“Telephone,” the latest video drama from Lady Gaga featuring Beyonce — with the help of Gaga’s prized directorial auteur Jonas Akerlund — unfurls at an epic nine minutes, thirty-two seconds. If you don’t have the time, bandwidth, or firewall clearance to sit through 9:32 of NSFW ass-shaking, mass murder, conceptual hairdos and product placement, click on through to our screencapped guide. (Yeah, we know, it’s kind of our beat.) As always, if there’s anything we missed, school us in the comments.
This title screen is to let you know that “Telephone” is more than just a music video. It’s a short film tracing the evolution of a feminist hero through a gritty sub-Saharan prison environment, then re-uniting her to a sisterhood through which she undertakes a post-modern Odyssey. Or something.
County Jail, February 11, 2010: Prison for Bitches.
“I told you she didn’t have a dick.” “Too bad.”
Product placement numero uno: Heartbeats headphones. (Full guide over on NME.)
Batshit costume idea numero uno: sunglasses overlaid with smoking cigarettes. Also, we thought this was a bitches’ prison yard. Is that a bro or a bitch? Ambiguous.
Oh hello, Virgin Mobile marketing department, fancy seeing you here!
Looks like Stefani Germanatta‘s in the slammer, too.
Chalking this look up to Amy Winehouse angry-face, complete with winged eyeliner and beercan curlers.
Madonna-meets-Chicago.
Caution tape: absolutely; body dysmorphia: pass.
You’re not gonna reach her telephone, but texting is totally fine, OMG.
Look who it is! Honey B to the rescue!
“Once you kill a cow you gotta make a burger.” Who says that? Quentin Tarantino?
Girls just wanna have fun… with Polaroids. True story.
Uhhh Tyrese? That’s Mrs. Jigga you’re talking to.
He’s such a jerk that one cup of poisoned coffee will not do the trick. Nice rack, B.
Now that. Is a hat.
I would really like to have heard the conversation between Gags and whatever Miracle Whip marketing genius proposed sponsoring the poison sandwich.
Kids: do not try this at home.
Bro. Your first mistake was accepting any food from a diner waitress dressed as the undead nurse-bride with a hairy telephone worn like an eyepatch.
Good girl Beyonce just uttered a four-syllable cuss word. GUESS WHICH ONE.
Not to spoil any surprises, but everyone in the diner is dead. Which calls for a dance party.
Just two women, bonding over their love of disavowing pants.
Naturally.
Get it? SISTERHOOD.