Monday, April 21, 2008

A hero-driven ride

Late night babble, should've been in bed. But still: I'd been enjoying a typical, lazy Sunday consisting of late breakfast, later lunch, even later supper and some "Doctor Who" watching in-between. Also spent some time on house duties, being the dedicated house wife that I am so not at all, et cetera, and just had a very uneventful, responsibility-free, fabulously calm day that I need once in a while. Eventually I sat down with some chocolate and a coffee and inserted my brand new, recently acquired, long-awaited "Death Proof" Special Edition DVD, European Extended Unrated Cut, into the media player and pressed PLAY. Immediately after, I was completely and utterly absorbed in the inexpressable joy that was re-watching this brilliant event of equally brilliant, beautiful car chase action and the best written dialogue og cheesy snappy superbness you'll come across. In the history of ever. Of course; a genuine, proper, old-fashioned Tarantino-product, where you know you can't go wrong. He never ceases to amaze me, this man, or inspire me - and consequently I ended up droodling some unlikely poetic stanzas about the anti-hero of this übercool style adventure: Kurt Russel's Stuntman Mike. Real, bloody, baddie. The most compelling, sadistic, fanatically evil and hysterical car-killer ever seen on film. Good man. Fantastic character. And he's got fantastic company too; there's my "Rent"-girls Rosario and Tracie, and the gorgeous Zoë Bell as herself, alongside a great bunch of minor yet majorly important folks that blows you away with wit and fun and resourcefulness. Quite simply, but ever so effectfully. It's got Quentin's spirit all over it, literally speaking, and as a direct consequence: there's perfected originality attached. No other director could have pulled this off, or got away with such a story, and just therefore he succeeds. Because it's so impossible, he makes it possible. Read my review of the film from long ago, if you like, or just continue to the following contents that eloped from some far away lobe of my brains and naturally ended up on Blogger paper. Proper "on demand writing", this is. And I luv that. Spur-of-the-moment, no less, and an idea that hit me so suddenly, I didn't notice till the thing was finiished. Beware; here be lack of editing. And similarly; enjoy the ride. Mike's ride. Cos that's what it's all about - it's a theme poem about a film person. More rightly, a film hero. Based on my admiration for yet another hero, the creator of all these things, who's very much real-life and very much a genius. Might I just stress that fact.

[Image: Back in the old and wonderful days when "Death Proof" toured the world for promotional purposes, and here got a rightful touch of Cannes Film Festival. Which, again, attracted lots of people I love, and gathered behind the bench in this particular cap we find, from left to right, Rosario Dawson, Kurt Russel, Zoë Bell, Quentin Tarantino himself, Rose McGowan, Robert Rodriguez and Tracie Thoms. Now, that is what I call a proper group. My two favourite directors and some of my very favourite actors, and they're together. Happy times. Bit of gala acknowledgement, all dressed up, and that's not too common for this genre or its representatives - so, quite fabulous indeed. Fangirl JOY!]

"A Craftman Stunt"
By Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, and grateful worshipper of His Ingenious Highness, and master of retro-inspired, impeccable film arts; said Quentin Tarantino; whom I owe most of the absurdly unparallelled happiness I've had during film-viewing experiences. I love that man more than I can express in normal writing, so let me try some poetry instead:

you ravage in the black haven
of your insolence
applying some wolfish grin and
casting glances
knowing they will hit right where
you place your aim
target the world and the wild
is your playground
studied your tricks far enough
to perfect the installment
and shed sentences of one's own
condemnation only

whilst here you stand; dark soul, grim features,
followed close by none but your self-made shadow
sharpened nails pierce your mark into solid ground
prickly hairs on your cheekbones, playing rough
boots set firmly upon the soil and never stagger
that certainty stretched all the way up your spine
so you may not yield, not quiver, never flinch
but do a steady pose, so calm with your conviction
that wherver the world takes you, whenever you go
it'll be safetly, relying on the foundation you lay
and quick, in the blink of an eye, being off again
onto another road, and new adventures to be had
shaped of consideration, held tight by pure concern
readiness is in the will and having time to kill

soon delving into piles of pink and yellow crinches
drawing gloomy stripes across the forehead of your lanes
and speeding up 'till all you spot is passing blur
these visions of a race and freshened chance to pull
one trigger, found a differing motive, you must adapt
the sandstones smouldering into a whirlwind round your feet
to cloud the sights but never once your judgement
when you press the levers of yet another magical machine
driving you straight beyond the sunsets of illusion
ecstatic crazes made from stuff that shatters dreams
not a simple soul to single out or throw aside
you steer within the viciousness, the ultimate of calls
disguised by poison like a haze, the prey collected in your maze

and such you gather crowds
attendants to your art
mesmerize them with your musings
they peer with bafflement
as you attack the cores and run
these finer egdes
then toy with states and sheer emotion
checking for control
you bend to make a sudden move
the unexpected turn
with trust in all you love, the fuel,
for cynicism's ice cold game

a slow burn for this final straw
still the more effective to watch
as you settle in and make room
ease down for letters go, all set
prepare the rites, the system clean
you never let the curtains fall
ahead of you, there's nothing else
most points do vanish in the acts
and you're outside the class arena
existence solely in the moving vane
seeking out the dutyfull approach
a lasting drive, a lingering route
towards your next performance

1 comment:

Randi said...

Poeten er så elegant i sin hyllest til sine helter - selv om engelsken kan bli avansert for dem som kun kan skilte med litt skoleengelsk....det poetiske blir en inderlig og ærlig og tydelig, på sin måte, uttrykksform ....kjenner jeg.