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EDITORIAL The Mixer Timeline

Filmography Portrait of Keanu Reeves

THE MIXER | EDITORIAL

Filmography Portrait

of Keanu Reeves

by Matvey Cherry

Illustration by Paco May

— along with Pitt and Depp —

belongs to the last generation of real stars,

but seems more accessible,

closer to a coming-of-age story.


Pitt smiled too widely, Depp was unattainably cool. And Keanu, with the gait of a provincial bumpkin who had stumbled into the cinema from the Canadian frosts, from the hockey arena without taking off his skates, turned out to be very important as an alter ego and a secret best friend. Everything about him appealed to empathy: complex ethnic provenance, fatherlessness, and clubfoot. But the main thing that was felt instantly was his kindness, before the memes about him, before the photos from the subway or the city square; Keanu crushed by existence, but not dropping humanism from his hands. Katherine Bigelow was not mistaken in choosing Keanu. He looks more like a sea deity, though clean-shaven. He is the only one on earth who can wear a denim jacket with jeans. He has a very deep voice as if he has just woken up from the oblivion of Elysium and doesn’t choose words after the fall, as befits the first of people or, maybe, the last. No one knows for sure at all. Up on the crest of a wave, Keanu drifted with the flow. He hung out between roles – the son of my mother’s friend, a neighbor’s boy, one of your teenage friends, someone who reality bites from time to time.

In 1991, Keanu worked with Gus Van Sant, who had already become a singer of the youth, the main Peter Pan of independent cinematography. But My Own Private Idaho became mine much later, to be honest. Scott Favor is probably the best of people and therefore hesitantly wanders from words to deeds, trying to talk about the Quietest, but already felt. It’s good to be someone who can try. It’s bad to be Mike Waters, whose on-screen fate was almost repeated frame by frame by River Phoenix, who, contrary to his last name, never resurrected in the parking lot in front of a nightclub. The myth of the Phoenix is comparable to the legend of James Dean; he became immortal, leaving Keanu and Joaquin on the banks of the River Styx, crying out — let us also be swallowed up by these waters, we agree even to oblivion.

Life is about long send-offs and short meetings. On October 31, 1993, for the first time, Keanu was orphaned. Exactly then, on the eve of All Saints’ Day, when the dead rise from their graves to remind us: we were like you and you will become like us. But Keanu has already become. It was already too late for him to read Rilke, who advised young poets to live only with questions. And what if the answer is received?

In Bram Stoker’s Dracula, he struggles with hell (in his head, not in medieval Transylvania); Bertolucci brings up a Buddha. Everywhere his face bears the seal of mourning — for dreams that lead nowhere. He is becoming more and more like an evil god from the Indian pantheon. In these years, it would be just right for him to play the transgression of Anakin Skywalker. On the other side of the permissible, because death is unacceptable in general.

The apotheosis of this transformation, of course, is The Devil’s Advocate, a mockery of America, which in 1997 didn’t yet need either justification or repentance. This was the America of our childhood which we said goodbye to forever. It bristled with skyscrapers as if it boasted a healthy, reinforced concrete erection. In this America, only the dollar deserved beatification.

The Devil’s Advocate today looks like an extremely naturalistic caricature, a repulsive, truly terrible sight about the temptations of this world, about the relationship with conscience, about the madness of capitalism that divorced ethics from aesthetics. The mourning is over, it’s time to fight. With everything in general, just in case.

1999 was, according to Brian Raftery, the best year in the history of cinema. The twentieth century gave mankind a scattering of masterpieces at parting. The Matrix is among them. All this cinema, all that jazz that we watched and listened to for almost a hundred years, was not what it seemed. Keanu guessed it first again. No matter how naive all these metaphors of the crisis of faith from 2022 were, The Matrix, of course, helped viewers who were trembling on the eve of the millennium to leap into a sad and dark future. Another thing is that The Matrix needed neither a reboot nor a revolution, much less a resurrection.

In the new Matrix, the screenwriters still persuaded him to lie down on the couch – Freud and Marx are still the most alive. But is Keanu alive? Does he really need it? Isn’t this a projection instead of a man of flesh and blood? Did he swallow the blue pill by mistake?

Matvey Cherry

Artist

Paco May

Illustrator


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EDITORIAL The Mixer Timeline

Oscars Portrait of Adam Driver

THE MIXER | EDITORIAL

Oscars Portrait

of Adam Driver

by Matvey Cherry

Illustration by Paco May

is likely to be nominated

for the Oscar.


He really did a lot last year to impress us (and it’s not just a Burberry ad). A similar effect could have been assumed ten years ago when he masturbated in front of Lena Dunham. After this, he gave Lena twenty bucks for watching, plus cab money. By then Adam had become a crush for many.

Driver is a creep, he has perfect milky skin with just a scattering of moles, and not a single hair on his sternum (which he once broke while riding a bike). Dunham came up with the idea that Driver would be a sociopath with comic potential. He either smiles or yells like an out-of-tune musical instrument. Very tall, blatantly unsexy, and yet you want to cuddle him.

Adam Driver takes time very seriously, so he has a perfect filmography. There are no questions. He mixes Jarmusch’s Patterson with The Dead Don’t Die or the BlacKkKlansman. In The Marriage Story, he is unbearable, but this is the director’s fault. In Star Wars, too. Driver in a helmet and with a blaster looks like Santa Claus hired for an hour to entertain children. In Annette, he’s amazing. Driver finally plays a really bad person. Rage suits him. He masterfully shows how a murderer is born out of the abyss of selfishness. He understands everything and still kills. Self-love is colder than someone else’s death. House of Gucci, thank Ridley Scott. Cashmere – from the word Cash. Unfortunately, it’s not a TV series and he won’t be able to wear a white sweater for several weeks, which by today’s standards is almost an eternity.

Among the Brooklyn guys, it turned out that there are true demons found. They can not only jerk off to Scorsese, mutter Cassavetes and sourly regurgitate Allen, but also at the last breath, on the edge of a knife, on the front line, be a genius of the screen, a star of the time. Adam with the seal of Cain. I am grateful to him for this.

Matvey Cherry

Artist

Paco May

Illustrator


If you enjoy Paco’s work, plese consider donating:

Matvey will accept tips through Sidewalkkilla (please mention “For Matvey” in notes):


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EDITORIAL The Mixer Timeline

Birthday Portrait of Timothée Chalamet

THE MIXER | EDITORIAL

Birthday Portrait of

Timothée Chalamet

by Matvey Cherry

Illustration by Paco May

That a brown-eyed squishy boy

with a sharp, fragile chin

like a porcelain espresso cup

would very soon come at night

to every teenager that languishes from lust,


I guessed almost immediately after watching Hot Summer Nights (2017). The trivial pop drama feels like the classic Aerosmith and Bon Jovi music videos and smells like bubblegum and One by Calvin Klein. Timothée plays Daniel, a clumsy, insecure kid who has just lost his beloved father. Grief blurs his eyes, so that he goes through life like a blind newborn kitten. From scene to scene, his initiation (defloration) lasts, and every viewer of it feels like an old pedophile-fetishist.

In the same year, Call Me By Your Name was released. Not a film, but THE FILM. Outwardly, all decency is observed, but in fact it’s not a movie, but an ode to unclouded joy and the recognition of a voyeur. Luca Guadagnino can’t take his eyes off Chalamet, like the rest of the world that has learned to call this little prince, the child of vice, by his name. He is not your Anglo-Saxon Timothy, he’s Timothée. Only French pronunciation, accent on the last syllable! Like any idol, he needs a mysterious overseas fleur. And, of course, Call Me By Your Name is not about peaches. It doesn’t matter who exactly poured out the juice, who tasted the forbidden fruit. It’s obvious that Timothée’s cheeks are silkier than any gifts of nature. However, Guadagnino, as an experienced aesthete, didn’t fail to place an exotic fruit in a suitable interior — there are lutes, antiquity, brocade, and velvet — the arrangement is composed according to all the laws of the magnificent eloquence of classical painting. Surprisingly, Chalamet didn’t become a gay icon after this film, which is more a Power Point presentation of pre-Raphaelite art. Same-sex love is idealized there, all the sharpness of the dish is muted by sweet dressing. Guadagnino’s film tries to be a manifest, but it’s not. It’s far from the transgressive antics of Alain Guiraudie or the feverish visions of Derek Jarman. Homosexuality of Call Me By Your Name is a candy-bouquet, with Mozart and Brahms, quotes from Rousseau and curtsies to Bronzino. Those gays have descended from the pages of Architectural Digest magazine. Nevertheless, Elio’s tears at the train station or at Christmas in front of a crackling fireplace are real. Finally, Chalamet made us believe that his lips are not only to lick foamy milk or steal kisses. He can bite them until they bleed, having fainted from the blow below the belt.

In the films of Wes Anderson and Denis Villeneuve, Chalamet is again in the image of an irresistible boy. No matter what outfit he is wearing, whether the mantle of an intergalactic aristocrat or a sweater from Haider Ackermann, he is allowed to do everything — to make fun of May 68th or to decide the future of the planet Arrakis.

Matvey Cherry

Artist

Paco May

Illustrator


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Matvey will accept tips through Sidewalkkilla (please mention “For Matvey” in notes):



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Categories
EDITORIAL The Mixer Timeline

Movies With Matvey Cherry: The Hand Of God

THE MIXER | EDITORIAL

Movies With

Matvey Cherry:

The Hand of God

Illustration by Paco May

The outstanding director

didn’t betray his style and has,

skillfully and with pleasure,

created a masterpiece again.


He uses references to the classics of Italian neorealism by Fellini, but without turning his film into an imitation of the genius of the past. A chaotic jumble of moments from youth are remembered by the author, passed through the filter of his adult outlook, ironic but touching . Memory acts like a magnifying glass, turning a half-forgotten reality into something grotesque. Every person is obliged to turn around one day, as Orpheus and Lot’s wife did.

The risk is great, because either the past will disappear forever, or the memory carrier will turn into a pillar of salt. A personality is born out of a million insignificant details which leave scars for various reasons. The main character has silence in his cassette player until the end of the movie, because music can’t replace those who are not with us. This is how teen dramas become adult traumas. The Baroness, like the goddess of fate of the Park, lets Fabietto into her super pussy before cutting the umbilical cord that connected the boy with the past. She gives him the most important lesson: look at this life and think about your own. Think about what you like in this life. In this life there is already everything that is needed, everything that death will take away.

Matvey Cherry

Artist

Paco May

Illustrator


If you enjoy Paco’s work, plese consider donating:

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Categories
EDITORIAL The Mixer Timeline

Movies With Matvey Cherry: The Velvet Underground

THE MIXER | EDITORIAL

Movies With

Matvey Cherry:

The Velvet Underground

Illustration by Paco May

Shots flash by in a confused rhythm:

Winston cigarettes,

a black-and-white Mickey Mouse cartoon,

newspapers, late night shows,

Elizabeth Taylor.


Guess what? American mainstream culture of the 60s. But as soon as we get under its skin, the sensuously hypnotic sound of Venus In Furs is bumping. This cyclical melody rhymes with the noise of New York, where everything is not the same as everywhere else. 

Todd Haynes‘ filmography, imbued with a nostalgic melancholy for decades long gone, is proof of his unconditional and devoted love for the exalted and magnetic musical aesthetics of the 20th century. Stories about famous people and significant events abound. The Velvet Underground documentary in fact doesn’t fit into any genre and is perceived rather as a mosaic portrait captured on camera, assembled from video chronicles, archival photographs, interviews and fragments of experimental cinema of those times. At the emotional level, Todd Haynes’ film works with the audience in exactly the same way as the American underground cinema of the last century, in the spirit of Jonas Mekas or Andy Warhol (both, of course, are in the film). Andy was an artist and a producer, a conceptualist with a mission, a celebrated figure of the world of nightlife and fashion journalism. He knew the price of pain, appreciated scars and declared his love for everyone. His red carpets lead to eternity, where he will stay forever. The music of The Velvet Underground mixes an experimental search for how to sound elegant and brutal at the same time. Lou Reed knew what proud despair meant. Later in his life he recorded “Sad Song” for his great Berlin album. It mentions the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots and narrates a story of the suicide of a beloved girl, also providing some incredibly euphoric overtures replete with cascades of arpeggios and a chorus of people endlessly, very lightly repeating “sad song, sad, sad song”. That’s how sadness may have looked when viewed through the lens of the countercultural festivities of the 60s.

Categories
Nightlife Timeline

Matvey Cherry is a Lovely Dark Thing

MATVEY CHERRY’S

LOVELY DARK THINGS

08-15-21

TRIAD THEATER, NY

On August 15, 2021, one of the most enigmatic figures in New York City’s nightlife, Matvey Cherry, brought out an intimate soiree of the city’s movers and shaker for the second installment of Lovely Dark Things at the Triad Theater.

When asked who Matvey Cherry is, he responds:

“A star of our time.”

Matvey’s musical journey is described as multi sensorial experience, because “it’s the fucking 21st century. You have to do everything or nothing at all.

He created Lovely Dark Things when he got tired of performing at 3 Dollar Bill and decided to take full control of his own creative expression and his art:

“So I started my own show, where I was able to invite any artists I want: drag, burlesque, contemporary dancers, etc., to create a truly unique Bohemian experience at a legendary theater, the theater where Lady Gaga started her career, by the way.”

Matvey concludes:

“Follow me and find out what I’m cooking up for the future. I’m always working on something.”

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Alexey Kim

Founder


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Categories
EDITORIAL The Mixer Timeline

Happy (?) Valentine’s

THE MIXER | EDITORIAL

Not Your Valentine

Stories by Matvey Cherry.

Illustrations by Sky Vargas.

One and Another

Love has no meaning at all, but it gives meaning to everything around. It makes the heart light and empty, like a balloon. You don’t understand what is happening to you not because you are stupid, but simply because there is nothing to understand. However, there is something vulgar in the simple explanation of what love is like. And yet all the stories are similar in one way or another. 

For example, One can not live a single minute without the Other, is sick of them, jealous, afraid of them, clings to them, does not want to let the Other go, nearly stops breathing when the lover is not near. The Other is looking for a connection, an opportunity to fly together over the horizon, to new adventures, and when it turns out that the loved One doesn’t need either a flight or an adventure, but only the simple possession of them and their body, it becomes boring and even scary for the Other to be locked in a cage of strange, incomprehensible feelings. One is anxious and wild, willing to do anything for the Other, for the sake of full presence in their life, but the Other is open-minded and ready to open to anyone. For them the most important thing is life itself in all its manifestations and the attraction of two people’s universes exists only when their life views coincide. The Other needs someone around them to understand, rather than just wanting to take them. 

Such a relationship is an eternal parting theorem, erasing everything that there once was between two lovers, like the morning waves.

Love Is…

Real love is more than a hard on, but real love is hard. So hard, challenging and ultimately very hurtful. Even unbearable if the person you love is taken from you. Love is as acute and as large-scale as death is. It is essential to appreciate it and hold on to it as long as you haven’t lost it.

My heart is a close target, with such a range that my lover can’t miss. For sure I am a desperate, hopeless romantic. I could be a good duelist as well, but oh, 21st century… There are so many people that are really incapable of feeling or experiencing real love. In the long run they may be better off, the jury is still out, but if you dump your partner because you don’t like the way he/she/they hang their just washed underwear over the shower curtain rod, chances are you will die, not necessarily alone, but having never been really into someone.

Real love always comes with a potentially very high price to pay, but, no matter what, you’re trying to keep the relationship at all costs, even if getting in touch with that person is like trying to seduce the Pope, even if you’ve been experiencing the whole push and pull dynamic for a while.In my imagination all lovers are artists who’re using the light to paint, but to create the masterpiece they should add a little of darkness too. Art is love made public.

Seventeen

The most outspoken posts in social media are love letters with unknown addresses sent to the whole world. A note sealed in a bottle, floating through the ocean looking for a new reader. Perhaps one day the addressee will see it. Perhaps never. The truth is that my addressee is of flesh and blood. We are two poisonous opposites. This is just one symptom of a coma.

The shamelessness of youth abounds with feelings so dizzying, it feels like I am seventeen again and I am on the verge (of death), when for the first time I tried something strong, that eats the soul through, one agonizing part after another. If you have never experienced loss, you’ll hardly understand. If only I saw your face again, noticed you in the distance…

I remember everything: your carefree and lazy look, fluorescent lamps, the depth of the backstage, night dances. When I managed to slip into the closing doors and we were in weightlessness for a few seconds, which seemed like hours. Helpless times, when fate is not wrapped around someone’s thighs, but the chaos of the body has their own reasons.

The cold season is about to return, but there will be no snow. Winter was akin to anesthesia for me, now it lulls others. Resisting the fever, I forgot that I need to move. Foolish longing always turns a poor me into a wooden puppet. This is what the dead ones come to at the end. I’m afraid of this darkness sleeping in me. Every day I feel its malignancy. Everyone has phrases that send us to hell, like “we are too different, goodbye.

Slowly dying is a performance. I’m horrified how it turns me on. I can say, I was born for this. Please compress my ashes into the smoky eyes palette. I want to give beauty!

Matvey Cherry

Artist

Sky Vargas

Designer


If you enjoy Sky’s work, plese consider donating:

Matvey will accept tips through Sidewalkkilla (please mention “For Matvey” in notes):