FRANCIS FORD COPPOLA’S THE GODFATHER ONE AND TWO
½ Star — Didn’t Work for Me
by MisterEveryman
First of all I like and/or love ALL of Frank Coppolo’s oeuvre: from JACK to SWORDFISH to GODFATHER 3—but somehow I’d overlooked these two. Everyone at work told me I had to see Francis Coppolo’s “GodFather Number One and Two.” Why? “Because!” they screamed at me, “It won some Oscars!” FOR WHAT? — TEDIUM?!! It’s a mishmash rehash of stories that stumble and start and stop and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there is a MONTAGE of VIOLENCE!! (BTW—“montage” is a French-derived word for “a filmmaker throwing up his hands and shouting, ‘I dunno — YOU figure it out!’”) And what was that baptism stuff about? Was that supposed to SIGNIFY something? Methinks someone’s been hitting the ol’ vino a bit too hard. GF #2 is MORE OF THE SAME…not good, kinda sloppy, pointless, and too “ethnic” for my taste — if I want a history lesson I’ll go back to grade school! The only reason I give it half a star is because it spawned the excellent GODFATHER #3! See that one, miss this one, thank me, and you’re welcome!
THE BIBLE, KING JAMES VERSION
Zero Stars
by MISTER EVERYMAN
First let me say, I am a massive fan of all of King James’s writings. I love everything the guy wrote — and in the original language, too…OLDE ENGLISH!! But somehow, I’d missed this one. EVERYONE at my church said I “must” “absolutely” read this one — the “book of books,” I think they called it. So I sat down and I read it. Every word. And all I got to say is…“meh.” Uninspired sludge. As a book it makes a great doorstop! Nothing special. A lot of stuff about who is related to who and then some VERY QUESTIONABLE tall tales that, I guess, are supposed to make a point. The lead character of the second book has some magic powers, but I don’t think Harry Potter has to worry too much about getting bumped off the hero shelf — the only magic power the Jesus character had for me was the power to conquer insomnia!! What a waste of every Sunday for a year!! Save your money, buy a large brass dog to hold your doors open for you. You’ll thank me.
HER LAUGHTER
Before I married her, when Angelisse and I were first dating — furiously, ecstatically, hyperactively — the people of the town (New York City — look it up!) warned me that while my A’Lisse (short for Angelisse — I was always coming up with nicknames for her) was mesmerizing, enchanting, and overfull of sparkling qualities, she would also challenge me to my core with her single drawback. They told me this in whispered conversation, but also in a few e-mails, written in all caps.
I will share her solitary dark spot with you in time, but first let me attempt the impossible — to describe my Angel’s positive qualities, a smorgasbord of human excellence.
Her mind was a diamond of endless facets, while also being a steel trap that spun on the edge of a pointed stick. I only wish I was mixing my metaphors and not simply describing her actual mind.
Her spirit — well, her spirit was simply un-put-downable. She searched out every chance of connection, refusing to walk past a single soul without grasping their essence with her eyes. As a result, we avoided crowds and summer fairs because it just took too damn long to get anywhere.
Physically, my Angel was a specimen nonpareil, with large eyes in shapes an almond would envy and thin, delicate wrists that a champagne flute would fucking despise. She had big boobs, as well.
And then there was her laugh. Her laugh surprised people, because when it came it came suddenly, and it made everyone hate her instantly. It wasn’t a cackle. A cackle would have been fine. Everybody’s heard a cackle, and you can usually get used to it. My thin-wristed Angie had a laugh that crushed hope. It made you want to drill your ears till they bled and then pluck your eyeballs out and step on them just for good measure. It destroyed all human goodwill and warm feelings, leaving behind a cold, smoking horizon of ash. The sound of her laughter left you feeling like you’d swallowed someone else’s vomit, which ended up having pieces of glass in it…plus a tiny, swallowable atom bomb.
This, her laughter, was that single negative quality I mentioned earlier. Allow me to dig deeper into this massive black hole hidden within the very fabric of her twinkling firmaments.
Her laughter kept her from getting jobs! No matter how good she was doing in an interview, that laugh would come out and suddenly there was no vacancy. The one time she did restrain herself from laughing, she easily won a job at a neighborhood tchotchke and hardware shop. On her first day, her boss attempted to tell a simple knock-knock joke to ease her in to her new workplace. She laughed. Then he told her he was closing his business for a little while because he suddenly didn’t feel so good. When she called to find out when he would reopen, she learned he had moved THAT VERY DAY and had sold the business to a scrap dealer. This was a family business we’re talking about! He was the fifth-generation owner!
Her laughter dispersed entire crowds. Even crowds of people who’d paid for their seats! Once we went to a rock concert at one of those outdoor venues where you bring wine and cheese and lay out a picnic blanket, and they had a stand-up comedian open for the band. To everyone’s dismay, she loved the comedian and his offbeat japes. By the middle of his act, the massive lawn was empty except for Angelisse and me! The crowd’s wines and cheeses sat abandoned in little piles. People must have just said, “Fuck it, I’ll buy more wine and cheese, I can’t listen to another moment of that ear-raping laughter.” Then, to top it off, the band refused to go on. They’d heard her laugh, too! And this was a jam band! They weren’t even a good jam band — only two original members. The concert was a total wash. We didn’t even get a refund.
Her laughter finally did us in as well. One time I saw a mother with a mohawk haircut pushing a baby carriage in Central Park and, without considering the consequences, I muttered, “Look out, Mommy’s on the warpath.” Angelisse laughed, the baby cried, two dogs jumped into the pond, a couple of boats capsized, and three horses went bonkers, tossing the policemen from their saddles. It was a nightmare scene that would have made Heironymus Bosch say, “You’re fucking kidding me.” At that moment, a part of me died — it was the exact part of me that had been tolerating her laughter all this time. So I turned to my “Gelisimahoney” and, with cold certainty, I declared, “Angel, my Angel…I have something to tell you, and I need you to listen to me and believe me. Will you do that?” Her willing expression told me she would.
“I can never marry you.” This stopped her (and her laugh) in her tracks. An explanation was due, and not just any explanation — I needed the greatest explanation the world had ever seen. Inspired by her searching eyes and how much I hated her laughter, I went on.
“I can never marry you because I’m an illegal alien and I have AIDS and I am gay and I’m already married, twice, and I just took a job in another country as a…drug smuggler.” Without letting all that sink in, I carried on, “I know this is a lot to process, but you must believe me. I am needed in Colombia to smuggle cocaine so I can care for my other wives and afford the daily ‘cocktail’ that keeps my immune system strong and, in addition to all of that, I just signed up for a two-year art installation placing black flags in the ice of the Antarctic in a circular pattern. You’ll be able to see it from space.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and then her laugh burst through again, bruising my soul and wilting the grass. I winced, everybody winced, and I said, “Also, I can’t stand your stupid laugh. You gotta stop that. I mean it.”