Zorro . . . you got a little something . . . under your nose

Yesterday one of our Clients (and yes, the Clients get a Capital C when they give us Gratuities) handed out passes to an advance screening of the new Zorro movie. I remembered the divine Monsieur M, the only person in my acquaintance finding Antonio Banderas as bitable as me. After work, off we went. No time to go home and get snaked, but plenty of time to get liquored up before we hit the Varsity.

I'm used to good movies and Zorro was crap. Not a shocker - just making the point I'd been spoiled, especially by the fucking sweet-ass Denys Arcand flicks the divine Monsieur F has been showing me, particularly Barbarian Invasions (with Stéphane Rousseau, whose babies I’d love to make, if anyone can set that up). Thus I was let down by the explosive mexploitation crap and the Europhobe, let's-all-be-Americans-together propaganda thrown in to break up shots of Antonio Banderas's bum and Catherine Zeta-Jones' bosom - as if those things needed breaking up. STOP TRYING TO TEACH US, HOLLYWOOD. SHOW US PRETTY PEOPLE BEING NAKED. WE'VE HAD A LONG, LONG DAY.

I think what really disappointed me was not being snaked. But perhaps because I wasn't snaked, I discovered Zorro's secret identity. Crystal. It explains it all. The frenetic dancing; the casual disregard for the laws of gravity and physics; the balletic yet horrific violence; the way he chews on Catherine Zeta-Jones' face when they mack. You don't need to suspend your disbelief; just tell yourself that every time Zorro is off the screen he's hiding behind a cactus doing bumps off a rock. I'm pretty sure now that 'swashbuckle' is an archaic way to say 'snort some crystal'. The most disturbing part of this movie was that his horse and ten year old son also seemed to be on crystal, which I don't morally hold with. But at least it gave the film some emotional depth.