, was jaw dropping. There is obviously more to her than meets the eye or the ear, but what it is, is clearly not revealed on Born To Die. She sings about ‘blurring the lines between real and the fake’ but her detached voice suggests it’s been a while since she really felt anything. Nothingness and emptiness that rings in her head rings in her voice as well, too bored to portray anything beyond that terrifying apathy.

Is she the reason for the horror of this one-dimensionality or is she simply reflecting on it?

With its apocalyptic undertones Lana Del Rey’s Born To Die seems to answer the question of what to do before it all goes belly up in the most convenient way possible: have fun, get high and ‘skip heart beats with the boys downtown’, making it the perfect soundtrack for our strange empty times.

Bloggy Blogs for Angels and Whores

The idea of a blog – that claustrophobic space in the World Wide Web that belongs to one theme, one topic, one owner, one set of appropriate keywords – is a repulsive, ridiculous idea for a 21st century schizoid (wo)man. If you are a bubbly bumble bee expert, it may work out fine for you, but for someone like me, who gets any work done by switching modes/moods every 5 minutes (shoes, postmodernism philosophy, sex toys, make up tutorial, theatre review, Weltschmerz, shoes), it is an equivalent to literary hara-kiri. What is a hormonally disturbed woman like me to do when, if I say, I start a blog on men or dating or any other science fiction topic, I know I will write articles like ‘5 ways to a perfect b-job’ half the month and unintelligible gibberish like ‘just bite it off, bitch’ the rest of the month? Where is consistency in that? What are the right keywords: ‘men suck’ or ‘men rule’?

What if I am ‘actively interested’, as some copywriters like to put it, in deep breathing meditation, step aerobics, binge eating and traditional Indian fasting all at the same time? What if I am actively practicing these all at the same time? Am I supposed to open a blog for hungry Sveta, horny Sveta, humble Sveta, hissy Sveta? Not only do they have to be about THE SAME THING but they also need to be in the same STYLE. And what about my BRAAAAAND (pukes all over the screen)? Is it angel with the children, bitch with the bitches, whore in the bedroom, academic behind the lectern? How many Svetas can the world take, really? I have three at the moment: one for Sveta the writer, one for Sveta eating in Minsk, one for Sveta eating all of Minsk by night. I have three coming up. Does it make any sense to anyone? Does the happy healthy human being wear many masks? Or is it allowed a single label everyone can recognize?

If you think I am exaggerating, look at Twitter, the mini mini blog, with mini separate accounts obligatory for mini aspects of the Self. There is no space for lengthy explanations, no time to analyse, to question, to be serious (serious, I say? Nah, it’s just Mr. Chomsky getting worried again); there is only the magic number of letters to count, and just when you start getting to the point of defining who you are, you are running out of characters.

Pun intended.

The white noise of social networks

In the Native American oral tradition, and other oral traditions around the world, every story survives only if it is told. The mere existence of any story depends on its potency, the eloquence and passion of the speakers, the attention of the listeners.  How much energy every word contains in the process – it has to be carefully weighed down against other words, chosen meticulously to avoid boredom, disbelief, to spark the passion to share. If the story dies out, if a tribe, a civilization dies out, the stories weren’t strong enough.

But we have written words. We don’t have to sweat. We don’t have to pass anything on. We are slaves to the opposite extreme; all that happens has to be recorded – coffee house visits, bikini waxes, nail polish fiascos. And if it’s written, it becomes a document, doesn’t matter of what. It’s fucking legit. How do you feel about the influx of social network messages in the 5 seconds you are on the site? Verbal diarrhoea, equivalent to nothing, feels like nothing. And nothing has successfully substituted reality.

We can’t go back to a world without Twitter. But marrying the eastern ‘little narrative’ of weighing in every word and celebrating silence in the absence of having anything necessary to say with the western ‘grand narrative’ of sanctifying the written word, however empty, could reconstruct, inform and better our sorry, noisy condition. 

Ugly

‘You are ugly’. You are ugly’. You are ugly’. You’d think after so many of them it would become white noise, elevator muzak that means nothing - a soundtrack to my life. But it hurts every time – the pain is sharp, my knees bend, the earth become heavy like metal, the planet is a huge round magnet, and there is no way in hell I can lift those leaden feet off the ground. The corners of my mouth slide down, and they’ll never go up again in a smile. My lids are closing, I want to crawl under a blanket and never come out again.

‘You are beautiful’. ‘You are beautiful’. ‘You are beautiful’. It’s hard to tell which one hurts more – the first one, at least it’s true, or the second, a pure lie. Is he kidding me? Is that what he says to everyone? His pick-up line? His post coital line? ‘Beautiful’ is devalued to dangerous noise: violent screams, cunning rationalisations, soft whispers into my young ear about ‘love’, about ‘not being afraid’. He must be one of those smooth talkers, I think, he must be lying there, thinking ‘What a stupid bitch! Beautiful! And she’s buying all that, with those features, that nose, those ears, that forehead. What a dumb dumb bitch’, he laughs to himself, and says aloud ‘Sveta, you are beautiful’.

Over the years I have hoarded a collection of dresses. Most of them are virgins – something I never got to be. Mirrors are the enemy. Once I catch a glimpse of myself from an angle I am not used to (you learn to tolerate the monster staring back) – in a public toilet, at the movies – and that familial feature taunts me, screaming ‘You are one of them’. Instantly, I want to die.

And the harder I try not to look into mirrors, the craftier their jumps at me become. Every parked car, every window shop is a traitor – and those around me, the strangers passing me in the street, the lover who says with a hint of annoyance ‘your hair looks nice, as always’, see me as an arrogant vain bitch. They have no idea.

Waking up to a lover who stares hard at me and utters: ‘Lord, the wonders cosmetic surgeons could do to people’, is no longer earth-shattering: pain endured for a long time dulls all emotions.

It’s interesting how pain drowns every hope of good judgement, as if your brain is underwater and all sane sounds are muffled. After walking the maternity hospital hall of shame, blood pouring out of me, car seat in my hand, ‘Don’t drop the baby’ on my mind to a taxi that took me to a student dorm where no humans awaited me – I reasoned no one will ever touch me, make love to me, want to be my friend. Why did it happen to me? I incessantly asked myself. I could have found an array of reasons: bad choices, bad karma, bad personality. No, stubborn as a bull, I told myself – it’s because I’m ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

Slowly but steadily hope began to bicker at the horizon, hope that if I cut half of my face off I may stand a chance, I can become passable, not entirely a beauty but not entirely a monster – something watchable. I read through countless plastic surgery articles and stared at countless pictures. I made up a budget and started saving. I thought of the possibility of having six months of peace required to heal a nose job – with my then-two-year old child, who twisted my glasses into convoluted rollercoaster tracks and gave me a black eye every week on average. Nothing in my life has been normal up to that point, and I found a new addiction. I knew I wouldn’t stop if I began. I looked at the faces of people who’d done it, whose parents called them ugly when half of the population of the earth found their faces the cutest. These faces disfigured beyond recognition – the portrait of Dorian Grey, the portrait of modern ‘culture’ and what it deems pretty. I was scared. It was nothing but more pain.

I am alive because I fight fire with fire. When I was scared, I watched zombies eat people. When I was afraid to go out (everyone who stared at me thought ‘what an ugly, ugly bitch’; everyone who laughed was laughing at me), I started a blog on eating out, forcing myself to go. The first time I went out, alone, to a small coffee shop, my whole body went rigid, my heart trembled with a cold, I wouldn’t lift my eyes from my paper, setting the coffee cup too loudly, unable to swallow the food I chewed like gum.

I am alive because I am stubborn. As a little girl, being taunted at school all the time, bullied at home where no one ever stood up for me because ‘we had to be nice to our neighbors’, who called me, you guessed it, ugly, ugly, ugly, and did other things – but that’s another story, I would take out the hidden brushes, the forbidden sets of make-up and sit for hours in front of the mirror, painting, painting, painting. 

Faces are the only thing I could ever draw, faces of the people I love so much, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Lauryn Hill, Mary J Blige. So I painted a face for myself – a new face, a face no one would laugh at, a face everyone would love: colour on the bone cheeks, forehead and chin; heavy eye shadow and liner, ten coats of mascara; lip liner, dark, sculpted; lipstick – lighter, a dot of white shadow in the middle for a finishing touch. I looked at that face hard – one day I would wear it.

Look at me now. Look hard at me. You did everything to erase that face. But I am here. Pretty or ugly, I am alive. 

Mary J Blige - My Life II… The Journey Continues (Act 1)

Another one of those dancefloor joints from any pop diva out there, and I roll my eyes up to heavens ‘NOT AGAIN’. But when Mary J Blige pulls out one dance pop number after another on My Life II… The Journey Continues (Act 1) it’s like the sun coming out after a day of bullet proof grey skies hovering above. I never thought I’d be dancing my heart out to any of MJB’s records, with a mindless smile from ear to ear on my face. You have to see hell with your own eyes to appreciate heaven. My Life circa 1994 was a masterpiece of self annihilation. My Life II circa 2011 is a celebration of acceptance with which comes peace – something regular folks take for granted; a spiritual commodity survivors like MJB value the most.

Good art may dwell in dark places but it’s best to leave passive aggressive, learned helplessness, S&M guilty pleasures on the shrink’s sofa, and move on to the Next Level like MJB does in My Life II… The Journey Continues (Act 1).

That common misconception that happiness is not a convenient subject for good art, that happiness is not a convenient state to make good art in, is a myth concocted by bitches who never had to fight for their right to be happy. They think happiness is cheesy; misery – noble. They preach that happiness is the realm of fluffy brainless muzak, while misery is the obligatory ingredient for serious art. Both– a load of bull shit.

Those who moan for the ‘old’ Mary J Blige, in all her pain, can go fuck themselves, cuz obviously no one else will – yes, they are that vile. People who buoy in their misery don’t want to let go of it – they don’t know what to do without it. It takes courage to be free and it takes courage to be happy, and Mary planted the seed in My Life 1994 with Be Happy, a song that put a magic spell on her life, kept her alive even when she didn’t want to be, back then.

You’d think those who haven’t gone through sexual abuse as innocent children or been shot at would want to get a prayer mat, get on their knees and thank the Creator for giving them a blessed life; instead they call MJB’s My Life II victorious lyrics ‘dull and predictable’, even ‘excusable’. These reviewers, spitting out copyright doublespeak like ‘compete outside of an established comfort zone’, should keep their mouths shut – they don’t know what the fuck they are talking about.

Who exactly does Mary J Blige have to compete against? What comfort zone has she established for herself, speaking out about her hellish past? No therapist would advise her, or anyone else, to go on and talk about that shit interview in, interview out; yet she does it, with brutal honesty, – to show all of the world that if she’s still standing, they can survive too, no matter what atrocity happened to them – it’s in their hands to take command of their happiness and be free.

While critics are looking for obligatory ‘innovation’, pushing the ‘boundaries’, following the ‘trends’, MJB exudes effortless elegance that comes from humility, wisdom that stems from beating her head against the wall for far too long, excellence that is the product of a great gift but also excruciating work, external and internal. Today she knows where she came from (‘I am so glad the worst is over’ (The Living Proof)), she knows where she is going and she has no time to waste (‘when I say now, I mean right now’ (Midnight Drive)) – that love of the present moment, the ‘now now’ is contagious, testimony to how truly content she is with her life.

Severing abuser-victim ties comes with a price but the payoff is love and life; for a regular woman dressing up is customary Friday night innuendo, for MJB putting high heels and a hot dress on is a sign of ultimate letting go (You Want This). Ah, fuck it – she needs a medal for being alive, and she needs no permission for making an album that makes you nod your hip hop heads with her, track in, track out, updating that 1994 My Life sound that changed R&B forever.

Now to the songs. Midnight Drive, featuring her cool alter ego Brook Lynn, quotes Mary Jane (All Night Long) from My Life 1994, but is a standout track on its own – fierce, intense, unapologetic. Feel Inside (feat. Nas), Next Level (feat. Busta Rhymes), and the remake of Chaka Khan’s Ain’t Nobody will all have you take it to the dancefloor, unless you are a dead, dead zombie. The collaboration with P. Diddy Someone to Love Me (Naked) is strong – Diddy knows a thing or two about working with Mary, and thank the Lord above for bringing the two together again. You Want This, Why (feat. Rick Ross) and One Life are all feisty and full of life, like the new Mary. No wonder Get It Right (feat. The talented Taraji P.Henson) starts with an alarm ringing: ‘You can search the galaxy’ Mary sings ‘But you’ll never find another me!’, and she is damn right.

The ballads are testimony to the power Mary j Blige as a singer, priestess and music therapist possesses in the age of screaming divas who perform totally unnecessary masturbations on their vocal cords right on stage, in front of everyone. No Condition is pure church in the African wilderness; it calls to that primeval song of the heartbeat. Love A Woman, featuring a beautiful Beyonce, especially the breathtaking bridge, somehow made me recall the best of Michael Jackson. Mr. Wrong, Need Someone and The Living Proof are all different aspects of that tormented soul, and each adds a stroke to the portrait of Mary Jane, who knows what team she plays for now cuz she’s played for the opposite one far too long.

Empty Prayers stood out for me, a song where Mary addresses those cold blooded motherfuckers who took her to hell, from which she barely climbed out, on all four, slowly got up to her feet and started learning to walk, talk, breathe again. When that process takes place in adulthood, you can’t help but feel grateful and understand that happiness is in the safety of a soulmate’s embrace (Next Level). For all of you who dwelled in that darkness and came back on top, an evening with no one waking you up with their disturbing phone call, no one banging at your door, no one calling you ‘monster’, no one calling you ‘ugly’, no threats, no screams – is an evening in heaven. Period.

The music industry keeps producing tracks like machinery parts on a conveyer belt; a true artist evolves. On the cover of My Life 1994 Mary J Blige was hiding her face in the shadow of a hat. On the cover of My life II she is full-on fierceness with her beautiful scar, the telltale sign of her battles, in full sight, and she’s looking far ahead because ‘the best if yet to come’ (The Living Proof). Instead of a Mary going down, sinking lower and lower, we have Brook Lynn, her delightful alter ego,  an unstoppable freight train accelerating to supersonic speeds to make up for the time she wasted crying into her pillow (One Life), and if she tramples a couple haters under her steely wheels, she won’t be sorry.

My Life II… The Journey Continues (Act 1) is one of the best albums of Mary J Blige. As always, Mary’s voice has brought tears to my eyes. But this time around, they are tears of joy.