وزارد او دا وستساد
VIZITOR TO THE VESTSIDE
an
American blog of Iranian dissent

Hollywood to Babble-On


Howdy, ya'll. Hope you've had a good week.

Mi semana began with experiencing the last BARF of the winter season. Even got a chance to see Paul Hewson and his U2 crew throw some up while shoveling it off a street outside the Ed Sullivan Theatre, where onlookers hurled epithets and epiphones were heard around the world.

Meanwhile last weekend at the Lincoln Center there was an event saluting the 20th anniversary of the release of Spike Lee's 'Do the Right Thing'. I always thought it was a so-so piece of seminal filmmaking, but its boldness in examining contemporary race relations has rightfully catapulted it into the golden annals. I hope to get access to such annal activity whenever I get the necessary capital and resources needed to produce my projects.

The Independent route is the best route for anyone who dares to bring a taboo subject to duh masses. Apparently the only 'Indie' stories of multiculturalism the suits in Washed Up Hollywood want to hear are when they're packaged as dancing circus monkeys from India. It seems to satisfy some sort of hegemonic white guilt, which also leads certain "celebrities" to adopt ethnic babies from the Third World. (Why not just adopt one of Waqi Iraqi-American Nadya Suleman's dirty dozen, hmm?)

That's why it's time multiculti creative+ypes, scribes and producers (not reproducers, Nadya!) take it to the mainstream level. Stop pigeonholing ourselves. I've always hated checking out the 'World Music' and 'International Cinema' section at a local retailer like Borders and finding the lamest, crappiest fluff around. Nothing you could -relate- to. A North America only in Black & White.

So this week I'm intrigued by the news regarding a contingent of Hollywood execs in Tehran for some cross-cultural exchanges. Initially I thought it was for the red carpet/farsh premiere of 'The Koshtigere' starring Richard Gere as washed up fighter Mickey Rourke. But then I read the supposed controversy.

Someone should tap the I.R.Iran cabinet minister on the shoulder and inform him that the villainous character in Aronofsky's film was based on this bald bull. And by tap I mean he should be punched in his fascist face. Because Mickey Mouse Rourke's face is already bruised and battered, so we shouldn't go there right? Okay, we shall.



That clip from Mike Tyson's Punch Out video game makes sense. There was an immigrant teen named Arash who had moved into our area back in the early 90s. He was khosdeep high school senior who, despite his non-existant english, settled well because of his good looks and knack for fast cars and flashy jewels. He looked like someone in NKOTB.

One mehmooni he took me into his room, and did what he loved to do -- brag about himself. I, being much younger, was a good audience for him to show me pictures of his (supposed) cheerleader girlfriend who lives in Culver City (!), his gold earring (which I found was a magnet)

Then he told me something that made my eyes truly bulge. He had the password, the secret code to the final stage of Mike Tyson's Punch Out. And, supposedly, he had all the A-B button tricks to defeat the champ.

That turned out to be false. A mirage like everything else.

No comments: