Last night my wife and I watched the movie The Wolf of Wall Street. There is no review forthcoming. Just a statement to heal me this morning. Although very late after the three hour frat party of a film ended, I tossed and turned in bed for an hour thinking up ways to inflame and insult Martin Scorsese, the dirty old man of Hollywood who gets paid to make soft porn movies because he is rich and powerful among other near-death dandys of the same race and gender. They, like Scorsese, are honored among themselves in late life for being humanities’ media crime bosses. I imagined Martin appearing in my house, strapped to a chair, while I danced by him every ignorance and stupidity of American culture I could think up, taking short breaks to shame him the best I could. How good of him to leave us this niche hell of a movie so late in life. How proud his pre-pubescent great grandchildren would be discerning reality between Santa Claus and glorious pretend quaalude sex with hookers. I would ask him man to man how it feels to be in a room directing other millionaires and thousandaires to gang bang like hallucinating monkeys. Is his tongue loll obvious? Is his casting couch still in operation, or do even the most desperate starving actresses cringe at the thought of his wrinkly old man body?
If I want The Wolf of Wall Street in real life I just need to think back to the middle stall in the bathroom of my college Alma mater. There I could find the writing, the plot, the degenerate stories told by that class of Americans who get rich to get old to die unfulfilled, alone, pathetic and sometimes even disgusting. And the Academy will make sure a special tribute is offered. Multiple millions of the world’s comfortable proletariat will be taught by a few loud dogs of humanity what constitutes culture for their remaining quiet nights at home before blowing out a final breath. If I died in bed last night, my Crazy Horse moment would include the memory of a lit candle stuck between Leonardo DiCaprio’s butt cheeks, or the CGI erection of his pudgy supporting actor who pretended to masterbate in front of a film crew at the behest of the great and powerful Martin Scorcese.
Confusion. Enough reality confusion each day while children are bombed by cowardly governments and I sit beside grown men who espouse the virtues of a Walmart Supercenter. And for entertainment digestif, a multimillion dollar three hour movie depicting a rich man’s vile madness—either a wolf of Wall Street or a Martin Scorsese. I could always turn it off, but it would not shame the losers of society any more or less. All peoples connected to that movie, from pipe fitter to enthroned producer, must answer to their own progeny somehow, someday. Martin’s inner circle, the troop of Leonardo aficionados, even the beer buddy of Rick the stage hand will, in life, insulate their leader like all the President’s men. And it will make a good life if the R(reality)-Value is laid on thick enough. Hollywood wins, in life. However, Scorsese has already marked his posthumous legacy with a deep and heavy familial shame. He’s flipped off every child of his line born innocent with the added boast, “I helped make this world you come into. As an elder, with my fame and riches, I normalized insanity. This is what I think of you Great Grandchild. Enjoy Hell. At least I had a great time”.
Loathsome dregs of society like Martin Scorsese bypass our judgement while they carry a loud vanity into old age because each and every one of us is a Martin Scorsese.
I’ll give Henry Miller the last word. From his preface to Parker Tyler’s 1944 book Hollywood Hallucination:
“We credit the Hollywood nabobs with being Machiavellian, because they pander so successfully to the low taste of the mob. We pretend that there is an unholy partnership between Church, State, Factory and Cinema, and the pretension is just. But get a close-up of these cruel, cunning arbiters of our destiny and you get a picture of Everyman when he has emerged from his larval state. They are all walking the treadmill, all harried and ridden, all responding with automatic inflexibility. You have to feel just as sorry for the Pope, or a toothless Rockefeller, as you do for the Georgia convict or Bertha the poor sewing machine girl. The Hollywood stars and the men who promote them toss in their sleep with the same unremitting anguish as the street-walker and her pimp. And while Hitler is at large we all do the goose-step with good grace—all except Mahatma Ghandi who, according to the zombie logic, must obviously be out of his mind.”
Yeah, I agree. We’re all nuts. I can still hope Scorsese’s grandchildren shun his memory tomorrow for the living dog he is today.