WOP LIKE ME.
I TRIED there times to write a review of a film called ‘Italian American’ for a website I as just using to post my work and get that strange amorphous American dream called notice. I tied my self in knots, knowing what they wanted, and I thought the men who ran it thought I as an Italian American, must love Martin Soreseasy, as he is like so many, a Judas goat thinking all along he is a credit to his race, and teaches us ginners all who to get ahead in the soon to be Mexican landscape. I tried there times, tres biblical, but gave in, having seen this film, sadly, and what I turned in ceased them asking as they had to see future works, to whom I had sent some works purposed before about Batman and Matt Helm to not be so effervescent about me and my work, after all. See, as this time, it mattered to me, and I didn’t just play Simonized critic or smart ass which I of course could do, at which I am a master at--just not this time.
I saw Italian American on a cable channel and mentioned it, it couldn’t have been laudatory, causing one of the men who ran this movie gaga film site to ask me to write about it, again them probably thinking I would do it as an admirer of it, not knowing I had held a grudge against dear Marty as he calls himself, purposefully echoing the great Ernest Borgnine in the best thing ever written about Italians, the playhouse ninety teleplay called Marty. I held a grudge against him, as I did Copula, as both seemed given a pass to make sure that the good liberals of Hollywood could give awards to films about Auschwitz and or Ghandi and still could sell minstrelsy eagerly to an American jaundiced mezzanine, that had been weaned upon them. In 1978, as I was endeavouring to still cerate my Roman Superman, as many an Italian I was stupid enough to believe in the dimmable lie which is the promise of America, and didn’t know my only way out if not a tight end, which some thought I should be, was to be a lovable Gumbas criminal or Alderman and sergeant in Tyberius tenements. It could be done vulgarly as the Kingfishes of cable television do, or opt could be done with the poetic tiquette of Dante as was done by Mario, but then one seems gone and the others wont go away. As despite being called names by the polish starlets at zoetrope, in spam folders I still get emails from the Prince of the Napa Valley, and updates on his own new 16 millimetre operas di arte, as someone should have told him as my farther warned me, no body likes a sad old clown. No Romans sadness here, our transvestites laugh until the very end and no one is wistful for a fallen Ansonia, god knows.
Then, in what a last summer of youth, as opposed to childishness, my father, a stoic Romanised man told me that I was in the bloodline of Gneas Julian ACRIGOLA, AS I CALL HIM IN ANOTHER OF MY OPUSES, BUT WHO IS AN ACTUAL HISTORICAL FIGURE. Why would he do this, you know, throwing out that it might be true…? Because, he, as a stoic worthy of Adolf Caesar in a soldier’s story, saw what were the Gumbas of even that innocent time, the mean streets and the longest islands and the Milvian bridges of America was a constant minstrel show, a giants cir--no too Romans, a caravan, no, I say, a carnival, yes, much betgter much more Venetian and bullish. He told me to recall after all things, a Yalee professor, not Italian had told him my , his name , was ancient and the rarist in Italy, though like many a Roman figura, Gneas raped and or seduced his every slave girl and local concubines, like Augustus, aforesaid that his blood line would peter out amid the mass murder now called by Fox news libertines and librettos, socialism. Ah remember when the Romans were fascists still, before vicious consumer hacks on gop tv and his groucho ilk got into their masters links and the jockey club…?
How is it that a society that is so circumspect and touchy about its drag queens and its midgets allows for the wholesale diminution of the people of the Romans republic, the Sicilian school, the quinticento and the divine comedy…? When did Beatrice become a busty trucker raped girl in a Max Bear film….? Why is it that your wholesome dyspepsia your nobility and your self righteousness never comes to be scattered upon the italics, who wrote this joke book that you seem lost in right now. It wasn’t Hannibal or Paul who came from a republic, dying or not, and to be fair as Hadrian saw the Caesars and the Legions did nothing to others that Greeks pretending to be god didn’t do in Naples, not that any of those brother thieves ever cared much. What Gaul, so to speak, to perpetually in our greasy res publica showcase showdown, to trash the Romans and Italians Romances and cafés, Farce and epic, criminality down to having senators, whose farces you love to laugh at once rewritten to the poisonous cask that the sopranos now dead calls itself a satire, what doesn’t…?, and why of all sorts are they who have become the clowns of your minstrel shows…? When did Dante and Beatrice become recalled by fat girls and moustache jokes and gumbas and fried dough…..? As I recite this a crew of lunatics are protesting they that Archie, a false character, a fiction, has married a longhaired brunette bitchy goddess all boys dream of looking out there window and seeing, Veronica. Baba Oreilly IS spending television time discussing this marriage while foreclosures are exalting across America. God bless and good night and Dante and Beatrice is dead, and women hate Romeo and Juliette, as the nuns told me the closest thing to love letter they get is the bill from their mandated by a husband abortion provider.
A Romans toast of beer, they brewed it, sorry, before the Germans who have hijacked TACITUS, THE CHRISTMAS TREE AND THE HAMMER AND SICKLE, ALL Roman as Roman can be. An astute tip of the pint to the Beatrice, and to the Kitty, the Juliette and the Sophia. I RECALL as a boy and sexually impressionable a Girl named Patricia Fairelli in playboy, before that magazine and America gave into the transvestites creed, women who studied make up and cosmetology under Pallacchi, the drag queens screed is now imperial ,again, , and she was stunning and beautiful was this lasted Romans goddess, and still radio boys like Adam Corolla recall her as the one that got away, the one that only matters. She was the intoxicating mixture of red and peach and black and a human Italian painting come to life, a roman not not cave, wall paining, in which she as the vestal came alive, a Plaustys fiction and a Terrance story plot line eons before Harold Lloyd not to mention purple roses of chairo. She was the white rose of Naples, I think if I call right she was the stock there of, and her pictorial wan opening and closing to Americans sexuality to me, was called fittingly abbondanza . Buts soon enough RAGING BULL would come out, and as italics, a vulgar little gnome of a man decided what our American dream was, as of course, his actual masters would lecture us all about the polish jokes, and cry for beaten Rodney as the local dragnets made a perimeter around their Beverly villas. The goddess of Americano, this girl was , not to be seen again so much, a slight dalliance was had with Teri, as a gellotto to cleans the palate after the cowboy jerky of Baywatch cows, but still, the age of the Helga had come, the fat balloted drugged up bunnie made sure that Wicket Wanda’s and even playful Patty was as ancient as her race. She was the Beatrice unredeemed, recalled by trannies, she males, sex with the lights off and gay marriage, …I , as a Romantic in every sense of that word is surrounded by the Sicilian hooligans, I a Flaminius at heart, roman , a touch of Neapolitan knockwurst in me, a love of the gentlemen thief, not the romanticized street gutter pimp for whom out is hard out there, poor the white boys who ape that true mistrial show of guns and whores and gangsters, I am left pining for the moon.
I watched this crap film, Italian American, sheesh, where in the relatively young in this game Marty--no relation to the great and wonderful Paddy Chieveski film, God knows, --made a plea for a course yet un-taken, as would a roman hero in those pages of unread by Sopranos lovers Livy books. I watched it and it had a strange scent to it, like shit mixed with dirty tap water, upon which Calcvin Klien pourre homme has been shpritzed, which had been missed itself with Citrus and mint, or which had pungent gathered white rose peddles mixed in with and against the clumps of shit, making a strong mixture of over powering in both directions. He wasn't that long at the game he had become an early master of, another Fra Angelico of, --as he himself said with enough of a wop sneer to make sure no one could sense his true hopefulness, as he had just made a few films and the film which my working, Mafia hating, godfather resentful, father hated the most, Raging Bull, was still merely a gleam in his always cleverly concocting and maliciously “Will Demean myself for Good Notices“, eyes.
He does have the sort of eyes, I note here, which are good for an American ethnic to have, and which, like a retinal scan, the gods of the heartland and the doges of the plains seem always on the look out for. They are eyes much like the clever gleaming conniving eyes of say Senator Lieberman, who looks out the corners of them with such a smirk, clever, Gyp ‘em down, Gypsy em down, gall that I am shocked that such a Byzantine conniver had made himself president yet. Well, maybe not. It takes a strangely self authored filled man to frequent the radio shows which had called you Loser man, incessantly, Loser man, Jew boy amid the fat bully mouth breathers like Seanie and Rushie, Loser man, only a cycle of elections before, who had openly used anti Semitism as a way to make sure that poor Al Gore, our American Pompeii, imperial lower prince, saint of the empire, was beaten by that stuttering king who has seen the dollar sign burning away in the pretending as Tiberian irroman night.
Ergo, the Scorsese's ethics of the world will take on anything, admit to anything, sign any loyalty oath, finger anyone, plead to anything's, say anything, for that most Sicilian of Eucharist's which there is, notice and fame. Oh and Money. Money is good and is everything, and you can always put a price on rage, its as easy to buy and sell as Pastrami, both marbled with slat and fat. He never even got that much money, or power, gods knows, and he didn't get the lauding he craves, an Oscar, until he decided to go up in class and make films about criminals with whiter hands, ergo, Irish animalistic new York thugs, Leonardo de Caprio as a apollonian cool boy whiz kid con man, and of course, Leo boy again as the miscast Hughes, but all of whom show Martin’s new love of more corporate and white collar and white skinned crime, but which is crime nonetheless. Nobility, humanity, decency is beyond him, as Cato said of Caesar, another exemplar and Romanticizing of Italic crime, and who called it art and literature. Still, he did turn being a Brutus into something of a cottage industry, and became the shill of credit cards, not caring if Americana was in a bubble of debt, just about to burst, but then, neither is the sanctimonious lesbian, and made himself the snickering voice of sharks on cartoons, as the people making more family friendly Pandas and penguins wanted, again, no part of him.
The film is nothing but his made up, partially lied of and the re believed and redrafted memories, which are of such a Lillian Hellman extraordinary literalness that they could have never really happened. He is here the Jon Boy of the brick wall dagos, a diarist of the American gumbas. Always clever, always conniving as American ethnic must be, he is sure to please his masters by telling them of the relative illiteracy of his family and how he grew up as a daisy of brilliance amid the always perpetual unread and un-thoughtful Italians, he a genius of the American art of ridicule, the Cumae gates upend up and the fake motioned demons of Tennessee’s joke book allotted a spaced to terrorize or merely bumble and stumble about out of the sulphur for your amusement and dining pleasure. This all showed me that the dog barks, but the carnival moved on from him, though it was he who was the first Barnum, if not Fellini, who attired the calliope which never seems to run out of puffs of steam, and seems never willing, like Daffy’s to fall to any ground. The American Italians, thanks to Marty, have been made the Palestinians of their neon circus, for reasons which even the likes of Ben Wattenberg, and even a kindly Steven Spielberg, both more suspicious of the whites who kept their parents and them out of Palm Springs than they can dutifully like Whoopee the haggard be about the race of Sacco and Vanzetti, never quite really understood.
His need for being seen, his pretentious creed, his act of a Sicilian pimp in the guise of a cinematic Modigliani , all that went away when he got his precious Oscar, so all was forgiven, but, there was still a domino effect to the sludge which he helped make and create and which now, he himself seemed to decry as a did the horrid Lieberman just hated to have to be so Augustan History about it in his mere hand waving off a results in a recent primary, now that he lost didn’t mean shit, which when he won them, was iron clad and now that he had not was no skin off his Semitic nose. I fear the age of the blond transvestite may be recapped by the fiat law ordinary time, but then perhaps the reason the Italians are so demeaned is that in fact, they know the tempo cadence of not only a good opera but a good decline and fall. In the same way, the awful Deeded Lieberman called his Caesarean cancelling of a democratic primary as being “unfortunate.” So , interestingly, did Scorsese, once compared his earlier work to Good Friday , for which "Italian-American" was a clever balance --no really, he seemed early on to say, we roman fascists call this foreshadowing, I love Italy, kiss kiss bang bang slap slap punch punch, blond blond, Pilate as blond as one of his inamoratas. And with the sort of ego allowed as his audience is by definition wafting and illiterate this mad man dares compare himself, literally I have heard it, to Italians, genius, like Modigliani and Fra Angelico, always a pejorative to him too, look that up, and yet they are Italian geniuses all, or maybe I give him too much credit and he can only now having lived his tick life on Sicilian blood knows his commission is there to be a least barbarian at the ruined gate. And he has gone so far as to make films of red neck tool and die billionaire weirdoes at cineretta studios, where they once made films of starving , Nazi shot, Anna Magnani, at Rome, of all places , and I can only hope, as they did to HBO, that he was gouged, as such is in the Mediterranean heartbeats of Italian, Jews and others who once, sorry, built pleasure domes and pantheons to themselves as Germans and the barbaric forbears of lionized queens would live in trees, not a ring to rule them all in sight, except perhaps on the signet finger of buried Pompeii.
I saw the awful compilation movie, and his sanitized ideals of Italian film, of course, as how could such a porcine Beatrice, wet, vulgar and childishly in the dirty Medici waters of that bloated Fellini's work not be included, including the famed scene of trevi which was decried by Italians at the time as a heresy of some meaning, but then, nether Freddie Fellini, comic book artist extraordinaire, acceptable artist of Michelangelo race, nor his pupil know that story of the fountain den to uno notte, so why start shit here...? But I thought of a second, when I was a little kid and showed my father a fake plastic roman coin I had bought as a fake little talisman as I was then collecting roman things, which I could afford. The old man didn't seem to speak, but he nodded an ancient hearted approving. The old man, with giant eyes took the small somewhat more mgm than Liguria plain coin on which was a smiling Head of Caesar of all things and the date strangely shown as 33 ad, which of course, could never be, but I think it was a catholic toy thing. He made it go through his fingers as an old circus magic man might, and then silently packed it back in my small, much more white, yet till too dark for some Catholics usually Pollock -Italians at school, hands and closed my hand around it as though, just then, the un illiterate man, who read Virgil and Aquinas and Gore Vidal, had somehow made a act of alchemy which Scorsese's ugly vile, mean and nasty, and now suddenly Technicolor life, as he sets his sights on babbling millionaires and Moss gathered Rolling stones, films could never much approach.
My father in later 1979. I had set up the attic, as a studio, ACRI RADIO PICTURES, as had just seen Orson’s master work , The American, on Chiller theatre, yes Count Floyd lived for real and Joe Flaherty did keno of what he was speaking about as the late night count, who not by accident, but on whim, would often show Any Wednesday, sex and the single girl, The fortune cokkie, and Sleeper often as the Humanoids, if the news reporter in the first and only zombie epic had not seen it in a while. I took a wall long and flat and hard, upon which some childish scribbling in crayon had happened, and covered these with computer paper, which were I got I cant recall. I had a super 8 camera and began what I thought was my brilliant career in the dark theatre, but again never did a thing, as was my want. But back then I was unprepared to do what need to be done, Scorsese poisons had yet to colour my skin with green and puss as it would, as a Jewish woman told me, cause I let it as much as anything. I had a wall of white, to be Borges about it, and a super 8, but my old stoics father was not impressed. Movies were a puppet show to his Jesuits studied mind, and I, I had been asked to be scholar a Georgetown, a school of magic having procured Bill Clinton no Hogwarts can ever come up against. He wanted me to be a immigrant success, not a puppeteer, but like so much he let it go. I could gussy it up and say he tore down the silver screen I had made of glue and paper, or threw away my camera, but did not. I later write a play about this very thing, called 1979, and boys with a camera, later somehow posted and torn from to zoetrope, and funnily is to be I read made into an jj Abram’s thing by accident, a freaking moister movie. I did feel bad, and didn’t go through with any of it, never seeing art as films, or vice versa, as I love a good parade and can enjoy myself without being a god damn prick about it. And now desperately afraid that the even more vulgar sopranos have made him irrelevant and an actual ‘credit to his race’, another Ali finds himself non compis mentis, as usual happens, he now does the gnome, tell us how a silent Italian film called Calabia might have nativity -ied all modern film, that’s for Father Fra, though this is to the consternation of a film geek I have read who hates all things Romans, though probably just loves Triumph of the will. Its art, you know, Virgil is propaganda. Balanced though, to be fair. Maybe I WAS TOO SMART , dare I say even gifted, and too much of an artist for flickering images in the dark, not too far away from porno at any given time. STILL, seeing his disappointment that I would go to college if at all at usc to study men hanging off clocks and the pane and scan, instead of Marcus and Alighieri and Ariosto, and Father Agricola, I let it go, and thought yet, I must somehow be a Virgil, ergo sum, I must be a decent man. Lights out.
6 Jul 08