Archives for posts with tag: Colin Firth

So, here it is.  Up and running.

My controversial, contemporary retelling of Oscar Wilde’s 1890 Lippincott version of  The Picture of Dorian Gray.

I really hope you enjoy it.

Gary Winick (Tadpole 2002) died.  He was 49-years-old.

Gary once introduced me to Mark Ruffalo.  Mark wouldn’t remember me, Gary would.

Gary was one of the forward thinking guys who set up the ground breaking film production company InDigEnt.  He was a really, really sweet man.  No news as to how he died but I think, from what I can remember, he may have had a serious illness that he kept quiet about.

He was very discreet.

Crikey, so many deaths!  I just diligently report them.  It’s rewarding to find something nice to say about the recently departed like poor Wally in Whitstable.

In Jean’s case, it was quite hard.  We hadn’t spoken for ages because we had a money issue that neither of us wanted to resolve.  He was a terrible drain on his friends and family.  Let’s put it this way: it was very hard for Jean to enjoy his gifted life without endlessly complaining or taking drugs.

People die.  I just put on my bombazine shift and write the bleeding obituary.

Perhaps I should try writing my own?

I would entitle it:  WEAK TEA  or  LOUD AND DIM or NOTHING REMARKABLE.

To be run in the Whitstable Times in the event of my death:

Surly Duncan Roy (65) found dead in his Swalecliffe bed sitting room.  Former Lord of The Lies refused medication for obvious mental illness and made unremarkable films.   Campaigned for the Red Spider Cafe.  He will not be missed.

I have not written a last will and testament so the fuckers can squabble over what is left.   I may leave it all to that little girl or to a bat charity or Jake’s ex-girl friend.  That would be funny.

Watched Oscars.  Was James Franco stoned?  No!  He’s been sober for YEARS.  He just looked a bit unprepared.  I would have preferred if Social Network had won best film.  It deserved to.  The Kings Speech is constipated TV tosh.   Tom Hooper is a director of no importance.  Why does Colin Firth KEEP telling the world how important Tom Ford is to him and how he wouldn’t be receiving these awards without having met him?  I thought that Firth had a rather long and distinguished career before meeting Ford?  Are they or have they been…fucking?

It occurred to me why Portman trumped Benning…Portman has more mileage in her and will generate more cash for CAA.  Poor Annette Bening so obviously deserved that Best Actress Academy Award but she’s an old mare and who writes great roles for old mares that Meryl Streep isn’t getting first refusal?

Clip Clop Annette.

I have not been up Runyon yet but when I do I will write my blog.

Today I wanted to write about being fucked in the ass by a woman wearing a strap on dildo whilst whispering filthy things in my ear.  That happened on Whitstable beach 15 years ago.  The woman is now a lesbian of the sexual opportunistic variety and now lives here in LA.  Whenever we meet we look at each other coyly because some things are better left unsaid, unexplored, unrevisited which does not seem to be a real word.  I have never been so turned on.  I was never ever so turned on again.   It was far too scary a prospect to admit that this was what I wanted.  It wasn’t MEN at all.  I wanted a lesbian with a dildo to fuck me so hard I couldn’t sit down for a week and tell me that she was going to fuck me harder.  What would my Christian readers think of that?  That’s almost heterosexual isn’t it?

Okay, I’ll write my blog now.

Some of you will be delighted to hear that Jennie and I are scarcely talking.  Her and her best friend Eric-my ex best friends can be now found ensconced in his apartment night after night watching mad men and baking cookies.   When I first introduced them he told me that he had had fantasies about her as Penny Flame-that she was one of his ‘girls’.   Now she bakes him cookies for Christmas.

I had a dream about Jennie:  that she was fucking me in the ass with a dildo but she was crying.  It was making her cry.  I begged her not to cry like I tried to placate my mother when she cried.

I think I might turn off my blog comments after this.  I no longer look at the VH1 ‘boards’ (or any other board for that matter) and I am not reading the comments that are fast attaching themselves, like barnacles to a schooner, to my Daily Beast article.

I want to respond!  I want to say, ‘now hold on just one God damned moment!  You can’t say that about me!’  I want to tell them forcefully that I really do need to believe in God if I am going to stay sober in a 12-step programme.  That I really don’t own a TV because I will just LOOK at it 24/7.  That if these people were British I would be heartbroken but they are not, they can’t touch me…

But I am touched.  Touched by the kind and delicate words of support, of love, of admiration.

Then I realize that I am so damned lucky to be writing things that so many people read.  That those poor people who write those comments good and bad seldom get heard by anyone ever!  It’s easy to be indignant, to misunderstand that their lives are not just about unsolicited comments written on anonymous boards and attached to other peoples work.

So, Jennie and I drifted apart like many other Hollywood romances.  She was the first porn star I ever met.  She is so damned strong and competitive and sure of herself.   She helped me and I helped her-it was pretty equal.  My dog was killed and she drove me to the hospital.   She was stuck in the valley and I helped her move.

I complained to John this morning that I felt the help I had given Jennie was disproportionate and that I deserved more than this!  More than to be excluded from Jennie and Eric’s love nest.  I was complaining over Panatone French toast in Cecconi on Robertson.  I dipped the toast into vanilla flavored crème fresh.

The irony was not lost on me.

John called me Henry Higgins and laughed.   He calls me Henry Higgins when I begin to resent those I help. This isn’t the first time I’ve found a flower girl on the street and made a bet that I can turn her into a world-class ingénue.

We laughed because life is good, the sun is shining and I don’t want to watch Mad Men with Eric and Jennie any more.

I don’t want to be in the problem-I want to be in the solution.

However I do rather fancy myself as Rex Harrison, Audrey Hepburn/Jennie storming around the apartment building singing this:

Julie Andrews singing this song for Jennie

Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!
You’ll be sorry, but your tears’ll be to late!
You’ll be broke, and I’ll have money;
Will I help you? Don’t be funny!
Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!
Just you wait, ‘enry ‘iggins, till you’re sick,
And you scream to fetch a doctor double-quick.
I’ll be off a second later And go straight to the the-ater!
Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins, just you wait!
Ooooooh ‘enry ‘iggins!
Just you wait until we’re swimmin’ in the sea!
Ooooooh ‘enry ‘iggins!
And you get a cramp a little ways from me!
When you yell you’re going to drown I’ll get dressed
and go to town! Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins!
Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins! Just you wait!
One day I’ll be famous! I’ll be proper and prim;
Go to St. James so often I will call it St. Jim!
One evening the king will say:
“Oh, Liza, old thing,
I want all of England your praises to sing.
Next week on the twentieth of May
I proclaim Liza Doolittle Day!
All the people will celebrate the glory of you
And whatever you wish and want I gladly will do.”
“Thanks a lot, King” says I, in a manner well-bred;
But all I want is ‘enry ‘iggins ‘ead!”
“Done,” says the King with a stroke.
“Guard, run and bring in the bloke!”
Then they’ll march you, ‘enry ‘iggins to the wall;
And the King will tell me: “Liza, sound the call.”
As they lift their rifles higher, I’ll shout:
“Ready! Aim! Fire!”
Oh ho ho, ‘enry ‘iggins,
Down you’ll go, ‘enry ‘iggins!
Just you wait!