The Fulfillment of Herve Villechaize

"hey boss," the beloved tattoo

In its summation of Hollywood’s dwarf suicides, Fox News fails to mention that Villechaize was an accomplished painter, which makes his suicide all the more poignant against Troyer’s undercurrent of lewdest denominators, $5000 sex tapes indeed to private collectors who vanish down the rabbit hole to Alice’s wonderland, snorting powder highs on a mirror, a frustration lunging to that old florid refrain, I just wanna make love to you, love to you, which somehow captures the rhythmic movements of a 69 in exploration of itself, knives and coitus ache in the nearly dried flower of an old woman’s cunt, and if I truly believe in what I stand for, either eliminate the problem or force the damn issue, little spears of saline running their course, no matter how magnanimous, he doesn’t want me, and this gives progressives a first down at the fifty yard line, when it comes to pursuit in the travesty of the pursuer whose lewd jibes and body contact are so cute, the color of skin doesn’t matter when the needs awakened against male virility won’t go away, in the cycle of a spastic life skirting the edge of a fetish as lost financial opportunity. As with anything, Dinklage is the standard of midget success, full rugged face echoes enough physically normal appearance, lends itself to the stardom of an all together man, married, and thus, an adept mimic. The pain of Villechaize, if otherwise unable to be entered, corresponds to the swollen feet of soon to be coming summer. “Leave me alone,” I told him in my minute down swell, and meant it, though his lion’s heart cannot stifle the impetus of consolation. He devastated by the Cosby verdict, me less so after an odd 36 months of reading  over the icon’s cratered avalanche, dealing with, and losing one of his accusers, Joan Tarshis, if I step back, as a traumatized woman in her own right, it isn’t about picking a victor so much as the inadequacy against years of silence. I may not know the truth, but I do know about the consequence of a woman foolhardy enough to be alone with a man in such a context, particularly in 1969, more about regret than love? I did not see a judicial process which secured justice in the Cosby trial, I saw a rubber stamp to placate women’s pain, and at the heart of the matter, the throb in the vibrating vein in my chest cage is simply riled because it cries, this is what it feels like when it’s right. I cannot change that as an absence I’ve had to bear through life even with the burden of Frank Versante on my back. I never had right, and had I been better focused in 16, I suppose I wouldn’t be juggling this now, would I? I told them I wanted a man, in unwitting folly, due to whatever trigger, I’ve fallen, moaning on my soul, as if I don’t have enough to reassemble, still over and above the turgid bellow of Mini-Me, a mere caricature of evil. The dowager flirted herself as the real thing, little realizing plow horses can slay dragons.

Monsters We Dance With

"All some animals have ever known is a life of constant abuse."-- Roberta Flack, aging out of transcendent range

Ever reliable Billy Bob. To the extent that dwarfism is representative of industry conventions, Tony Cox adds an additional layer within Bad Santa, particularly juxtaposed against John Ritter's deliberately colorless attitude being caught off guard, made to look bad when he is simply invested in upholding a modicum of decency. (Yours truly used the same phrase "you people," as a deliberately scathing scold with minority building manager, no clueless naivety here to be trampled by a thieving drunk.) The dialogue is slightly too soft as an expose of the underside of American optimism, but Cox uses the jester to conceal a latent ruthlessness which ableism necessarily engenders. Any atmosphere of the macabre is dispensed with, replaced with street wise betrayal which has its own justification, no conscious remorse, in this case foiled by nominative dork to jackass mode, filling the need for a role model wherever it might turn up.

American Paladin, a closer look

"He is a man who cannot be rejected."-- Charlie Rose

Not having a phone is a rather radical act of self-assurance for Dinklage's  Finbar, an ascendant insularity that really isn't punctuated by the insistent overtures of the Cuban food vendor, and it is in this sense that I'd argue that McCarthy reverses the polarity of the pro-forma progressive paradigm of The Station Agent into something more unwittingly tragic, not that McCarthy denies Dinklage a human range. Much like Garcia's deployment of the dwarf actor in Things, both these directors go against the theatrical absurdity of type, and Finbar is a person, whom, according to interpretation, is yanked out of his shell by the disruptions of the fallible beings around him, but what do we know at the end of the day, about the train aficionado, aside from the fixation repressed persons without other outlets develop for objects of technological condensation?

We know he had an implied intimacy with the deceased Henry, through affinity and shared interest. We know he's had sex, this through Joe's inquiry, and McCarthy's adept poke in the eye of tiresome ambulatory curiosity, we see a regressive boyhood within the adult whose interior rage dares a suicide but pulls back. We see him chastened into empathy for Clarkson as the inconsolable mother who uses her grief for the loss of her son to feed off Finbar's stoicism; no needy cripple here, only selfish ambulatory grifters, and though McCarthy happily resolves his film into the usual bromides of acceptance within loss while life still moves forward, even chilling with beers on the porch, that is about it. The jester lets down his shield, not performing on demand for the court, as was superimposed on viewers for most of the 20th century. Dwarfs were macabre signatures, from the wizard of oz through the Michael Dunn of Porter's Ship of Fools. Of course, the dwarf in Porter's character study fills the role of the chorus, and is allowed to be a mature persona too wise in the folly of life, but he is still a device, which is exactly what Dinklage remains in McCarthy's world of what's possible: the form of the shrunken human body is a mask, a mask to disguise, cover hideousness that may hide an ideally brutalized heart, in one of Peter Laurie's less typecast roles, straight through Mickey Rourke picking up the time honored conceit in Johnny Handsome.

Dinklage, much like Garcia's Albert, is actually more relevatory in Death at a Funeral as the hyped up prostitute for the secretly gay family man, conveying more in the stereotypical fetish than he does attempting to fully flesh out McCarthy's libertarian, somewhat self-hating freak.

Shoestring budget or not, Clarkson does a disservice to the taxing culture of mental illness, waltzing down the hospital corridor in scrubs, a my bad smile on her face after being the pill popping drama queen. Attempted suicides rolling back the emotional pain which reverberates on all those around them doesn't lend itself to that level of resolution.