Screen Legends 4: Danny De Vito

A while ago I started a Screen Legends thread on this site. Thus far we’ve had profiles of such mega-thesps as Peter O’ Toole, Armand Assante and Matt Le Blanc. In today’s installment, we’ll be considering the career of everyone’s favourite actorling, Danny De Vito:

When Danny De Vito was a baby, he was the size of a hamster. Now 58, Danny De Vito is size of a baby. Indeed, Danny De Vito is Italian for “Danny the Baby”. But De Vito has taken advantage of his homunculine proportions, for instance by insinuating himself into the unsuspecting papooses of breastfeeding mothers, so that he might dine in high style on their overburdened paps. He does this not because he is a sexual misadventurer, but because he is addicted to calcium.

Danny De Vito played Harry Potter in Harry Potters 3-5, and made for a more convincing Potter than the two actors who preceded him: namely, Pierce Brosnan and Steve Guttenberg (in Harry Potters 1 and 2 respectively). He was succeeded in the role by Daniel Radcliffe, who cast a spell on the minds of the cinema-going muggle population, making them believe that only Radcliffe had ever played the pubescent warlock. It is therefore difficult for film reviewers to evaluate De Vito’s performance objectively, on account of Radcliffe’s bad hoodoo gumming up their brain-valves.

In Tim Burton’s funny little filmy-wilmy, Batman Returns, Danny De Vito played ‘A Penguin’ (definite articles didn’t enter the Batman mythology until the Christopher Nolan muscled in on the franchise). When De Vito learned that he would have to share not only a trailer but a bed with the incorrigible biter, Michael Keaton, he threw one of his world-famous and widely-celebrated tantrums. This involved throwing food on the floor and other classic signals of grumpiness and/or tiredness, as outlined by the rogue babyologist, Gina Ford. But help was at hand. Tim Burton’s siamese twin/wife, Helena Bonham Carter, stepped in, or rather, leaned in (Burton has 90% control of their shared limbs) and swaddled De Vito up a treat. Result: a happy, restful Danny De Vito.

In conclusion, I give Danny De Vito eight out of ten.

The Babies

Here’s a short story about your new favourite boy-band:

The Babies

 

1. Pre-Apocalyptic Complacency

They were called The Babies, but they weren’t babies. They were pre-schoolers: four years old to a man. Duck was the heart-throb, a golden Ganymede in dungarees. Then there was Ruud the rebel, the delinquent, the separatist of eternity. Neither a pretty boy nor a pariah, Larry wrote the songs and the boys sung them with a song in their hearts, which Larry had authored too. It wasn’t clear what Master Thomas’s role in this outfit was, but everybody knew that Duck, Ruud and Larry would not go on stage without their fourth brother Baby. They were called The Babies and the world loved them tenderly in its final, oblivious days.

 

2. Literacy Crisis

Larry squinted at a chaotic arrangement of wiggly black markings on a discarded document.

“It’s Greek to me, boys” he said.

“Don’t grieve yourself Larry” said Master Thomas. “None of us is a scholar”

“Fellas” said Ruud, “I wouldn’t trust a bunch of words on paper even if I could reads. Y’ask me, we’re better off not knowing what horse muck is written here. The letter killeth.”

“…And the spirit giveth life” said Duck, with a handsome shrug.

“You said it brother baby”

And with that The Babies trilled out a seething spiritual, all about bald, blind Samson and his thirst for demolition. Better to be blind than to be a dupe, the song seemed to say. Better to be illiterate than a puppet on a writingman’s string.

 

3. Time for a Treat!

A pin-striped adult with a monstrous gut strutted into the room. One hand held a red lollipop, which he licked with a vexing air of self-satisfaction; the other twiddled in his pocket. Great beads of red saliva plopped on to the floor as he pulled the lollipop stick in and out of his mouth.

“Can I have a lollipop?” said Duck.

“Haw. No.” said the man, smirking.

“Why not?” asked Duck.

“Maybe I’ve not got any more. Or maybe I don’t want to give you one”

The Babies fell into a conference.

“What do you reckon my hearties?” said Master Thomas, “reckon we should press the issue further, get us some well-deserved lollipops?”

Ruud pulled out a tiny switchblade from the elasticated waist of his junior jeans. “I plan on slashing his pockets and seeing what falls out”

The other Babies nodded solemnly. “Slash him, Ruud” they said, “see what falls out”.

The insolent adult was looking at a magazine with a picture of a naked lady on the cover, and producing a laugh that was identical to his earlier guffaw, as if he were somehow withholding lollipops from the ladies in the magazine too. While he chortled, Ruud slunk up with an assassin’s gait. In one swift slash he filleted the adult’s blazer pocket, and a cornucopia of sweets fell out: bangers, fruit swagglers, fizzy colins, corn whups and the real prize: tens upon tens of lollipops. Ruud squirreled the confectionary into a shiny satchel and left a horrific surprise in the adult’s trouser pocket.

The Babies crept into the adjoining room to gorge on their loot, and everyone patted Ruud on the back and called him a true soldier. Ten minutes later a weak scream came from the doorway where the adult had been. Ruud snickered softly.

 

4. Do You Know Your Enemy?

There was a short interval for the sponsors’ messages. The audience brooded in their seats and The Babies were brought some refreshments. Lemon squash and two custard creams each. In his artery-blue armchair, the chatshow host squirmed and sweated into his makeup. He kept looking over his shoulder towards the backstage area and wincing. He pulled at his collar. “Do you mind if I smoke boys?” he said. The Babies all shook their heads. Except for Ruud, who held no quarter with smalltalk.

“Welcome back folks” said the chatshow host. “Don’ t worry. The Babies haven’t left the building.”

A genial babble of laughter and applause followed, but the audience was as still and silent as a jury.

“Well” said the chatshow host, “you boys sure like custard creams, right?”

“I’m going to square with you, Henry” replied Duck, “the way you’re sitting cannot be good for your sperm count.” Duck pointed his pudgy forefinger at the tense legs of the chatshow host, which were crossed tightly above the knee.

The audience laughed. But their laughter was cruel and sarcastic. Small diamonds of sadness welled in the eyes of the chatshow host.

“So” said the chatshow host. “So” he said. “So. So. So”

“So” said the chatshow host. “Everyone’s been talking about how you boys helped to bring that sex trafficking gang to justice. Perhaps you could tell us a bit about that.”

“Henry” said Master Thomas. “This is a light entertainment show.”

“Of course” said the chatshow host. “Of course. Of course.”

“So” said that chatshow host. “Err. Larry. What’s your favourite colour?”

Larry exhaled. “That’s a toughy Henry. I’m a fan of the old classics. Navy Blue. Forest Green. There’s a lot to be said for the old classics.”

The chatshow host warmed to the theme. “How about red? Do you like red?”

“Give me a break” said Larry, spitting on the floor.

A quietness followed, like the quietness inside a vacuum-packed chicken carton.

After a while, the quietness was broken by a pealing noise that seemed to originate from inside the nose of the chatshow host.

“Hey Henry” said Ruud, “how’s your sister doing?”

At this the chatshow host began to smile but then his face exploded into sweaty, messy tears. He put his face in his hands and his hands in his lap. From where The Babies were sitting, the audience’s tutting was deafening. A sound of synchronised bootfall on metal flooring could be heard.

“Oh no” said the chatshow host. “Help me boys. Help me.”

“I’m sorry” said Master Thomas “If you’d let us know before, our people could have got you out.”

The chatshow host shuddered convulsively.

Four men in bullet-proof playsuits marched on to the studio floor. Smooth black carapaces covered their faces. One of the carapaces opened to reveal a nasty man.  “Come with us” he said and held out the hand that wasn’t resting on his sub-machine gun.

Like a naughty but weary boy, the chatshow host took the hand of the guard and allowed himself to be led away. His trembling had ceased but a periodic sob made his gizzards vibrate.

“God speed you” said Duck.

Now the audience seemed happy and relaxed. They all turned to one another in a congratulatory manner. A young woman with a powerful haircut hailed The Babies.

“Hey boys, how about a song?” she said. And everyone else cheered, saying “A song! A song!”

Larry trod down slow and hard on the dying fire of the chatshow host’s abandoned cigarette. He clicked his finger and combed his quiff. He stared the audience right in its eye.

“Go fuck yourselves” he said.

THE END

 

Pan’s Labyrinth; or, A Labyrinth of Pans

The camera pans out to take in the general and his squaw. The camera pans out to take in  the general and his squaw but not to take in their legs. The camera pans out at an angle that cuts off the general and his squaw above the navel. The camera pans over to the bedroom window to take in the imposing panorama. The camera pans back to the general and his squaw, taking care not to pan down below their navels. The general is wearing ungeneral-like pantaloons so that the camera does not pan down below his navel. The camera does not pan down below the navel of the general not because he is wearing ungeneral-like pantaloons nor because the general is standing on two large-print copies of Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel but because the director has instructed him not to. The general is standing on two large-print copies of Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel because he has a Napoleon complex. The director has decided to pander to the general’s Napoleon complex. The general does not believe the director’s assurances that the camera will not pan down to reveal the two large-print copies of Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel on which the general is standing and so he is wearing ungeneral-like pantaloons. Unnecessarily, as it turns out. The squaw notes the irony of a tiny man standing on a book that has Gargantua in its title. The squaw is wearing panty-hose and a pannier. Her films to date include Pancreas (horror), Pandemic (thriller), Panty-Liner (adult) and Pan-Am and the History of Commercial Flight (TVM docudrama). During a difficult period in her acting career she was driven to panhandle. In the hospitality area the catering staff put the onions into pans. In the hospitality area the catering staff put the parsnips into pans. In the hospitality area the catering staff put the beef, the beef stock, the beetroot, the butter, the breadcrumbs, the beans, the biscuits and the bass into pans. The head chef stubs his toe on a kitchen panel. This aside the filming is panning out well.

Horror Film Titles

Sometimes you can learn all you need to know about a horror film from its title alone. With that in mind, here are some of my favourite horror film titles (obviously I’ve never watched them):

I Spit In Your Eyes

Dinner Time

Supernatural Unpleasantness

Gasp!

They Came From The Other Place

The Whistler

Don’t Be Frightened

Chain ’Em To Grandma

Mexican Burrowing Weevil

But I Turned Off The Tap…

Dead Chicks 3D

The Fiddling

The original VHS release poster of ‘I Spit In Your Eyes’

 

Banjo Chutney and John Le Baptiste go to Hollywood

So you all know, of course, that Banjo Chutney and I went to Hollywood to make a film? Well we did. And what’s more, we collaborated on a story about it, which you can read here:

‘Our Trip to Hollywood’ by Banjo Chutney and John Le Baptiste

When we awoke in our twin-bed hotel room, the air conditioning said ‘ming’. The big cars were honking and the maids were speaking in a secret language. Banjo said it was called Spanish.

We put our tiny white penises and tiny white bottoms into our tiny white underpants. And we did so shamefully. For was not the sin of Adam upon us?

Then we got a callback from the agent saying that the meeting was scheduled for 11. He said that the producer was excited about the project. That made us happy, but then we realised we would only have 45 minutes for breakfast, so that made us worried.

All of the waitresses in the breakfast diner were curling their mouths upwards at the ends and presenting their teeth. They called us y’all and wanted to be our friends.

I had biscuits and gravy. When I peeled back the sickly sauce there was a sad-looking spongiform beneath it. So it ate it and tried not to cry. Banjo ordered a sausage. Its legs were still attached.

After vomiting in the alley behind the diner for half an hour, Banjo and I caught a taxi to the studio. Our eyes were bleary and our knees were trembling but Banjo opened The Braveness matchbox and let The Braveness crawl around on the car seat for a while. It fed on a discarded crumb from a child’s food-unit then it did a little happy click. Then it got back inside the matchbox. We felt a lot Braver after that.

The taxi driver was humped, boweeviled, jerry-cocked, through with all that shit, he said. We shrugged and he said ain’t that the truth.

The taxi pulled away and the driver said shall I careen all over the road or career? Banjo said could he Kareem and the driver shot a finger-pistol full of respect-bullets our way.

We pulled up in front of a monolithic temple of success. It was where the big boys make their big boy pretend pictures. I got out and sucked the free air but Banjo just doubled over in a pool of whimper-fear. I took out a slice of marble cake I’d stowed in my cardigan and he came round enough to fall onto the pavement.

We hallooed the rentacop at the gate and showed our labels on our shirts, proving we were who we said we were. Tough times, he said. Damn if it ain’t.

The cobwebby forest of shame was all around us. We sure felt puny. I pulled a floral kerchief with a flourish, aiming to look emboldened as a cabinet. No, hissed Banjo. These types are wise to us. But I parped regardless. For clarity.

Banjo bucked back, the smell of wickedness in his nostrils. His hooves hammered as he twisted in his hackamore. Whoa boy, I said. Whoopsy daisy, said Banjo.

For two days we rode in silence through the pine-whiny glades. We’d stop now and then to share a cereal bar or take off our hats and dust the flies from our maws.

On the third day we came to a grove called ‘reception’, where a woman brought us coffee, hot and black and steaming from a plastic thermos. Don’t you be fooling none, said Banjo. I ain’t fooling none, I told him.

Could I have been fooling none?

Soon the hot, black coffee was snarling in our stomachs and we were on our way to see the Wizard of Oz. That’s what the receptionist said. I didn’t understand the reference. We walked down the hall of fame. Signed pictures of all of the greats were there. There was Philip Hardcastle, Steiner and Moobuck and, best of all, Old Blind Manhandle: The Talking Hobo. Banjo saluted as we walked past and Old Blind Manhandle saluted back, sort of.

At last we reached our journey’s end. It was the office of the producer. He offered us a Fillet o’ Fish. He confirmed that the o’ stood for ‘of’. You’ve got balls son, he said, pointing at my shoulder. He took Banjo by the cheeks and said, Welcome Home, Son. Banjo looked at my eyes, but my eyes looked away.

Excuse me, sir, said Banjo. We’re here to make a picture. And not just any kind of picture. Not the kind of picture, for instance, that you might find on a porcelain saucer. A picture of a smiling Jack Russell, for instance, on a porcelain saucer. No sir, not that kind of picture.

The producer tried to speak but Banjo caught his words using his special Bluegrass Claw. No sir, said Banjo, we want to make a moving picture. You can call it a filmic yarn if that helps you to understand it better. What kind of moving picture you ask? (The producer hadn’t asked, because his words were still spinning in Bluegrass Claw purgatory, like the souls of a trillion Anabaptists.) What kind of moving picture you ask, said Banjo.

It’s a simple story about a little boy who wanted to be a human, summarised Banjo. It’s a silent musical. It’s an inert action film. It’s a heartwarming horror. It’s got thrills, chills, banjo fills, and none of the above.

Did you boys write it, said the taxi driver, who had followed us into the office. Yes, I said, we wrote it together.

How? said the taxi driver.

I don’t know, but we did, I said.

The taxi driver sent for his lawyers, who brought round some contracts, which we ‘signed’ using short tubes of ink. The studio gave it the green light, and we went into production the next day.

So I guess by now you’re probably wondering when you can see the film that Banjo and I wrote. Well, the chances are, you’ve already seen it. For, here it is.

Exit Through the Gift Shop

This is a poem about that Banksy film, Exit Through the Gift Shop. I’ve never seen it. Come to mention it, who knows whether it really exists?

Banksy used red paint to create an authentic plum juice effect when creating the artwork for ‘Exit Through the Gift Shop’

Exit Through the Plum Aisle, after William Carlos Williams

1.

The others asked me

If I eat.

Sure, I eat some.

I said.

So they I gave me a plum

To eat

So I ate it some.

It was a streetplum.

That’s what the others told me

Anyway.

2.

The others filmed me

While the squirty sap

Sat on my chin

Where it had dropped from my grin

And then it plummeted

Onto the flat gum

On the pavement

From the fat plum

In my mouth.

3.

Then the police turned up

And said we couldn’t do that there.

I tried to get them to chase me some

But they just waggled their sticks

A bit

And called us scum.

Plum-eating scum.

4.

Pretty soon

My plum-eating

Gained notoriety.

I ate plums all over the world

As a gesture of solidarity

To people and stuff.

But only streetplums

You understand.

5.

Later I looked up ‘streetplum’

On Wikipedia.

It transpires that there’s no such thing

As a streetplum.

It was a hoax.

I ate a hoax plum.

Lots of ‘em.

The value of my work plummeted

I became a plumber.

A real plumber

Not a hoax plumber.

I don’t eat plums so much anymore.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

Strumpet! You have ruined Christmas!

What is not to like about the Radio Times? Who could not fall for its knowing philistinism and insightful church-newsletter-esque platitudes? Who could fail to admire Barry Norman’s ability to review the same twenty films over and over again week after week (truly a reviewer after the AR’s own heart)? Who could not hang on pointy, serrated tenterhooks as Alison Graham describes, in real time, each micro-second of the cognitive process of first anticipating, then watching, then reflecting on a children’s film, e.g.

“At first I was sceptical about Pirates of the Caribbean as my aunt once told me that pirates were dirty people who stole things and also I knew someone who went to the Pirates of the Caribbean theme-ride in America and the man who operated the ride was really rude to her and it spoilt the whole trip. But when Johnny Depp turned to Keira Knightly and said ‘Arrr’ [the sound that pirates make – RT ed.] with a cheeky but charming smile on his acceptably greasy face, my preconceptions began to vanish.”

Truly, the Radio Times is a Cahiers du Cinema for short, fat English people who find the Empire Strikes Back challenging. You know: people like you and me.

Anyway, while reading the Christmas edition of said periodical this morning, I encountered a review of a festive film with the pleasingly tabloid-esque title ‘I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus’. Using only the review, I have attempted to imagine what the film might be about.

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus

“Mother, you have defiled the marriage bed with your lewdness. Out strumpet! See how you grapple and grunt with your swarthy, hirsute lover beneath the palling face of Tinkytoes, the Christmas Tree Fairy. Look away, Tinkytoes, look away! See how the branches of that melancholy fir shed their spines with shame! Out jezebel, out! You have cuckolded my sire madam. Now his horns vie in size with those of your desperate, murder-eyed lover’s reindeer.

What care I how they do things in Lapland, mother! You are standing on an English hearth and an Englishman addresseth you (that is, I, your son, Marmaduke De Lancey Butterbury III, Marquis of Hamsbury, aged 8 and three quarters). What is this you say? “He’s not swarthy, that’s just the soot from the chimney, down which he slithered like a vile bat so that he might grasp at your bosom this Michaelmas Eve”? A pox, mother, a pox. I’ve never heard such villainy.

How shall my father greet his fellow lords? He shall be excluded from the hunt, mother. No more shall he follow on the heels of reynard and spear him through the eye with the ancestral Butterbury sword, watching the hot red life spill out of his furry eye-hole, bellowing at the forest gods, all the while cheered on by his fellows. A cuckold lead the hunt madam? They’d never allow it! Nay madam. He’s contaminated now. Contaminated by your sinful rubbings! Yea, it is true, as you point out, that Herne the Hunter sported a hearty head of horns. But then his wife wasn’t a vile drop-bloomers now was she, so it hardly applies.

Out, doxy, out! I too am besmeared by your offence. For did I not come via the same gates at which your dark, desperate paramour now hammers with his meaty cudgel? Is ‘Strumpet’s Son’ not branded into my pale marquis’s forehead? “Can anything make this go away,” asks your grim, bushy suitor? Yes. Get me a Scuba-Batman playkit with removable Batspeedoes by 6am tomorrow. Then we can talk.”

Celebrity Perfume: Christmas Round-Up

Christmas approacheth. Have you bought a gift for your sweetheart? No? Then why not bestow a celebrity perfume upon your best gal/gentleman lover this year? Here is a a festive guide to help you:

What Santa Claus really looks like

Angry Urine by Robbie Coltrane.

Want to smell like the Big Man o’ Glasgow? Simply rub yourself in chicken fat and the sweat of a dead hominid. Or buy Angry Urine pour homme by Robbie Coltrane. For best results, coat entire surface area of body with Angry Urine pour homme by Robbie Coltrane using a Robbie Coltrane own-brand baster, deep fry body for 4 hours then sprinkle with special brew.

Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss.

Although many celebrities are happy to put their name to a scent, few actually bother to brew it up themselves. Instead, they employ big-beaked perfumiers to devise a hot cologne that reflects their public persona in some symbolically suggestive way. Thus it is that Michael Barrymore’s perfume smells of chlorine, Jamie Oliver’s smells of packed lunch and George Osbourne’s smells of baby’s blood. Not so ‘Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss’. Eschewing the help of a perfumier, Bagpuss secretes a fragrant squirt from the sweet glands in his tight woollen anus, which is then siphoned into bottles by the Clangers. It smells of mothballs and delight. I would passionately love anything that was sprayed with ‘Pussy Magnet by Bagpuss’ – even an inexplicable monstrosity such as you.

Hitlerdaddy by Sylvia Plath.

This fragrance has the oppressive odour of an overbearing patriarch. I hate you Hitlerdaddy, with your biscuit bootheel and your krystallnacht kisses. Plus you stink.

Achieve by every X Factor winner ever

Achieve smells like water and air.

Melodique by Dog the Bounty Hunter

Surprisingly, this cologne’s aroma resembles neither a wet border collie nor justice nor sexual frustration. Instead, it evokes a fleeting memory of peaches and autumn leaves on a twilit veranda, with a topnote of regret. Enchanting.

Teen Angel

When I was a tiny brute, I’m pretty sure there used to be a program on TV called Teen Angel, starring Jason Priestley as a comely corpse on a mission from God. Sounds improbable, I admit. Here’s a little poem about it:

 

Teen Angel

1.

For I have stood on the yawning chasm

Between midnight and sun-up,

While the witches widdershinned about the arcade

And hexed Pac-Man

Causing his yellow balls to atrophy

And Pac-Girl to run into the spermatazoic sleeves

Of that creep from Bubble Bobble

(What do you think he spun them bubbles outta, bub?).

Now Pac-Man heaves his blighted sack about the mazes of

2-bit lonesomeness

Playing tag with my saggy-sheeted brethren.

2.

I’m a ghost too,

See,

But instead of rocking the damp eiderdown

I got this authentic-looking pleather jacket

And a pompadour.

And instead of chasing yellow balls around mazes,

I do God’s work and pout.

Sometimes the two coincide:

God works in mysterious ways.

3.

You might know me as the Disney James Dean.

Or you might know me as Teen Angel,

The pubic poltergeist.

But you can call me

Spooky Bagthorpe,

I guess.

Alien

Accepting then that the face-huggers embody: that is, fembody, male fears re: the re-integration of the phallo-cervical matrix – to wit, the atavistic retreat of the male and female genitals into an androgynous pre-natal state – and, moreover, that the product of this reunion of penis and vagina is not the genial, inert and asexual Sakishantu-type (translation: Mr Womb) popularised by the lyrics of the Geisha-Rock movement – but rather a voracious scuttling pair of labia wielding a retractable cock – accepting this, then, we can begin to read Alien as a cousin germain of the Succubus of European myth, Circe in The Odyssey and The Witch from Simon and The Witch. Of course, the casting of a female in the role of Ripley reminds us that the fear of the arachnoid pussy-penis is not an exclusively male fear. Yet it is women who go scuttling around and making unreasonable sexual demands of men so they have no right to complain.

Take for instance it should be added yesterday my wife of thirty-seven years leaped at me pelvis-first and attempted to form a tight seal around my mouth with her pudendum, evidently with the hope of using me as a host for her young. I endeavoured to struggle but years of scholarly seclusion have atrophied my body. Plus the musculature of her legs is unusually well-developed (it was this lower-body strength that allowed her to launch herself from the settee pelvis-first) so she encountered little difficulty in neutralising my arms and affixing herself to my mouth. “Phase 1 is initiated” she said. “Beginning the seeding process.” This continued for roughly 12 hours. I couldn’t be sure of course because my NHS spectacles had been dislodged from my upper facial area by a high-impact vaginal collision so I couldn’t check my watch.

A few days later my wife of thirty-seven years noted with irritation and disappointment that “the seed appeared not to have taken hold”. Shortly after she attempted once again to latch her pelvis on to my face. This time I was ready, however. I ducked, quick as a biscuit, causing her to sail through the living room, across the threshold of the hall and off to some point that I was subsequently unable to ascertain. I then locked the door and phoned the authorities. Thankfully, they picked her up before she could cause any real damage, and I was able to go back to writing earnest critical explications of films intended for children.

Bill Paxton ruminates about the phallo-cervical matrix in Aliens.