“The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function” - F. Scott Fitzgerald

At some point this year, amid news of heated Twitter disputes, “sinister” interviews and that too-good-to-be-true tracklist, it became pertinent again to ask the question: just who the hell is Lana Del Rey? She is perhaps the most divisive artist of 2014; and yet for all the hearsay about lip surgeries, millionaire fathers and teenage alcohol addictions, we know surprisingly little about the twenty-eight year old starlett. Elizabeth Grant adopted the moniker of Lana Del Rey before the rollout of Born to Die, which dropped hot on the heels of the “Video Games” viral marketing smash. The video’s drunken collage of retro images gave us only a glimpse of what was to come: six smash singles, plenty of expensive music videos (including the 27-minute ego/drug trip Tropico) and heated accusations of anti-feminism. But three years later, as Ultraviolence rakes in the album sales, we still know very little about this lonesome Lolita. Del Rey only shrouds herself more in the vaporous veil of Ultraviolence, a dark departure from even her own bleak past. The record itself is a triumph, a modern portrait of beatnik American womanhood; one that tactfully weaves narratives of lust and adoration, confidence and ambition into an abyss of disappointment, disloyalty, obsession and heartbreak. Were you were expecting a happy ending? Then you haven’t been paying attention.

If Ultraviolence is the tearful swansong, then Born to Die was the Vegas strip premiere; grand in spectacle, dripping with pouty elegance and a sassy savoir-faire. The juxtaposition of 50’s and 60’s lounge acts with the swagger of modern hip-hop was refreshing, often smart and compelling. Still, the record couldn’t escape the nagging impression of being a well-intentioned farce. The high expectations set by the dark, evocative yearning of 2011’s viral hit “Video Games” could only detract from Born To Die’s modish, even trendy fixation on Golden Age Hollywood. The follow-up Paradise EP decently fleshed out the poetry of Lana’s “misunderstood mistress” persona, but begged further questions: where is the appeal in living a fantasy that’s doomed to perpetual tragedy? Why worship the flawed icons of bygone eras when Beyonce and Katy Perry are living the life of the flawless, the Roar-ing immortals of today’s Femi-nation?

Check out the music video for “Shades of Cool” right here!

On Ultraviolence, Lana Del Rey doesn’t seek to answer those questions so much as flesh out the complex characters in her world. Her men treat her like royalty and pray to God for peace; meanwhile, they’re shooting up and planning their next booty call. Lana herself wrests between profound pain and pleasure, desiring only the freedom to exist in that perilous limbo. Her temperance swings between brazen bravado and forlorn naiveté, often many times within a song. In spite of the persistent criticism she receives regarding her apparent lack of musical talent, Del Rey has frequently displayed a keen understanding of America’s unrealistic idealism concerning women. The entirety of Ultraviolence asks ugly questions, and begets uglier answers: if he hits you and it feels like a kiss, is anyone in the wrong? What if a woman acknowledges and still rejects those feminists who tell her what she is supposed to be, supposed to want? Only “Young and Beautiful” from last year’s Great Gatsby soundtrack and “Video Games” before it managed to expose the kind of saddened pathos lurking behind the veiled logos of Lana Del Rey’s ambiguous nature. Finally we have an entire record of defeated optimism and desperately blind love. Like the woman herself, Ultraviolence is broken and dejected, often confused and contradictory. She’s finally allowed herself to feel the misery of getting exactly what she wants, and we are spoiled because of it.

If you can’t tell by now, Ultraviolence is sad to its core. (Music bloggers have already coined the term “Hollywood Sadcore” to describe Lana’s work. I’m not so eager to embarrass myself.) Comically titled tracks like “Sad Girl” and “Cruel World” at least live up to their namesakes; the latter opens the album with a lonely, mournful guitar as Lana confesses: “I shared my body and my mind with you/ That’s all over now.” She repeats the line “you’re crazy for me” as if she is assuring herself of the fact. She tackles her feminist haters head-on with the first lines of “Sad Girl,” basking in the pleasure of being a “mistress on the side.” Critics who stuck around after the controversy of the “Ride” music video will surely take up arms against “Shades of Cool,” whose blue-eyed immortal Lana exalts as “unfixable.” At one point a fiery guitar solo drowns out her accusations aimed at a neglectful lover, as though burying any defiant thoughts might save her from loneliness. “Fucked My Way Up To The Top” is delightfully droll, a nonchalant call to the snobs who think that everyone wants dignity. A heart-wrenching cover of Nina Simone’s “The Other Woman” closes the record, and paints Del Rey a vain spectre in silk, dying for a mere sideglance look of approval.

Ultraviolence mostly ditches the hip-hop verse stylings of Born to Die in favor of a bluesier, midtempo drone. The beat often drops out completely, giving the record a dreaded sense of isolation. Indeed, if Born To Die was all flashing lights and dazzling audiences, Ultraviolence could be sung in a dark, smoke-filled bar for a faceless crowd. Her jazzy low register is more confident and emotive than ever, and her pained wails raise each chorus to devastating new heights. She takes cues from jazz singers like Billie Holiday and Nina Simone (whom she considers her favorite singers) while bringing her own brand of breathy, sensuous slink to the mix. The marked transition from baroque pop to melancholy blues is owed almost entirely to producer Dan Auerbach, who completely reworked the album with Del Rey back in December. The dark grooves of live studio drums combined with Auerbach’s melancholy guitar gives Ultraviolence an eerie ambience comparable to the monochrome cinema it was inspired by. The flowery strumming and thumping kicks in “Brooklyn Baby” is like a wash of golden light, and elevates what is perhaps the only optimistic tune of the bunch. Of course there is still “West Coast,” a sunburnt beach anthem that would fit nicely in the next Bond flick. This song’s otherworldly swagger is hypnotizing, made all the more masterful by the downtempo shift into reverb-soaked heaven just a minute in. It positively oozes with cool, finally making good on Del Rey’s oft-promised dark paradise.

Check out the music video for “West Coast” right here!

Lyrical nods to her inspirations are more subtle this time around, allowing us to more clearly explore her fascination with that unattainable status of American legend. (Even if Lana Del Rey doesn’t want to die, she’s at least entertained the thought.) Ultraviolence sees her finally forgoing the tired hero worship in order to take up the mantle herself; like the gods in her own short film Tropico (who include John Wayne, Elvis Presley and Jesus) she seems suspended in time, hovering above the world of man’s sins, neither a part of it nor ignorant to its ills. Her divine beauty is both her weapon and her crux; it allows her to occupy the moment, but always for another. It’s difficult to relate to such notions of fame and financial freedom, when the simple response to all this would seem to be “just get over it.” Yet the real charm of Lana Del Rey has always been in her complex sadness. Her allure is in her ambiguity, that sexually-charged indecisive nature that keeps us all from getting what we want. A song like “Old Money” seems to give finality to the matter by portraying money and sadness as one and the same. Do we really think it’s enough to have it all when there’s no one to share it with? Lana Del Rey may seem foolish, but that just means that Fitzgerald was right all along.

So is Del Rey finally the serious artist that she so craves to be, or, as quoted previously from Dan Auerbach himself, a “flash in the pan?” Consider how many other female pop artists have gained both chart success and critical acclaim solely from torch ballads. Six chart-toppers (if you count that Cedric Gervais swill) and a few hundred million Youtube views don’t lie: the world loves her. But how much of that popularity goes beyond the stylish aesthetic of her music videos, the department store branding, or that godawful “Summertime Sadness” remix? By now her fandom is unquestionable; and yet, I think it took a divisive album like Ultraviolence to show the world just how gracefully she could (always) navigate complex, sophisticated themes. Like fellow pop contemporary Lorde, Lana Del Rey strikes me as a devoted artist who got caught up in the creative suckhole that is viral media marketing. The bleak sadness of Ultraviolence seems to stem from a disillusionment with superstardom, to being subjected to constant invasions of privacy and a barrage of baseless criticism. One of many poignant moments in Ultraviolence is a paraphrased diary entry from the late Marilyn Monroe: “They judge me like a picture book/ By the colors, like they forgot to read.” It is an uncomfortable truth that we romanticize dead icons, exalting them to impossible standards that they couldn’t have realistically lived up to. Ultraviolence seems to ask: “Was it Cobain who pulled the trigger, or the world?” The name itself seems a double entendre for an unseen kind of violence, our collective grip that strangles all the same. Perhaps it really is lonely at the top. Ultraviolence insists that we aren’t any closer to understanding Lana Del Rey, but that we may just save her yet. 9/10