Cracked Actor


I am mildly obsessed with the teachings of Professor David Bowie. Why therefore I have not seen the 70s documentary, Cracked Actor, I have no idea. It is morbidly shabby of me. At some point I will see it. Yea: verily. Here is my review of what I hope/imagine it is all about (incidentally my current favourite Bowie tune is ‘Big Brother’ on Diamond Dogs, though I am also very partial at the moment to ‘Panic in Detroit’ on Aladdin Sane and ‘Because you’re young’ on Scary Monsters and Super-Freaks).

Bowie is well and truly waggled off his stump, as they say in cricket. Installed in his limousine capsule like a cocktail stick in the barrel of a futuristic sex-rifle, he clicks and gobbles into a mysterious latticed cube, which transmits his observations up (or down) to the silent, iris-less beings whom we can never know about. He is a fruitsome rock mantis.

His manager is a pony-tailed ball called Fat Rudy. He is a sort of ambassador on behalf of the human race to Planet Bowie. He is also an unsavoury pock-marked pervert, I imagine. Bowie says “Where are my seeds, Fat Rudy?”. Fat Rudy replies “In sub-zero storage m’lord”. “Why do people cry, Fat Rudy?” “Because we do not have your strength and your opal-esque eyes, m’lord”. “Very good Fat Rudy. Now bring me a bowl of rice pudding sprinkled with cocaine”.

Bowie is choosing his costume for the concert that is to take place that evening. He has narrowed it down to a formica kimono and clown-shoes or an 8-year-old’s pyjama bottoms and cardboard-box-based sports jerkin. He opts for the former. Atop his celestial forehead he wears a ginger tempest, upon which tiny sentient beings in miniature galleons are thrown about ferociously.

It is now the concert, and the Thin White Duke is hurtling through his set. ‘Diamond Dogs’: ‘…with your ten-inch stump and your silicone hump’. Ooooo! Then ‘The Bewlay Brothers’: ‘…I’m starvin’ for me grayyy-veee’. Music! If the muse whispers to cockney cyborgs and bashful vampires then this is what she says. The audience haemorrhage and flop all over the barriers and the floor. They are in the grip of a powerful space-disease that plunged into the earth within a hypodermic comet, and the symptoms are monstrous to behold. But they get their money’s worth.

The conclusion of the film comprises grainy footage of a person that may or may not be Bowie scampering about in a suburban garden and engaging in elaborate pratfalls while dressed like Nosferatu. He slinks into a greenhouse and starts pretending to recite incantations over some tomatoes. Upon exiting he runs towards the house. In the windows we see the terrified faces of its residents as they face the unthinkable inevitability of a glam-rock house invasion. The door is locked, but the cat flap is open. Bowie contorts himself like a gelatine python and shimmies through. We hear the screams and weeping of the family within and strange, exciting synthesiser noises. The film ends. I shout “yeah!”, high-five myself and think about starting my own glam krautrock science-fiction band with the lads from my local table-tennis club. 10 out of 10


3 Responses to “Cracked Actor”

  1. oldrope Says:

    I think you are a cracked actor. You are prolific. In the sense that you are in favour of lifics

  2. johnlebaptiste Says:

    No, I am an acked cractor, and not a bad one at that.

  3. oldrope Says:

    Is that what thety call it these days???

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