Inside a bathroom, with the club’s electric blue light shining in the background, Lorde sings into the mirror. On the right side, it’s lit an algae green.
She walks back onto the dance floor, the electric blue and algae green flashing. She leaves and gets inside her car. Her driver watches her and then leans out the window and raises her arm up. She arches back and stares up.
Lit in a crimson red, she dances on the car. Her driver keeps an eye on her.
She puts ear buds in as she walks down the street. She begins to dance. On the corner, an ambulance’s lights flash. She lifts her phone to her mouth as though it were a microphone while leans on the storefronts.
Back in the bathroom, she dances a man plays a piano next to her. It switches to her dancing at all the settings. She leans against the steel gate of a store.
In the bathroom, she puts her head on the sink.
She takes deep breaths while standing against the railing on the overpass.
The club, with its marbled counter, emulates the underground hole-in-the-wall design with its cheap neon lighting. However, in reality, it’s in a restored historic building with several restaurants and businesses which are found throughout the other floors. Tourists are often recommended to make a visit per the excellent Zagat rating. The crimson red, though, erodes Lorde and turns her into a shapeless mold. It overwhelms her, rendering the seaminess moot.
A wired Lorde roams the city at about five thirty in the morning after clubbing all night. She wants to feel everything she can: the sharp metal gate of the storefront, the grimy streetcar and the wind blowing on her face. Every frustration and scratched out lyric is forgotten as she dances. The steady stream of pressure loosens with each deep breath.
It’s not after the sun comes up at about six fifteen that she feels the soreness in her thighs and recovers her voice.
Director: Grant Singer Year: 2017
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