A Confederacy Of Former Dunces

I found an article I wrote a few years ago that was something of a satire and tribute to a lot of the indie films that were popular at the time. At least, that's what it set out to be.  It ended up being whatever the hell is written below.  I avoided the urge to change anything.  You can tell its age because it's an article all about the 'quirk' factor of cheesy U.S indie movies without a single mention of Zooey Deschanel. 

A Confederacy of Former Dunces

Pictures make articles look prettier so
more people will want to read them.

In which this Crouching Ginger Hidden writer seeks to investigate the appeal of modern American indie cinema, in a rather stream of consciousness fashion in keeping with the ultimate of movie makers that he bums, Charlie Kaufman.

Incidentally, if you haven’t yet seen Kaufman’s directorial debut and perhaps greatest work so far, “Synecdoche, New York”, stop reading this turgid shite and go find a copy, it’s like 3 quid in Fopp and everything. Or illegally download it. Or don’t. Or make up your own mind about whether or not you’d like to see it, and then act on that. Or don’t. Here’s my article:

The recent rise in popularity of American independent film has brought us many cinematic gems, and a fair few further try-too-hards. In particular, I’m talking about the latest brand of indie cuteness godfathered arguably by the great Wes Anderson, but which dates back to the likes of John Hughes and perhaps even beginning with Annie Hall, the ‘quirk flick’.

I’m sure I’ve no need to digress into details for you will have surely seen one by now; a sort of mish-mash of Addams Family values and the slow deliberate camerawork of aging stoners conveyed via a tongue so far into its cheek that any on-looking pornstar-scouts would proceed to hail that tongue in handshakes, business cards and mephedrone.

As cute as this currently well-craved brand of alt-indie is, one fears to imagine the damage it could inflict to our cherished memories of “The Breakfast Club” once big Hollywood bucks start fuelling the formula. Soon enough one of these graphic-novel reading noo-voe auteurs is going to be thrown a lot of cash to realize their most esoteric artistic wank-fantasies to the mega-budget full…and then get fired halfway through for going all ‘Heaven’s Gate’ and demanding the use of seven-hundred horsebacked extras to be extremely droll to one another on ice under a coral reef on the moon for an irrelevant dream sequence.

Following this, some hacky failsafe turdsock will doubtlessly be drafted up from the director bargain bin to save the picture from totally becoming the ultimate of suck by playing it safe and copying the ‘quirk flick’ formula to the max. This would of course be coupled with the prescription of a steady diet of every example they could find, from the awesomely quirky to the pleasant-ish time passer to the generic not-silly-enough-to-laugh-not-sad-enough-to-cry dull-as-dysentary balltits crap indie that Eric Cartman once perceptively described as “a load of gay cowboys eating pudding”.

For sure, this is all perfectly idle speculation with almost no basis in fact or sense whatsoever, but should such a film ever be made, I could only imagine the script to look rather like this:

A Family of Ingrates

A.K.A

“Little Miss Tenenbaum Hearts Donnie Huckabees And You And Me And Everyone Juno Knows’ Adaptation of Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Dynamite Garden State of Happiness, Limited”

Cast:

Donnie – teenage boy

Quirk: uses a lot of internet slang, only ever eats cold sausages and lettuce.

Adema – Donnie’s mum

          Quirk: Addicted to leopard tranquilisers and anal penetration.

Henrietta-Fleabag – Donnie’s sister

          Quirk: child genius 6 years old, builds rocketships and could possibly time travel, ¹

Pindlethrippe Explosionfest– Donnie’s half-brother

          Quirk: Speaks only in quotes from Captain Beefheart songs. Carries around a banjo which he never plays. Has no bones.

Binksy Bonksy Conksy Monk: a postman who spies on the family on Wednesdays.

          Quirk: spies on the family on Wednesdays. Has too many bones. Paints pineapples onto his chest with a scythe made of cat hair.

Little Miss Tenenbaum – Donnie’s love interest.

          Quirk: is fairly ugly.

Scene 1: Interior, daytime, kitchen

Adema stares blankly out the open window. She lights a cigarette. We watch her smoke the entire thing whilst the opening credits role. She lights another. We watch this as well.

Donnie enters.

Donnie: 

Hey mom have you seen my socks?

Adema appears totally unaware of his existence.

Donnie:

Mom?....oh shit not again.

He rushes out the kitchen and back into the house, calling desperately for his half-brother Pindlethrippe Explosionfest and sister Henrietta-Fleabag to come to the kitchen to help their mother. They all return.

Donnie: 

You know what? I have a confession to make.

Adema continues not to care. Pindlethripp Explosionfest and Henrietta-Fleabag eat themselves in an amusing fashion. Binksy Bonksy Conksy Monk enters. He is a postman who spies on the family on Wednesdays. He is dressed as such. He then leaves, remembering that it is not Wednesday today, nor is it any other day. 

Little Miss Tenenbaum is about to enter, but then remembers that she is not an actual character in the film per se, but just someone who’s name is always mentioned by other characters. She recalls how upset this probably makes her, and proceeds to not exist.

Donnie stands up on a piece of marzipan that is also a tin tear drop, and begins his soliloquy in the voice of a drunken ocelot-tamer.

Donnie: 

Well, in short, I was getting really high last night, and accidentally set fire to my copy of the script. The fire spread, and went on to destroy ever over copy ever, whilst miraculously managing to stay contained within my room, and not cause damage to anything else. Quid pro quo, the movie has to be cancelled, as does any article writing about the movie, or any possible suggestion that the movie is or is not. And just like THAT…I’m gone.

Donnie stays standing like a statue made of Donnie.

The film ends, and receives a standing ovation from an almost empty audience of just one admirer, myself. I clap until my hands turn into red hands, and leave, comfortable in the knowledge that I am now better than everyone else.

In thirty years time or so, I will have a big smart looking funky beard and a tweed jacket, and will talk long and loud to everyone who doesn’t care less about this “long-forgotten masterpiece that deserves much greater recognition”. The size of my beard and tweedyness of my jacket, coupled with an appearance on television, will be sufficient enough reason for it to be re-released in remastered quality for the BFI, on a highly technological format downloaded directly into the soul, for the bargain price of seventy poos.

The greatest trick the art-house capitalists ever pulled was convincing the world they didn’t exist.

And just like THAT.

*I’m gone*

FYI: “Synecdoche, New York” is out now on DVD, in a normal proletarian one-disc vanilla version AND a two disc geek-jizz bells and whistles version with a shiny cover. That is all.x

1 Although this is merely one interpretation of the film, which has several interpretations, despite carrying an otherwise normal one-dimensional boy meets girl plotline, because the ending doesn’t make any sense. Genius.