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September 14, 2005:

DON’T BEAT AROUND THE BUSH

Bruce Kimmel Photograph bk's notes

Well, dear readers, I have booked the very first signing for Rewind – it will take place on November 19th at Mystery and Imagination in Glendale, where I have done first signings for all my books. It will be a gala affair, with cheese slices and ham chunks and, above all, cake, oh, yes, there will be Parisienne Cake. I do hope that a few hainsies/kimlets will be in attendance – certainly I shall be in attendance. I shall be reading from the book, and there will be merriment and mirth and laughter and legs galore. Boy, I just jumped in there with all this information, didn’t I? I just didn’t have any preamble at all, did I? I didn’t stick my toe in the water, I just dove right in, didn’t I? I’m feeling very bombastic right now. I’m feeling that I shall just dive into every sentence as if I was Mark Spitz. I shall take the bull by the horns or, at the very least, I shall take the horns by the bull and I shall just put it all out there with no beating around the bush. Have you ever beat around a bush? What does that MEAN? Excuse me for a moment.

I just went outside and beat around a bush. I did kind of a Gene Krupa beat, and I get no kick from beating around a bush. It left me cold. Maybe if I try it with a bouncy C beat I’ll enjoy it more. Excuse me for a moment.

No, I did not enjoy beating around a bush in a bouncy C. You know, it has occurred to me that I no longer have a clew as to what the HELL I’m going on about. Where was I? Oh, yes, I’m doing a book signing and there will be no beating around the bush.

Yesterday, for example, I did not beat around the bush. I shipped all packages and sparkling prizes. I picked up some mail and a package, and I did some banking. I did some eating and I did some DVD viewing. I did some e-mailing and I had several long telephonic calls. I’ve been told, for example, that the publicist we all wanted is now on board. I’ll be having a conversation with him today.

See how I just dove into that paragraph with no beating around the bush?

Last night I actually managed to watch three count them three motion pictures on DVD (I’d started one the night before). The first motion picture on DVD was entitled The Brown Bunny, a “film” of Vincent Gallo. I have never seen Vincent Gallo before. I don’t know who Vincent Gallo is. And after seeing The Brown Bunny, I don’t want to know who Vincent Gallo is. One senses what one is going to get with the opening two credits: A Vincent Gallo Production, followed by Written, Directed and Edited by Vincent Gallo. The following credit is, Starring Vincent Gallo. In the end credits we get Director of Photography Vincent Gallo. Camera Operator Vincent Gallo. Hey, Vincie, we get it. I have read some “reviews” on the usual sites, most from people who abhor this film, and then the usual suspects proclaiming Vincent Gallo a genius and the film a masterpiece of daring filmmaking. Those raves castigate those who don’t like the film for being teenagers unable to understand what film is really all about. Those who don’t like The Brown Bunny are supposed to only like mindless action pictures. I hate mindless action pictures, hate most of what the Hollywood system turns out, and I hate The Brown Bunny. Funny that. This ninety-three minute film has about sixty of those minutes filled with shots of Mr. Gallo driving. We see him in some shots, or the camera is simply looking through the dirty windshield of his van. He’s on his way to LA to look up his ex-girlfriend. On the way, he stops at some shop, where he asks what looks to be an underage girl to go with him on his trip. After three seconds of Vincent Gallo whining “Please,” she says okay. He takes her to her house so she can pack. She makes out with Mr. Gallo and then goes in the house. He drives away. This is art, man. And the kissing scene, well, let’s just say I don’t find Mr. Gallo terribly attractive – in fact, he is a mangy, greasy Charles Manson type. Twenty minutes later or so, he stops to get a Coke. Sitting at a table is Cheryl Tiegs, smoking and drinking coffee. She watches Mr. Gallo get a Coke. He passes by her and looks at her. He comes back to the table and begins to caress her face. Then they make out. Then he leaves. This is the second time someone has made out with Mr. Gallo for no discernable reason other than Mr. Gallo is the director and told them to. Maybe it’s the only way he can get people to make out with him these days. If you’re beginning to get the idea that this film is a self-indulgent, ego-maniacal stroke fest, you’d would be quite correct. We get endless close-ups of Mr. Gallo. We see him sleeping on a bed in his underpants. We see him take a shower. We have a ten-minute scene where he mumbles incoherently to the parents of his ex-girlfriend. We have an exciting scene where he puts gas in the van. Eventually, he gets to LA and leaves a note for his ex-girlfriend to come to his motel. She shows up and begins to spout very arch dialogue. He mumbles incoherently. She excuses herself and goes to the bathroom, where she does some drugs. She comes out and spouts more arch dialogue about wanting to be with him again, and acting like she’s very desirous of him. She then excuses herself and goes to the bathroom again, where she does some more drugs. She is played by Chloe Sevigny, who just happens to be Vincent Gallo’s ex-girlfriend. The fact that she is Vincent Gallo’s ex-girlfriend makes me rather nauseated, as she’s a very pretty young woman. They then begin to make out (what else is new). She then performs the scene which has given the film whatever notoriety and reason for being it has – she services Mr. Gallo in vivid closeup and detail. This is brave filmmaking, all right. This is art, all right. What it really is, of course, is an unparalleled act of ego the likes of which has never been seen on the screen before. The fact that Miss Sevigny consented to do the scene is neither brave nor courageous – it is stupid. That scene is followed by the film’s big revelation. I thought the revelation was interesting, but we’ve seen it before and done better in The Swimmer, and The Twilight Zone. Of course, the revelation makes the infamous scene that precedes it completely gratuitous and pointless, as if it wasn’t already completely gratuitous and pointless. I will not be viewing any more Vincent Gallo films, and I will also not be viewing any more Chloe Sevigny films.

Well, why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below because I must not beat around the bush and must get to the next section posthaste.

I then watched the second motion picture on DVD, which was entitled Rollover. I know I saw the picture when it was released, but I had no memory of it other than a vague sensation of having disliked it. But, I figured it was Alan J. Pakula and so maybe, compared to today’s dreck, it might seem better than it did back then. I’m sorry to say that the film is quite dismal – in fact, it’s downright awful. Ninety percent of the problem is the fatal miscasting of Kris Kristoffersen as a Wall Street financial whiz. Whatever one thinks of Mr. Kristoffersen as an actor, he simply cannot play a role such as this. He looks terrible in evening clothes, he sounds like a rube, and no one in his right mind would let him run a huge banking concern. Jane Fonda tries hard, but is undone by the dopey script, which doesn’t know what it wants to be. The dialogue is trite and laughable. Mr. Pakula tries hard to infuse the film with the paranoia look of his The Parallax View, but here it has no point. A failure in every conceivable way except for the gorgeous transfer. I then watched the third motion picture on DVD, which was entitled Pretty Poison, a region 2 DVD from the UK. I’ve written about the film before – it’s a terrific low-budget film from first time feature director Noel Black. The performances by everyone in the cast are without fault – especially Anthony Perkins, Tuesday Weld, Beverly Garland, and John Randolph. The screenplay by Lorenzo Semple, Jr. is lean and excellently written (adapted from Stephen Geller’s She Let Him Continue). And the film has a spare but terrific score by Johnny Mandel. The transfer is nothing to write home about, although it’s perfectly acceptable and is enhanced for widescreen TVs.

What am I, Ebert and Roeper all of a sudden? Excuse me for a moment.

I just went outside and beat around the bush. I did a Latin beat, sort of a Tito Puente/Rene Touzet sort of rhythm. I still got no kick from beating around the bush.

Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, begin a new short story, I must still do a few cleanups on the story I just finished, I must ship a few more packages, I must pick up some packages, I must eat something interesting, and I must not beat around the bush. I must be blatant, and dive right into everything I do today. Today’s topic of discussion: It’s Ask BK Day, the day in which you get to ask me or any dear reader any old thing you like, and we get to give any old answer we like. So, let’s have loads of lovely questions, and loads of lovely answers, along with loads of lovely postings, shall we? Don’t beat around the bush, either, just dive right in and post up a storm.

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