Charlie Rose and the Dreams of Narcissus
On my couch the other night watching another chat show on PBS, I noticed something. Beyond the instant recognition of the subject matter, I detected a distinct feeling that not only had I been here before, but that I was somehow a part of the show I was watching.
I'm being interviewed on Charlie Rose for my latest movie, noted for the candidness in which I approached the rather delicate subject matter of the increasing role of the underclass in America. I somehow managed to convince the right person that I was interesting enough to at least pique the interest of a bonafide psychopath. Have you seen the Charlie Rose Show lately, do you know how off putting he can be?
He failed to ask me how the underclass somehow referred directly to my boyhood experiences of having milk sprayed into my face by way of a twisty straw, or how the underclass in America, and the way it was being misrepresented was actually represented in my film by my lack of appearance on any Homecoming Court roster at my High School.
None of these examples seemed to face Charlie at all, and I nervously sipped my water while he delicately praised me for "Addressing the elephant in the room", even though the real elephant in the room was how I had revealed all sorts of embarrassing information about my childhood in a ham-handed documentary that was turned down at the Hackensack Film Festival.
But back to my dream. It is a dream of course, how often could I expect to appear on the Charlie Rose show in real life? I'm sitting in the leather chair that makes up the set that hasn't changed since 1978. The same austere round table, chair and nondescript menacing wood paneled background.
If I failed to mention this earlier I apologize. I am naked, sitting in front of someone who not only does not take notice of my nudity, but does not expose me for the charade that I actually am.
"A scathing diatribe against the rampant consumerism of Western Culture in the 21st century, Alan Clarke's powerful documentary peels back the levels of hypocrisy and reveals to the audience the fraudulent double-standard perpetrated on the American underclass, the wedgie scene at the end of Act One, where did that come from?"
I can't hear my response. It's buried beneath canned laughter whose whereabouts are unknown.
Looking out into the window when I awake, I see the pattern of the figure and the ghostly after-affects of the swaying empty branches, reflecting movement that is now offscreen.
The white horse gallops through the barren woods, shaking off the cold. Steam emanates from its nostrils, reminding me of the smoke from the revolver the night before. There's a close-up of his head wound, lying in the swamp, staring up at me until the white is bleached out.
I lean over to the projector and switch it off, returning to my seat in Mr. Pauley's seventh-grade science class.
"Kevin, could you tell us why a fracture in the right femur, could be undectected, as a hairline fracture for up to several months?"
The light is still on me, projecting a shadow onto the white screen.
In it I can see Marlon Brando in The Wild One revving his motorcycle and daring anyone within an eyeshot to take in all that raw masculinity and ask him an Algebra question. The camera pushes in as he removes his sunglasses. He's demanding something. His gang stands behind him, sternly framed in the shot.
I'm in college watching a sixteen millimeter film at the Nikelodean theatre. My friends are setting fire to the seat in front of me, and the free jazz on screen moves in the same pattern as the cinematographer, who runs up and down staircases, through alleys, houses and streets.
My cat has been dyed white, and is parched. She laps up water faster than that of a canoer who must bail out his vessel before he swallowed up by the dark brime beneath him.
My wife doesn't seem to notice either when we pick her (the cat) up from our Turkish friends house. I know the real secret. That they've used her for some sort of ritual. Even though this makes no sense, and there's an inherent misunderstanding of cultures that I am keenly aware of. I can help but be a bit ashamed as I wake up to find the lower wall of my mouth tight, wired shut and swollen.
A shave is painful leaving my face splotchy and red. As I leave for work, stepping out of my house onto the icy steps, I can't help but notice the smell that the fire left when it finished consuming my entire block. It's the smell of burning tires, even though the rain has come in overnight, flooding the streets. Gondolas decked out in tar, sand paper and roofing tile traverse the vicsous streets teeming with squid, electric eels and lamprey.
The feeding is almost done when I arrive, ready to dive into the inky river, replete with glowing starfish.
I'm being interviewed on Charlie Rose for my latest movie, noted for the candidness in which I approached the rather delicate subject matter of the increasing role of the underclass in America. I somehow managed to convince the right person that I was interesting enough to at least pique the interest of a bonafide psychopath. Have you seen the Charlie Rose Show lately, do you know how off putting he can be?
He failed to ask me how the underclass somehow referred directly to my boyhood experiences of having milk sprayed into my face by way of a twisty straw, or how the underclass in America, and the way it was being misrepresented was actually represented in my film by my lack of appearance on any Homecoming Court roster at my High School.
None of these examples seemed to face Charlie at all, and I nervously sipped my water while he delicately praised me for "Addressing the elephant in the room", even though the real elephant in the room was how I had revealed all sorts of embarrassing information about my childhood in a ham-handed documentary that was turned down at the Hackensack Film Festival.
But back to my dream. It is a dream of course, how often could I expect to appear on the Charlie Rose show in real life? I'm sitting in the leather chair that makes up the set that hasn't changed since 1978. The same austere round table, chair and nondescript menacing wood paneled background.
If I failed to mention this earlier I apologize. I am naked, sitting in front of someone who not only does not take notice of my nudity, but does not expose me for the charade that I actually am.
"A scathing diatribe against the rampant consumerism of Western Culture in the 21st century, Alan Clarke's powerful documentary peels back the levels of hypocrisy and reveals to the audience the fraudulent double-standard perpetrated on the American underclass, the wedgie scene at the end of Act One, where did that come from?"
I can't hear my response. It's buried beneath canned laughter whose whereabouts are unknown.
Looking out into the window when I awake, I see the pattern of the figure and the ghostly after-affects of the swaying empty branches, reflecting movement that is now offscreen.
The white horse gallops through the barren woods, shaking off the cold. Steam emanates from its nostrils, reminding me of the smoke from the revolver the night before. There's a close-up of his head wound, lying in the swamp, staring up at me until the white is bleached out.
I lean over to the projector and switch it off, returning to my seat in Mr. Pauley's seventh-grade science class.
"Kevin, could you tell us why a fracture in the right femur, could be undectected, as a hairline fracture for up to several months?"
The light is still on me, projecting a shadow onto the white screen.
In it I can see Marlon Brando in The Wild One revving his motorcycle and daring anyone within an eyeshot to take in all that raw masculinity and ask him an Algebra question. The camera pushes in as he removes his sunglasses. He's demanding something. His gang stands behind him, sternly framed in the shot.
I'm in college watching a sixteen millimeter film at the Nikelodean theatre. My friends are setting fire to the seat in front of me, and the free jazz on screen moves in the same pattern as the cinematographer, who runs up and down staircases, through alleys, houses and streets.
My cat has been dyed white, and is parched. She laps up water faster than that of a canoer who must bail out his vessel before he swallowed up by the dark brime beneath him.
My wife doesn't seem to notice either when we pick her (the cat) up from our Turkish friends house. I know the real secret. That they've used her for some sort of ritual. Even though this makes no sense, and there's an inherent misunderstanding of cultures that I am keenly aware of. I can help but be a bit ashamed as I wake up to find the lower wall of my mouth tight, wired shut and swollen.
A shave is painful leaving my face splotchy and red. As I leave for work, stepping out of my house onto the icy steps, I can't help but notice the smell that the fire left when it finished consuming my entire block. It's the smell of burning tires, even though the rain has come in overnight, flooding the streets. Gondolas decked out in tar, sand paper and roofing tile traverse the vicsous streets teeming with squid, electric eels and lamprey.
The feeding is almost done when I arrive, ready to dive into the inky river, replete with glowing starfish.
posted by Kronski | 12:17 PM
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