Purple Rain & First Ave’s Reign (Matchflick column celebrating the anniversary of PURPLE RAIN)

For some reason, July 27 is a special day. In 2007, THE SIMPSONS MOVIE was released on that day. In 1984, the film PURPLE RAIN was released on that day. And sometime in the 1970s, I was born on that day. Back in the day, I loved Michael Jackson, Madonna and, of course, Prince. Friends and I would have long discussions about who we liked better. (For some reason, we suburban white kids grouped Michael and Prince together simply because they were black, and it didn’t occur to us that we didn’t have to choose.) Although PURPLE RAIN was mostly filmed a few miles from my home, I wasn’t allowed to see it because it was rated R. But just because the movie was forbidden didn’t mean the album was off limits. Oh, the songs: “Let’s Go Crazy” at middle school dances, slow dances to “Purple Rain” and the controversy of “Darling Nikki.” (“‘Masturbating with a magazine’?” I wondered what that meant for maybe a full year until a magical day when a light bulb went on over my head.) These songs were a huge part of my childhood and on till today; these songs get regular play on my iPod. Finally seeing PURPLE RAIN was magnificent – I rented it from the local video store/tanning salon when I was in high school – and I have since realized how ahead of its time the film really was. While the blending of   Apollonia Kotero

music with the action was nothing new, the way PURPLE RAIN does it is refreshing. The characters discuss and perform the music; they don’t burst into song as characters do in musicals. The merging of reality and fiction was at first confusing yet intriguing. I didn’t know what to believe. Was Prince “The Kid”? Did he really have an abusive father, whose hateful traits he didn’t want to emulate? The main characters used their actual first names, but, I have since decided, the stories were concocted. While Prince’s character was simply called “The Kid,” the members of the Revolution used their real names. Apollonia used hers (kind of—her name is Patricia Apollonia Kotero). Minneapolis is Minneapolis, unlike how Gotham City is clearly Chicago.

I don’t have to tell anyone in the music business or anyone who’s lived around Minneapolis about the mystique of First Avenue. Fame and fortune isn’t a sure bet after playing First Ave, but, many acts will attest, it won’t hurt. The building, previously the city’s Greyhound station, hasn’t been dressed up. Ever. The iconic stars painted on the exterior display the names of the musical acts who’ve played at the venue and tell a piece of the place’s history. Local boys like Prince, The Replacements, and Hϋsker Dϋ have stars alongside big names

Can you see the stars?

like The Melvins, Nirvana, The Pixies, and the Sugarcubes, who played First Ave as relative nobodies. In fact, I had a ritual during my college years in which I would kiss my left hand and leap to give The Cure’s star a little love slap each time I walked by. I never saw The Cure at First Ave—by the time I was old enough to see a show, they were big enough to play Met Center.

Inevitably, the area has changed. The city has ameliorated around it. The club is no longer surrounded by hourly rate motels and strip clubs. Now it’s next to the Target Center, shiny new hotels and a Hard Rock Café. But the building at the intersection of First Avenue and 7th Street looks the same, and if you drive by, you can imagine that the Minneapolis of today is the same city that “The Kid” and Morris Day rivaled over gigs and Apollonia.

In the event of this anniversary, I urge you to see PURPLE RAIN, especially if you never have. Yes, it’ll feel dated (it has been 25 years!), but that’s the point of history. Plus, if you can visit Minneapolis, catch a show in the Main Room or the Entry. Now that the place is smoke-free it smells better than this dank bus station ever has, and you’ll experience a piece of the Midwest’s rock heritage.

Oh, and while you’re at it, be sure to purify yourself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka.

Du is a film columnist, did you know that?

For about a year  and half now, I’ve been writing a film column at matchflick.com, which is a social networking & review site for film fans. I’d like to get all of those columns on here eventually, but for now, I’m sharing just the section in today’s column that I wrote on Persepolis.  Before I started dating the bf, the only graphic novel I’d read was Maus–I had read in it college and then used in my lit class at Marquette University because it’s fucking awesome! I have no real idea why I never gave any other graphic novels a chance, but when the bf went to the Wisconsin Book Festival a couple years ago, he heard Satrapi speak and bought me several of her books. I inhaled them like warm Krispy Kremes. So here’s what I have to say about the film.

PERSEPOLIS (2007)
Marjane Satrapi opens the first installment of her autobiographical graphic novel with a short history of Persepolis, an ancient Persian city the ruins of which are located in modern-day southwest Iran. Iran has always been an area of riches for various reasons, leaving it open to invasion and occupation, most recently in the 20th century because of its oil. Writing in 2002, Satrapi explains that writing the graphic novel was important to her because she believes “that an entire nation should not be judged by the wrongdoings of a few extremists.” And what American can’t relate to that sentiment? Even a bare bones knowledge of the recent history of Iran is unnecessary to the understanding and enjoyment of Persepolis the book and PERSEPOLIS the film; Satrapi fills in

Just a normal girl embracing her Sex Pistols phase.

all the blanks. It’s a story of a girl and her family, first and foremost. Where she’s from and where she goes is practically incidental. She could have been a child of the ’70s and ’80s anywhere, with her bad taste in heavy metal and her adoration for Adidas. Her beautiful descriptions of her precociousness as a kid, the sassy way she calls her teachers and other adults out on their flip-flopping and hypocrisy (such as when the students are made to rip out of the picture of the Shah from their textbooks by the same teacher who had previously told them he was handpicked by God), the audience is made to adore young Marjane and cheer her on, while simultaneously pleading with her to stop and make things easier on herself. The visual beauty of the film matches the books — the simplicity of the black and white drawings is contrasted by the richness of every frame and every scene.