It was a good day for the underground. After saving the world
from an Inner Circle plot involving the conclusion of the latest
“American Idol,” the Matrix and an asteroid named
Mister Rogers, I felt that it was time for a vacation.
Christy, my common-law wife and kung-fu sex-kitten, suggested
catching the tail-end of the Cannes Film Festival.
“Enough over-homogenized mass-produced
entertainment,” she told me while we sipped Cristal mimosas
in the first-class cabin of The Concord SST. “I want to
immerse myself in a heap of art-house pretension.”
The idea definitely had allure: spend the weekend in an
over-priced hotel among the jet-set elite and away from American
TV, spend money like it was going out of style, and change outfits
thrice daily in order to stay in vogue, all while drunk as skunks
trapped in a backwoods hooch shed.
“How are we paying for this again?” I asked her,
buzzed from the booze and the altitude.
“I just signed an endorsement deal with Nike,” she
replied. “I’m getting $90 million to pose on their new
yoga mats. I don’t even need a real job anymore. Now
let’s go join that Mile High Club.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice.
Once we settled into our beachfront resort Le Hotel du Expensif,
we tried to catch as many films as possible. The more obscure the
better; subtitles were a prerequisite, some were in black and
white, others featured no recognizable movie stars, but we were
most overjoyed when they had no conceivable plot or character
development. Some might argue that it was as fun as watching paint
drying, which was true, especially with regard to the flashy
Canadian submission, “Watchin’ Paint Dry,
Eh.”
Things were going along swimmingly until I spotted certain
people who I felt were out of place “¦ pop icons with all too
familiar faces. In other words “¦ Americans.
I grabbed one by the scruff of his neck and shook him until he
cried out in pain.
“Aren’t you Gus Van Sant?” I spat into his
face. “The director of “˜Good Will Hunting’ and
that awful “˜Psycho’ remake?”
He nodded, his eyes full of terror.
“But I’m supposed to be here,” he cried.
“I won top prize for my latest film, “˜Elephant.’
I also won for Best Director.”
Indeed. He pulled the coveted Palme d’Or prize from inside
his tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Who else is here?” I asked, shaking him harder.
“Well, Meg Ryan is on the panel of judges. So is Stephen
Soderbergh.”
“Meg Ryan judging artistic film? Wasn’t she in
“˜Kate & Leopold’ and “˜I.Q.’ and
“˜You’ve Got Mail’?” I was so enraged I
grabbed Van Sant’s award and broke it over my knee. He ran
off but I threw the pieces at him, screaming, “Try and nail a
French model with this.”
The revelation put me into a bad funk, but Christy tried her
best to get me out of it.
“Look at the bright side. Back in the states that awful
“˜Matrix’ sequel was squashed by Jim Carrey’s new
film.”
“It’s like the hydra,” I said. “You cut
off one head and two grow back. Maybe it’s hopeless. Maybe we
should live out our days here and forget about Rupert Murdoch and
his Inner Circle. How are we going to beat them before we graduate
from college?”
There was a twinkle in her eye in that moment.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said with a smile.
And within two hours we were drunk and back on The Concord SST,
flying back to the jumble golden mess of Los Angeles.