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It’s lucky Prince isn’t alive to see his Superbowl “duet” with Justin Timberlake

All we can do is sit and wait while music executives dig up Leonard Cohen for a duet with Ed Sheeran

Objectively, the most iconic thing Justin Timberlake has ever done is shroud himself in denim. The year was 2001. Fashion was in crisis. Timberlake showed up to the American Music Awards with then-girlfriend Britney Spears who wore a matching evening gown of luscious, flowing denim. Seventeen years later, his music – background-ish and sometimes catchy – is entirely beside the point.

Then you have Prince. An artist so innovative and genre-defying that, in 1993, he changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol, while the world looked on and said, “Yeah, that seems about right.”

This week, at the Super Bowl, an event known (outside of the US at least) more for its gargantuan musical halftime show than for actual American football, the two artists “performed” together. Or, more accurately, Timberlake engaged in a fourteen minute-long robotic medley of his greatest solo hits, while Prince was unable to look on with Old Testament godlike fury, because (having died two years ago) he was a projection. While Timberlake covered Prince’s I Would Die 4 U, images of Prince loomed in the background, singing along. This, despite the fact that in life, not only did Prince not particularly like Timberlake (joking once, “For whoever is claiming they are bringing sexy back, sexy never left!”) but, in an interview with Guitar World in 1998, he also referred to the idea of jamming with a digitised version of a dead musician as “the most demonic thing imaginable”.

Timberlake’s “duet” with Prince wasn’t the first time a hologram of a dead artist has been used in a living one’s performance. In 2012 Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg shared the stage at Coachella with the long-dead Tupac. Even further back, in 2007, Celine Dion was slated for her digital duet with none other than Elvis, on American Idol. So although this trend is hardly new, it has at least something of “deepfake porn” – in which mostly female celebrities’ faces are digitally superimposed onto those of porn actresses – about it. Performing with a dead artist, although far less disturbing and potentially harmful, still involves two of the same key elements: digitisation and lack of consent. Many of Prince’s hardcore fans have stressed, although admittedly they have no way of knowing for sure, that The Artist would absolutely no way in hell have chosen to perform with Timberlake.

And if the abysmal reviews of Timberlake’s new album, Man of the Woods (because apparently he’s Father John Misty or something now) are anything to go by, then yeah, Prince would be pretty insulted. Man of the Woods, the tragic ending to a story about white, male, hetero mediocrity, could really not be less Prince-like. From it’s tit-achingly hetero dudebro title, to the absolute “WHAT EVEN IS THIS”-ness of the title track, it’s probably a mercy that the man who brought us Purple Rain isn’t alive to hear the state of the guy he just “performed” with in front of millions of people.

Meanwhile, all we can do is sit and wait while music executives dig up Leonard Cohen for a duet with Ed Sheeran. Or digitally forces David Bowie into a performance with Sam Smith. The options are terrifying and endless. And none of them involve creating anything new and/or exciting. Just a string of corny, rejected Black Mirror premises.

As Prince once said, “The music industry is a matrix that is counter to what is natural and right.” 

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.

Credit: Arrow Films
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The Affair's Ruth Wilson: “All this is bringing women together... I hope it doesn’t end”

The actor on her new role as an abused sheep farmer in Dark River, the response to gender inequality and playing her own grandmother.  

At least part of the credit for Ruth Wilson’s extraordinary performance in Dark River is owed to a red-haired Border Collie. While she was in Yorkshire training to be adept at country life – shearing sheep, skinning rabbits, shooting guns and ratting houses – she worked with a sheepdog who seemed somehow as traumatised as the character she was preparing to play. “She was very skittish with humans,” Wilson recalls, “and wouldn’t look them in the eye. Her haunches would go down as if she’d been abused. And then on the field, she was focussed, aggressive, in control. So I based my character on her.”

The inspiration worked. As Alice, a skilled sheep shearer who returns to the farm she grew up on after her father dies, Wilson is tense and brittle, as though she might crumble to dust at any moment. For the past 15 years, Alice has been working around the world – New Zealand, Norway, “anywhere there’s sheep”, anywhere far away from the sexual abuse she was subjected to at the hands of her father (Sean Bean) as a child.

Her brother Joe, played with both tenderness and rage by Mark Stanley, has never left. He hasn’t forgiven Alice for leaving either, though neither of them is capable of articulating the potent mix of shame and resentment they feel. Just like in previous films by Clio Barnard, the heir to the gritty realist throne of Ken Loach, Dark River is driven as much by what isn’t said as by what is. “It’s sculpted,” says Wilson, “It feels like a held moment. There’s hardly any dialogue, but it just feels so full.”

We’re in a small office room in Covent Garden. Wilson’s been here most of the day, surrounded by pastries that she’s tried, and mostly failed, to foist on to journalists. When I turn down her offer too, she looks forlorn. “I ate half of one earlier, and they’ve brought a load of new ones,” she says with faux indignation. Doing press doesn’t usually fill Wilson with delight ­– even an endless supply of croissants can’t make up for the toil of being asked, again and again, about her personal life – and since she broke out as the psychopathic scientist Alice Morgan in BBC’s Luther, before landing starring roles in Anna Karenina, Saving Mr Banks, and on the hit Showtime series The Affair, she’s had to do a lot of it. But today, she says with a tone of surprise, is a little different. “I’ve sort of been looking forward to talking about this film.”

There’s certainly a lot to talk about. Dark River is a powerful but understated examination of abuse, and the psychological damage done when a person’s protector is also their abuser, their home also the site of their trauma. Alice is determined to fix the farm – which has fallen into disrepair while her father and brother have been in charge – but she can hardly stand to be there. The memories cling to it as stubbornly as the rats that have overrun it. “She can’t step a foot in that house,” says Wilson, “but she feels it’s what’s owed to her, so it’s that constant fight she has within herself. It’s a past, it’s a grave, it’s a memorial, but she has to come back and reclaim it in some way.”

Alice is also trying to reclaim the farm on behalf of her mother and grandmother, who once ran it. “She’s having to stand up to these men in every area,” Wilson says. “Whether it’s [the men] selling the sheep, or it’s her brother, or the guy coming to buy the land, everyone is a man that she’s having to kind of negotiate. She’s this woman struggling to have her own space and her own voice in a very male world.”

Wilson in a scene from Dark River. Credit: Arrow Films.

Through this film, Barnard wanted to explore objectification – both of the land and of the female body. “The way we objectify the countryside, and make it all seem beautiful and glorious, that’s what patriarchy has done to women for so long,” says Wilson, “objectify it, put it on a pedestal, [without seeing that] it’s much more complex than that, and it’s much more interesting and whole and full. Patriarchy has oppressed women and reduced them or undervalued them. It’s the same with the land, it’s much more brutal and complex than the beautiful countryside that we put on our posters.”

Wilson returns to the word “complex” throughout our conversation – in relation to the land, to the nature of victimhood, and to the relationship between Alice and her brother  –  but she rolls her eyes when I recall a quote from a recent profile: “Complex women are becoming something of a calling card for Wilson.” “People are complex aren’t they?” she says. “That’s what’s so annoying. Everyone is complex. We’re all a bit mad.” She thinks for a moment. “I suppose a lot of female parts are two dimensional. It’s not that there’s a certain brand of ‘complex woman’ to be played, [it’s that] so few people give female characters the time of day.”

The Affair, which made Wilson’s name in the US (after a potentially star-making turn alongside Johnny Depp in The Lone Ranger turned out to be a flop), lends equal weight to the inner workings of its two leads – a man and a woman, both battling demons, who cheat on their respective spouses with each other. But has Wilson seen progress, over the past decade, when it comes to the industry’s willingness to tell female-centric stories? The kind of stories that would pass the Bechdel test? “Uhh, no not really,” she says. “I mean that show fails the Bechdel test in every scene. If women do talk to each other, it’s about men.” A week or so after we speak, she reveals another of the show’s gender parity issues – that her co-star Dominic West earns more than she does, despite their equal billing.

Wilson in 2015 with her co-star from The Affair, Dominic West. Photo: Getty

Nevertheless she does hold out some hope that movements like Time's Up will finally accelerate the rate of progress, particularly when it comes to women's voices being heard. “Actually what is happening is that there’s a community of women now that are talking to each other. We haven’t had the opportunity to do that before; we’d be in competition with each other, or were made to feel that we were anyway. A consequence of all this stuff is that it’s actually bringing women together who are very talented, and they’re gonna support each other to make stuff for each other. I’ve never been in so many groups of women, and actually it’s been glorious. The piece I’m doing now is my own family history, but it’s all from the female point of view.”

That piece is The Wilsons, which Wilson is executive-producing and starring in as her own grandmother, Alison, who discovered on her husband’s deathbed that he was a spy in the inter-war years, had four wives whom he never divorced, and children with all of them. It’s a truth stranger than fiction. Last week, Wilson was auditioning boys to play her character’s son. So he’d be playing her real life father? “Yeah!” she laughs. “It’s so weird. I might have a breakdown at the end of it. If you never see me again, that’s why.”

Potential breakdown aside, Wilson is palpably excited about the project – particularly as it gives her the opportunity to centre women’s stories on screen. It’s the kind of work she’s confident this newly discovered support network is leading towards. “I hope this whole community just drives forward the female lens and the female experience,” she says. “I hope it doesn’t end, you know?”