Hard though it may be to believe, there was a time before Carry On films. A time when poorly fastened udder-cups didn’t fly off during regimented campsite calisthenics, and handsomely-knockered innuendos weren’t dry-humped home by the rasping laugh of a Shar Pei-faced South African and a swiftly administered honk.
How on earth our ancestors survived these years of smutless austerity is beyond me. But survive they did, thank tits. And as pre-Barbara Windsor Britain waited for her most jugsome of cultural dawns to break, with strict adherence to our already established theme of the-fuck-whating implausibility, a youthful Kenneth Williams genuinely aspired to be a serious dramatic actor.
Poor Kenny. Mincing the repertory theatre boards with delusions of emulating Olivier only for audiences to point and laugh the second he showed them his Shylock; that trademark nasal predilection inducing ovations of shit-spuming mirth that only subsided when the rising tide of runny excrement began engulfing the weaker swimmers.
Thus, the twice-nightly spectacle of fat kids drowning in shit eventually forced young Kenneth reluctantly toward a niche career in highly accomplished buffoonery, if only to spare his pride and lower the body count.
All of which has me wondering: if Golden Globe nominee* Brad Pitt ever gets wind of the worldwide turd-birthing giggle-fit that erupts every time he attempts serious thespianism, would he follow Kenny’s lead and swap the Method for the clown trousers? I for one would hope so.
The man’s a born pantaloon and if he’d only give up proper acting he’d be up there with the likes of Sellers, Wilder, maybe even Wayans
For as found-wanting as this crap-acting tower of idiot gristle is whenever he tries to play it straight, when William Bradley Pitt ‘goes goofball’ he’s nothing short of imperious. I can’t think of a single film that cast him as the dipshit, dingbat or dick-spring where he hasn’t come away completely stealing the show: his stoner in True Romance; his mash-eyed mentalist in Twelve Monkeys; his incoherent Romany fuck-knuckle in Snatch. The list goes on but, sadly, not long enough – too much Benjamin Button, Brad, not enough Floyd.
We’ve all got an inner fuckwit. But when Moneyball’s perennial pretty boy – forever miscast as the hero, the heartthrob, the hardbody – finally abandons all dignity and channels his latent berk he truly becomes a giant of his craft. The man’s a born pantaloon and if he’d only give up proper acting he’d be up there with the likes of Sellers, Wilder, maybe even Wayans.
Witness his turn as vacuum-skulled gym jockey Chad Feldheimer in Burn After Reading, the Coen brothers’ glorious ode to unscrupulous breast-augmenting stupidity. His utter dedication to sculpting a monumental gold-plated bozo out of base dickery is breath-taking, verging on genius, and worthy of whatever the comedy equivalent of the Nobel Peace Prize would be if only the very concept of such an award wasn’t as daft as a pug dog’s cock.
The blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shot of Feldheimer aboard a running machine singing along to his iPod may last for just 2 seconds, but those 2 seconds of raped-swan warbling are funny enough to exorcise humanity’s warmongering demons forever and fill the void with the 8 litres of warm snot that blurted from my face the first time I saw it.
The noise he generates, it sounds like Yngwie Malmsteen’s pitchshifter pedal is having an epileptic fit in his larynx – one of those all-too-rare cinematic moments that has you rewinding in wheezed convulsions time and time again. I watched that nano-scene 1,904 times. (That’s just 13 shy of the bit in Napoleon Dynamite where the eponymous lead takes a torpedo-passed pepper steak flush in the jewfro – still tops the pops, that one. Bless you, Uncle Rico.)
Heart-breaking how history keeps repeating: Williams, a victim of his own voice; Pitt, a slave to his dreadful good looks
And the absurd facial salutation Pitt conjures the split second before George Clooney blasts his underemployed cerebellum halfway to Narnia should be carved on the side of Mount Rushmore at Thomas Jefferson’s expense. Sure, Jefferson was the principle force in the Committee of Five, but look how well Bradley takes a punch. If you’re going to have a national holiday in someone’s honour surely it should be for the guy who has no issue making a twat of himself on camera.
But, alas, it’s not to be. The clowning, it seems, must remain but a hobby, a tragically fleeting diversion on a career path otherwise laden with endless Meet Joe Blacks. And Brad, still pigeonholed as eye candy, is left to merely moonlight as the dribbling shitfinger he was patently born to be.
Heart-breaking how history keeps repeating: Williams, a victim of his own voice; Pitt, a slave to his dreadful good looks. They really are exactly the same. Only complete opposites. See, with a face like that it’s just such a tough ask for audiences to not take him seriously. But that’s what we need to do. Not take him seriously. Laugh at him. Point and laugh and encourage him to amplify the stupid. Because if it’s stupidity you want, Brad Pitt is the most accomplished actor working in film today. And it’s about time somebody told him.
*Really?! What are the HFPA’s ‘Best Actor’ criteria, exactly? Punctuality? Managing to turn up on the right set 9 times out of 10? Not being found dead with your cock in a horse until the press junket’s finished? Because he can’t possibly have been nominated for his performance.
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