"He had elements in him that allowed him to do what he did. -- Al Pacino
I would have endured vaginal castration to have had the thunderbolt with the Al Pacino who brought Puzo's Michael Corleone to life. What woman doesn't want that dark and daring menace willing to use massacre as a conversation? Dropped everything to listen to Rose draw him out in his March 2015 interview, which cost me time-- noting that Pacino can be distempered and say fuck you to an assistant, get away with it and get away with telling it, in context, but Christ forbid a disabled writer display the same passion, deflecting intense racial enmity into an admission of hate, substituting asshole for a more denigrating scorn. But there were certain absences. Most obviously no mention of G3, the stereotyping in Scarface, or a relevant discussion of what right Pacino had to inhabit Simon Axler in Roth's controversial and cold novel.
Pacino isn't right for the part. Pacino is just shy of decimated aging that tears my heart. Pacino is my movie idol exception and drives me fucking crazy in the this is why actors have body guards way. His fingernails aren't in the best shape, and why do I want to run and email celebrities of a certain period? What whim am I catering to? What could I possibly say to a legend who became diffuse? Why didn't Charlie press him on playing Wortzik? Dog Day was and remains weird, whether you are a pro-sodomy advocate or fake it so as to not be a target of gay rage (believing in hate crime). One can truly see the faggot in Al here, which is why between the lines, he was difficult on the set, booze or no booze, this little boy having the drama queen moment. The movie chilled me in the sense none of us beat the system, more than that, the seventies brought the docu-drama into its own, and Dog Day Afternoon has that effect of urban realism, grit, texture. Anyone who truly threatens power is taken out, despite Coppola's wet dream.
When I stop and remember my failed potential I feel badly about doing my own variation of Alexander Pope's satirical attacks on my past, almost too self-conscious, but then again, my online audience is small, my ferocity appalling. If the Old Cricket made a hypothetical entrance to scold me, I'd hide under the fucking bed and roll out to have a raging argument with him at the same time. Not about learning how hard it is to write for a living-- but about my matriculation as a normal once top tiered student-- before it was too late it would have been nice had someone put it in context that I couldn't have a normal career, but the man is human, so am I, and I put our memories into a Euripides' over the top mass death by Mount Olympus. The above linked piece is more reminiscent of what he taught me, though it doesn't matter.
I needed to be good enough, tough enough as a writer, to rescue myself, and thus far, I'm not, despite an old man's limpid eyes, still able to mesmerize. Pacino was my fucking cunt slinky, and he's crafty too, given half a chance. Squandered a great deal, he's ridiculous in his present posture, verging on decrepit odiousness. He taught me a great deal about his craft in 50 minutes. Nostalgia's ability to wound is sharper than an arrow's pierce.
Why have the African Americans who run Presby made me racist? Because they do not strive to make themselves better, because you cannot see that Trudy Richardson does her damnest making me feel alienated and even more marginalized. I have no problem with my hostility toward a nigger bitch like that persecuting me relentlessly. My family is not on intimate terms with minorities in the manner forced upon me because I have no choice. It's killing me. And I'll never be a normal suburban girl again.
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