It is when Nana and Joan of Arc exist in the same flesh, or Boris Karloff and Bing Crosby, that the abysses of insanity are under the fog at every turn…
…Anyone else, man or woman, who contained such opposite personalities within his body would be ferociously mad. It is her transcendence of these opposites into a movie star that is her triumph (even as the work she does will eventually be our pleasure), but how transcendent must be her need for a man ready to offer devotion and services to both the angel and the computer.
-Marilyn, Norman Mailer
I really like Matthew Modine. Kubrick saw his brilliance and tenderness and his performance as Private Joker in Full Metal Jacket is the most human in any of the master’s masterpieces. After I threw up the morning Magic FM told me that there had been a shooting in a cinema in Colorado showing The Dark Knight Rises (in which Modine co-stars), I tweeted him to tell him of my horror and grief. He tweeted back a photo of a victory sign and the words:
It’s all good Andrew #TweetPeace
My Dad was a member of a video club in the early 90’s for a while. It was half-hearted, but we had a few good ones. Hamburger Hill, Mississippi Burning, Platoon, Full Metal Jacket. They tended toward big budget intellectual exercises, and he instilled in me a love for Hollywood in a time of industry grunge chic. I started watching the Oscars the year Pulp Fiction was released, even though I was surprised that Jim Carrey wasn’t nominated for The Mask. I genuinely was. I bet fifty pee to a mate of mine, back when fifty pee was a lot of dough. It was inexplicable. How could Jim Carrey not get nominated? It was amazing, his performance. Secretly it turned me on.
I unfollowed 1500 people on the 5th of December, and then slept for 24 hours. I have lost 200 followers because of my actions, people who were only following me so that I would follow them, the reason I followed them in the first place.
The vast majority of them were indie, self-pubbed writers. Believe me, there is nobody duller on Twitter than an indie, self-pubbed writer.
I was back on the ward today for my injection. I didn’t bother bringing my sunglasses this time, since I understand now that the nurse gets off on the invasion and I didn’t want her thinking that I respected her. One of the care workers had helped me tidy the flat before I went, even going so far as to throw out both my tobacco and my Royal Mail card that I needed in order to pick up the wheelie suitcase my mum had ordered for me. Huh. Straight after the horse faced skank had jabbed me up (I forget her name) I bumped into Dr Ghosh as I awkwardly sauntered to the smoking pod.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I asked.
“You’re looking well, Andrew!”
“Had 402 views of my YouTube video. Me, one take, singing Rockin’ In The Free World.”
“Oh yes,” he smiled, “that’s an easy one to play, isn’t it. Who was it again, who wrote it?”
“Yes, thirty years ago, right? Yes, it’s just three chords.”
“Difficult to sing, though,” I replied, grinning.
“I’m sure it is! Great to see you looking so well.”
“You too,” I replied, and put my earphones in, feeling used and worthless in a totally punk rock way.
A friend of the girl who hung herself was smoking a cigarette just outside the pod, and therefore inside the ward, next to a woman with Alzheimer’s who has a habit of self-inflicted head injuries. Inside the pod was a South African murderer that I met in the Secure Unit. He was wearing the hospital pyjamas, trembling from the medication, his head bowed, moaning about his mother. I lit up and put on Rape Me by Nirvana, ignoring his babbling and working out linguistic motifs I could study for this book. If you ever do get sectioned, then my only word of advice that actually matters? Don’t talk to the ones in pyjamas…
There seem to be quite a few conspiracy theories revolving around YouTube about James Holmes and The Dark Knight Rises massacre. I tried watching one of them, but they were all so poorly made. The editing was like something out of an Alan Smithee movie and whilst I know for a fact the filmmakers felt their efforts to be transcendentally profound and hip, their utilization of sombre voice over intercut with Hans Zimmer’s score and sinister photos of Barack Obama made me understand the ache inherent in their lack of cinematic talent. As for the movie itself? I bought it today for £15.99 in a BP Garage just by Blue Leaves House, after a dull three hours on Pynchon Ward. I had the dubious honour of getting the Word Conundrum, an anagram puzzle they leave on a white board daily. The answer? CELEBRATE. I thought the movie was pretty good. Wally Pfister’s cinematography was exquisite, a deep cornucopia of blues and browns. The editing was stately and mannered, the direction epic and tender by turns. The script had a few unintentionally gigglesome moments, especially when Morgan Freeman had to explain the hugely complex plot to the audience, which he does better than any actor in cinema history. All in all it was a reverent, rich, wonderful failure, that was as self-adoring as the worst of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and nearly as homoerotic. According to a recent tweet by Bret Easton Ellis (who was at an Official Academy Screening) it won’t win. Too self-indulgent and now too scarred with abnormality and horror for the film to win much of anything. The movie set out to be the most profound and important movie of 2012. It is, but for all the wrong reasons…