Giles Brody wanted compensation for his earlier dictation of my review, an idea I balked out, and immediately sent him on his way. What follows are my own notes, jotted down by quill before being painstakingly committed to a printing press for the benefit of the ages.
When last I made entry, I had to pause the machine as there was an urchin selling “lines” at the door. I bid him take his leave immediately and that the only lines he was likely to receive from me would be red lines on the back of his legs from the cane marks I was moments away from engraving on his common flesh. The whole wretched exchange left me so perturbed that I did not watch the remainder of the film until one year later whilst on the train. I viewed the entertainment on my grandsons portable wonder box whilst under a cloak I had over my head to blot out the blasted sun.
Forteen minutes. I’m already in a bad mood. I spelt fourteen wrong. Its very early and I had a beastly long night. It was swiftly followed by an all too early morning, without even the suggestion of a sign of the salvation of a sizzle of bacon. Or a sausage. Still, one most push on.
Forteen minutes. The narrator has decided to come in early today, as his narration begins what is for me to be Act One, Scene Five Part Two.
NARRATOR: “Anything’s possible. Makes life worth living.”
That’s jolly good old bean because I was about to make my excuses and then promptly jump off this moving train. Many thanks.
Frifteen minutes. Tom called Summer a skank because she refused to give her hand gratification within five minutes of their first meeting. After my first viewing of this film I did a google search of “bean” + “film” + wooing rituals” + “office windows”. This yielded no results. I can only conclude that this means that this film is truly more groundbreaking then I had previously given it credit for.
Sixteen minutes. Tom and Summer believe themselves to be listening to music, with scarcely a gramophone or harpsichord in sight. The wooing continues. Their fellow co-workers sit in embarrassed and humble silence, wishing the two the best while thanking god that similar dementia doesn’t effect them to hear ghastly ghastly music from the organ inside the haunted house in their heads. Parents, you have been warned.
Sixteen minutes. “Loneliness is underrated.” A bawdier line, if I may be so bold as to ask the author to consider for future “recordings”, might be “Loneliness is unattired!”
Seventeen minutes. The twosome are at a singing and drinking establishment. I hope that they keep their composure and do not attempt to sing. I have one courting rule for young lovers and older lovers alike. One should never sing in front of the one you are attempting to woo. Wait until you are married as it can have a huge effect on the speeding up of the process which eventually leads to the dissolution of the marriage. After all, you wouldn’t show your Red King, Black Queen and Diamond Jack during the first hand of Hatty Daniels, regardless of how fortunate you were to be dealt the three “Top Of The Tent” cards for said game.
Eighteen minutes. Summer has taken to the stage to carry oaky.
SUMMER: “I’m new so no making fun of me”.
But what if you’re terrible, my dear girl. It is in this very occasional performers experience that when one requests pity from the audience they are inadvertently requesting scorn, which the spectators then dish out along with generous helpings of spite. Perhaps had you recorded your singings on an audiomatograph before taking to the stage in a public forum then you would have spared us your lobotomized doe eyed snarl. It has already been established that the girl has hearing difficulties and now I know why. If you lived with that in your head you’d will yourself into going deaf too. Very disappointing.
Nineteen minutes. Post singing (had it been signing I would have had no problem), Tom and Summer have a gnatter.
Summer: I wanted to sing “Born To Run”.
Tom: I named my cat after Springsteen.
I must confess to occassionally feeling somewhat out of the loop when listening to anyone under the age of 80 converse with someone of a similar age or younger. I’ll come clean, a lot of these references are going over my head, but that’s one which I managed to catch. Springsteen refers to Haverystein Springsprung, a Hungarian carpet manufacturer who famously fled the country after the mad King George had given him an enormous purse with which he was to carpet the entire capital city. Thereafter he was known as “Springsteen”, for his springing way, and steen as a mistranslation of the third syllable of his first name. The cat being named “Springsteen” is an especially biting bit of business when one considers where are cats at their most content. Where else but a carpet, you fool!
Summer: “You don’t believe that a woman could be free and independent. I don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s girlfriend. I don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s anything.”
I have no idea what any of this means.
Twenty minutes. Summer has declared this American city to be one of the most beautiful in all the world. Surely she is referring to the new world and not the old. Despite its heavenly windowed offices and overground underground rail transit service I find that there are far too many “types” lurking in the background, middle ground and occasionally, if kneeling, the foreground too. I’m sure you could fill up the list of top ten cities amongst the small clutch of catherdraled hamlets in and around Oxford. Summer obviously meant this as a joke or is simply willfully ignorant of her nations mother country. You know. One of those “types” you do occasionally hear people boogeying on about.
Twenty one minutes. I spoke too spoon! She has affected an (apparently) “British” brogue with which she is laying ruin to the Crown! What heresy! This filmed drama should have been re-named Summer The Heretic, Damned By Her Own Ignorance. When I write to the actress playing Tom requesting intercourse (see previous post), I should remember to mention to her that she could bring Summer along, just for the bally hoo of it all. I’d let “Summer” watch as I had my way with “Tom” and just when she’d be next in line expecting a bit of the grumble tumble, I’d remind her of her offensive remarks on film and how such an anti-royalist is not deserved a single moment of gratification.
Twenty two minutes. My mind is beginning to wander. I shall try to write in the style of Shelly.
Sequestered to the barstool now,
enveloped with the warm throw rug of memory,
recalling fonder times of wonder,
and how television programmes that were on
when they were young were SO good.
END OF POEM.
Until next time….