As I wormed myself forward into a subconscious delirium the night before last, I found myself striding in a dreamscape featuring Rutger Hauer. But this was not one of those nightmare visions full of obsidian and sulphur, fluctuating angles, and amassed infants brandishing the face of Lance Henriksen, barrelled demons singing the praises of Ted Danson’s nausea-combusting Loch Ness. Nor was it the sort of sleazy grime-packed vitiation best found copulating in one of Burroughs’ westerns.
No, this was an anachronism stencilled with the ink of heretofore antiquity. For not only did the midnight express of illusion ride the rails of Rutger Hauer, not only did his skull-fibre provide a shroud for the night-sky itself, but, harking back to ancient China, I actually was Rutger Hauer.
There was a philosopher who used to ponder the imponderable back in the days of ancient China, back before people started to stroke their chins to the tune of anno Domini, and even before they started reruns of Knight Rider. He went by the name of Chuang Tzu. One night Chuang Tzu had a dream where he was a butterfly, and then upon awakening knew not whether he was a man who dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly who was now dreaming he was a man.
This philosophical paradox, this cerebral conundrum, is how I now view my venture into the night-clad reverie of evenings hitherto. I was Rutger Hauer; even now through the nebulous gaze of reminiscence I can accurately visual the details. The unusual perspectives, the strange linear dimensions, the skewed revival of bygone particularities, all unwashed by the eroding liquid of being awake. Could it be true that I am indeed Rutger Hauer asleep, dreaming he is a Gen X-wannabe with too much time on his hands?
This mental preoccupation is not only laced with implausibilities along the magnitude of space, but is also gilded with the membranes of time. My bodily transposition did not take me to the Hauer of today, where he scampers about starring in schlocky science fiction and shoddy horror. It took me to the Hauer of 1997, where he scampered about starring in schlocky science fiction and shoddy horror.
Article comments
1 - Snarkattack
Oh dear, there I was thinking "Is this the fellow who wrote that amusing review on the Van Damme film where there's no bare buttocks showing?!" Alas, the one and the same.
Very witty review! I might just have to keep an eye out for this good-bad film. My best friend, whose judgement is...somewhat 'interesting' claims that a bad film redeems itself when he hears Rutger Hauer is in it. Hmm. We all have our 'so bad it's good' guilty pleasures.
2 - Aaron Fleming
Thanks Snark. Alas this film is just bad-bad, best head on off to the likes of Split Second and Blind Fury for some good-bad Rutger Hauer.