MISS MAKEOVER: MALE RAPE. EXISTENTALIST GLOOM. GEEZER’S IDEA OF A DATE MOVIE,
By Rollerblade on September 25, 2010
Male rape. Tricky subject. No strap on action tonight then…
“You keep saying we never go anywhere,” says Geezer. ”What about this then?” We’re at the National Film Theatre for I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, a movie by the director of Get Carter, a masterpiece which lads like for all the wrong reasons. You’re supposed to pity the hero, Jack Carter, not take him as a role model. Being a Brit Noir completist I want to see the director and the screenwriter talk afterwards. Being a boy, Geezer also has to collect the set. He’s even read the book of Get Carter, which may be why he possesses a mohair suit.
At least this film isn’t awash with drugs. We may get through two hours without constantly being reminded that we are both gagging for various Class A substances. The last DVD Geezer bought to my house was Pusher, utterly brilliant but so realistic it involved the actors pleasantly mashed on real coke. Despite the grim fate of the protagonists it’s impossible to watch it without fancying a toot. And I don’t even like coke. Still. I’m flexible. Especially for Calvin Klein, a coke and ketamine cocktail which makes you feel like God herself.
I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead is impressively stylish and violent but otherwise as bleak as a wet weekend in Wigan. You probably need to be about sixty to understand it, like the director and screenwriter. Life is essentially meaningless and no one will remember us, not for long anyway. Thanks for sharing, guys. Geezer is also not happy, seeing Get Carter’s basic revenge plot twisted around the rape of some tough guy’s brother. I don’t think he’ll be asking for gentle penetration tonight. After which he always turns me over and gives me an Olympic seeing to. Kisses and cuddles maybe. A starlit walk along the South Bank and then home would be best. Hand in hand. Discussing the movie, Geezer is as puzzled as I am but gaining points for being bewitched by Charlotte Rampling, intelligent and beautiful but she’s not exactly lad mag material these days. Geezer has depth. As well as width. (Do excuse me, but he really is blessed down below.)
“You know, I really like you,” says Geezer.
“I like you,” I tell him.
Time freezes. Is this what I think it is? I wouldn’t say yes. But I’d respect him more if he had the nads to ask. “…do this more often. Go out for meals and stuff.”
“Yes,” I say. Except that neither of us should be drinking but never mind. He’s sketching out a future. We like this. Planning stuff. Walking hand in hand.
We walk up to London Bridge, past the Globe, pause at St Paul’s for another long kiss. Sometimes we’re a really nice couple. Why don’t I make it permanent? Because My Man Max is coming back soon. And it ain’t over till the thin gentleman sings.