No sooner has the last tweed coat stepped off the Paris runway, than the New York Spring social season is fully atwitter. It’s difficult to find time for oneself in the great Metropolis, what with the American Academy of Dramatic Arts gala tonight, the Winter Garden Red Cross Ball on Thursday – healing the world’s ills can be terribly trying! Still, it all becomes worth it when you see how gorgeously diverse our world really is, on a charming program like the Discovery Channel’s Planet Earth – with stunning images of wildlife that have never been captured before. Who knew the birds of paradise had such lovely plumage? Perhaps they were inspired by Galliano’s Fall accessories?

It was with that Springtime glow that Cliff and I picked up David LaChapelle’s Rize. See our morning-after thoughts after LaJump:



Olive: Much like 300, Rize boasts a beautiful, fat-free cast going to battle – which is about where the similarities end. In Rize, we meet Tommy the Hip Hop Clown, a gentleman who used to deal drugs but found solace in his work as a birthday party clown who dances to hip hop music, and became so popular that he began to train at-risk youngsters to “clown dance”. After a while, “clown dancing” evolved into “krumping”, which involves less facepaint (just a little) and more spastic movements and ripping of one’s clothes. All the makings of an inspiring documentary, were it not for LaChapelle’s ham-fisted handling of the subject matter – including a ludicrous suggestion that the dancer’s African heritage informed the dance style, despite the fact that most of them have not traveled beyond the borders of their South Central neighborhoods! Also irksome were his campy editing choices, not one but two scenes of dancers Krimping against the California sunset, and sentimental handling of death and religion. The best scenes occur when LaChapelle stops editorializing and lets those Krampers do their Cramping – the pure kinetic energy coming out of those bodies jolts the movie back to life like a defibrillator.

Cliff: Rize…I haven’t been this confused since that Matthew Barney exhibit at the Guggenheim. Every time it seemed like the movie was going to actually develop a character or explain the difference between “krumping” and “clown dancing,” the director would insert some sort of inspirational montage.

“Who’s that?” I had to keep asking. “Shhh,” Olive kept telling me. That’s when I heard Linda, our housekeeper, walking down the hallway. I paused the movie.

“Linda come in here,” I yelled. “Do you know what krumping is?”

Olive smacked me on my bad shoulder. “Cliff!” she hissed under her breath. Linda appeared in the doorway, hands in her pockets.

“Never mind, dear,” Olive told her, “Cliff was just thinking out loud.”

“You left your cufflinks in your pants again, Mr. Cliff,” Linda told me. “Please, try to remember. If they go into the washing machine…” she shook her head in dismay at the very thought, took two short steps into the screening room and dropped the cufflinks into my hand.

“Thank you dear,” Olive told her. She waited until Linda had left the room, then turned on me.

“What’s wrong with you?” she said. “Why would Linda know anything about Crump dancing? She’s Portuguese.”

“Have some more ice tea,” I said. I poured Olive a glass, and we re-started the documentary. I still had no idea what was going on. I jingled the cufflinks in my pocket. One thing was sure: There’s nothing like the feel of real tortoise shell.