Mads Mikkelsen is such an extremely handsome guy that if he didn’t have access to knives he could probably kill you with those cheekbones. But don’t let the tumblr gifsets fool you: On the inside, Dr. Hannibal Lecter is as close to pure evil as television has come. Believing humanity to be little more than pigs fit for slaughter, Lecter spends the bulk of Bryan Fuller’s beautiful, miraculously bloody series tormenting his opposite number, empathic FBI profiler Will Graham. When not carving up human bodies, he slices into Will’s brain — perhaps the only mind capable of comprehending his deranged ideas and emotions. But understanding can only get you so far, because in the end there’s no explanation for what he is. “Nothing happened to me,” he says. “I happened.”
Everybody want to talk about who this and who that,
Who the realest and who wack, or who white or who black.
Critics want to mention that they miss when hip hop was rappin’…
Motherfucker, if you did, then Killer Mike’d be platinum.
You state that I have misinterpreted my results, and it looks as though you believe my views to be unsound. Your arguments are those of an eminent scholar. I was myself a fair scholar. For years I pondered, so to speak, day and night over books, and filled my head with sound views – very sound ones, indeed – those of others. But I could not get to practical results. I then began to work and think independently. Gradually my views became unsound, but they conducted me to some sound results.
“Mr. Tesla On Sound Views.” Electrical Review, London, November 21, 1890.
The problem for women is that our role in popular music was codified long ago. And it was codified, in part, by the early music press. In the effort to prove the burgeoning rock scene of the sixties a worthy subject of critical inquiry, rock needed to be established as both serious and authentic. One result of these arguments—the Rolling Stones vs. Muddy Waters, Motown vs. Stax, Bob Dylan vs. the world—was that women came out on the losing side, as frivolous and phony. Whether a teen-age fan or a member of a girl group, women lacked genuine grit—even female critics thought so. “The Supremes epitomize the machine-like precision of the Motown sound,” wrote Lillian Roxon in her rock encyclopedia. “Everything is worked out for them and they don’t buck the system.” Judgments like that are still routinely applied to female artists today. In Hopper’s book, under the chapter heading “Real/Fake,” appears a 2012 essay on Lana Del Ray, an artist whose look harks back to those big-haired, mascaraed sixties singers, and whose career has unfolded beneath a cloud of suspicion as to her credentials, musical and otherwise. “As an audience, we make a big stink about wanting the truth, but we’re only really interested in the old myths,” Hopper writes. The myth of women’s deceitfulness is one of the oldest.