Search Results

SparkNotes Version The Deep Dive (Spoilers Ahead!) "Black Swan" triumphs as yet another Darren Aronofsky surrealist masterpiece - and not exclusively for the notorious Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis intimate rendezvous. Critics rave on account of the film’s accurate portrayal of the grueling nature of the high arts, honing in on the mental deterioration prevalent when the best require to be, well, the best. Indubitably an athlete’s existential disintegration in the pressure cooker is one of the film’s highlighted talking-points, as the audience slowly witnesses in a "Rosemary's Baby"-esque fashion Portman’s character Nina’s psychological slippage performance after performance. Indeed, I found myself scrolling through this season's upcoming performances at Lincoln Center in New York. "Black Swan", however, isn’t some cinematic voyage into sports. Few truly took away that much from the tutus. The craft of portraying subtle psychological abuse is no easy feat, yet the Black Swan withstands as my top-rated on Letterbox’d as it does so with grace through Nina’s gradual psychotic break. Of course Ocean's Twelve's Vincent Cassel’s performance as the misogynistic mentor-turned-predator is the obvious paradigm of abuse, but the real culprit for turning our white swan black? Nina’s mother, played by the critically acclaimed Barbara Hershey (The Portrait of a Lady, The Last Temptation of Christ). When entering Nina’s dull-lit, silent apartment shared with her mother, one can already discern from this cinematographic technique that one is not about to experience some Cheaper by the Dozen, happy go-lucky familial dynamic. Not to mention that the bulk of Nina’s portrayal beyond the dance studio is exclusively her interactions inside this gloomy space with her mother, a former ballerina projecting her anguish related to her unrealized potential onto her shy, rigid daughter. This ingenious juxtaposition from studio to apartment reinforces the tragic nature of Nina’s existence, where in the studio, she embodies control of her surroundings, yet her life beyond this oasis communicates the unfortunate truism that her being is at the control of another. In abusive relationships when “the abused” has lost control to “the abuser,” to placate this psychological effect on one’s psyche, “the abused” routinely works to latch onto other facets in their life as a mechanism to re-establish that control. For Nina, evidently, this was ballet. The paradoxical relationship between passion and control had my brain running on overdrive, as it did with Nina. Regardless of her immaculate technique, her performance as the black swan requires innate passion... and passion cannot exist without a loss of control. As simple as dancing slightly more freely may appear to the average individual, for someone like Nina traumatized by lifelong abuse, her rigid composure represents her sole armor against truly devolving into psychosis. To sum it up... it’s simply not that easy. Sex sells – and undoubtedly when it's an on-camera sex scene between Portman and Kunis, but this singular racy moment has unfortunately remained one of Black Swan's most central legacies. What so many individuals perceive incorrectly about Black Swan is the intent fixation on the Portman and Kunis complicated dynamic, where Kunis’ black-winged-inked character Lily is but a catalyst for Nina to relinquish the buildup of abuse and unleash her inner black swan. Did Lily sabotage Nina by drugging her following a night on the town? Did Lily... even exist? The beauty of this film is that these questions are not in dire need to be answered, as when the credits roll, I exhaled a sigh of relief with the understanding that Nina has finally embodied that sought-after black swan - in the ever-tragic manner of her self-inflicted demise. Catch ya when the credits role! Xx

SparkNotes Version The Deep Dive (Spoiler Alert!) Per her Academy nominated femcel flick Promising Young Woman, we already knew Emerald Fennel is up to the task to enter the depths of the dark discomfort. With its scathing look at rape culture and shocking attack on the patriarchy, Promising Young Woman exemplified female rage, Saltburn, on the other hand, journeyed into the heart of a distant cousin: outsider rage. This outcast syndrome begins at Oxford with our protagonist, Barry Keoghan's unforgettable Oliver Quick (a name that echoes Dickensian charm). The year is 2006, and Oliver is a fish out of water among his wealthier peers... up until Felix Catton, Jacob Elordi's charismatic big fish on campus, takes a liking to the scholarship freshman. Yet Felix is sexy and popular, and Oliver, well, isn't, so when Oliver catches on that Felix has a soft spot for lost causes, Oliver manipulates Felix into making him his next charity case. By the end of the school year, Oliver has finagled an invitation to Felix's adorned castle Saltburn as the summer amusement for Felix's eccentric aristocratic family, who allegedly served as inspiration for “most Evelyn Waugh’s characters”. Saltburn is a topsy-turvy Downton Abbey, and they play tennis in tuxedos. Enough said. With my AMC stubs at hand (like c’mon, $x for 12 movies a month?!), I witnessed my fellow moviegoers turning towards their friends with this awkward smile – “Did you like it? I think I liked it. Did you like it?” It was the kind of film that no one really wanted to admit that they enjoyed, tiptoeing around the fact no one could look away as Oliver penetrates his best friend’s grave following his midnight snack slurping up of his semen-filled bathtub. Amazon MGM’s marketing for this film was creme de la creme. Having watched the trailer, there was this general suspicious energy stemming from the mere glimpses of the Catton clan and an eery atmosphere to Saltburn that convinced me that the poor Oliver would find himself ensnared in a Get Out-esque conundrum with a British Addams family. But despite some oddities from Rosamund Pike’s clueless, vulnerable character talking her tongue off to , there wasn’t anything particularly devious about the Catton family – besides just being grade A elitist assholes and blithely oblivious . But Amazon MGM took me for a ride here, as I gave the benefit of the doubt to our unreliable narrator up until… the cringe-worthy visit to his family. This surprise scene visiting Oliver's family stands as the true climax where the audience begins to comprehend the devious intentions behind Oliver's sadistic behaviors. Under the pretext that Oliver's father died and his mother is a hording drug addict, Felix gets a whiff of his friend's pathological personality and decides to excommunicate him from both Saltburn and his privileged circles at large, which proves to be Felix's fatal mistake. But the thing is, witnessing Oliver’s reaction to Felix’s death, his solitary metldowns at his friend’s grave and emotional outbursts in Church, you really wouldn’t think he had the propensity to murder the object of his affection. While maybe I should have seen it coming, I wasn’t fully certain of Oliver’s intentions until he verbally confessed them as he laid over Elsbeth on her death bed. Maybe this is a me problem – maybe I just keep channeling the hapless, supportive Barry Keoghan character in The Banshees of Inisherin – but only in the ending montage displaying Oliver's manipulative, murderous actions was I fully convinced of everything that was right before my eyes. Saltburn's narrative is told through a hindsight confession to Elsbeth prior to Oliver pulling out her feeding tube. From the film's onset, I presumed the older Oliver was either having a conversation with a therapist reflecting on the lives at Saltburn or being interviewed in an investigation years later related to something at Saltburn, but never did I expect the twist that we'd still be AT Saltburn many years later as a final punch to the aristocratic gut. From being labeled a knockoff of the 1999 thriller The Talented Mr. Ripley to Fennel being godeed for trying to one-up the shoc facor in an ever surface-level manner, I've seen a lot of criticism for this film. But the pure art of a fabulous film funnels down to its ability to elicit sympathy for its antagonists, and no doubt this film comes on top through that sense. Oliver's motives and alibis were staring me in the face – but I still felt a sense of uncertainty regarding his ill-intentions. The narrative technique of an unreliable narrator always takes me for a doozy. This narrative strategy plays with the audience's perceptions and expectations, creating a sense of surprise or revelation as the true nature of the protagonist becomes apparent. And boy, was I surprised. Jumping on the comparisons to The Talented Mr. Ripley (Matt Damon, Gwyneth Paltrow), I won't deny that Oliver was generated in the mold of Tom Ripley, a sociopathic social-striver played by Matt Damon, but the story of struggling to navigate social mobility is indeed a tale as old as time. We're in England rather than Italy, and I won't deny there's something much more calculated in Oliver's pursuits than Tom's who seemingly fell into his conniving behaviors, but it comes down to the fact that they're both addicts plagued by their own infatuations – and it's our choice as with all addicts struggling internally with their impulses whether to channel sympathy. When a director can play on our own emotions of desire and convince us that the protagonist isn't the social parasite they so obviously are, I call that a success. There's always been a direct connection between addicts and lying to conceal their socially unacceptable desires – and when society creates this necessity of disguise, it's unsurprising that it can turn pathological. While Oliver's main choice of drug was Felix, he was indiscriminate to what he took, whether that be the mom, cousin, or sister. All in all, his addiction was overcoming his inferriority complex, and in order to do so, lying of one's true identity is necessary to disguise this addiction. Same goes for the Talented Mr. Tom Ripley. Both are prime emblems of the outsider rage. So yes, Oliver ate the rich figuratively, and in a handful of vampiric scenes, literally, yet unlike the 2022 satirical horror The Menu or the Cannes Palme d'Or black comedy Triangle of Sadness, this doesn't fall into the same"Eat the Rich" film category, despite Oliver's success in consuming the power of the privileged. The essence of the phrase "Eat the Rich" is to symbolically express a desire for social justice, and there was no justice for the Catton family engulfed by Oliver's addiction. While there were three of the most bizarre sex scenes I've seen since Timothy Chalamet's head-turning peach penetration in Call Me by Your Name and I'm unsure whether Oliver's naked waltz though the halls of Saltburn would be my preferred grand finale (at least we got a look at the package Farleigh was referring to), I surrendered myself to the absurdity of Fennel's dark mind, and I suggest you do as well. Catch ya when the credits role! Xx

SparkNotes Version The Deep Dive (Spoiler Alert!) May-December: a rather dated term where spring and winter collide, and love knows no bounds – or boundaries, for that matter. Used to describe a romance between two individuals with a jaw-dropping age gap, it's a rather fitting title for a film exploring the unusual relationship between the 59-year-old Gracie Atherton-Yoo (Julianne Moore) and 36-year-old Joe Atherton-Yoo (Charles Melton), which blossomed when Gracie was 36 and Joe... a tender 13 (cue the collective shiver). Enters Elizabeth, played by the captivating Natalie Portman, onto the couple's large waterfront house in Savannah in pursuit of discovering the emotional truth as she prepares to portray Gracie in an independant film based on Gracie and Joe's torrid relationship two decades prior. The Atherton-Yoos' lives with their three children appear idyllic from the surface, and they've seemingly made peace with their scandalized tabloid romance. Yet the dark shadow haunting their relationship is immediately brought to light upon Elizabeth's unsettling discovery of a box of feces at their front door. An unruffled Gracie acknowledges the box with nonchalance – clearly this wasn't their first rodeo... of poo. Director Todd Haynes isn't one to shy away from exploring the intricate dealings of the female psyche (kudos to "Carol" and "Far from Heaven"), and while he claims that "May December" is only loosely based on the 1997 Mary Kay Letourneu scandal, the parallels are stark, inspired by the simple question: "How could this have happened?" If you're unfamiliar, American schoolteacher Letourneau began a sexual relationship with her sixth-grade student Vili Fualaau in 1996. Following multiple prison stints (along with two prison pregnancies), Letourneu married Fualaau in 2005. The couple ultimately divorced in 2019 – a year before Letourneu's death. With so much Oscar talk surrounding the film, especially the two female leads, Charles Melton's performance as the stunted man-child Joe takes the cake. Breaking out from his role playing Reggie Mantle on that agregiously absurd Archie comics-inspired CW series "Riverdale," Melton's muted demeanor eclipses the two female leads with his hauntingly demure physicality ultimately unraveling to showcase the resounding trauma he is literally carrying in his internalized weight since being exploited in his youth. For his role, Melton studied "The Graduate" and "Sunday Bloody Sunday," but continuously circled back to Heath Ledger's performance in "Brokeback Mountain" in order to best capture how repression can manifest in one's body. Beyond his awkward physicality, Joe's stunted mentality is communicated by his soft-spoken, rather imbecile sentences. He texts an anonymous female surreptiously like a teenger who just received their first phone, continuously defers to Gracie (when Elizabeth requested to shadow Joe at work, he responds: "Maybe ask Gracie, she's better at that stuff"), and has no ability to broach the subject matter of his abusive relationship with the woman who claims to love him. As he smokes his first joint ever next to his much more developed teenage son Charlie, he breaks down in tears. Whether the source of his tears was a result of a sudden realization of being an empty-nester stuck with Gracie alone or envy of his son's voyage into college to live the normal adolescence that was ripped from underneath him, that's up to the audience to interpret. While the interspersed shots of Joe safeguarding and raising monarch eggs may have been a bit of a cringe-worthy side-plot, this imagery is an overt analogy to the fact that no one ever protected him from danger in his youth; yet as Joe's blossoming sovereignty of thought evolves with his character's existential realization of his marriage's abusive foundation, he too matures like the monarch eggs to have the opportunity to fly free in this world. Above all, Joe represents the medium in which white female sexuality is weaponized. What's interesting is the female toxicity, the ability to overpower the male persona, doesn't only come from Julianne Moore's character Gracie – but also from Elizabeth's inappropriately worming her way into the Atherton-Yoo's family dynamic. When pictured crashing the children's graduation lunch, there's obviously no ethical lines Elizabeth won't cross to accurate portray Gracie – including luring Joe into her rental residence under the pretext of fixing her asthma nebulizer. While having sex with Elizabeth meant something to Joe under the misconception of a true connection between the two, Elizabeth's demeanor makes clear that this was just another ruse to better embody the illustrious Gracie. This scene is the prime example of how Elizabeth fails to view the controversial couple as real people, but rather, just intriguing stories for her to study. Just like much of society, Elizabeth is the prime example of how our society tends to sensationalize others' pain without recognizing the human beings behind the headlines. Back in the 1990s, the Mary-Kay Letourneau case struck a chord in our society – a peculiar fascination as to how such a situation could happen. Prior to "May December," the case was not foreign to me, where I too have been a culprit of falling down internet rabbit holes for hours on end reading the innumerable articles and interviews on the scandal. The shock factor of such circumstances is how notorious serial killer's names become imprinted on our minds decades after their crimes and how the countless True Crime podcasts subscriber numbers simply keep expanding. During its heyday in 2005, tabloid TV show "The Insider" sat down with the newly engaged couple in a smiling interview, focusing on wedding plans and of course, Letourneau's Cristiana Couture gown. How deeply disturbing that our society passed off such a situation as run-of-the-mill and appropriate for a general audience on a weekday. Yet even in the interview, as "The Insider" anchor Lara Spencer questioned the couple on their vows, the abusive power imbalance conveyed in Haynes' flick was at play on weekday television. When Fualaau admitted to Spencer that he's "still stuck on my [his] first line," Letourneau eerily whispered to Fualaau that he didn't have to reveal what he's thought of so far. Following this exchange, Spencer laughed: "You've [Fualaau] just been instructed [by Letourneau]." While I was initially skeptical that such a film exploring this predatorial relationship was entering our media landscape and continue to feed this fascination into others' trauma, what so many fail to understand about "May December" is that despite the deceptive appearance of complexity and negative reviews claiming the film to glorify child pedophilia and abuse, the film is intentional about who is the victim and who is the abuser. Simultaneouslty, maybe we need to be reminded to hate – and explicitly hate – Moore's character Gracie; truthfully, I didn't hate her per se – I pitied her and her psychologically damaged state of mine. In a world of cancel culture, perhaps understanding doesn't equate to forgiveness, but it does paint a nuanced picture of human complexity. Regarding the vague ending as Gracie attempts to shoot the ultimate scene of the elicit beginnings of Joe and Gracie's illegal affair in the backroom of a petshop, a growing consensus seems to flutter around the idea of Gracie having not been sexually abused in her youth by her brothers (as Gracie's eldest son from her first marriage proclaimed); thus, Elizabeth didn't actually succeed in understanding Gracie to the extent she sought to on behalf of her role, and was then struggling to find the on-screen authenticity she was looking for as she failed in channeling Gracie's state of mind. We're taking the opposite interpretation of that scene. Tracking back to the high school theater class where Elizabeth was invited as a guest speaker for the day, one of the more rambunctious student's lewdly asks the famous celebrity about shooting sex scenes. In her upmost serious demeanor, Elizabeth goes off on a detailed explanation on how sometimes a sex scene is extremely mechanical like an orchestrated dance, yet when one loses oneself in the chemistry, it's seemingly real – one forgets the cameras are rolling. In the last scene, we see three back-to-back shots of Elizabeth attempting the petshop scene as Gracie, where in the final take, she requests from her director to roll again, as she is finally able to comprehend the sexual chemistry; hence, she succeeded in channeling the unreadable Gracie. I don't believe the takeaway from the film is that Portman is giving the greenlight to this affair as she is finally able to empathize with their chemistry – nor is it some campy, comedic approach to explore the subject matter (Still awaiting Netflix to explain why they've submitted the film as a comedy to this year's Golden Globes). At the onset of "May December," when Elizabeth is accused by Gracie's friend for rehashing old trauma by taking on this part, Elizabeth responds "it's a very complex and human story." It's not complex – it's predatorial, but I don't take issue in being reminded how some individual's brains are not programmed to understand that nuance. In 2020 following Letourneau's death, Fualaau appeared on The Dr. Oz Show, where Dr. Oz pointed out to Fualaau that he was around the same age as his ex-wife when they met. Then he asked Fualaau what he would do if he were interested in a minor. “I’d probably go and seek some help,” Fualaau said. “I couldn’t look at a 13-year-old and be attracted to that because it’s just not in my brain.” Don't get me wrong, I struggle with this film – and not only for the repetitive, oddly placed piano beats. This film makes one feel a lot of mixed emotions at its core, which is problematic in of itself since neither myself nor Elizabeth should attempt to understand what occurs in a child abuser's mind , but the human searching for empathy can't help but want to understand how some people's brains are programmed differently than others. Yet hopefully for the majority of us, we'll simply never truly understand. Catch ya when the credits role! Xx

SparkNotes Version The Deep Dive (Spoiler Alert!) Gathering my empty popcorn bin and heading out of my local AMC (with AMC Stubs, duh!), I was rendered speechless in verbalizing the beautiful discomfort I was experiencing after screening Priscilla, which stars Cailee Spaney (notable for her 2018 roles in the Pacific Rim Uprising and neo-noir thriller Bad Times at the El Royale) and Euphoria’s beloved asswipe Jacob Elordi as the legendary rock couple. Adapted from Priscilla Presley’s 1985 memoir Elvis and Me, Priscilla is simply not some straightforward biopic like Baz Luhrmann’s 2022 Elvis. We don’t rock in our seats to “Heartbreak Hotel” (thanks to the Presley estate turning down any involvement in the film), the King of Rock’s glitz-and-glam lifestyle is less centerfold, and I highly doubt Elordi’s Elvis accent will be lingering for months on end… unlike his Elvis-playing predecessor, Austin Butler. Despite some philistines deeming this film as boring/dull while critiquing its lack of dialogue, these naysayers fail to grasp the cinematographic prowess of Sophia Coppola’s unparalleled techniques in capturing the essence of human connection through spaces and silences. With her extensive directorial library of mood films, Priscilla shines as yet another atmospheric example of Coppola’s ability to force her viewers to feel rather than passively watch her work. Let’s take Lost in Translation, Coppola’s acclaimed 2003 classic with a budget of a mere $4 million starring Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. Alone in the isolating landscape of Tokyo, Murray and Johansson’s performances showcase the poignant beauty of fleeting connections as they wield the power of silence, allowing the unexpressed to resonate more profoundly than words ever could. The same tactic is used in Coppola’s 2010 masterpiece Somewhere, in which a jaded Hollywood actor (Stephen Dorff) reexamines his life of excess and pointlessness following a surprise visit from his young daughter (a baby Elle Fanning) during an extended stay at the Chateau Marmont. Somewhere’s leisurely pace and moments of stillness contribute to the overall quietude, inviting viewers to immerse themselves in Dorff’s character's contemplative journey as he grapples with his celebrity isolation and fatherhood responsibilities. See, I initially felt disappointed as I didn’t get to witness the adrenaline-rush of Elvis’s debauchery, whether that be his notorious drug-scapades or sex-capades, but taking a second beat, that was indeed the intention: experiencing Priscilla’s isolationism from her point of view. While in Elvis, we witness a revolving door of women entering his bedroom, the extent of Priscilla’s knowledge was predominantly through tabloids and conjecture. In Elvis, the King is shot pill-popping every other scene, but maybe Priscilla’s extent of witnessing his infamous drug addiction rests mainly in his sleeping pill habits resulting from his fear of going to sleep. Point being, while the audience may not have experienced the action-packed scenes of degeneracy, we received something more unique: we were in the room with Priscilla Presley. Prepare yourself for one-hour and fifty-minutes of mood swings. For the first half, you’ll simply be uncomfortably shuffling in your seat as the 24-year-old Elvis’s unsubtle grooming of the 14-year-old Priscilla begins in West Germany in 1959. No wonder Lisa Marie Presley attempted to cockblock the film coming to market, expressing to Coppola her concern over her father’s portrayal as a “predator.” While Coppola may have attempted to mitigate Lisa Marie’s concerns with the promise of a nuanced representation for both her parents, I refuse to be the one to fall into the trap of downplaying Priscilla and Elvis’s inappropriate age gap nor romanticizing the confines of patriarchal domesticity. By Coppola’s design, Priscilla’s earlier personality feels oddly muted, engulfed by Elvis’s rich, overwhelming presence. Beyond her beauty and innocent charm, I struggled understanding much that allured Elvis to Priscilla in their clandestine conversations. While they seemingly bond over their loneliness in a foreign country, Priscilla doesn’t seem to open her mouth much beyond some empty platitudes and reassuring one-liners. As Elvis confides in the teenage girl over his grief from his mother’s recent death and his fears of irrelevance, he’s seemingly just talking AT her. To count on my hands the number of times a man has trauma dumped his life’s innards on me under the pretext of having established a deep connection, despite myself not getting two words in edgewise. Once Elvis returns to the states, we find the puppy-eyed teenager doodling his name in her notebooks while impatiently waiting for his call for months. In my book, the guy is gone if he doesn’t text me within a week. Your attention will indubitably begin to wane as the high school senior Priscilla leaves her parents and Germany behind when moving into Graceland, where isolation is practically personified as a character of its own. Similar to Coppola’s Marie Antoinette, a young girl is thrown into a circumstance outside of her control while depicting the inherent boredom that comes with a life of luxury. With his delicate little bird trapped in his gilded cage, Elvis’s grooming takes full throttle as the sole decision-maker over Priscilla, preventing her from working in a nearby boutique to earn her own livelihood, joining him while on tour in LA, and even dictating her appearance (and I indeed preferred that brown gown). Yet the aspect most difficult to reconcile in one’s head are those moments of genuine, tangible connection between Priscilla and Elvis as they hibernate in Elvis's room indulging breakfast in bed or sharing the intensity of a cerebral acid trip. Like I said, not excusing Elvis’s abuse of power, but in the dullness of Graceland, we see why those few moments of pure ecstasy (no pun intended) with Elvis stand as Priscilla’s saving grace as she grapples with her total loss of autonomy. Throughout the film, Elvis withstands from having sex with Priscilla, proclaiming that “they have to control our desires, or our desires will control us.” Elvis’s predatory relationship with Priscilla seemingly remained in the gray zone of the audience’s conscience, as sexual intimacy hadn’t entered the equation, yet when Elvis declares “we’re getting married” (emphasis on the fact it wasn’t a proposal but rather a statement) and Elvis and Priscilla begin having S – E – X, Priscilla’s circumstances go from bad to worse. It’s evident that Elvis wasn’t waiting for his child-bride to become of age; rather, he clearly suffers from Sigmund Freud’s psychoanalytic concept of the Madonna/Whore Complex, in which individuals compartmentalize women as either virtuous, nurturing figures (Madonnas) or sexually alluring, seductive beings (Whores) – often hindering their ability to form healthy, integrated relationships with women. Priscilla is a princess waiting to be ravished, and once she’s ravished, the Madonna-Whore Complex takes full form. Elvis creates extensive buildup with Priscilla to consummate their relationship with sex; thus priming Priscilla to link marriage with sex. Yet marriage to a man suffering from a Madonna/Whore Complex will ultimately prove to be sexless, and when children enter the equation, god forbid one defiles the mother of their wee ones! It’s no surprise that Elvis epitomizes the Madonna/Whore Complex: a complicated dedication to his mother, a revolving door of other women, and of course, a virginal wife whose sex starvation leads her to finding intimacy elsewhere (cue the random Tae Kwon Do instructor). Yet the anticlimactic ending was a bit of a ball-buster. I wouldn’t say I hated it, as the alternative would probably consist of Elvis’s impending death, which would steal the spotlight from Priscilla. The film doesn’t end with any title cards summarizing either Priscilla nor Elvis’s fate, just a girl-boss finally learning to prioritize herself as the camera closes on her driving away from Graceland. A bit flat, but a nice message. While Priscilla definitely doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test and I may never want to talk to another man for the rest of my life, this film successfully saves Priscilla’s legacy as she maintained in her autobiography that her relationship was “true love,” despite losing her identity to the King of Rock. So for that – thank you director dearest Coppola! Catch ya when the credits role! Xx