Caves of Forgotten Pretentiousness

So the Evil Docktor Clay was in town yesterday afternoon with his brother. They tipped up at my house and both began systematically beating me with a short length of rubber hose. They took it in turns and laughed like drains the entire time. After this ignoble entry, we walked down to town for the real reason he was in York for the afternoon, that is, to see the new Werner Herzog movie; Cave of Forgotten Dreams. All in glorious 3D! Like we were actually there! We paid our entry but in the fluster of getting the tickets and 3D glasses it slipped our attention that we'd been sold up the fucking river by the student behind the counter and he'd given us seats so far back in the theatre they were in the projection booth facing the fucking wall. I blamed Clay for this outrage as he wasn't watching what was going on, he'd already brought his own 3D glasses and had less on his mind than me. Anyway, we got in the theatre and saw that the place was empty (this was probably something to do with my insistence on arriving about six hours before a film is about to begin. I like to get good seats and prefer to wait for ages rather than end up on the front row in a crowded cinema staring up at the screen only to end up walking out like the hunchback of Notre Dame after two hours of spinal realignment). We looked around ourselves and realised that we'd got the worst seats in the house but as it was empty we made a beeline for the best seats, right in the centre of the theatre. We sat quite comfortably for five minutes, shooting the shit and talking about various pressing issues, like what is best, muffins or crumpets, when a couple arrived and made their way up the rows and straight to the fucking seats we were sitting in. There must have been over two hundred seats in the fucking theatre, so the chances of them having the exact same seats that we'd decided to sit in must have been about 0.5%! I, again, blamed Clay. Shamefaced we trudged up the stairs to the very top of the cinema to take our rightful places.

Yeah, this is mine, Z1

How was the film? Well, as you would expect from any Werner Herzog movie, it was pretty fucking pretentious. He was interviewing a French archaeologist who had done a laser scan of the entire cave that involved millions of laser plotted points and gave a graphical representation of the cave complex and all the paintings that lay therein. Werner asked 'What about these points? Do they have a memory, lives, heartbeat?' The archaeologist (who was previously a fucking juggler and a fucking unicyclist, regular readers will already know my temperate opinions on such people), fumbled through an answer about memories or some other shit. Do you know what I would have said? I would have answered 'NO, OF COURSE THEY DON'T HAVE A FUCKING MEMORY! OR A LIFE OR HEARTBEAT!! THEY ARE COMPUTER GENERATED POINTS IN A PROGRAMMED GRAPHICAL REPRESENTATION OF A CAVE, YOU STUPID FUCKING HIPPIE! GET BACK TO THE 60'S AND STOP HAVING ACID FLASHBACKS IN MY OFFICE!!!' Yeah, that's what I would have said.

 'Does it breathe?'

'No, you cunt. it's a map.'

The film was full of nonsense like this. There was one point where Werner was telling us that there was the footprint of child and wolf side by side. He postulated on this; 'Was the wolf stalking the child, did they walk side by side or were the prints made with thousands of years between them? We will never know!' No we will never know, but I'M GUESSING THE LAST FUCKING THEORY IS THE CORRECT ONE!! WHY EVEN BOTHER SAYING IT? WHY WERNER? WHY?? I'M GETTING ENRAGED JUST THINKING ABOUT THIS!! There was also this crazy Perfumer who was dragged into the caves to smell the past. Now, call me cynical, but WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ABOUT?? How can you smell the past? ARGHH!!! THE HATRED IS BUILDING UP INSIDE OF ME!!! The guy looked crazy as well, he looked like a bull about to charge, you know what I mean? That bovine way of crossed eyes and barely concealed taurine fuelled rage.

'I can smell the past'

'No, that's just bullshit...'

The paintings themselves looked like they'd been done by six year olds. Six year old tards. And they'd not even been coloured in properly. Some looked like potato stamp paintings that kids do in primary school. I was enraged. It was being touted as a prime example of human cultural and artistic beauty. But they were no 'Napoleon Crossing the Alps' I can tell you.

Shit

Good