Maybe it would have been different if it were Danny Glover.
You remember Crispin Glover, right? He of George McFly fame? (Or, as Stephanie’s brain donor college roommate called him, McVeigh.) Crispin’s résumé is a diverse mishmash of commercial successes and avant-garde indies. Yesterday, Josh got tickets for us to see Crispin’s directorial debut, What Is It?, at the IFC theater, where, after the film, Crispin himself would be appearing for a Q&A. I thought, Great! Cool! Sounds like a quality way to kick off a very stressful week of jury duty and taxes! At least I’ll have an engaging experience with art and unconventional thought! And he’s funny! Groovy!
Oh, MAN.
Here’s the thing: Josh and I love Crispin Glover. He’s bizarre in a really intriguing way. He sued Steven Spielberg and won. His mannerisms, his quirks, his delivery are all, to me, just enjoyable to watch, though I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t think like he does — he doesn't think like how anybody does — but I appreciate what he puts out there. I figured whatever we saw wouldn’t make sense, and that was fine. I figured it would be waaaaay offbeat, weird, probably funny in its own way, funky and thought-provoking. I was certain that whatever I’d see, I wouldn’t get. Maybe it would make me uncomfortable. That was all fine. I don’t think you have to relate to art to enjoy it, and I don’t think art has to make you feel at ease. I'm willing to be provoked as long as I get something out of it.
Really, though, it just sucked.
The first part was a sort of slideshow that Crispin narrated onstage. He writes these quasi-illustrated books and he read “excerpts” from eight of them. This segment was a bit too long but it was an odd treat just to watch him move and “pose” it out. All he had to do was lean over and point to, say, a sketch of a rat (he has a thing for rats), and it said something. It didn’t make sense, but for me, it was about the performance and not the words. It was during the slideshow that I decided that Crispin's reality is what everybody else dreams, but his dreams are our reality. Like, he wakes up and is all, "I had the craziest dream last night! I brushed my teeth! And I went to the grocery store! There was milk there!" And then he rolls out of his seaweed bed onto a snake which carries him to a halogen horse corral with rainbows in socket wrenches.
The film that followed was the biggest piece of celluloid-based putrescence I’ve ever seen.
The first shot of the film is this beautiful, ethereal close-up, head-on shot of a snail coming out of its shell. It was lovely, how the soft light reflected off the snail’s iridescent skin. Within minutes, a character in the movie picked it up and smashed it to pieces against a terrarium. I told Josh that this was a metaphor for my hopes for the evening.
The rest of the film consisted of, but was not limited to, the following:
* The actors — who, except for Crispin Glover himself, all had Down’s Syndrome, cystic fibrosis or severe mental retardation — throwing rocks at each other, killing snails and killing each other by beating each other over the heads with mallets
* Masked wood nymphs prancing around a bog naked for the enjoyment of Crispin, who was sitting on a throne and wearing a fur coat
* Images of Shirley Temple wearing Nazi garb
* Arguments about which character was actually Michael Jackson
* A character in blackface injecting what was supposed to be snail goo into his face so he could morph into an invertebrate
* Footage of a snail getting beheaded and a praying mantis getting eaten by ants
At first, I leaned over to Josh and said, “It isn’t me, right? This is really bad?” He looked too stricken to answer me. We were both certain that we wanted to stay for the Q&A, so we just sat back and stared at the screen.
About a half-hour later, it occurred to me that I would never get these 72 minutes of my life back.
About 10 minutes after that, I wondered if the whole event was actually a grand piece of performance art, an exercise in testing Flock Mentality: If the artist is present, would the audience think it too rude to walk out of a really bad movie? And if someone did, would that one act of rebellion serve as permission for the rest of the audience to follow suit if desired? Would everyone just get up and go, attempting to get their lives back? The fact that the film seemed to never end made me think that Crispin Glover had intentionally made the worst movie in history and then invited us to watch it while he stood behind the scenes, waiting to see how long it took before any of us left.
When it finally ended and the Q&A began, Josh and I sat through two direct questions and two incoherent answers before, upon hearing, “Now I’m going to show you the trailers for my next three films,” collecting our stuff and leaving.
“He made me hate him,” I said.
“I thought it would be funny-weird crazy, but it was wanna-make-me-puke crazy,” Josh said.
While it was loosely explained what all the seemingly random imagery and action stood for, it didn’t make a difference to me. I don’t care what it stood for; it was a bad movie. Which was a shame, because the idea of a film cast with disabled actors when the roles don’t necessarily require disabled actors is really refreshing. The fact that they were beating the crap out of each other and fellating each other and insulting each other did raise a question for me: If an actor doesn’t feel exploited, is the film exploitative? Frankly, if the same movie were cast with actors who weren't disabled, I’d still think it’s crap, so I suppose it's a form of equal opportunity.
One thing I did do this weekend that wasn’t crap was go through my receipts and what-not to get ready for preparing my taxes. This resulted in the complete overhaul of my dresser, which had been covered in piles of ancient papers and jewelry and knickknacks. I found $6.49 in change, which I’ve been spending liberally, despite feeling guilty for handing people 18 pennies at a time.
Josh told me a story about how he bought a New York Times at a newsstand by the library and how he paid with change. The vendor held it out and said, “What the hell is this?” Josh said, “That’s my money for the newspaper.” And the guy kicked him out. He’s never gone back. Change is the benchwarmer of the money family, a case proven just this morning by the fact that three vending machines rejected my dimes and nickels when I tried to buy a bottle of water, but two people with dollar bills had no problem.
Another thing I did this weekend was upload a few more CDs to my iPod. Say what you want about my taste in music, but the last eight songs on my Songs I Love playlist are a guaranteed formula for happiness (notice they’re still alphabetical; I haven’t mixed them up yet):
“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” The Smiths
“Six Months in a Leaky Boat,” Split Enz
“Message to My Girl,” Split Enz
“Cool for Cats,” Squeeze
“Black Coffee in Bed,” Squeeze
“Fortress Around Your Heart,” Sting
“Plush,” Stone Temple Pilots (Shut up. You know it’s a great song.)
“Babe,” Styx
Just try to get “Babe” out of your head. Just try to think of the chorus without actually singing it at the top of your lungs. I bet you a million bazillion katrillion dollars you can’t do it.
See? “Because it’s you, babe / whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough / feel like giving up / You know it’s you, babe / giving me the courage and the strength I need / please believe that it’s true / Babe, I love you”
Couldn’t do it, could you?
Oh, MAN.
Here’s the thing: Josh and I love Crispin Glover. He’s bizarre in a really intriguing way. He sued Steven Spielberg and won. His mannerisms, his quirks, his delivery are all, to me, just enjoyable to watch, though I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t think like he does — he doesn't think like how anybody does — but I appreciate what he puts out there. I figured whatever we saw wouldn’t make sense, and that was fine. I figured it would be waaaaay offbeat, weird, probably funny in its own way, funky and thought-provoking. I was certain that whatever I’d see, I wouldn’t get. Maybe it would make me uncomfortable. That was all fine. I don’t think you have to relate to art to enjoy it, and I don’t think art has to make you feel at ease. I'm willing to be provoked as long as I get something out of it.
Really, though, it just sucked.
The first part was a sort of slideshow that Crispin narrated onstage. He writes these quasi-illustrated books and he read “excerpts” from eight of them. This segment was a bit too long but it was an odd treat just to watch him move and “pose” it out. All he had to do was lean over and point to, say, a sketch of a rat (he has a thing for rats), and it said something. It didn’t make sense, but for me, it was about the performance and not the words. It was during the slideshow that I decided that Crispin's reality is what everybody else dreams, but his dreams are our reality. Like, he wakes up and is all, "I had the craziest dream last night! I brushed my teeth! And I went to the grocery store! There was milk there!" And then he rolls out of his seaweed bed onto a snake which carries him to a halogen horse corral with rainbows in socket wrenches.
The film that followed was the biggest piece of celluloid-based putrescence I’ve ever seen.
The first shot of the film is this beautiful, ethereal close-up, head-on shot of a snail coming out of its shell. It was lovely, how the soft light reflected off the snail’s iridescent skin. Within minutes, a character in the movie picked it up and smashed it to pieces against a terrarium. I told Josh that this was a metaphor for my hopes for the evening.
The rest of the film consisted of, but was not limited to, the following:
* The actors — who, except for Crispin Glover himself, all had Down’s Syndrome, cystic fibrosis or severe mental retardation — throwing rocks at each other, killing snails and killing each other by beating each other over the heads with mallets
* Masked wood nymphs prancing around a bog naked for the enjoyment of Crispin, who was sitting on a throne and wearing a fur coat
* Images of Shirley Temple wearing Nazi garb
* Arguments about which character was actually Michael Jackson
* A character in blackface injecting what was supposed to be snail goo into his face so he could morph into an invertebrate
* Footage of a snail getting beheaded and a praying mantis getting eaten by ants
At first, I leaned over to Josh and said, “It isn’t me, right? This is really bad?” He looked too stricken to answer me. We were both certain that we wanted to stay for the Q&A, so we just sat back and stared at the screen.
About a half-hour later, it occurred to me that I would never get these 72 minutes of my life back.
About 10 minutes after that, I wondered if the whole event was actually a grand piece of performance art, an exercise in testing Flock Mentality: If the artist is present, would the audience think it too rude to walk out of a really bad movie? And if someone did, would that one act of rebellion serve as permission for the rest of the audience to follow suit if desired? Would everyone just get up and go, attempting to get their lives back? The fact that the film seemed to never end made me think that Crispin Glover had intentionally made the worst movie in history and then invited us to watch it while he stood behind the scenes, waiting to see how long it took before any of us left.
When it finally ended and the Q&A began, Josh and I sat through two direct questions and two incoherent answers before, upon hearing, “Now I’m going to show you the trailers for my next three films,” collecting our stuff and leaving.
“He made me hate him,” I said.
“I thought it would be funny-weird crazy, but it was wanna-make-me-puke crazy,” Josh said.
While it was loosely explained what all the seemingly random imagery and action stood for, it didn’t make a difference to me. I don’t care what it stood for; it was a bad movie. Which was a shame, because the idea of a film cast with disabled actors when the roles don’t necessarily require disabled actors is really refreshing. The fact that they were beating the crap out of each other and fellating each other and insulting each other did raise a question for me: If an actor doesn’t feel exploited, is the film exploitative? Frankly, if the same movie were cast with actors who weren't disabled, I’d still think it’s crap, so I suppose it's a form of equal opportunity.
One thing I did do this weekend that wasn’t crap was go through my receipts and what-not to get ready for preparing my taxes. This resulted in the complete overhaul of my dresser, which had been covered in piles of ancient papers and jewelry and knickknacks. I found $6.49 in change, which I’ve been spending liberally, despite feeling guilty for handing people 18 pennies at a time.
Josh told me a story about how he bought a New York Times at a newsstand by the library and how he paid with change. The vendor held it out and said, “What the hell is this?” Josh said, “That’s my money for the newspaper.” And the guy kicked him out. He’s never gone back. Change is the benchwarmer of the money family, a case proven just this morning by the fact that three vending machines rejected my dimes and nickels when I tried to buy a bottle of water, but two people with dollar bills had no problem.
Another thing I did this weekend was upload a few more CDs to my iPod. Say what you want about my taste in music, but the last eight songs on my Songs I Love playlist are a guaranteed formula for happiness (notice they’re still alphabetical; I haven’t mixed them up yet):
“There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” The Smiths
“Six Months in a Leaky Boat,” Split Enz
“Message to My Girl,” Split Enz
“Cool for Cats,” Squeeze
“Black Coffee in Bed,” Squeeze
“Fortress Around Your Heart,” Sting
“Plush,” Stone Temple Pilots (Shut up. You know it’s a great song.)
“Babe,” Styx
Just try to get “Babe” out of your head. Just try to think of the chorus without actually singing it at the top of your lungs. I bet you a million bazillion katrillion dollars you can’t do it.
See? “Because it’s you, babe / whenever I get weary and I’ve had enough / feel like giving up / You know it’s you, babe / giving me the courage and the strength I need / please believe that it’s true / Babe, I love you”
Couldn’t do it, could you?
Labels: pop culture, randomness, the hubs
posted by Marla at 4:40 PM
2 Comments:
Honestly, you should've skipped Crispin and just watched the Beauty and the Geek Season 3 marathon. I really like that Jennylee and Nate... I hope she doesn't break his heart. Cece had Britney extensions. Maybe she should shave her head too.
I'm so surprised that you've only NOW downloaded "Cool For Cats," that was one of the first songs on my iPod. "Babe" as well, always have to have "Babe."
I had no idears that you guys had iPods!! How cool -- I have only one playlist - and that is the GFS. I need to work on that.
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