Holes in the wall behind me, stiletto heels penetrating the telly screen, paperback novels flung gainst furniture, The Idiot in tatters round the fireplace, an The Duke cowerin in the corner of the room.
“You rotten bastard!” she’s shouting, “Don’t lie to me! I know the truth, see, throbbin like a plastic fuck-wand out your eye-holes!”
“The hell is this lunacy? I ain’t lied about a damn thing!”
Fleeting recollections a recent conversations – “Yeah, looks like the record’ll probably be out sometime in the new year, all being well”… “Oh, god yeah, I can’t get enough a Pink Floyd”… “Tell the truth, I’m more of a listener than a talker“.
“Regarding this particular issue, I most certainly speak only the holiest a truths!”
She’s shovin clothes into a plastic bag, ain’t been here long enough to have amassed any sorta worthwhile wardrobe, few tops is all, couple items a underwear.
“You’re a filthy Triffid cunt, an I’m off, hear me, off!”
An she is, too, stompin round the avenue screamin about “Plant bastard” an “Payola, y’hear, payola!!”
Waddlin to the gate wi my trousers hangin round the shins, shoutin; “Slander! I’m not a plant! I liked the fuckin thing! It was great!”
She turns, I look her in the eyes;
“It was a fuckin masterpiece!”
Throwin the arms skywards spittin an wailin, an so I get the hell back indoors, aye, sit down by the glow a the electric sun hangin up top the busted telly.
Makin a note;
“No-one wants to believe a man can be touched a the soul-paste by a major motion picture anymore. No-one wants to hear about how beautiful the experience was, if’n Roger Ebert’s already said he liked it. No-one accepts that any critic truly believes what they’re sayin about how King Kong stole the hearts out their arses an ran wi the pulsin organ tween the gums half-way round the block. They’re just high on hype, aye, or worse, they’re filthy vegetable bastards growin out the studio’s ballbag.”
Leavin the cinema by way a the path trodden by a lovely lass wi emo specs sat beside me throughout the picture, still smilin an kinda damp-jawed on account of the wonders a King Kong, even contemplatin whistlin a tune, if’n I could whistle, y’unnerstann. Headin on cross the car-park, suddenly seized by a liver-yapped leper in a trenchcoat reekin a cynicism.
“What’s that you got there, brother?” he’s snarlin, pointin at my head wi half a finger. “What’s that bleedin cross your stinkin jowls, I say, twistin your jaw all sortsa maniacal fashions?”
Shruggin. “I’m just smilin, is all. I’m happy. I just saw King Kong, loved the hell out a it.”
“Is it a smile? Is it? Or is it in fact a loada hairy balls?”
Thrusts his head gainst mine, starts sniffin, side a the nose all caved in, the nostrils flappin in the breeze. “Sure smells like a loada hairy balls. You got a loada hairy balls hangin off a your skull?”
Thinkin. Do I? Wouldn’t be the first time.
Hells fire, The Duke tryin to look as sensitive as god’s creation affords for the benefit a the stripey-jumpered lass to the right, an all the while a bastard nut-sack right there ‘bove the eyes.
Leper starts lookin round my back, then a surprised yelp. “Well I’ll be damned in the wank, if it isn’t Peter Jackson right up ‘side the sphincter!”
Sarcastic laugh from Yours Truly.
Ah, I see what you’re doin here, I’m sayin. Very good. Aye, I’m bein shafted by Peter Jackson for to pretend I really dug King Kong, bein shoved in the direction a pennin a glowin review no-one reads on account of it’s a 78’000 screed wi only 67 words havin any relevance to Kong or King, and most a them involving King Kong Lives, being the pinnacle of Kong-related cinema hitherto this epic, this masterpiece, this “full exploration of what PETER JACKSON saw and wanted to explore in the original film”.
Leper gives a shifty glare. “Knowles?”
Aye. So anyway, point is no, and, truth be told, I didn’t even think it was gonna be that especially wonderful, I wasn’t…
“…Bothered about the hype, and really I thought Kong looked a bit fake in the trailers. Aye?”
Shut up, bastard-face.
I need to get the hell back home, don’t you see, my lady-woman’s fixin for to filth my shoulders out my back, I ain’t got time for this nonsense.
“An what you gonna tell her when she says ‘So, Cummy O’Tool, how was it?’ You gonna look her in the eyes an lie like a filthy Taliban to your own Best Gal? You gonna mention how insufferably flabby the first hour is? You gonna talk about how wretched all those slow-motion shenanigans really are? Or are you just gonna fall on the floor wi the pains in the prostate an through gritted gum-stools say ‘Oh honey-pie, Kong was amazing! The next step in CGI character creation!'”
“He was amazing!”
And he was, too.
“Oh stop it!” he hisses, the tongue all boils an whelps. “What next, dare I for a second ponder? Loada shite ’bout how touching it is, all that ‘Ooh, he really loves Naomi Watts out the film about dyin’? Maybe ‘Well, I didn’t expect to cry my face in five, but there they are, chards a face lyin all o’er my damn knees.’ Why don’t you say about how you forgot it was even CGI, it was all so amazing. Why don’t you say it just amazed the hair off a your bones, the amazing-ness of it all.”
“Look here, see, I understand you got a bad case a leprosy right there, an maybe you ain’t been gettin all the spare-change you’d like off a these cinema-goers, but…”
“Spare-change? The fuck’s that supposed to mean? What, I got leprosy an I’m hangin round cinema car-parks so I must be a vagrant hobo looking for the price o a meth-crack fix upside the fuck? I’m an accountant, bastard!”
“Well whoever you are, that flesh hangin off the ears ain’t any justification for this kinda accusatory frenzy. Damn it I liked King Kong! I loved the bulbous monkey-nads of a it. I haven’t even read enough reviews to know what the critical opinion is thus far. I ain’t got no studio ties nor any reason in hell’s holy acres to say it’s a great picture if it isn’t, and it is, hear me, so fuck you an also sorry for your leprosy.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me! I’m sorted as pig in arse-paste. For sure, this dang leprosy may well kill my very guts, but what’s waitin other side? A whole loada Jesus, that’s what. He loved lepers, you’ll recall. He dug the hell outta them. He didn’t care so much for scum-soaked filthy lying bastards, though.”
Text message on the mobile – “Hey, hurry home k Im itchin to break UR legs wi love.”
An sorry sweetie but I can’t let this go on a second longer.
“By Jandek’s merry mourns”, I’m sayin, hands on the hips, “I swear to you, here an now, I didn’t want that fuckin picture to end. You hear me? Cause what I said about ‘I didn’t want that fuckin picture to end’, I’d like you to pay attention to that. Cause it’s the truth, y’unnerstann, if’n there is such a thing to be found in this world, if’n there does exist a Great Universal, then what it looks like is a hella lot like this; ‘I didn’t want that fuckin picture to end.’ Not because Ebert loved it, not because the hype’s been enough to floor a herd a space-cows, not because I’ve yacked for months bout how much it’s gonna rule, cause I haven’t said a word.
I did think Kong himself was amazing, every second he’s onscreen I fairly bled wi joy. The eyes alive wi soul, the yawn he does sometimes, the sorta sniff thing, the way he laughs when Naomi Watts starts doin her Vaudeville performance for to try an calm him down a tad, the way he snarls when she starts juggling.
The way those big ol’ monkey jowls say ‘Fuck your jugglin, missus, do a damn dance!’
Chances are, Mr Leper, he’s even better than Gollum.”
We all had big hopes for you, boy. What happened anyroad, where’d you done skidaddle off to? You owned the shins out those hobbit pictures, an yet the elf fucker wi the bum-fluff moustache gets the picture wi Sweet Kirsten, the tiny fella kept fallin over stuff an weepin, he’s got himself that wretched flick about the ‘Ooligans, and Big Pete himself, he’s working wi Kong. And where are you?
Slurrin your way through Taiwanese infomercials most likely, presenting 100 Bestest Ever Moments Off Of Some Show Or Other About Funky Shit. Doin commentary tracks for flicks you ain’t ever even heard of, all for the transient joy a seein your name on the sleeve.
Ah Gollum. One day you’ll return, aye, ridin that golden chariot out the heavens an flingin WETA-forged plague on the bastards let you fall so far wi such barbaric glee.
“To hell wi Gollum!” the leper’s shoutin. “See, this is all the evidence I need, you come out all smilin an gibberin, you can’t even give a paragraph to the damn thing ‘thout trailin off in the direction a some shite or other about some fucker out Harry Potter.”
He spits a couple flecks a kidney onto the tarmac. “What you really wanna say is that it was too long, that the characters sucked, that it was a whole lotta noise in the drums, that it was self-indulgent an dull as a hungo’er mornin in the rain-lashed shipyard.”
My pores, every one a them quiverin wi frustration. “Fuck your bitter toss! I haven’t been so moved by a big ‘ol Event Picture since Jurassic Park, and…”
“Token Spielberg reference. Hurry, sayin, you better get the Ridley Scott in there too!”
“Shut your leper maw, damn it! How could I not love it? Every couple minutes there was some new wonder unfoldin up ahead. Those tribes-people spasamin an jerkin all Jim Jones in the eyes an Cannibal Holocaust in the décor. Those beautiful Modernist set designs in the New York sections.
The fact that the Kong / Watts love story tomfoolery is unspeakably tender an damn well heartbreaking, that Kong is to the world a bestiality an inter-species longing what John Cusack is to the world a making compilation tapes for ladies who don’t even realize that the Fugazi b-side three tracks past the Bright Eyes is a declaration of all I’ve ever felt for her regarding the love-gland.
Those incredible set-pieces an moments alive wi giddy invention; When Kong’s racin through the jungle wi Naomi in the fist, the editin like whip-cracks cross the eyelids; When those penis-beast things rise up out the swamp an start sloppin their guts out o’er folks heads; the ice-skatin tomfoolery, though best not to go slidin round a frozen lake on the bare-arse, no, ain’t nothin but a pocket-fulla piles can come from that; the ship approaching the island through that wall a concrete fog.”
“Who are you”, he’s askin, “Are you a man or a press release?”
Eventually ain’t a damn thing a fella can do but sigh an walk on by, walk on by.
What would Freud make of it all?
Pattin his beard, he’d most likely say all about “Relates to troubles wi the mother, y’unnerstann. These assorted lepers an forum-junkies, they most likely got a problem wi these mega-budget heavily-hyped blockbusters on account a mamma was a Star Wars prequel. She done burned em up somethin savage back in the crib, aye, they can’t look a CGI beast in the eyes ever again ‘thout feelin the searin in the bowels.”
Sittin in the front room, the carpet still littered wi remnants a the earlier horrors, talkin to the lady-friend on the mobile. “I understand”, I’m sayin, “But you need to accept that it’s possible for a flick of this magnitude to be a work a damn genius, for it to be as personal an heartfelt as a flick about a man drills holes in his head an works out the mystery a the stockmarket.”
“It’s just that I can’t trust you any more” she’s sayin, all tearful but dignified. “Mean, you liked White Noise.”
And so it’s the knuckle-shuffle an the jaded resignation, but with a hint of a smile in the back a the brains. A man’s fist never questions his critical integrity, the toilet never refuses to flush the sin off the porcelain on account of a favorable reaction to Doom, the Bright Eyes inlays won’t melt in the tremblin palm on account of I was floored by a fantasy epic.
The leper got arrested in the morning for givin false-testimony in a trial relating to the clergy.
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