My Ten Second Song Opening Salvo Non-Sequential List

I do not have a picture of my first car, a Bimini Blue Metallic 1993 two-door Ford Tempo, for blog purposes because that was so long ago, kidz, you couldn’t take a picture of your first car with your phone. Your parents, maybe, could take a photo of it with their Canon, but you, yourself, could only take it with a disposable Kodak camera from Walgreens, if, that is, you wanted to pay for one rather than use that money to buy the Jagged Little Pill compact disc. (The photo above of a 1993 Ford Tempo interior is pulled from Google.) Somewhere, yes, there are a few photos of my nominal Tenacious Tempo, including one of it parked in front of the Rose Bowl a quarter-century ago this year, but those are tucked away in an old school photo envelope. Back then, you had to be there to be there. Anyway. 

My first car returned to my mind a few weeks ago when I listened to the most recent episode of Rob Harvilla’s Ringer podcast where he explores seminal 90s and 00s songs. In this one, his subject was Bush’s “Glycerine,” framed through the lens of songs you listened to specifically on the radio while aimlessly tooling around in your car but more specifically than that, the first ten seconds of those songs. “You internalize the first ten seconds of hundreds of alternative rock songs,” Harvilla explained, “and you create subconsciously, or consciously, a taxonomy, a hierarchy, an emotional ranking of all these ten second opening salvos.” Oh, I created one, Rob, believe me, I did. Mine, however, is not ranked. Because they are all number one. 

What’s the Frequency, Kenneth? R.E.M. Harvilla was specifically talking about alternative rock stations and the truth is, I was less interested in alternative rock of the era than my peers were and more likely to be listening to – ye gods – pop radio. (Or my rap cassettes. Truthfully, no first ten seconds of any song elicits a Pavlovian response of being in my first car more than the horns of “Steve Biko (Stir It Up)” by Tribe Called Quest, but as per Harvilla’s rules, this post is strictly limited to songs I also heard on the radio.) But if any alternative rock song could have been said to perk my ears up, it was this one. Peter Buck’s guitar sound is generally described as jangly, but to me, it will always be about this monster riff.



Creep, TLC. “Waterfalls” was a bigger hit and the one I remember on the radio most, but the radio version often excised Left Eye’s rap, cutting the song’s heart right out, and I always liked “Creep” just a little bit more anyway. And so, any time one song on Q-102 ended and “Creep’s” opening horn samples appeared, I felt like Mike Pace had just read my numbers in the Iowa Powerball lottery.



If It Makes You Happy, Sheryl Crow. Central Iowans of a certain age who doubled as “Seinfeld” fans will recall there was this local TV personality who would always talk over the end credit scenes during “Seinfeld” re-runs on KDSM-17, may god have mercy on her soul, just as it always seemed to me that radio dee-jays talked over the opening riff to “If It Makes You Happy.” I hated this, but at the same time, it turned the opening ten seconds into this low rumble just underneath the standard-issue patter about nobody-cares-what, like some dumb tourist you just met at Old Faithful still jabbering while you can feel the geyser getting ready to unleash, innately communicating that in just a moment, in just ten blessed seconds, life was about to be soooooo good for four-and-a-half minutes more. 

Just A Girl, No Doubt. I mean, hey, man, this riff changed my life. And no, I don’t want to talk about Gwen Stefani in the year of our lord, 2026, that’s got nothing to do with this. 



All You Wanted, Michelle Branch. This was late-era Tempo, after the Phoenix summer had nearly killed it, just sort of eking out its final days back in central Iowa as I was just sort of grasping at the straws of life. And though the opening salvo to this one is not thunderous, that’s what I liked about it, how the first ten seconds seemed to clear the sky in advance, leaving a figurative rainbow glittering just outside my windshield as I ratcheted up the volume and then the thunder crashed and I sang along (so long as no one else was in the car with me).  



Wonder, Natalie Merchant. She’s been gone from the pop scene for so long that sometimes I forget how big a Natalie Merchant fan I was back in the 90s, and though she did not frequently compose the kind of songs that would immediately reach out and grab you, on this one, she did. Indeed, in an industry where guitar gods are too often just that, gods, testosterone-addled gods, I always liked that when Merchant broke away from the 10,000 Maniacs and went solo, she had a woman, Jennifer Turner, slinging the axe. I don’t know enough to know what Turner is doing in that opening riff to “Wonder.” It’s like a sunnier, more understated version of shredding, or something. It didn’t knock me sideways, this opening, it instantly infused my heart with euphoria. And in the course of researching this post, I discovered a Merchant performance of this one on David Letterman’s Late Show in 1996 with Turner over her right shoulder and going to proverbial town on her chosen instrument, I have watched it, like, 46 times, and despite everything happening these days, truly, the world never stops being full of wonder. 

What is the Best Line in Casablanca?

In last year’s Oscar-nominated “Blue Moon,” holding court at Sardi’s, celebrated Broadway lyricist Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke) cites the best line in the 1942 winner of the Academy Award for Best Picture and stone cold classic “Casablanca” as “Nobody ever loved me that much.” And I thought, “Is it? Is it the best line in ‘Casablanca?’” It’s the line Rick (Humphrey Bogart) says to Annina Brandel (Joy Page) the Bulgarian newlywed who has taken up with the dastardly Captain Renault (Claude Rains) in the hope of securing letters of transit for she and her husband to escape to America. It’s a line that echoes Rick’s “I stick my neck out for nobody” because, in fact, he winds up sticking his neck out repeatedly, including for Annina Brandel, just as, in fact, someone did love him that much. Of course, “I stick my neck out for nobody” is a standard-issue observation given extra oomph by the surrounding context while “Nobody ever loved me that much,” as the fictional Hart suggests, stands more on its own. And that poses an essential question: is the best line in “Casablanca” one that is the best line unto itself or one that is in some sense elevated by attendant circumstances like the situation or the actor? 

AFI’s 100 Years…100 Movie Quotes from June 2005 included six lines from “Casablanca,” the most of any movie, doubling the two second place finishers, “Gone with the Wind” and “The Wizard of the Oz.” I’m willing to bet that if you give it a minute, you can figure out which six lines made the cut, and that you can figure out those six do not include “Nobody ever loved me that much.” It also does not include what Lorenz Hart cites as the movie’s worst line: “A precedent is being broken.” He’s wrong about that one. The worst line is Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) imploring her French Resistance folk hero husband (Paul Henreid): “Victor, please don’t go to the underground meeting tonight.” But then, even that line, as David Denby once noted for The New Yorker, is “adorably terrible.” “Casablanca” is nothing if not the utmost expression of Hollywood hokum and that line exists as a little reminder that even if the movie proved eternal, no one really thought it was made to last.

The highest-ranking “Casablanca” line on AFI’s list, checking in at #5, is Rick’s recurring, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Famously, that line was improvised by Bogart himself, culled from poker lessons he gave Bergman, while the next “Casablanca” line on the list, checking in at #20, the immortal wrap-up, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” was suggested by producer Hal Wallis. And that’s interesting because otherwise, “Casablanca,” which was based on an unproduced play and written by Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein, and Howard Koch, is such a writer’s kind of movie, as witty in its dialogue as it is shrewd in its structure.

Indeed, part of the problem with the AFI’s list is that in some cases, the best lines require the accompanying lines to unlock their full verbal luminescence. Rick’s “I was misinformed” doesn’t sing without the preceding bit about having come to Casablanca for the waters just as his “I’m a drunkard” doesn’t come through without the German Major Strasser’s (Conrad Veidt) antecedent inquiry about Rick’s nationality. Heck, Renault’s, “That makes Rick a citizen of the world” right after Rick’s “I’m a drunkard” could qualify too. And though “Blue Moon’s” Lorenz Hart notes the economy of “Nobody ever loved me that much,” contrary to what screenwriting courses might teach you, sometimes a little extravagance pays. 

Yvonne: “Where were you last night?” 

Rick: “That’s so long ago I don’t remember.” 

Yvonne: “Will I see you tonight?” 

Rick: “I never plan that far ahead.”

On other hand, Ilsa’s famous (and famously oft-misquoted) line, “Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By,’” which was #28 on AFI’s countdown, is made memorable not so much because of the inherent wittiness of the line so much as how the line encapsulates and conjures the feeling surrounding it. Ditto “We’ll always have Paris” (#43). Renault’s “Round up the usual suspects,” meanwhile, is planted early in the screenplay and then paid off with great dramatic flair at the end. It might have only been #32 on AFI’s list, but I am inclined to say contrary to the fictionalized Lorenz Hart, that it might, that it just might be the best line in “Casablanca.” 

One line conspicuously missing from the AFI list is Captain Renault’s “I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on here!” I suspect that if AFI redid its 100 quotes today, this one would make the cut, having become so prominent between the aged and the yutes alike as a wearily comic catch-all for our golden age of political blinkering and shrugging corruption. It’s a great line on the page, but Rains brings it home by providing just the right amount of ersatz incredulousness.

I like a well-crafted line, but what I love most is written line alchemizing so impeccably with an actor that it sounds as it were improvised even though it was not. And Bogart, as was his way, has all manner of such lines in “Casablanca.” There is his riposte to Strasser when the German Major tries to goad him by suggesting the Third Reich could invade New York. “Well, there are certain sections of New York, Major, that I wouldn’t advise you try to invade,” Rick replies as Bogey gives it this glorious ring of twinkly insolence. Or how about when Rick and Ilsa recall their last meeting on the day the Germans marched into Paris. “I remember every detail,” he says. “The Germans wore grey; you wore blue.” That line is too good to be true, just like a memory, but that is how Bogart says it, calling up a memory from the recesses of his mind. And brings us to the line that curiously brought up the rear of all the Casablanca entries on AFI’s list.  

On paper, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” sounds a little flowery, a little forced, not necessarily something a person might be inclined to say in the real world. But then, this is the movies, and who wants to talk like the world? This line is not only one that Bogart takes possession of with a pained, intoxicated slur, giving it the ring of drunken poetry, while also effusing a crucial hint of hydrogen psychosis, it is the one that more any other illuminates movie dialogue not as something to replicate the way people talk in the real world but, like the movie itself, as something beautifully, romantically larger than life. It’s the best line in “Casablanca.” 

Luminosity Explained

I watched “Project Hail Mary” (see: yesterday’s review) at my preferred theater, the Davis, a three-screener nestled one neighborhood over from mine and unaffiliated with any of the chain monoliths. They are mostly a first-run place, but they host repertory screenings too, like 1995’s “Party Girl” this Thursday. As such, they showed a trailer of it prior to “Project Hail Mary” and though I watched Parker Posey’s indie classic several times on VHS back in the day and again at some point on DVD in the current century, I have never seen it on the big screen. When the preview transitioned from its opening image of Posey walking down a New York street to a close-up of Posey, oh my god, reader, it was like a solar flare; I practically put my hands in front of my face to shield myself from the intense silver screen radiation. 

The “Party Girl” trailer was not on 35mm, alas, and so absent that glorious crackle, but still, as a 4K restoration, it looked like 35mm film and served as a revelatory contrast against the ensuing “Project Hail Mary” and its digital cameras. That “Party Girl” trailer was so much more tactile and lifelike even if, simultaneously, it went to show how putting a close-up of a lifelike image on the big screen transformed lifelike into larger than life. It reminded me of 20 years ago when I saw “Casablanca” on the big screen for the first time at The Music Box and that first close-up of Ingrid Bergman lit to look like an angel (you know the one I’m talking about) epitomized the notion of movie stars as flickering gods. “Project Hail Mary” might have specifically been filmed for IMAX to render it as big as possible, but those images of Tau Ceti and the far reaches of the Milky Way felt less celestial than the Queen of the Indies in close-up.

Project Hail Mary

“Project Hail Mary” might be littered with pop hits, from Harry Styles to the Scorpions to The Beatles, but the artist I kept thinking of was one not literally accounted for on the soundtrack: Max Martin. The ballyhooed Swedish record producer is known for so-called melodic math, a rigorous musical formula designed to maximize a pop song’s potential as a hit. That’s not bad, necessarily. Math is a universal language, as “Project Hail Mary” reminds us, but also, movies is magic, to quote Gregory Hines in “History of the World, Part One,” and the best blockbusters so seamlessly integrate their math that, in the end, magic is all you see. Though there is plenty to like about “Project Hail Mary,” too often all I could see were co-directors Phil Lord and Christopher Miller’s figurative equations scribbled on a blackboard.

The math in “Project Hail Mary” is evident right from the start when Ryland Grace (Ryan Gosling) wakes up aboard a spaceship with no idea how he got there or where he’s going – in other words, Jason Bourne - assassin + astronaut = Ryland Grace. This way, Drew Goddard’s screenplay creates dual narratives, one going backwards to show us the genesis of his mission and another going forward to show us how that mission plays out. Grace (who is always called by his surname rather than his first name, and so shall we) is a middle school science teacher whose burgeoning academic career came undone when he authored a controversial paper. It is that very paper, however, that prompts Eva Stratt (Sandra Hüller) to recruit him for an international task force seeking answers to a mysterious microorganism spreading across the surface of the sun and causing it to dim, threatening the existence of humanity. An effusive American and a deadpan German, Gosling and Hüller form a fabulous odd couple, and whether the science makes sense to you, flies right over your head, or some combination of the two, it gets by on Hollywood terms via their two-person act.

When Grace determines that other stars in the solar system are being dimmed by this same microorganism save for one, Tau Ceti, a mission is prepped to fly the 12 light years there, figure out its secret of resistance, and then send the results home to concoct a cure. It’s a suicide mission, albeit a heroic one, and yet, two of Grace’s crewmates never make it all, failing to wake up from their induced comas, leaving him 70 trillion miles from home and all on his own. Though the tone in the subsequent scenes might have a problematic trickle-down effect we will get to in a moment, they also have an action-packed spunk that despite the onboard computer’s disembodied voice (Priya Kansara) conveniently giving Grace someone to speak with, frequently suggest a silent movie, Ryan Gosling as Harold Lloyd in “The Astronaut,” say. Yet, the equation dictates two buddy acts, one on earth and one in space, and so, Grace makes first contact with a five-legged rock-like alien that he nicknames Rocky as man and E.T. team up to try and save their respective home planets.

Rocky, voiced by James Ortiz and brought to life via puppetry, suggests Wilson the volleyball in “Cast Away” but manifested as Russell, the holy terror wilderness explorer stowaway in “Up,” fused with “The Fifth Element’s” manic Ruby Rhod with a HAL 9000 voice. Admittedly, it’s something of a Your Mileage May Vary situation, like how a lot of people seem to like “The Trip” movies but the celebrity impressions wear me out, and from my perspective, Rocky was…a lot. And the brief sequence where we see Grace driven batty by Rocky, too, does not cheekily temper its DEFCON 3-level annoyance but highlights why it’s a significant problem in the first place. What’s worse, though this emergent friendship is meant as to cure Grace’s default mode of isolation from the world around him, Lord and Miller’s narrative and aesthetic busyness prevents that alienation from existing in anything other than theory. And that underlines the big miscalculation in “Project Hail Mary’s” equation, exhaustive giving way to exhausting, brought home in just how long it takes to bring the whole shebang home, laying on so many false endings that I palpably sensed myself starting to tune out. That I did not entirely is a testament to Hüller, the kind of impending apocalypse project manager I would be inspired to work for, proving that you can stare down the end of the world with a droll expression.

The Cable Guy

As Ted Turner gradually transformed small-fry Atlanta UHF station WJRJ into TBS (Turner Broadcasting System), the first superstation, in the 1970s, he filled airtime by acquiring the rights to broadcast games of the local Major League Baseball team, the Atlanta Braves. He effectively remade them as America’s Team by literally marketing them as America’s Team, like Anheuser-Busch brandwashing Budweiser as the King of Beers, and in an era where the options for watching baseball games was limited, the sometimes-leftist Turner foreshadowed Reagan by essentially decreeing that every American deserved to watch as many baseball games as he or she damn pleased. It helped pave the way for our present-day streaming world were virtually every game in every American sport can be accessed one way or another just as Turner’s founding of CNN started us toward a slew of yammering 24-hour news networks, for better and for much, much worse. He also did his part to alter not just our moviegoing habits but our movie watching habits too. 

Turner, who died on May 6th at 87, could not fill airtime through baseball alone and so he showed movies too, both on TBS and its eventual sister station TNT (Turner Broadcasting Network). In the beginning, many of these movies were culled from the pre-1986 MGM catalogue which Turner took control of through a byzantine deal. He launched TNT, in fact, with a showing of “Gone with the Wind,” which he cited as his favorite movie, though in the early days he also ran “The Slugger’s Wife” incessantly, a 1985 critical bomb, yes, but also a movie all about his Atlanta Braves (he purchased them, too, in 1976) and in which he, himself, had a cameo. He could not turn that movie into a new classic like he might have wanted, but he created New Classics, nevertheless, a phrase he utilized for an America’s Team-like promotional campaign as he struck myriad licensing deals with other distribution companies. Upon obtaining cable rights to “The Shawshank Redemption” in 1997, he essentially incepted it into everyone’s mind as a New Classic by showing it, as director Frank Darabont would jokingly and appreciatively note, “every five minutes.” When a student in my freshmen rhetoric classic that fall at the University of Iowa cited “The Shawshank Redemption” as his favorite movie, I wanted to ask him, “And are the Atlanta Braves your favorite baseball team?”

Turner might have used the phrase New Classic, but I always preferred the more letter-for-letter term of TNT Movies, and as the evidence showed, “The Shawshank Redemption” was a consummate TNT Movie. It was so heavily telegraphed and glacially paced that in its full two-hour and twenty-two-minute form, its impact was deadened, whereas in short bursts, you could better appreciate the solid construction of its engaging individual scenes. “A Few Good Men” was a much bigger box office hit than “The Shawshank Redemption,” but I have long thought it was best appreciated as a TNT Movie where it could live its truth less as a triumphant courtroom drama of truth and justice than a slick Hollywood entertainment in the positive sense, constructed for maximum enjoyment. It is comprised of nothing but good scenes that can be enjoyed in any order, like Madonna’s “Immaculate Collection,” a movie as greatest hits compilation. Another Tom Cruise joint, “Cocktail,” is the ultimate TNT Movie seen through the looking glass the other way – a movie that only works, in a manner of speaking, in 10 to 15 fifteen increments on TNT on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

This might seem like a bastardization of the movies, like Turner infamously colorizing old monochrome classics like “Casablanca” and “It’s a Wonderful Life” to make them more palatable, I guess, for philistines who prefer their solemn national reflecting pools to be Caesars Palace swimming pool blue, but really, it evokes movies at their beginning, a la old nickelodeon shorts, while also hinting at our present of bite-size scenes in the form of YouTube clips or TikTok videos. I mean, really, is turning on “A Christmas Story” during its annual 24-hour Christmas marathon on TNT just to hear “Not a finger!” any different than TikTok distilling the Biblical behemoth “Solomon and Sheba” down to 7 seconds of Gina Lollobrigida?

“Solomon and Sheba” is the kind of movie liable to turn up on yet another Turner enterprise – Turner Classic Movies. Christened in 1994, also via a “Gone with the Wind” kickoff, TCM differed from its namesake’s other TeeVee ventures in so much as it was more akin to a public good, like the Smithsonian, as Maureen Dowd put it for The New York Times. It certainly educated me. The standard cinema classics were available at rental stores where I was from, but TCM allowed me to dig so much deeper and learn so much more; I never would have been able to complete the Jean Harlow filmography without it. And when my beloved 1998 thriller “Ronin” was added to its roster in 2022, it felt momentous, like an Atlantan’s favorite Brave, say, being enshrined by the Baseball Hall of Fame. As billionaires are wont to do, Ted Turner helped reshape the future, yet as most billionaires are not wont to do at all, when it came to cinema, he not only recognized but took substantial action to preserve its past. 

What Film Reels Would I Wear to the Met Gala?

May 4th might have marked what has become the informal day of celebration for “Star Wars,” as if every day in pop culture isn’t already “Star Wars” day, but it also marked the Met Gala, the premiere cultural event whose whole purpose to begin with nobody really knows. Held the first Monday of every May, the Met Gala technically exists to raise funds for The Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but mostly, it’s a place for high society to be seen in chic clothing. That’s why it’s worth mentioning that the other Kylie, Jenner, showed up without her famous beau Timothée Chalamet who chose to honor his ticket to see his beloved New York Knicks in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals at Madison Square Garden. Timmy has endured some bad press recently and while it has been generally earned, it’s worth pointing out that by skipping The Costume Institute Benefit, he marked himself as a true Knick fan. Respect. I digress. The Met Gala. Right.

Nicole Kidman, her eminence, doubling as Met Gala co-chair, attended in a red feathered sequined gown inspired by “Moulin Rouge” and under any other circumstances, would have been his blog’s best dressed. But. While singer, songwriter, actor Sabrina Carpenter sported three outfits during the night, she walked the carpet in a Dior dress literally made of film reels from Billy Wilder’s 1954’s romantic comedy “Sabrina.” Well, that got me to thinking. I would never be invited to the Met Gala, of course, and even if I was, I would show up wearing my finest Homefield Apparel t-shirt under a Marine Layer blazer with Old Navy jeans and Adidas sneaks. But let’s pretend for a moment. Let’s pretend that I attended the Met Gala in a suit tailored from film reels; what film reels would they be?

If I’m following Carpenter’s lead, my theoretical suit would have to be Nick-inspired, of course, and though I’m tempted to say it should be “The Thin Man” given Nick Charles, who am I kidding, I can’t pull off William Powell any better than Robert Downey Jr. pulled off that pirate look at the 1989 Academy Awards. I can’t pull off Val Kilmer, either, as much I might like to honor his Nick Rivers of “Top Secret!” with some ill-advised comedy bit in which my film reels inadvertently catch on fire on the red carpet. No, I am much more of a Jesse Eisenberg who, (not) coincidentally, has played two movie characters named Nick in “Roger Dodger” and “30 Minutes or Less.” Ah, but Michael Cera, (not) coincidentally also played two movie characters named Nick in “Youth in Revolt” and, more appropriately in this circumstance, “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist.” 

“Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist,” however, brings me to John Badham’s forgotten running-clock middling thriller “Nick of Time.” It should surprise no one that when I began brainstorming this inane exercise, my first thought was, well, I would need to wear the film feels of a middling thriller. “Nick of Time” is certainly middling, of that there is no doubt, but let us not forget John Cusack as one Nicholas Easter, hero of the greatest middling thriller of all time.

Incredulous Fashion Reporter: “And who are you wearing?”

Me: “‘Runaway Jury.’” 

The Moment

“The Moment” of Aidan Zamiri’s mockumentary satire refers to the long tail of success from British pop artist Charli XCX’s sixth studio album “Brat” and the cultural phenomenon that it spawned, one colloquially known as Brat Summer. That phenomenon, however, and the album itself, are never really explored or even explained in detail. No, true to its title, “The Moment” picks up at the point where the artist’s original intent, whatever it was, has been co-opted by the culture at large and turned into something out of the artist’s control. And so, the questions “The Moment” asks are: when, exactly, does a pop culture craze end, and how does it end, and why does it end, and who ends it? These questions have been asked before but even so, Charli XCX, who conceived the story that Zamiri and Bertie Brandes turned into a script, finagles creatively meta ways to ask them. Indeed, the question of when Brat Summer will conclude is literally posed aloud by none other than Stephen Colbert in an ersatz Charli XCX interview on The Late Show. I LOL’d. 

If Charli (we will refer to the character as Charli and the actor as XCX) seems ready to let the moment end, the surrounding industry types seek ways to prolong it, creating a Brat credit card and urging her to do what music stars have done time immemorial and make a concert film. In essence, that’s what “The Moment” is, the making of the making of the concert film as clueless handlers hire a director (Alexander Skarsgård) who cultivates an air of collaboration and openness while simultaneously practicing neither, seeking to transform Brat into a version of Taylor Swift’s Eras tour. No doubt this stems in part from the real-world tension between XCX and TayTay, but it is, nevertheless, hilarious to see Charli throwing herself on the mercy of the industry machine by dangling from a stationary harness.

The format might draw from “This Is Spinal Tap” (1984), but the titular band in the mockumentary godfather was all about delusions of grandeur while Charli is wracked with exhaustion and self-loathing and seeks to sabotage her own concert movie. That suggests “This Is Spinal Tap” less than the mockumentary styled “Curb Your Enthusiasm” HBO pilot as do Charli’s comically cringe encounters with various people that drop in and out of her orbit. XCX effuses nimble comic timing and a genuine skill at deadpan in these moments, like the one on her tour bus where she hesitantly peers around a corner to reluctantly allow the driver to drop some ostensible knowledge, evincing celebrity as forever walking on eggshells rather than living among the clouds. If I were writing a Letterboxd review of “The Moment” I might just write that Charli XCX gives the performance of the year as Larry David. She’s a misanthrope for the TikTok generation.

I know, I know. Letterboxd, TikTok, Brat, Charli XCX, what is any of this in the first place? And that’s the thing about “The Moment”: it fails to offer any entry point for anyone who is not completely plugged into current pop culture unless you are the rare middle-aged dude such as myself who happens to totally be into Charli XCX. (I was the oldest person in the theater at my showing.) Likewise, a non-Charli’s Angel might watch “The Moment” and come away thinking, “Well, who is Charli XCX?” Adhering to narrative rules that we get to know the character before the character loses all sense of herself would yield a more powerful closing punch, no? Except the point of XCX’s shape-shifting persona has always been obfuscation of the person, and even more than that, an awesome defiance of the fan service that has come to define so much of modern pop culture. That’s one of the reasons I admire her artistry so much. And if the extreme close-ups of Charli throughout “The Moment” evoke a desperate desire for the camera to peel away the persona, she pushes back at every turn, brought home in a dizzying denouement where she might as well put “Brat” in a burn barrel out back, pour some gasoline on it, and light a match.