NOTHING NICER THAN SUCKING DOWN A LITTLE COUGH SYRUP on a Saturday afternoon. Stones me like nothing I know, that blue bourbon. Codeine comes from Opium comes from Vietnam, some. Sometimes wish they'd take me in the army just to get my hands on that poppy. Shit.
Why I came to see this one nobody but the devil can explain--and someone's got some explaining to do! It seems curious enough at first: a good title like Bad Day at Black Rock and the marquee says starring my favorite renegade, his last role before he bought the farm. Second run--due to the bitch from Bryn Mawr getting an Oscar out of it last year--and therefore affordable for a matinee when nothing is on at the club.
College girl of the upper crust brings home her boyfriend: guess what!? He's a knee-grow! Seems easy enough: get him the HELL out of there, preferably with a little pain to make the point, and hook her up with some letter-sweater stud her own color. But my man Spence doesn't lift a finger, just grumbles a little and becomes practically indifferent by the end. His last fucking picture! A tragic part. All so claustrophobic: one set, and myself set down in front with a pot of popcorn like I'm the silent fifth guest at dinner or something. At the bottom, I crack buttery duds like biting bullets in that darkened theater. Admittedly I'm a little stoned in that codeine drone, which nails me to my seat and makes the whole process of witnessing on-screen miscegenation more arduous than formerly believed tolerable. I squirmed less during Night of the Living Dead--which in its own way had some strange stuff going on between a darky and the dame. But in that one everybody was punished in the end.
So stoned. Is that white at his neck? Maybe it's a modern Jolson in blackface, and the whole role's a farce . . . nope: it's the real thing. You can tell by the lips. Nigger with a French name--I think it's the kid from Blackboard Jungle, gone to college!--oddly persuasive; neat teeth flashing. Everything going in and out of focus and I feel like I'm being hypnotized by his weird rap, nothing the matter with cross-breeding--figure that! I bolt from the front row and throw the bucket at the screen. The manager, a ticket-ripper in a monkey suit, gets in my way and simpers, "I apologize for the projection, sir!" I don't know if it's his first mistake today, but I bet it's his biggest. BOOM! One shot and he's on the sticky floor squirming, pant cuffs up ridiculously over his skinny, gartered legs. Fucking fairy. Nigger-loving fucking fairy.
HOW CAN YOU SHOW THIS SHIT? THEY'RE TRYING TO TAKE OUR WOMEN AWAY! I exit blinking into the day wishing Spencer Tracy--I think the town was Tracy, too . . . strange--were around to punch out. That's how they'll do their uprising, if you ask me. Not through Black Power and Panthers and in military formation--that's all just decoy. But by integration, and magazines, and the equal rights people in Hollywood: invasion of the body snatchers is what it is. An allegory for the modern age. Except they don't look just like us: they're black!
I'm pretty stoned.