Category: Blog Post

A Scanner Darkly, 2006. Directed and written by Richard Linklater. Starring Keanu Reeves, Robert Downey Jr., Woody Harrelson, Rory Cochrane and Winona Ryder.

From the files of street critic Guy Fresno:

It all happened so God damn long ago. Wandering through the streets of Lansing, looking for something fun, something to score other than coke, because it wasn’t a coke kind of night. We wanted to make the Crystal Cave that much more Crystal, you know, make the walls bend like they did that one night we got hold of those shrooms. Little pot, little tequila, and some shrooms, and man, I swear to you I rewrote The Crying of Lot 49 in the last three hours of my high. Right in that living room.

See, see, I was there, man. Right in that movie. I met Linklater, once, long time ago, when he was trippin’ at the University of Austin, Texas. He read my mind. Just like that, or maybe I, you know, slipped it in-between sips of coffee? Could have, could have, could have. But, look, take Slacker, take Waking Life, take this new trip, this Scanner Darkly, and I swear, with that last one, it’s mine, my life, mine. That apartment, mine. The guy with the bugs? Me. And I had a roommate who did make a silencer out of duct tape. For sixty-nine cents. Only it worked. But Linklater made it not work because, you know, it’s a lot funnier that way.

Movie’s shit cracked me up. What happens, Bob Arctor, that dope fiend, only he’s not, he’s a cop, Fred, who hates those fat bastards at Rotary Clubs. God that was funny. Dick Linklater made it funny. That’s good, ’cause as much as I love Phil K. Dick, his shit’s serious man, it gave a friend of mine an aneurism. I’m serious. He was taking a mix of meth and Nyquil, and was reading Flow My Tears the Policeman Said, and he just died. You’re surprised I can remember that title, in my condition. Well, give me coffee and a slice of this meringue pie, and I’ll remember Hitler’s shoe size. Anyway, Phil Dick’ll do that to you. Blow your mind. And if you’re blowing your mind, it’ll kill. So watch yourself.

Linklater’s a genius. He’s our Shakespeare, our Bob Flaherty. Captures our world, you know. And see, I never admitted as much to you before, but that was me, there, in those rooms, with the wood paneling and picking through the ashtrays looking for one last toke.

Anyway, it was a long time ago, like I said. A bunch of us, stoners, talking about the whole wide world, looking to score. It was a lot like this movie, this Scanner Darkly, a bunch of us going crazy, flipping out from both the drugs and the whole damn paranoid world. I wish I could tell you that one of us went on to do great things, or that one of us died and we all learned a lesson, but really, it’s just like in that movie–nothing much, just one guy fried and in rehab, clean now but a moron. Another, he was busted, and he’ll see freedom again in twenty-seven years. Serving a term down in Virginia for a crime he supposedly committed in Michigan. No one sees him. They stole some books on the Tigers I mailed him a few weeks back.

Anyway, that’s it. We were just looking to score and the one guy got busted. Walking out of a 7-11, the rest of us waiting at home, me staring at the ceiling thinking of how I’d love to kick the crap out of J. D. Salinger for his silence, Busto (the rehab idiot), taking in old videotapes of the Price Is Right he hoarded. And Big Mike, he was just gone. To jail, gone forever. Busto, two years later, goes clean in order to avoid jail. Me, I just do my thing.

Linklater got it right, though this movie made me hunger for those old days more than frighten me. And I think Phil Dick wanted it to scare you. Link’s got too much love for those days, though. It’s fine, we don’t need another Drugstore Cowboy. And the animation’s a trip. You don’t need drugs anymore, you got this interpolated rotoscoping, this painting over photography. It’s cool, better than that shit Bakshi did with the original Lord of the Rings. Hmm. That’s maybe the worst thing about the life, no matter how it rocks you, no matter what parts of your body it grinds to Spam, no matter who you lose: there’s always a bit of nostalgia for the enormous lie of it all. It was beautiful when it didn’t kill you.

Remember me?

Note to every girl born between the years of 1971 and, say, 1978 who ever rushed home after band practice to watch My So-Called Life (this being the hit TV drama on which Claire Danes got her start, if you’ll recall): Jared Leto (a.k.a., Jordan Catalano!) is in Minneapolis tonight to play First Avenue with his band, 30 Seconds To Mars. The occasion should be of interest to each and every woman who blossomed, during the mid-90s, out of an artsy, emotionally tormented teen. You and me, we’ve spent the better part of our adult lives in unsuccessful relationships with the likes of Jordan Catalano, or else we’ve been vying for the attention for these characters–you know, the sort of guys who are hunky but not-so-smart, case in point: they are apathetic to our charms. I persist to be excited about this, even though some recent shots of Leto indicate that he is either deeply entrenched in playing a fatty or else–eek!–has let himself go. If my ten-year reunion was any indication, this is the poetic justice that dogs all high school hotties. wha-Ha!

And to the music-heads who might accuse me of being shallow here: a thirty-second visit to the 30 Seconds website indicates that this will be typical of the cerebral emo genre. Try-if-you-like Elliot Smith and Jeff Buckley, I guess.