Which it does, so plenty marks for foresight.
At this point in the proceedings, me sat scribbling in a café filled with Spanish revelers all out their minds waiting for the fuck-club next door to open, a gentleman arrives out the gloom of the late evening and says some things along the lines of the following;
"It's all well and good jerking the knee like yonder knee just jerked o'er that there page" says he, "But is it at all true what you're saying? Is it true, right enough, that from start to end Beat Angel employs none style whatever? I'd be right amazed if that were indeed the case."
"Well" says I, "To tell you the truth, there are some stylistic virtues here and there, wee moments that pierce that veil of inherent… ugliness, for want of a better word. For one thing - and it's a marvel of a thing in itself - it is undeniably charming for to see a grainy, 16mm motion picture in this day and age. Bejeesus it warms the cockles fierce to see an ultra-low-budget independent film that's actually a film, as opposed to a video."
"It is that" says the fella.
"And also, while I'm perched in the coal-hole of this particular train of thought, the scene that intercuts the death of Jack Kerouac with his momentary rebirth via yon hobo protagonist, that's right beautifully handled too."
"And what of the…"
"And then, and then" says I, interrupting with a great flail of the arms, "Now, the open-mic 'Kerouac' performance that serves as the centerpiece of the whole enterprise, a breathless bop-lashed Definition of the man's manners and means delivered by a tsunami-tongued Balestri, that right there is perfectly realized. And so too are the biographical sketches potting the narrative there, wonderful scenes wherein Balestri plays both Jack and, by way of example, for I know you've got a thirst for some examples…"
"By Jesus I have that."
"By way of example, says I, his publisher, or his high-school sports coach, or whoever."
The old fella blows a fistful of nose-muck into a scrunched up wad of pink toilet paper and wipes the yap with the back of a hand. "So for that loose triumvirate of flourishes" he sniffs, "If nothing else, you could almost say that your remark about the film has no style is in itself a terrible fallacy."
"I dare say so. But if'n I'm to give a right proper review of the whole enterprise, which is what I'm set for doing as a matter of fact, it's surely only fair that I must mention the overall sense of none much prettiness nor flair whilst also leaving space aside for a few points the likes of which we've raised here and now."
Article comments
1 - Jon Sobel
Cerebral panty-weep indeed. Holy garbanzo beans! You've out-diddly-diddled yourself with this essay, my man.
2 - El Bicho
[with both hands snap out a rhythm of your chosing]
Duke, pay no attention to those faux elitst bastards, I say. They show how dim and phony they truly are because any true literary snob would know that instead of "you've never heard it read 'till you've heard it read on acid," they should be saying, "you've never heard 'On The Road' read 'till you've heard it read on Benzedrine," or "you've never heard 'Naked Lunch' read 'till you've heard it read on junk with a naked young man in your bed."
Regards,
A former reader of "On The Road" and "Howl" and I don't care who knows it.
3 - Duke De Mondo
Ha! Damn right, El Bicho. I dare say my bitterness was heightened somewhat on account of knowing full well the joy of hearing, say, ol' Will reading Junky through that fugg of a cracklin', slurrin' throat. But a man can hardly let anyone hear tell of it in public anymore.
by god, maybe it's time to reclaim the beats? and whilst we're at it, we'll reclaim Dylan and Revolver by The Beatles (the record most sorely put upon by those fiends) and maybe even some of Timothy Leary's scribbles. Certainly it's high time The Doors Of Perception by Aldous Huxley was plucked back out the hands of the Morrison Heads.
i smell a revoloution... A revolverlution. Isn't that a Public Enemy song? i dare say Chuck D's heard many's a man tell him about reading Heaven And Hell on Peyote.
And Jon! I'm altogether very glad you dug it, man! thank you!
4 - Howard Dratch
Your Review Card is safe, is surely good for a time more. It is, I think, a special edition of Review Cards honored for entertaining and finding something lost.
The Ms. Gillian knows her stuff, too, and makes me wish I was young and somewhere near Ireland, she does.
"I think you should watch it" she says. "You love Jack Kerouac. You dig the purple parpin' of a bop-fried trumpet of an evening. You're pretentious and self-obsessed. Go for it."
This story of the writer-poet of the Fifties sounds interesting and I will put it on my list of "bop-fried trumpet(s)" (a special, Irish dish, I presume), but I fear I might like the review better than the reviewed.
It is the reviewing of the reviewed that charms and "by God it has a right savage way with the words".
5 - Duke De Mondo
Mr Dratch, i am very pleased you found this screed to be pleasing to your eyes and ears. now, i must say, i think you might well enjoy yourself a right giddy while if you give that particular motion picture a go, and i can reccomend with no fear of comeuppance that you put it on one of thoes netflix lists or whatever folks do nowadays instead of heading down the VHS Dive of an evening.
And as to Beautiful Ms Gillian, it took manys a month and year of wandering to uncover the like, and so for this reason i will say nowt to her of the sophisticated lad by the name of Howard who sung her praises just this afternoon.
ach, i will indeed say, but i'll have a fine witticism waiting far-side of it so as she doesn't go bounding off for Mr Dratch!
thank you again, sir
6 - ms gillian
wonderful! as always! :)
7 - Fearon
I have read Howl thrice or more over and am amidst on the road and have naked lunch ordered as I intend to read everything that generation has to offer myself