WILD AT HEART

Ugh.
Apologies for the extended pause in broadcast, ladies and gentlemen.
I entered a T-Shirt design competition and had the bulk of my free time consumed by that task.
I have submitted my entry though, so now I can resume my regular onslaught of film-flavoured text.
And any other flavour of text that happens to suit my mood, really. Let's keep things loose.
For today, the main course is going to be deliciously Lynchian, if you will, for I watched Wild At Heart http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100935/ again the other night.
It had been far too long since last I saw it and, frankly, my mind was unprepared.
I remembered it being an awesome film (one of my favourite Lynch works), yet my recollection of just how unsettling it can be was less than crystalline.
Allow me to remove the cobwebs from the minds of those of you out there who have forgotten the brilliance of this particular tale or simply tantalise readers out there who have yet to see it. Perhaps I can persuade you to hop in the convertible and ride along with Sailor and Lula on this bizarre, Wizard of Oz-stained jaunt...

THE COOL:

- Sailor Ripley.
Some people always want to play the “I Hate Nicolas Cage” card when they speak to me.
This baffles me.
Then it angers me.
Then things usually get blurry and I don't regain consciousness until I hear the sobering melody of police sirens mixed with the terrified shrieks of onlookers.
Confusion and out-of-body violent experiences need not be the only course one must choose when confronted by some vapid schmuck who is blind to The Cage's obvious levels of awesome.
Nowadays, thanks to a mixture of maturity and colourful medication, I've found that I can nullify all Nicolas Cage negativity by simply saying the name “Sailor Ripley”.
This is possibly my favourite Cage performance of all time. The character is amazing and his personality, visual style and general screen presence just oozes an aura of cool so badass that should you lick the screen while watching Sailor (and I recommend doing so), the transferred coolness properties would make you instantly irresistible to any and all women and you would be envied by God.


(That jacket's not enough, Red.)

I wish I was Sailor Ripley.
If not, then I wish he was my friend.
Hell, I'd even accept having him as an enemy, merely in the hope that one day he'd feel the urge to punch me in the face and I'd get the chance to smell the rich, intoxicating scent of his snakeskin jacket.

- Ahhhh, the snakeskin jacket.
Sailor Ripley will confidently say that “this here jacket represents a symbol of my individuality and my belief in personal freedom.”
Yes it does, Sailor. It does, indeed.
Everything is better in life when you're wearing a snakeskin jacket.
Hitler, Gargamel, Edward Cullen, Michael Cera, the ghosts in Pac-Man and various other great losers in history; you know what they all have in common?
Correct. They don't have a snakeskin jacket.
I'm not saying that said jacket would eradicate their loser-based shortcomings, but it would have at least momentarily distracted people from their unpleasantness as they stood for a few moments and uttered, “That is one fine-looking jacket.”
I'm not speaking nonsense, y'all. Such a powerful garment would improve your life in such a way that you'll claim it was fabricated by enchanted elves.
Enchanted elves on crack.
Try it yourself. (The jacket, not crack. NOBODY should do crack. That's only for losers and...elves.)
But seriously; try it. Next time you go to apply for a bank loan, wear a snakeskin jacket and punctuate the ensemble with a few well-placed high kicks in tight pants.
I guarantee you'll walk out of there with a massive wad of cash and the bank manager's daughter's phone number.
If not, then the bank manager is a bitter fool who just WISHES HE had a snakeskin jacket.
...Or he's an elf.
Try another bank.


(If the bank manager is William Fichtner, do not mess with him. He's pure awesome.)

- During the film, Sailor Ripley has a tendency to unleash a maelstrom of impromptu high kicks in tight pants with a powerful level of enthusiasm. This can even take place alongside a lonely stretch of highway and he is usually spurred on by speed metal accompanied by the encouraging shouts and seductive dancing by his loyal gal, Lula.
Personally, I approve of these kicks, and I feel that some other weaker films could have been improved considerably had their directors been so inclined. For example; Transformers 2 was toxic garbage not fit for inbred mountain folk. But throw in some high kicks and speed metal with Megan Fox and who knows how many Oscars it could have taken home.

- David Patrick Kelly has a small part in this movie and he was in COMMANDO as Sully. Excellent.


(I couldn't find a good Sully picture, so here's Matrix feeding a deer.)

Speaking of COMMANDO http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088944/...you should go and watch it. I'll wait.

- Lula Fortune is a quality broad. That's the kind of loyal girlfriend that you want at your side when the going gets tough, stringy and difficult to chew. She's a gal who will give you “rockin' good news” and claims that she's hotter than Georgia asphalt. Now, I've never visited Georgia, therefore I cannot claim any first-hand knowledge regarding the temperature of its street surfaces. Nonetheless, I'm guessing it can get pretty warm and any dame that thus describes her libido with such colourful, albeit geographically-specific, language is worthy of thumbs upward in my book. Besides, she's more than happy to eat a candy necklace in a seedy motel room. That's a classy date. None of this diamonds and pearls nonsense.

THE TERRIFYING:

- Lula may be a straight up quality lady...but her mother is very different beast. This hag is an absolute nightmare. She's the kind of classy wench that will get liquored up good and proper during a high-school dance and try to slur her way through the shaky steps required to seduce her OWN DAUGHTER'S BOYFRIEND. Nice one, Ma. When things don't go her way; in order to save some face, mother dearest undertakes the only sane and mature course of action available to her...she pays a sleazy knife-wielding gent to gut Sailor in front of her own daughter. Never being one to shy away from prom night violence, Sailor logically defends himself and ends this pleasant evenings affairs by caving in the skull of Sleazy McKnife while grinning maniacally and accompanied by yet more speed metal.
Now, who's prom night WASN'T like that?
Cherish those memories, kids.

- The violin and spotlight lady. She comes out of nowhere like the creepy homeless guy from Mulholland Drive http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0166924/. I don't want to continue typing about her. I don't even want to think about her any longer. She will become a greasy stain upon your mind. You've been warned.

- Mr Reindeer. What...the...hell? This guy organises hits while strippers strip and is partial to enjoying a hard drink while taking a shit. I wish I made that following sequence of events up...but I did not.

- Poor George McFly. I cannot watch the Back To The Future series now without imagining that there is a deleted scene where Marty travels back in time and catches his own father placing cockroaches on his anus.
Sure, you think I'm making this up.
Too much Slurpee and peyote the jury would say.
But I speak the truth, damn it. Crispin Glover's unsettling performance as Dell will leave quite an impression, believe me. Whether filling his undergarments with insects or simply making his lunch, this character will infect your mind for weeks to follow.


“Great Scott, Marty! What is your father doing?”

- Some small children claim that the Boogeyman is going to get them, while some adults fear the arrival of the Grim Reaper and even a select few of savvy individuals remain concerned that one evening Krang will enter their homes and make an egg-filled nest in their refrigerator.


(What a horrible creature.)

While these are all rational fears, there is one phobia which must take the throne and look down upon the others below like soiled, festering wretches.
The name of that fear...is Bobby Peru.


(I cannot caption. I'm paralyzed by fear.)

Gaze upon his potent visage. Allow this infectious image of terror to nest deep within your mind.
There is no help for any of us now.
Once you have seen Bobby, there is no salvation.
Booze only makes him multiply...like a bank-robbing, stocking-covered Gremlin.
Drugs only make him stronger. Bobby laughs at your pathetic prescriptions.
Religion only amuses Lord Peru. The sound of your prayers will be drowned out by the sick laughter that echoes off the walls of your mind in which he dwells.
Therapy is a fool's last refuge. Mention the name Bobby Peru in your first session and your therapist will calmly inform their secretary to cancel any remaining sessions...before proceeding to burn the office down and take their own life with the simple aim of preserving their own Bobby-free consciousness.
Trust me. I've tried. You have to learn to live with Bobby in your mind. Good luck.

That's all for now. I feel dirty after writing this, actually. This film has that certain after-taste. It's one of those cinematic experiences that leaves you feeling grimy. It's an awesome film, believe me...it just makes you want a long shower afterwards. That way the soothing water can wash away the sticky residue of memories involving angry chicks with leg-braces, fathers burning alive, uncles with boundary issues and Bobby Peru.
...Actually, I apologise. That last comment gives you a sense of false hope.
You will NEVER forget Bobby Peru.
I'm really sorry.