Last night, after a gruelling shopping tour across the border in Belgium, I settled down in front of the TV for a well deserved rest. I toyed with the idea of watching the 50th anniversary celebrations of the Eurovision which were being transmitted on about 5 different channels but gave up when I noticed that there would be no fun in the end since no Maltese were competing for the best Eurovision song. Instead I decided to watch a DVD - my collection has burgeoned ever since moving abroad, the average price of a DVD here is 12 euros - and I'm talking original not VHS to DVD pirates from the monti. Anyway's the choice DVD for the night was Spike Lee's 'Joint' - 25th Hour starring Edward Norton.
[Ed. note. from here on this may contain spoilers for whoever did not watch the 25th hour]
I liked the film and was particularly impressed by Barry Pepper acting as Frank Slaughtery. The storyline is interesting - the last 24 hours of a convicted drug dealer before incarceration. During these 24 hours he has to say farewell to his dads, his dearest friends who have a life of their own, his 'ork colleagues' and his girlfriend. He also has to spend the night trying to find out who might have got him into this mess. Apart from the here and now there is also the constant reflection about himself, about his hand in his destiny and the life he chose. The film also includes some interesting 9/11 asides since the story takes place in the immediate post 9/11 period.
At one stage in the film Monty Brogan, Norton's character, confronts himself in the bathroom mirror. The Monty in the mirror comes to life and lets out his frustration about his situation in one monologue of anger. The monologue is intriguing to say the least and merits reflection. An individual about to go to prison, at an all time low of his existence on this earth, unleashes a string of hatred and suddenly the blame falls on all around him. Look at the quote below and notice the immigrants, the politicians, the priests, the cops, and of course in NY just after 9/11 - the towelheads. The monoloue ends and in a moment of personal redemption Monty replies to his ater ego in a redeeming manner which proves that the point of realisation and responsibilisation has come.
Here is the uncensored dialogue:
Monty Brogan: [looking in mirror] Well fuck you too.
[Monty standing in the men's bathroom talking to himself in the mirror]
Monty Brogan: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it. Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job! Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores, stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35. Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English? Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from! Fuck the black-hatted Hasidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds! Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for FUCKING LIFE! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Worldcom! Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, 'cause they make the Puerto Ricans look good. Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos. Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart! Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on! Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust! Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin' Otisville, J! Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Al Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal Irish ass!
Monty Brogan: No. No. Fuck you Montgomery Brogan. You had it all, and you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
Have a good Sunday... blogging service will resume later on after I will perform my latest dramatic one-man show: "Tuber on a Modern Piece of Furniture"... also known as "the couch potato".