Directed by: Barbet Shroeder
Writing credits: Charles Bukowski
and
The VCR
Conceived by: Charles Paulson Ginsburg
Some day in March or April of this year, I borrowed a copy of Barfly from the Public Library. I returned home later that evening and promptly popped the thing into the VCR. Some cardholder had forgotten to rewind- the end credits were rolling. I pressed “STOP,” then “REWIND,” and eased back, propping myself up on one locked elbow, secretely giddy to see what Hollywood had made of Henry Chianski and hoping to come closer to some final assessment of Mickey Rourke as thespian. The machine hummed -”A moped climbing a ridge,” I suddenly thought, “A bi-plane!” Its mechanics valiantly whirring me closer and closer to the start of something I trusted to be good and important, I felt every bit the intrepid explorer, the anthropologist with only a palm-sized pick ax and perhaps a hankerchief to lead him to the frail remains of a forerunner. Blockbuster had said good luck finding it! “Those fucking philistines,” I snorted to myself, “devote a full three shelves to 50 First Dates, and they mean to tell me what I can and can’t find.” Then the VCR stopped.
I pressed “Play” and whistled a quick paean: god bless you, superannuated technologies, for your easily decipherable knobs and buttons! But nothing happened. I pressed the green triangle again, using more force this time, as if the machine should somehow appreciate my frustration and quit fucking around. I pressed it again, using my thumb now. Nothing. The VCR wouldn’t even eject the tape. I mumbled some jumble of curse words and the red power light extinguished itself. For the next ten minutes I sat cross-legged before the TV, fiddling with the frequency, duration, and pressure of my thumb-to-button technique. I probed the mouth of the VCR with my index finger. I calmly considered the benefits of throwing the goddamn television into the wall. I pressed “Play” one more time, just for the hell of it, not caring anymore if the movie actually ran, but simultaneously suspecting that by my very indifference the obstinate contraption should be tricked into finally complying. Jinxed. I went out to smoke a cigarette.
Weeks and weeks later, my brother -searching around the house for some long lost skate video- turned on the VCR, and Barfly ejected itself. We realized that a tiny perforation on the VHS tape was snagging on a tiny tooth in the VCR, and proceeded to patch the hole. I watched it alone a couple of days later, falling alseep before its finish. The following day, I got to the denounement and its ultimate computation of love and violence. I deemed the whole undertaking -the movie- a fair disappointment; I recalled reading something about Bukowski’s dissatisfaction with the whole production of the film, too. Chalk it up as some distortion. Could’ve had a better soundtrack. Could’ve benefited from more creative cinematography. Rourke has some knockout moments –literally- and the dialogue rings, but I wouldn’t watch this Golden Globe nominee again. I’d rather turn up the lights and get into some Hot Water Music. Or just go to a dive myself. The tape has yet to be returned, though: it’s nearly 7 months overdue and I can’t quite work up the nerve to work up an excuse that might get me out of paying any fines. I’m not quite ready to explain to some bibliophile behind a computer that I just had to wait for the machine to quietly work things out on its own.
written by Peter Moysaenko
Posted under Hometown
This post was written by MyFriendCleveland on December 4, 2006
