In 1997, self-quarantining was essentially the norm for the suburban teenager. A role Fiona Apple plays to angst-ridden perfection (because, yes, people in their twenties often played teens in 90s pop culture offerings, thereby propagating the average girl’s belief that she ought to ho it up as soon as her period landed) in the video for her defining single, “Criminal.” Directed by Mark Romanek, who had established a flair for dramatic aesthetics in Madonna’s “Rain” and “Bedtime Story,” the distinct effect of the cinematography was created by Harris Savides, who would also re-team with Romanek for the gritty, lo-fi look of Apple’s suburban prison. And yes, home these days feels very much the way it did to a 90s adolescent: a boring abyss one only wishes they could escape. Alas, just as those confined to an existence of undiluted ennui in their grunge-era youth, we are as unmoved by everything as Apple.
As she sits on the floor of her living room, close-up shots of the same strangely snouted teddy bear echo her taking pictures of it with her relic of a camera, something that seems to be the only thing that helps her pass the time in vague amusement. An image of a vacuum cleaner on the 70s-looking carpet (for the 70s were chic in the 90s, the way the 60s were chic in the 80s) appears to have been abandoned mid-cleaning. As though even the attempt at trying to fill the hours with something useful proved too overwhelming.
While sure, she’s reclining among passed out bodies, who’s to say those aren’t merely her quarantining companions? Or that maybe they’ve died of corona already and she’s simply mourning before she decides to call the coroner (does he have a direct line? It’s unclear). She then sits on the toilette next to a toilet paper roll that appears to be dangerously low on squares. Will she have to actually go out and forage at the grocery store for another pack, or will she take the risk on fashioning some out of paper towels, or, worse still, simply using the unsanitary “drip-dry” method?
Her sadness continues to intensify as she hides in the closet, presumably freaked out by all the ill bodies around her. This plan to self-quarantine in an even smaller space fails miserably as a shirtless dude opens the door and exposes her once again to potential disease. He then walks away, leaving the closet door open as though to say, “Die bitch.” This disorients Apple to no end as she writhes in agony over her exposure to the outside, sending her into a more depressive state in the next scene as she sits on the kitchen counter in silk underthings and shimmering socks looking like a presagement for the entire American Apparel advertising game before it existed in its 00s format.
Soon, she’s disrobing, a scene intercut with her in the bathtub and a foot up against her shoulder (probably the guy who opened the closet? Women love a dickhead, after all). At one point, there are bodies swimming in the fish tank-like setup behind her (it sort of makes one think that’s where Lana Del Rey got her inspiration for the ending to the “Music To Watch Boys To” video). Has she put them in there only as a means to separate herself from infection with this baptismal method of quarantining for the others?
No matter, now she’s back in the living room taking pictures again, this time of a friend. Maybe it’s for posterity. To immortalize a fellow quarantine buddy she thinks might not make it. Indeed, much of the video is about documenting things, whether out of lethargy and listlessness or genuinely wanting to mark this moment in time. This could very well be the reason Apple soon appears on the TV screen set up in the living room, a telltale VHS tape lying on the ground. Does she feel compelled to make what is presently called coronavirus fetish porn (minus the use of surgical masks)? It’s possible. Just as it’s possible she’s decided to flee the quarantine house in favor of sitting in the car outside as a means of, once again, as she did in the closet, attempting to self-quarantine to a more effective degree. As though suddenly realizing that touching all those bodies in there might have been ill-advised (pardon the wordplay).
As the video comes to a close, we see Apple again in all the various settings of what is likely supposed to be her boomer parents’ home (have they left it to her by way of expiring too soon?). She’s now alone, crouched with more shame than ever in the places where she once let other people’s body parts touch her. To that end, she squeezes a large bottle of dish soap in the kitchen, letting the liquid spurt out as though she’s dousing the entire joint in lighter fluid as a means to cleanse. Looking as though she’s had some kind of horrendous revelation in the final seconds (as though she’s finally acknowledged that she’s exhibiting symptoms), an “at-home remedy” of oranges in the bathtub seems to be her attempt at fighting against the prospect of driving that car to the nearest even more contaminated hospital.
