Midnight Movie
Page 5
He said, “I couldn’t agree more.”
I said, “The movie is black and white. You didn’t watch it at all, did you, you dipshit? Not even the ten minutes you claim.” It was unbelievably rude for me to call a guy I was meeting for only the second time a dipshit to his face, but he brought out that side of me.
He shrugged and said, “So what? I’m not the critic. You are.” He made a shooing motion at me, then said, “So get in there and go criticize.” And then he wandered toward Tobe.
TOBE HOOPER:
My throng of fans—such as it was—gradually made their way into the bar. I was about to follow when somebody grabbed me roughly by the wrist. I turned around quick, ready to swing. You don’t grab a man by his wrist from behind.
It was Dude McGee. He turned the grab into a sweaty handshake and said, “There’s that shake, Mr. Homer. We’re even. So I never asked if your flight was satisfactory.”
I said, “It was perfectly satisfactory.” I didn’t mention that nobody came to pick me up. Why bother? “And it’s Hooper.”
He said, “Of course it is,” then he put his hand on my back, nudged me toward the club, and said, “Shall we?”
I gently pushed his hand away and said, “No offense, Mr. McGee, but you’re awfully touchy-feely. I’m not a fan of touchy-feely. No offense.”
He ran his index finger up my spine, then pulled his hand away and said, “No offense taken.” Then, as if out of nowhere, the film canister appeared in his hand. “Are you excited? Because I am. I’ve watched it countless times all by my lonesome, but this is my first chance to see it with a crowd. Exciting, very exciting, very, very exciting.”
I said, “Sure, exciting. Listen, can you give me a rundown? I don’t remember a damn thing about it.”
Erick, the kid with that Massacre This band, called over, “He hasn’t watched it, Tobe!”
I asked McGee if that was true. He said, “I feel like I watched it. Isn’t that good enough?”
I said, “No. It’s not good enough. So why’d you set this up? What if it’s a piece of shit?”
McGee said, “You’re Toeb Hoopster—”
I said, “Tobe Hooper.”
McGee said, “And you did My Texas Chainsaw Attack—”
I said, “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
McGee said, “So I know deep in my gut that it’s not a piece of shit.”
I almost said something about how deep his gut was, but that wouldn’t have been polite. Say what you will about southerners, but we’re usually nice to strangers, even when they smell like delicatessens and have a habit of touching you in what has to be considered a strange manner.
He said, “Mr. Laughlin, Mr. Laughing Boy, Mr. Laugh-a-Minute will tell you. It’s not a piece of shit, right? Right?”
Erick took a deep breath and said, “It’s kind of a piece of shit.”
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I tried to suck the sentence back into my lungs. I mean, I’d just told Tobe Hooper that something he made was a piece of shit. I was a dick, right? Right.
If I may put on my objective critic’s hat for a second, I’d have to say that, like with every filmmaker in the world, some of Tobe’s flicks are better than others. But none of them could be considered a piece of shit.
Except this one.
Fortunately, Tobe laughed. “Okay, lay it on me, brother. What’s shitty about it?”
I said, “I don’t know if I’m qualified …”
Then Janine, who I hadn’t even realized was listening, piped up. “Erick, Jesus Christ, you’re a goddamn film critic. Give him your goddamn review.”
Tobe said, “Yeah, Erick. Give me your goddamn review.”
I took a deep breath—it was more of a sigh, really—and said, “Okay, the script is a mess, and the story is barely existent, and aside from your pal Gary, the acting is atrocious.”
Tobe clapped me on the back and said, “Sounds awesome to me. Let’s go watch this.”
I said, “I watched it twice yesterday—”
He interrupted, “And twice was enough. Don’t worry, brother. I’m glad you didn’t blow smoke up my ass.” He gestured at the front door and said, “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of smoke blowing from that lot. I’m going in. Catch you after.”
As Tobe walked away, I called after him, “The effects are good!”
He laughed and said, “You’re full of shit, pal, but your heart’s in the right place.”
EXCERPTED FROM THE PAPERS OF DR. AARON GILLESPIE,
RISK MANAGEMENT ANALYST FOR THE DEPARTMENT
OF HOMELAND SECURITY
March 31, 2009—This was my seventh SXSW in seven years, and I decided it was to be my last. I never thought of myself as age conscious, but I realized after my fifth show in two nights that I was, I was. The people in the clubs were young enough to be my children, and the people in the bands were young enough to be my grandchildren. The music was fine, sometimes even spectacular, but was it worth getting slam-danced into? Was it worth being a magnet for spilt beer? Was it worth paying for the flight from Chicago to Texas, the hotel, the cover charges, the drink minimums, and the flight back to Chicago? By 2009, the answer was a resounding no.
After three consecutive nights of music, music, music, I was in the mood for a change. I considered attending one of the literary panels, but the only one that was not sold out was a panel discussing a new movement called “mash-ups.” I did not know what a mash-up was, nor did I care to learn.
There were several film screenings and discussions, some of which had potential but not that much potential. The only non-music event I was truly compelled to go to was a movie by the gentleman who made The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It was either that or back to my hotel room.
twitter.com
ScaryBarry off to see DESTINY EXPRESS!!! mad psyched!!!
6:31 PM March 31 via web
FarceCycle @ScaryBarry Don’t gloat. It’s unbecoming.
6:33 PM March 31 via web
ScaryBarry the lights went off. DESTINY EXPRESS, ALL ABOARD!!!
9:42 PM March 31 via web
FarceCycle ©ScaryBarry Repeating: Don’t gloat. It’s unbecoming. Dick.
9:51 PM March 31 via web
http://andidaltrey.blogspot.com
Andi-Licious
The Useless Musings of Sophomoric
Sophomore Andrea Daltrey
THE DATE: TODAY
THE TIME: MY TIME
THE TITLE: THE TITLE
I don’t remember the lights going off, but I do remember drinking some gross beer, and I remember the movie starting, and I remember being scared, and I remember being grossed out.
I remember some guy touching me, and I remember where he touched me, and I remember thinking he shouldn’t touch me there without my approval.
I remember I wanted to ask him to stop, and I remember not being able to open my mouth.
I remember this funny feeling in my stomach, and I remember my knees shook, and I remember my tummy did a squiggle.
I remember my nipples getting hard, and I remember looking for him.
I remember him being gone and I remember being sad.
JANINE DALTREY:
It was a gorgeous night, and I was having fun chatting with Erick—who I’d always gotten a kick out of—so I decided to skip the movie. As for Andi, I figured she could fend for herself. She was a friendly girl, and I was sure she’d strike up a conversation with one of those horror nerds and be A-okay.
So Erick and I blabbed for a while. Like way too many guys in their early twenties, Erick didn’t ask a damn thing about me, but at least he was interesting to listen to. As was almost always the case, he talked mostly about his band, and how frustrated he was with the whole thing, and how fucked-up the record industry was, and how he wanted out, but he had to play music, and if he didn’t, he’d die. I appreciated the passion, but having grown up poor, I didn’t get the appeal of being an impoverished artist. I’d have been happy getting an advertising
degree, and moving to, say, Phoenix, and getting a gig at some boutique agency that offered health insurance and three weeks’ vacation.
Erick also told me a story about his whole band getting some bad shrooms at a show in Denton, then spending the whole ride back to Austin vomiting inside, and outside, and even on top of, their van. Gross, but funny. It was nice that he wasn’t trying to charm me into the sack. I mean, you don’t seduce a girl by telling her puke stories.
ERICK LAUGHLIN:
I was totally trying to charm her into the sack.
JANINE DALTREY:
Finally, about a half an hour after the movie started, I told him he should go in. He said only if I joined him. So in we went.
TOBE HOOPER:
Erick was wrong. It wasn’t a piece of shit. It was a big, heaping piece of shit under a big, heaping pile of vomit, under a big, heaping pile of diarrhea, under a big, heaping pile of horse guts, under a big, heaping pile of maggots. I almost hoped a critic from a major newspaper was there, just so I could see what the fuck he’d write. A. O. Scott would’ve had a field day with good ol’ Destiny Express.
Gary was sitting off to the far side, so I made my way over to find out what he thought about the whole thing. Right as his character was eating the arm off our female lead, Helen Leary, I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “Now that, Gary my man, is emoting.”
He punched me in the stomach and said, “Shut the fuck up, man. You say another fucking word, and I’ll fucking equalize you.”
I wanted to say What the fuck, Gary? but the punch knocked the wind out of me, and I couldn’t get out a single word. All I wanted to do was sit down, but there wasn’t a chair in the general vicinity, so I wobbled over to the bar, plopped onto a stool, and tried to catch my breath and figure out why Gary gut-shot me. I assumed he thought I was somebody else, and I’d startled him. But that was still weird, because the Gary Church I knew wasn’t a hitter.
The vibe in the Cove was weird, man. Just fucking weird.
FROM: 3105151842@verizon.net
TO: Church_Warren@LTDLaw.com
This movie is fucking awesome. I’m getting a print. You’re watching it. It’s a revelation.
SENT FROM MY VERIZON BLACKBERRY
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ScaryBarry snorted 1 line off of the bar and im wrecked. teeth hurt. awesome flick.
March 31 11:31 PM via web
FarceCycle ©ScaryBarry Jealous. Call me tomorrow.
March 31 11:33 PM via web
EXCERPTED FROM THE PAPERS OF DR. AARON GILLESPIE,
RISK MANAGEMENT ANALYST FOR THE DEPARTMENT
OF HOMELAND SECURITY
March 31, 2009—I watched maybe two minutes of the movie and was appalled. It was a litany of violent acts under the guise of a zombie story. It had no redeeming qualities. I headed to the door but was tripped, possibly on purpose, by a slovenly young man. He put me in a headlock and said, “Aren’t you enjoying this?” He breathed his fetid breath into my face, and I felt a wave of nausea that almost doubled me over.
I said, “No, I am not enjoying this,” doing everything within my power not to vomit.
He said, “I think you are.” And then he tightened his hold on my neck. The next thing I remember, I was lying in my hotel bed with a plastic mask covering my face.
TOBE HOOPER:
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stood in the back of a theater during a Chainsaw screening, listening to the screams of the audience … and nothing else makes me happier. Knowing that I’ve given a willing crowd some nightmares is a beautiful feeling, man, simply beautiful.
The screaming that started halfway through Destiny Express wasn’t as gratifying. Actually, it scared a little bit of the shit out of me.
This knockout girl next to me at the bar hopped off her stool, sat down on the floor—that disgusting Cove floor—and started pulling on her hair, like she was trying to yank it out of her goddamn head. I knelt down and said, “Honey, stand up.”
She grabbed me by the back of my neck and gave me a kiss. A bolt shot from my stomach, to the top of my spine, right down to the tip of my dick. I was about to tear her clothes off when she pulled away from me and went back to work on her hair. The bolt went away, but my dick stayed hard. I adjusted my shirt to cover the evidence, stood up, and asked the bartender for another beer. He picked up a shot glass, turned around, and pitched it against the back mirror, shattering the entire thing into a collection of glass knives, then he said, “What the fuck did you say, old man?”
I looked around to see if anybody was going to come and settle the dude down. Nothing. They were staring at the screen, transfixed by my piece-of-shit movie. I turned back to the bartender and said, “What do you think of the flick?” I don’t know if he knew who I was. I hoped he didn’t, so I could get an honest answer.
He picked up a beer mug and threw it on the floor as hard as he could, then yelled, “It’s fucking awesome, maaaaaaan! Fucking awwwwwwwesome!”
Nobody even blinked. A small part of me wanted to knock over the projector, stand up in front of the room, and ask, “What the fuck is wrong with you people!” Another small part of me wanted to get the hell out of Austin and never come back. But most of me was paralyzed, so I just stood there.
http://andidaltrey.blogspot.com
Andi-Licious
The Useless Musings of Sophomoric Sophomore Andrea Daltrey
THE DATE: TODAY
THE TIME: MY TIME
I had the weirdest dream about the cock.
The cock. The cock. The cock. Let us examine the cock and what it can do.
One thing it can do is be sucked and spit into a lucky girl’s mouth. It sometimes tastes like a lollipop, but other times, it tastes like a sweat sock.
It can get hard, and it can get soft, then, after a while, it can get hard again.
It can be fun, and it can be scary, and it can be a weapon.
Also, it can be a divining rod to the heart. At least that’s what I’m told.
JANINE DALTREY:
Erick and I tried to go into the club, but one of the horror nerds was standing in front of the door, and he wouldn’t budge. After I asked him politely to move, he put his hand in between my boobs and pushed. Hard. If Erick hadn’t been standing directly behind me, I’d have fallen ass-first onto the concrete.
He caught me and said, “Are you okay?” Legitimate concern.
I said, “I’m fine.”
He said, “Good.” Then he stepped around me and threw the flat of his palm at the guy’s nose. I took that self-defense class, and I was well aware that if done right, that move could actually force a bone chip toward your attacker’s brain. Erick was an underfed indie rocker, and I didn’t think he had enough strength in him to break anything other than his own hand.
It didn’t matter. The guy caught Erick’s hand well before it made contact, then he twisted his arm behind his back and yelled right into his ear, “You got a problem, motherfucker? You want to go? You want to bring it? You think you can handle this? Go ahead, bitch. I’d love it.”
Just then, Dude McGee practically fell out of the door, and, just like that, the guy let Erick go … but not before giving him a backhand across the cheek. It looked less painful than humiliating. The guy shoved Dude against the door and roared, then head-butted the wall and walked into the club.
Dude kind of laughed and told Erick, “You know, this is one of those flicks that works better on the big screen. Maybe before it gets released wide, Mr. Toeb Hoopster can do it up in 3-D.”
TOBE HOOPER:
Finally, finally, finally that abortion ended, and thank God. I wanted to be gone. People were breathing heavily, and the place was a veritable bad breath factory. And that weird vibe was still here, there, and every-fucking-where.
It was the kind of vibe that you feel when you walk into an underground boxing match. There was a sense of anything-can-happen, and if something happens that isn’t good, nobody’s going to stop it, because nobod
y’s in charge. You can smell the boxers’ athletic sweat, and the crowd’s booze sweat, and you want to get the fuck out of there, but you’re afraid that if you make any quick moves, somebody’ll bash a folding chair over your head before you even get to the door, and then somebody’ll steal your wallet while you’re lying unconscious in the middle of the aisle.
If it wasn’t my movie, I’d have bailed out of that club in a heartbeat.
When the lights went up, things reverted to some sense of normality. The crowd went nuts … but in a good way. Nobody yelled. Nobody screamed. Nobody threw a beer mug. Nobody punched me in the stomach. It was all applause. Warm, appreciative applause.
I looked over to Gary’s table. He gave me a big smile and a double thumbs-up, then mouthed, “We rock!” I polished off my beer, then, hoping I could get drunker before the Q & A, asked the bartender for a shot of whatever brown liquid was closest. He picked a couple pieces of mirror out of his hand as if it was nothing and said, “You got it, Mr. Hooper. That was a brilliant piece of work. I’m going to order the DVD of Chainsaw the second I get home.”