Friday, June 24, 2005

Break Me a Fucking Give, Part II

In case you're late in getting to this week's New Yorker, you're in for a ride. David Remnci, unsurprisingly, has a brilliant Talk of the Town item on Mike Tyson. And then there's Anthony Lane.

I've been reading Lane's very excellent book, Nobody's Perfect and i thought, for a moment, that I had figured him out as a writer, that I was beginning to be able to pick out the seams. Bugger that.

Lane reviews Yes, and insipid looking movie starring Joan Allen.

He reviews it in verse.
By the end, we know what Potter hates:

Bigots, God, and the United States,

And Anglo-Saxon men in suits and ties

Who seem unable to control their flies.

And here’s the hook: I guess it could be worse,

But—brace yourself—the whole damn thing’s in verse.

Rhyming couplets, five-stress lines, the lot:

A Michael Bay production this is not.

“Do make yourself at home. Come; sit by me,

Something to drink? Perhaps you’d like some tea.”

You may get off on this enthralling stuff,

But after half an hour I’d had enough.

I have a secret hunch that Potter knows

Her tale is skimpy; that is why she goes

For multiple dissolves, CCTV,

And endless slo-mo: all the devilry

That smart directors use to fill the time—

Think George Lucas, minus droids, plus rhyme.

Whenever you feel the urge to make fun of Tina Brown, count ten. And remember she's the one who plucked Lane out of obscurity for the New Yorker.

1 comment:

Aaron said...

I realize that you love the New Yorker and all, but could you please explain the endless parade of steamy John Updike fiction? Is there anyone who believes that he still gets laid? The image of Updike as Lothario is beyond nauseating. To quote Winston Churchill on Charles DeGaulle, "he looks like a llama that has been surprised in her bathtub."