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Well, pardon me all over the place.

I watched the movie, Cape Fear tonight.

Last time I saw it, I was thirteen, sleeping over at my best mate’s and her parents decided to take us to the movies. An odd choice for two innocent kids (more innocent than most), given it’s a psychological thriller about a rapist who terrorizes a family.

What the fuck were they thinking?

They were kinda weird like that, too cool to be good parents. Yuppies you see, the 80’s kind. The dad had a weird body (built like a man on top, but with Liza Minnelli legs) and I always wondered how he’d landed the mum (who was beautiful). She dressed like the sister of my mate, not her mother, and worked out like she was exor-cise-ing the demon (or waiting for him to trade her in for a younger model) (which he eventually did).

Not so surprising then, that they’d treat us like the adults we weren’t and take us to a monumentally inappropriate movie. I was bloody terrified, I never forgot it.

Watching it with adult eyes gives me new appreciation. I wonder now if Martin Scorsese intended it as an homage to Hitchcock or the classic suspense thrillers of the 1950s. I can see why it remained so powerfully in my memory all of these years – it has the feel of classics like Rear Window and Vertigo with short, swirling camera shots and heavy dramatic music. It seemed so hammy then, but weren’t the classics a little silly and melodramatic? Even the choice of Jessica Lange seems a nod to Kim Novak or Eva Marie Saint.

The irony is that if it had been made in the Decade of Denial, maybe it wouldn’t have evoked such terror (Hitchcock notwithstanding). Much as I love old Hollywood, they seemed too intent on glamour to successfully depict violence or the crevices of the human psyche.

It’s seems almost better to have a modern homage (with Scorsese at the wheel), taking a little from each to create a hybrid of terror and ham, and a side of fries.

the wuc bytes – the matador

Point one, I’m obsessed with movies. Check!

Point two, with the exception of my resplendent family, I’m surrounded by movie heathens who are fucking clueless to my (many) cinematic references. It hurts me deep in my special place when I make golden, and I say golden, jokes (be it Goonies, Sixteen Candles or Scarface) and am met with scorn and contempt (aka blank stares and limp smiles).

I conclude that I’ll have to get my jollies all on my wucsome. Thus, I herald a new category designed to share my favourite movie moments with you – the wuc bytes.

Pause for warm joo-joo pleasure and a jaunty side-kick.

I start with The Matador. Pierce Brosnan is hilare. I saw this with my brother and after this scene, I remember him whispering (like a child seeing his father’s flaws for the first time):

“James Bond! What happened?” 

Wuccadoodies.

Yes, it’s true. This man has no dick.

I’ve been pondering what my ideal posse would look like; a group of diabolically-awesome people with whom I could shoot the shit (and walk in slow motion).

But to assemble the prime posse, I must first put aside the pesky restrictions of reality.

This might be considered an exercise in stalking, but I prefer to think of it as creative friendshipping (and will cease and desist from saying, if these peeps could only meet me we’d be best friends forever … ever… ever) (creepy echo).

My brothers used to get their jollies from strapping my Barbie to the family combie as a hood ornament (and comedic roadkill). I recall the moment where I could either do the slow-cry of a Barbie-less existence or admit, that’s hilare. (I stand by my decision to go with the latter.)

It’s with this posse preface that I inaugurate my first members – Will Ferrell, Owen Wilson, Jason Bateman and Paul Rudd. If Ben Stiller feels left out and asks Owen (to ask me) if he can come too … yes Ben, you can. (But only if you randomly channel White Goodman, sidling up to strangers and stating “nobody makes me bleed my own blood”.)

The fact I’ve fancied Paul Rudd as far back as Clueless is a slight infraction of the posse bylaws; but the Rudd majorly cracks me up, so he’s in. Right?

Next, one must balance the juvies with some innately cool daddios; so I hereby add Clint Eastwood, Christopher Walken and Willie Nelson. We’d hang separately to my boy crew – maybe over some scotch and Cubans. Willie would jam on his plaits ‘n’ guitar, Walken would be simultaneously hilare and terrifying; and Clint would brood intelligently in the corner.

Of course, I’d feel intrinsically inadequate in a grouping such as this, but such is the price of cosmic gold, my friends.

Like a fine wine, a great posse has many influences; and mine would be incomplete without the comedic chops of Tina Fey, Bill Murray and Joan Cusack (so added). Bill and I would routinely sit on a park bench, sipping lattes and making pithy observations of passers by. Occasionally, we’d reenact scenes from Groundhog Day and Ghostbusters.

“Yes it’s true, this man has no dick”.

Add to this mix a dash of punk-rock awesomeness in the form of Pink (to whom I bow down), brunch with Betty White and Sandra Bullock, the odd fundraiser with Michael J.Fox and occasional (wuccadoody) bender with Jack Black and John Cusack. In round up, I feel I must sneak in another bylaw infraction with Noel Fielding and a hummener hummener shout out.

And last but definitely not platonic, Robert Downey Jr … who will always dominate my heart and DVD collection. (You know that’s right.)

You know that’s right.

I’ve recently discovered the tv show, Psych (five years behind everyone else); and the combination of new comedy fodder and 80 unseen episodes has resulted in a binge fest the likes of which Graceland has never seen. (Fortitude is but a castle in France, my friend.)

I have now seen four years worth, in the space of a week and a half.

Hours of back-to-back eps, until my eyes lolled and the left side of my body ceased to function. Other side effects include singing along to the credits like I’m special needs, crushing on the male lead like a prepubescent teen and twitching in my sleep from withdrawal (like a cat dreaming it’s being chased by a dog).

I’ve been here before.

But a new phenomenon has occurred. I’m now crushing on the show itself, in an exultant love previously reached only by my brother and Bea Arthur. I’ve fallen in love with Psych for its beautiful, sexy and sumptuous movie references. Sigh.

Sumptuous and sexy 80s movie references.

My heart swoons and I feel a heady rush with each obscure, Hughes-filled reference. I blush when it says ‘fear does not exist in this dojo’, toy with my hair at each nostril-flared mention of Judd Nelson and tell myself that only I see that the dude in the werewolf ep is from An American Werewolf in London. But I fear that, not only do others share and compete with this love but, I’m now a stalker of Joanie Loves Chachi proportions.

In my defense, I’m surrounded by movie heathens. It’s a sad day when you’re reduced to deciphering “are you okay, ‘cause you’re sweating pretty profusely?” for a pack of drunks on a Friday night. My pithy cinematic references are words without a home, like Ralph Machhio wandering the streets of LA as the pop-culture hobo he is.

But the pleasure I get from such a show is bitter-sweet; as if the closer someone gets to my funny bone, the more painful the laughter becomes. After the rumble of delight and guffaws pass through, like the astral train in Ghostbusters, the whippet tail of jealously swiftly follows. Truth bomb: that someone else wrote it before I could.

Meaty jealousy.

That and I really want a hot chocolate friend to coolly bump fists with … as I purse my lips and declare, “you know that’s right”.

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