Democratic License by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Page 136
The year is 1999, the date December 31, and the world is on the precipice of collapse thanks to that highly infectious, deadly bug known as Y2K; which we all know in 2023 was an innocuous farce contrived by the ruling masters to set the receptive stage for the larger nonsense of 9/11, and the resultant pre-emptive US “Patriot Act,” which negates any individual rights, when invoked, as well as give an excuse for the US to bankrupt itself through doing Israel’s work of detaining, torturing, and killing Arabs. But until that foregone conclusion and ever nearing apocalypse symbolically arrives at the stroke of midnight, the actual work falls very receptively to the hotel manager Hansueli Kopf (Oliver Masucci). You can imagine the type. He’s obsequious with the rich guests, unrelenting and abusive with his middle class staff and only able to function at all thanks to a steady
stream of booze, downed early and often, whenever no one is looking. It is absurdly difficult not to picture freeze-faced Mitch McConnell and/or Joe Biden in this role. If anything, the analogy is overly obvious for the UniParty, some would say EunuchParty “leaders.” Fellow party man Kevin McCarthy is a less obvious candidate, perhaps because he is still “working” on his face.
By the way, I bring some good news. You probably heard that the McConnell bot had its sixth un-human freeze up two days ago.
However, the doctors say that this was not due to a heart attack, stroke, or seizure; the cause being merely a rundown battery. All it needed was another re-charge, and the UniParty bot will be good to continue its Senate minority leadership role.
Spend a day in his/their shoes and you’d need to get plastered too. From behind the check in desk high in the Swiss Alps, he is compelled to wax poetic upon the “youthful” beauty of aging facelift addicts before securing a safe place for five Louis Vuitton valises stuffed with greenbacks and deposited by a gang of Russian mob brutes. Then, to top things off, he must finally figure out just what to do with a live penguin delivered at the express request of the hotel’s most affluent guest. Take my
word, you really don’t want to know what the pervert came up with.
That would be Texan billionaire Arthur William Dallas III, is played with good-ol’-boy swagger, against type, by a waxen John Cleese. Given the near absence of name actors from the cast, the fact that both Cleese and co-star Fanny Ardant share similar criticisms of the current social climate does not seem like a simple coincidence.
Dallas is 97 years young, ready to kick off a new year with 22
year old bride, Magnolia (Bronwyn James). For her part, Magnolia stands to become her beau’s sole inheritor; provided he makes it through the night. That shouldn’t be a problem, right?
That scene, like the one before it, is perfectly believable and also totally made up. How impudent of the writers to turn a man into a puppet; a man who's been in effect dead for a long time, who cannot defend himself. To make him drink tea, when it might turn out that he liked only coffee is banal, but incorrect. To make him put on two coats, when perhaps he had only one is guesswork over an otherwise un-noticed triviality. To make him take the bus, when he could have taken the train, yadda yadda.
To decide that he left in the evening, rather than the morning.
The writers should be ashamed of themselves, but they hide in
credited numbers, fully prepared to say; “Dindu nuffin. It be the other,” if criticized.
A few rooms over, the agitated Marquise Constance Rose Marie de La Valle (Ardant) has made the horrific discovery that her dog has, ahem, opted to relieve himself on her bed. Could it be the diet of caviar she feeds the pooch, or could it be worms? How can she know? Without a veterinarian present, the hotel’s resident plastic surgeon will just have to make due. It should be noted that her sleeping face, which is pictured on the film’s primary billboard type ad issues sincere apologies to Jett Rink, the James Dean character in “Giant.”
And then there’s Mr. Crush, a counterpoint to David Foster Wallace’s “Mr. Squishy,” also an uncanny and unsettling Mickey Rourke, looking as if he’s wearing a latex mask of his own face, which he in fact did in real life or what is popularly thought of as such, through ostensibly botched, late life plastic surgery, and sporting a Boris Johnson wig for good measure. He might be the most demanding guest of all, especially given the fact that he turned up without a reservation, demanded the best room, and drew in an excitable Eastern European caricature who claimed to be his son, who in turn brings his whole brood in tow.
Oh yeah, he’s also looking to use the anticipated Y2K
breakdowns/shutdowns for a government funded get rich quick bout of financial fraud that never quite makes any more sense than crackhead Hunter Biden.
Of course, nothing’s really supposed to make sense here.
Brightly lit, mise-en-scene prominent, captured by wide lenses, and contrast boosted to the max in post-production, the hotel gives off an air of garish unreality; all the better to sell the satire, I suppose. But just what is supposed to be satirized?
Certainly not the clients, who, to a person, never act or scan in any recognizably human manner; and probably not the staff, who mostly do their best to wrangle-in the chaos.
Co-written by Polanski, “EO” director Jerzy Skolimowski, with whom Polanski co-wrote “Knife in the Water” back in 1962, and Ewa Piaskowska, the script offers the weakest stabs at irony. It juxtaposes the empty hysteria around Y2K against the rise to power of Vladimir Putin, who did indeed take over from Boris Yeltsin on New Year’s Eve 1999, but one cannot find a larger point which stands the popular, fact checked, obviousness required for a hit, beyond that.
Perhaps there is none beyond Polanski’s possible simple desire to make filmgoers squirm, trapping them in a garish getaway
filled with grotesques, and watching everyone get drunker and louder and more unpleasant until the clock strikes, the fireworks hit, and little is resolved but the participants’
resolve to check out of this hotel and never return.
Fun part of the day gone, today normal standard operating procedure took focus. I have been bot-informed that a moulinyan criminal, one Imamu Amiri X Jones, who boasts of 3,000 Twitter followers, is planning another “Moulinyan Swarming Event” in Chicago sometime this week, replete with the reparational looting of the Nike shop.
While I normally applaud these staged, liberating, democratic productions, I can’t help but think that this one is scheduled to come at the wrong time. News of another “smash and grab” so close to the Presidential election can only further damage Biden and his moulinyan “largely peaceful demonstrations” support.
It’s not that the votes really matter, as Dominion takes care of that. But, I imagine that if we reach a point where post-voting polls can produce no one admitting to having voted for Biden, things could become a tad difficult. I recognize that this cannot be used as “evidence” in a democratically appointed judge’s court of law. But it will no doubt give rise to more of those unfounded conspiracy theories the right uses on its
ignorant cult followers, and who the hell needs more of this shit. I mean sometimes they get totally frustrated and resort to shooting the moulies they see as the cause, reducing our numbers, or in the case of the better educated see the moulies as the SS of the fascist, Zionist jews as the cause. Whatever.
Ask philosophers like faggy and more importantly, historically inconsequential Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, substitutions permitted, whose inability to differentiate cause from effect is embraced, rather than being ridiculed by those of the democrat lib persuasion, that all too often a re-statement of the retarded “after-therefore-because-of” poppycock. Knock yourself out. I don’t care.
So, tired of philosophy, I made some adaptations to one of my oft used, bot produced, form letters, and sent it to Mr. X Jones in an e-mail, in the hope that our democratic comrade would hold off for what seems a short time in the interest of the larger cause. It read as follows;
To: Mr. Imamu Amiri X Jones
From: The Man
Subject: Intended Swarming
Dear Mr. Imamu Amiri X Jones;
It has come to my attention that you are planning an imminent swarm in Chicago. While I normally applaud these kinds of democratic endeavors, the timing is not right for this one.
With the election so near, such an event would cause some of the ADD voters to vote for the evil racist fascism of Trump. I’d greatly appreciate it if you would postpone your rally until after the election.
Please confirm your valued continued support in writing.
Your pal,
The Man
Would you believe that Imamu got all sorts of uppity, and immediately wrote back tersely saying; “Fuck you, asshole,”
necessitating minorly adapted, no play on words form letter #2.
To: Mr. Imamu Amiri X Jones
From: The Man
Subject: Intended Swarming
Dear Mr. Imamu Amiri X Jones;
Please be advised that it is with your best interests at heart that I make this request. You see, the FBI has yet-to-be-released evidence of your attendance at the last Chicago swarming, during which event you were taped throwing something incendiary at a cop as well as carrying a $1,500 giant screen TV
from Walmart. This information could make its way to the Chicago police if you remain un-cooperative in our mutual cause.
If that circumstance is not particularly compelling for you, please remember that White girl you carried on with, including your friends, back in March. She was twelve years of age at the time, though she did look a few years older. Yes, her tapes are in my possession. And, assuring you that my intent is not to threaten you, there they will stay for you and all my other cooperative friends.
R Kelly, who had a few more followers than you, didn’t pay much attention and look where he is today. I’m sure that when you’ve had the time to reflect further on this reasonable request, you’ll see that it is not only in your personal best interest, but also is in conformance with our shared greater cause; world democracy.
Thanking you in advance for your anticipated support and assistance, I remain your Comrade, pal and; The Man
It was amazing how quickly Imamu saw things our way. I have to give full credit to the compliance seeking form letters I had Sparky draw up for me a while back.
The banality of democratic communication, as differentiated from the banality of evil, was again as tiresome as it was fleeting.
Needing entertainment, I fingered my way to a favorite web site;
“OldTimeRadio.com,” and was greeted by a top show first aired on May 12, 1935.
“Live from beautiful downtown Pomona we bring you ‘The Grape Nuts Flakes Program,’ starring Jack Benny and Rochester.”
The audience applauded.
Jack Benny: “Rochester! Rochester! Where are you? Have you been sleeping on the job again?”
Rochester: “No suh, Missah Binny. ....... Ah means yassuh Missah Binny. ...... Ah means ah dunno.”
The audience laughed.
Jack Benny: “Rochester. Let me make this simple. Why hasn’t the car been washed and polished?”
Rochester: “Missah Binny, ah jus did dat las munt. Ah gots too menny jobs aroun heah now.”
The audience applauded and laughed.
Jack Benny: “Well, all right then. I have an important appointment soon. Just polish my shoes.”
Rochester: “Yassuh, Missah Binny. Yassuh. Ah jus luvs dat polishin. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn.”
The audience laughed.
Jack Benny: “After that you can wash the car.”
Rochester: “Ooooh, Missah Binny. Yu be one mean man. I’s so tard, yu workin’ me so hahd.”
Jack Benny: “Have you been eating your Grape Nuts Flakes?”
Rochester: “No suh, Missah Binny. I’s gots no tahm fo brekfas wid all dese jobs.”
Jack Benny: “Rochester; it’s not the jobs; it’s that you lack the energy to do them.”
Rochester: “Ah doan know, Missah Binny. Ah be ow rite wid dese shoes heah. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn. Ah jus luvs dat polishin.
Smell be so good.”
The audience laughed.
Jack Benny: “Rochester, life is not all fun and games. There is work to be done. Stop that shining for a minute and eat some of these Grape Nuts Flakes.”
Rochester, as he eats: “Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn. Yassuh, Missah Binny. Yu What peeples be so smart. Taste so good, an ahm reddy to woik all day. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn. Mmmmnnn.”
The audience cheered.
Jack Benny: “Take it from Rochester. No, don’t take it from Rochester. Get your own. Just like Rochester, you good folks out there in radio land can fuel your day with Grape-Nuts Flakes cereal. The delicious whole grain goodness has been converted into lightly crispy flakes. They're the perfect jump start for the healthy, active day ahead. These wholesome flakes are a good source of fiber. Ninety percent of users surveyed report doing daily poops. It’s heart healthy. The diet is low in saturated fat and cholesterol, and as low as possible in trans fat. Not one case of a heart attack has been reported while eating Grape Nuts Flakes. This delicious cereal is full of the good stuff you love, with no artificial colors or flavors. Grape Nuts Flakes are a good source of eleven essential vitamins and minerals, a satisfying cereal that is high in iron and folate. So, what are you waiting for? Go out and get your own Grape Nuts Flakes right now. ........ Errr, I mean when the show is over.”
The audience laughed and applauded, though it seemed as if that their heart was not in it.
Rochester: “Missah Binny. It be seem lahk da audience need some Grape Nuts Flakes, too.”
Jack Benny: “Raht you beez, Missah Rochester.”
The audience laughed.
Rochester: “Hey, Missah Binny. Doan yu be stealin’ my stuff.”
Jack Benny: “I’m a comedian. You know that. That’s what we do, silly boy.”
Rochester: “Yu be breakin’ da low, bose.”
Jack Benny: “Who cares?”
The audience applauded and laughed.
The website rudely segued into an informational tidbit, thusly.
Jack Benny: The Radio Show
Jack benny was called “Mister Radio,” and was the original “King of All Media.” The world's oldest thirty-nine year old was quite possibly the person most associated with the golden age of radio.
Jack Benny, born in 1894, grew up in Waukegan, Illinois, the town he made famous in countless routines. At age six he began studying the violin, and in 1911, at age 17, Benny began his career playing the violin on the vaudeville stage. His violin would serve him well throughout his career, becoming one of the most iconic props in comedy.
After more than two decades in vaudeville that included several name changes, refinements to both his act and character, a stint in the US Navy during WWI, and marriage to Sadie Marks, better known as Mary Livingstone, Benjamin Kubelsky settled on the name and persona of Jack Benny, and decided that the time was right to move into the new medium of radio.
In 1932, Benny made his first brief appearances on radio.
Proving to be a natural personality for the new medium, at age thirty-eight he was awarded his own show on the NBC Blue Network. Jack Benny would celebrate his thirty-ninth birthday on the air, and because according to Jack; "There's nothing funny about forty," would go on to celebrate his thirty-ninth birthday forty-one more times throughout his life.
“The Jack Benny Show” was actually many different shows, each named for its respective sponsor. At various times, Benny's radio program was known as “The Canada Dry Program,” “The Chevrolet Program,” “The General Tire Revue,” “The Jell-O
Program,” “The Grape Nuts Flakes Program,” and “The Lucky Strike Program.” Despite the name changes, the show and cast went largely unchanged throughout the years. The many forms of “The Jack Benny Show” would remain on radio for more than two decades.
The cast was led, of course, by Jack Benny as the well-known everyman with many comic foibles, including gently exaggerated vanity, pettiness, self-importance, and the ability to squeeze more out of a penny than any man alive. Appearing with Benny in these programs were Eddie Anderson as his valet “Rochester,” who knows him better than anyone and regularly plays on Jack's vanity; Mary Livingstone, his wise cracking secretary and provider of a uniquely female perspective on Jack's peculiarities, and his real life wife for 47 years; Dennis Day, the naive and sheltered singer; Phil Harris, a hard drinking bandleader and hipster son of the south; Don Wilson, the rotund announcer and the target of many of Jack's barbs; and voice actor extraordinaire Mel Blanc as just about every character imaginable, including Polly the Parrot and Benny's sputtering Maxwell automobile.
Democratic License