In the opening scenes, Lady Gaga is dripping wet, climbing out of somebody’s swimming pool. She is wearing odd headgear, some contraption that you can’t get at your local mall, and the assumption is that she was thrown out of a passing alien spaceship because she’s wearing too much eyeliner. (Excessive grooming products can hinder optimal space travel.) There are twin attack-dogs reviewing her movements, but they don’t approach her because she doesn’t appear to have any treats for them, and even if she did, they would be soggy by now, because girlfriend is water-logged.

Then Lady Gaga prances around in her black leather outfit, doing hand movements that signify she either has a rash or is practicing for an infomercial involving cleaning products. Amazingly, her eyeliner does not run, despite the coming-out-of-the-pool thing. She does a lot of naughty hip-thrusting for no apparent reason. It’s probably in her contract that she has to do such, or maybe she just has no control over her loins.

Oh wait, now she’s sporting a blue outfit for the chorus of the song. She clutches her head a lot, while tons of backup dancers appear out of nowhere, and they all gyrate, but Lady Gaga doesn’t have a hair out of place. Somebody needs to cut a bonus check for the stylist, because he hit that, yes she did. You really aren’t anybody unless you can control your own hair. Or have enough money to pay someone to control it for you.

Now there are hundreds of people running about, with once-again black-clad Gaga pretending to play poker and throwing cards everywhere (rude!), then everybody is in their night-night clothes but still humping the air and acting like poker is an aphrodisiac. Personally, I’ve never been that invested in something as small as a playing card or any situation where you have to lie about what you might have in your hands, but maybe I have different goals.

Then we head into another round of the chorus, and Gaga is back in her blue outfit, meaning the poor thing is probably worn out with all the wardrobe changes. (Still, she’s obviously making more money than me, so not much of a sympathy angle on this end.) Then somebody powers up a fog machine, so we can have a nice 80s-era bit of pizzazz, even though it has nothing to do with what’s happening in front of the camera.

Oh look, now there are two images of Gaga gyrating and getting moist over a royal flush. Wow, not only is card-playing apparently sexy, but it can cause instantaneous cloning. I had never considered this possibility. (Kudos to the director for partaking in the proper amount of recreational drugs to advance his artistry in just the right attention-getting manner.) I’m sure that Diana Ross will have one of her servants contact him, should she decide that the world cannot survive unless she has a comeback tour.

Now Gaga’s wearing some freaky glasses that somehow channel the MTV feed. Way cool. But then she gets bored with the fancy spectacles and ditches them pretty quickly, much like the MTV audience has done for the last few decades, once management started forgetting that music videos is what originally made them blue-chip on Wall Street. You want your MTV? Keep it.

Wait, now Gaga’s wearing the blue outfit again even though it’s not time for the chorus. What the hell? Did somebody run out of film footage and started to wing it? And why does she keep using her hand to make a circle thing around her eye? Is this her signature move? I suppose it might mean something to her personally, but it pales in comparison to, I don’t know, Michael Jackson’s moonwalk or Eric Clapton doing anything with a guitar.

Before we have a chance to raise our hand and question the wardrobe malfunction, Gaga runs into another room where she proceeds to flirt with some bed-head semi-stud who looks rather stoned. We now have several jump cuts between Gaga, the stoner, the hundreds of gyrating people in the house who apparently can’t find a decent disco, and some startlingly-intimate shots of Gaga basically French-kissing one of the dogs. I suppose the director was going for “artsy foreign cinema” with this angle, but all I got out of it was “the film editor tried to cover up the fact that the director misunderstood artsy foreign cinema”. Let’s just hope that no animals were harmed during the filming of this sequence.

Despite the lack of cohesiveness, Gaga marches on like a trooper, firmly convinced that her insistent willpower alone will make this video a success. This means that we get a lot of close-ups of her various body parts, mainly to show everyone that she enjoys gothic manicures, and that her hair has remained in place, despite the humidity from the pool and the hordes of lost disco dancers racing around the property. (There’s a slight hint that someone may have drowned in the swimming pool during all this debauchery, but we don’t dwell on it because we really don’t know these people personally.)

We have some filler footage with Gaga doing even more odd hand movements, still really invested in doing the circle thing around her eye even though it’s not particularly attractive, and more shots of her frolicking around in outfits that can’t possibly be comfortable, wedged so tightly that a yeast infection is surely on the horizon. And what’s up with the obvious white wig, honey? You paraded it around for most of the video, and I tried to love it, but it’s just not happening for me. It looks like something worn by the child actors in the “Village of the Damned” movie, and a lot of people died in that flick. Is that really the legacy you’re trying to leave behind here?

We end the video with Gaga possibly having at least a minimal orgasm, and/or letting us know that her favorite sports team did something positive. Not sure. Whatever the case, she and her fake hair look completely satisfied, confident that her work is done here and she can now head to the wrap party, ready to be worshipped and handed cocktails.

P.S. What the hell was that metal thing on your cheek during the entire video? Text me.

Click here to watch this video on YouTube.

Originally posted in Backup Dancers From Hell.