Over my twenty-year reign at Ruthless Reviews, a term of service whereby I’ve outlasted the site’s founder, a shady Lebanese benefactor, and at least two dozen writers of varying talent, I’ve learned a few tricks of the trade that not only keep me inspired, but eminently sane, despite my family history. One, hate mail is good. Desirable. Often the only reason to wake up and put pen to paper. It’s even better when it comes from Enron widows who hate your ever-loving guts. Two, never make a play to the cheap seats. Anyone can grovel before adoring crowds and give ‘em hot takes on assorted blockbusters, but it takes a rare bird to spill 800 words on a film that few even knew existed, and even fewer will be inspired to see. Last, but not least, don’t play by the rules. Given the rate of pay and ever-dwindling audience, it’s no stretch to say, paraphrasing Drago, I write for me. So if I want to add a character to my Unsung series who doesn’t even appear on camera, leave me be. Try me, folks. Pushed just so, I may indeed send my epic poem on Mac & Me into the ether.
Not only does Soviet Premier Kissof not appear onscreen, we don’t even hear the man’s voice. He’s all theoretical, like the female orgasm or a functioning democracy. And when you’re on the other end of a Peter Sellers monologue, you’re not getting a single breath in edgewise. Which is fine, because this is Peter’s show. In the scene relevant to the matter at hand, President Muffley’s bumbling evasions constitute sheer perfection – both in terms of acting technique and comedic form – and I’m not about to take away from what might constitute the most exceptional phone call in the history of the medium. But consider Dimitri’s position. A man of distinction and unchecked power. One of two global cowboys, armed to the teeth and spoiling for a fight. Overseeing territory with eleven time zones, and ten times as many gulags. The world is his oyster. And he’s shitfaced like some layabout teenager.
Not only drunk but partying his ass off. There is loud music, broads aplenty, and unending lines of coke. A world on the brink, and he’s ass deep in orgiastic excess. There are any number of reasons to admire the sort of world leader so nakedly human, but above all, we tip our cap to the sheer cheek of it all. Instead of gray, humorless titans deciding the fate of the world, we’re stuck with self-pitying clowns. Maniacs, sure, but childish and vain. Small, to say the least. Just as likely to be offended by personal slights as missiles heading for the capital. Men of marble and import, reduced to agreeing that yes, “it’s great to be fine.” There, in the war room, one side with its obnoxious uniforms, tailored suits, medals, and technological might, and on the other, a roaring record player and dimwitted dithering. Humanity flirting with extinction, and the power elite whining over who’s sorrier. It’s the greatest curtain pull since The Wizard of Oz.
For the post-Strangelove world, thanks in large part to our latest honoree, it would never again be possible to believe we’re in strong, capable hands. Incompetence at the wheel, sure, but far, far worse, an entire class reduced to silliness. Mark Twain, truly a quote machine for all seasons, once wrote, “Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on or by imbeciles who really mean it.” The latter, Mr. Twain; then, now, and always. Awe, once possible, now reduced to smirking derision. Even Trump, far from some left field anomaly we didn’t see coming, is simply the expected result of untold generations playing footsie with collective suicide. Laying down with nitwits in exchange for cheaper bread. The foreplay eventually led to sex, a swelled belly, and, after a difficult birth, here we are, broke and exhausted until the little shit finally leaves the house. Only he never will. He is us, and Dimitri but the canary in the coal mine.
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