The presence of monsters echoes throughout history; historians and anthropologists alike have diagnosed the mythical beasts as a vector of our most bridling fears. They are manufactured in our subconscious and assembled solely for the purpose of defeat, and yet, no matter their atrocity, monsters are secretly championed all the way to their demise. These villains are among us with increasing abundance, so if in fact enlisted for our own catharsis, the indication of their prevalence paints a less than reassuring picture of the current cultural times. At mention of the social climate that invites an insurgence of supernatural media stars, Joe Manganiello...
Inside psychic Madame Paulina’s glowing, concrete, single-story mystic’s den, nestled beneath a major highway on the Westside of Los Angeles, garishly bedazzled in spiritualistic knick-knacks, Evan Rachel Wood wishes she were on the other side. Of the curtain, that is. The scene, you see, is divided by a beaded curtain—one room glows green, the other clay red. In the red room, a television show, hosted by some bloated and overly buff Brit who yammers away about restaurant renovations—on mute, thankfully—casts a sallow glow. On the couch, the oily, bald dome of the Madame’s man-friend refracts the telly’s happenings. This is the room Wood wants to...
Out of the corner of our eye, over our shoulder, a glimpse, a glimmer, an emanation, a misty shadow, something to make us doubt we’re alone. Stories have been told for centuries around the campfire and in the trenches about men who disappear, about meeting someone and later finding out they’d died shortly before the rendezvous, about unfinished business and vengeful spirits. Richard Carradine, the founder of the Ghost Hunters of Urban Los Angeles (GHOULA) has heard them all. Traveling the world, Carradine asks everyone he meets about his or her ghost histories, and pretty much everyone has one. He’s sought ghosts the world over, but he always comes back to Los Angeles,...
The Dexterous Babe on Splitting Sides and Canine Superiority A stack of red velvet pancakes sits in the middle of the table and an elderly man watches us eat, his eyes intent and locked. Sure, Kristen Bell’s skin radiates an unrealistic glow and her long blond hair sways becomingly and her capelet and lace-up knee high boots (which she’s removed the laces from, because she just couldn’t be bothered to constantly be lacing on and off) give her an adult Red Riding Hood look, but this is getting creepy. Is he a stalker fan of Veronica Mars? Perhaps he is in love with the narrator of Gossip Girl, or maybe he just saw Forgetting Sarah Marshall recently and is trying to place...
NOTHING IS FINISHED Once upon a time, there was a group of young artists who exemplified a post-Strokes New York cool. Nate Lowman would probably resent that implication, but it’s true—it was fucking cool to be an artist in New York not so long ago. We’re a few years past all that. No longer is art the chosen fallback of roustabouts (blogging now owns that dubious distinction) and no longer does art have the bulletproof veneer of a Hirst-driven market. And Lowman himself has the whiff of an artist moving beyond the halcyon: his hair is handsomely streaked with gray, and he says things like, ‘Sure, I can create a cover with short notice. My studio is efficient.’ ...
The Uncompromised Vision of an Actress Leveling Up Olivia thirlby sits in front of the mirror tousling her newly-chopped locks, swiping at the lipstick congregation in the corners of her mouth, and sweetly fingering away the burrowed eyeliner. Minutes later, in front of the photographer, Thirlby pops her hip and arches her head to reveal the beauty spot on her exaggerated mouth. Her petite frame is poised, still for 30 seconds. Click. One shot and it’s perfect. A week or two later, over tea and boiled eggs at Cafe Stella in Silver Lake, Thirlby holds up an iPhone snap of that same look proudly. “Pretty cute, I do have to say,” she chuckles with the excitement of someone who...
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