GLADIATOR AGAIN: A REPORT FROM A FUGITIVE.

Can I say anything positive about the Gladiator sequel? What is the title? Gladiator 2. That’s not it. Gladiators. Far too obvious. On the cover, it’s a very Roman Gladiator II. Unfathomably, Sir Ridley Scott™ harks back to ALIEN with the title lettering appearing in a vaguely animated form. So, on screen, the movie is GLADIIATOR.
   But really, the movie is Gladiator Again. A film you’ve already seen as Gladiator. By the numbers. Tick off the story points from a checklist based on the first movie. This time around, there are far more computer effects on display. And almost everyone in the film is miscast. Except for those who returned for the sequel.
   Connie Nielsen and Sir Derek Jacobi are cast perfectly as the same characters they played before. Jacobi was cast in Gladiator off the back of the grumpy director’s memory of the actor’s TV role as Claudius. And Jacobi was cast in Gladiator II off the back of the grumpy director’s memory of the actor’s role in Gladiator.
   It would be terribly awkward not to mention Russell Crowe. And also terribly awkward to mention Russell Crowe. He does indeed appear in this sequel, using footage from the first film in flashback. Can’t really fault the casting, there. But practically everyone else has wandered in from another film.
   Chief contender in the miscasting category is an actor who truly has wandered in from another film, and brought his own plotline with him to blur the thin story of this one. Denzel Washington is fucking great in this movie. It’s just…that he was cast off the back of the grumpy director’s memory of having worked with Denzel before.
   Every second on screen, Denzel fills the movie with crackling sparks…and a plot from somewhere else. If they’d stripped all the pesky Gladiator and Gladiator II stuff out of this film, then there’d be another film entirely. One starring Denzel Washington. And one we’d all be interested in.
   Okay. So what’s the thin plot, here? There’s a man lost in the turmoil of battle. Sad things happen. He is forced to become a gladiator. Quickly, he learns how to handle his new life in an arena out in the sticks. There, he meets Oliver Reed Denzel Washington. No one buys or sells any giraffes.
   There’s a shot at taking out the villain in the much larger arena in Rome. We do see a tiger. Villains must be overthrown. People scheme. These scheming people are, once again, Connie Nielsen and Sir Derek Jacobi.
   It’s Gladiator Again.
   Our hero is the down-on-his-luck adult who was the kid from the first film. At least that’s a valid reason for waiting over two decades to make a fucking sequel. I’ll almost give them that. It might have worked, too, if they’d cast the child actor in the adult role. But they cast, miscast, someone else.
   Spoiler. Russell Crowe’s character is very dead. Most sincerely dead. He could’ve been alive and in the sequel. We’ll talk about Nick Cave later. No, really. It was a whole thing.
   Back to the secret kid. Not that the kid was a secret. Maybe his real daddy was a secret, in the first film. Vague hints. We couldn’t have anything more than vague hints. You see, Maximus Derivative Sequelus…
   Fuck it. The whole point of Russell Crowe’s character in the original film is that he’d have his vengeance in that film and not the next. Maximus had to avenge the death of his wife and son. And for that reunion at the end of the film to have an emotional impact, out in the filtered wheat fields, his character couldn’t have a secret son after banging Connie Nielsen’s character.
   But here, as too many movie and TV scripts utter, here we are. The secret son has grown up, turned his back on the Evil that is Rome, and is now living a peaceful life in…aw, fuck, here come those pesky Romans. Our hero, Haribo, goes up against our anti-hero General Stand-In, who felt all inspired by Russell Crowe back in the day.
   I’ll see you…on the beach! That opening bombast is partly Saving Private Ryan, partly Ridley Scott advertising something – we aren’t sure what – and partly snippets taken from Frank Miller’s 300. The gladiatorial movies share the same stunning levels of historical accuracy with 300, I am happy to report. I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if a tyrannosaur turned up in that fancy arena, replacing the computerised rhino.
   Maybe look for that feisty reptilian action in the third glorious movie: Gladiators Three. An epic return to form as the two dead fuckmuppet Emperors from this movie are brought back to life by ALIEN™ technology to ride into battle aboard their steam-powered pet dinosaur Duke Daisy. It’s a musical comedy. I can hear the critics sing, singing a song of angry men. Starring the desecrated digital bones of Ian Holm…
   I’ll stop there. Just don’t get me fucking started on that fiasco.
   How often do I think about the Roman Empire? I never think about the Roman Empire. Even when I’m thinking about how often I don’t think of the Roman Empire, I’m not even thinking about the Roman Empire. I wasn’t even thinking about the Roman Empire when I watched two gladiator-themed moves directed by Ridley.
   Really should stop calling him Ridley. People will think Daisy Ridley directed Gladiator II. No, even when watching a Rome-themed movie, it appears that I never think of the Roman Empire.
   There is no homo-erotic subtext in one film or the other film. (It’s in both films.)
   Plot twist. Gladiator Haribo and General Stand-In are now at odds with each other. Oh no. One is the secret son of Russell Crowe’s character Maximus. The other secretly worship’s Russell Crowe’s character Maximus. Only in cinemas.
   The opening of this movie is full of blood, thunder, thud, blunder, bombast, bomb blasts, napalm, death, and one or two digital sequences. I counted one or two. Then lost interest in counting the rest.
   There’s a new score featuring reheated elements from the original score. Inspirational speeches abound, though they are served up late from the microwaved leftovers from the first film.
   Speaking of microwaved leftovers from a better movie, the Emperor was replaced by two of the most miscast actors in a Mediterranean Sea of miscast actors. Least said, soonest mended. I just don’t have the energy. Should have hired Statler and Waldorf – though they, too, would have been miscast.
   What we do in life echoes in the sequel. Are we not entertained? You’re damned fucking right we are not entertained. Ridley has one eye on another pointless ALIEN sequel, showing us what would happen if the alien infected a family of baboons.
   They could have spent a whole lot more money on the computerised baboons. Wouldn’t have mattered. Strangely, I found the rhino a hell of a lot easier to accept. There’s a sliding scale of acceptance in this movie…
   It runs…rhino, yes. Baboons, no. Rubber sharks…fuck off. All of the computer models for animals are miscast in this film. Even the rhino. But that hardly matters. Here, they are outshone by the miscast humans. Loads of ’em.
   Pedro Pascal, General Stand-In, is miscast as a man who is miscast in a film. Yes, even his miscasting in this movie feels a bit off, a bit extra, in the department of wrongness. In the final analysis, that’s nothing. Nothing. Compared to…
   Matt Lucas as a Roman game-show host. Yes. That bit of stunt casting. Miscasting. David Hemmings wasn’t available. Death will affect the casting process that way. Yes, we miss Oliver Reed as well.
   This farce of a gladiatorial movie almost had me nostalgic for Gor. That’s a lie. I will never have nostalgia for Gor. Not even for all of the Oliver Reed scenes in Gor. They should have called this Gladiator: the Rematch. This time it’s personal. Only in cinemas.
   Gladiator: the Rehash. Okay. I get it. If the role is also part of the title, then we’re going to see some gladiatorising at some point. Gladiator Rising might have been a far better bet as a title. Is there any director out there, way out there, more inconsistent, more fucking random, than Ridley?
   Advertising jobs saved him. Made him. He owed it all to Captain Birdseye. If you listened to Captain Birdseye, though, Ridley was an arsehole. Mucking around at the BBC, Ridley was almost in a position to design the Daleks for Doctor Who. Why didn’t he design the Daleks? Because they’d have fucking resembled him. And Ridley wouldn’t have fucking cared.
   Scrolling down the patchy Scott filmography…it’s definitely a thing. By fuck, he veers wildly from film project to film project. He’s still going as I type, so, luckily for him, GLADIIATOR won’t be his last film.
   At least no one made the GLADIATOR sequel about Russell Crowe returning from the dead as an immortal assassin hell-bent on killing Jesus. Yes, that was my response when I first heard about it. Either Nick Cave was smoking everything while writing…or he was smoking nothing.

BLINK AND YOU MISS LADY GAGA IN THE SOPRANOS.

Some cultural icons are ripe for explaining to dusty old judges. Lady Gaga makes a fine example.

   “At that point, we contend the defendant illegally downloaded Lady Gaga.”

   “I am sure that members of the jury will join in my expression of astonishment. Could you provide further elucidation? A lady who was gaga…”

   “Lady Gaga is a singer popular with the young persons, m’Lud.”

   “A singer. You mean of recordings, in the hit-parade…”

   “Mm. And dancer. Fashion icon. She has many facets.”

   “Facets. How would you describe her to members of the jury?”

   “I believe you would describe her as a highly personable young lady, m’Lud.”

   “Really. Perhaps I should investigate her oeuvre.”

   “Quite.”

   “And you contend that this filthy swine did what to her?”

   “Downloaded her, m’Lud.”

   “Members of the jury, shield your ears.”

   And so on. I was taken aback, in the manner of a judge, when I heard that Lady Gaga once appeared in The Sopranos. When? In episode nine of the third series. She cheers young Anthony Soprano’s trashing of a swimming pool. Blink and you miss her.

   I thought long and hard about The Sopranos before I took the tour. To the extent that I decided to watch the whole damn thing all over again. I knew that at least one guy from the show went to jail then became an actor. At least one guy from the show did that the other way around.

   If you watched a movie, a TV show, or a play…if you read a rather annoying piece of blurb…if you thumbed through a comic book…

   Someone, somewhere, somewhen, somehow wrote it. David Chase didn’t write the show on his lonesome. He didn’t spring from the ocean as if created a writer the day before penning Mafia scripts. That goes for the actor James Gandolfini, too – he didn’t just spring out of nowhere.

   He was that guy in movies. I’d seen him a few times. He seemed to have a mild Denzel Washington connection going. Maybe Denzel helped out with a film role. Then Gandolfini played Tony Soprano and his world changed.

   As usual, The Sopranos got a mention well in advance before it washed up on Scottish shores. I’d lost track of the times some new show was touted as the most amazing thing. Only for the show to unfurl before me with distinctly unamazing qualities in the writing department. Often, I’d struggle to sit through the first episode – and I’m patient. Really patient.

   I didn’t make it through the first fifteen minutes of Lost.

   What is this?! It’s going to be a crock of shit with no reasonable explanation at the end. Going by reports of how that TV show ended, my crystal ball was firing on all cylinders that day. Yes, my crystal ball has cylinders.

   The Sopranos lived up to the hyperbolae. I watched the show. Hell, I even got sucked into er which was running before it. Catching the last five minutes of a relentlessly-paced medical drama was enough to draw me in. Great to see actors in one show appear in the other.

   That first episode of the Mafia drama was one of the strangest opening episodes of a TV show I’ve ever seen. Someone, somewhere, somewhen, somehow wrote it. (That’s true of Lost. Mm.) Television. Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.

   The show remained consistent. A world was created. It felt real, on its own terms. Perhaps not in the depiction of the psychiatrist Dr Jennifer Melfi – but drama must be dramatic, else you are simply looking out the window at your own life unfolding in uneventful bursts.

   I applauded the casting of every single actor who played someone in the FBI. They all appeared to have that Federal quality to them. If you’ve ever dealt with Federal people, you’ll know what I mean. (My blog’s banner headline is symbolic. I am NOT actually on the run.)

   To our tale. I was headed, once again, to America. The Big Apple. I landed in Newark, took the train from Noo Joisey to Noo Yawk, and prepared to return to Joisey for the tour. See the shootings. Take a tour of sites and sights featured in The Sopranos.

   This was the first TV-themed tour I’d undertaken. There were echoes of my own private movie-themed tour. In San Francisco, I’d gone around checking out locations featured in the Hitchcock movie Vertigo.

   While in San Francisco, I’d been complimented on my accent. Don’t ever lose it. Well, I’ll see what I can do. Later, I’d scare the hell out of an American while using that self-same accent. And later still, a man would comment on the accent being familiar to him.

   He was a radio-ham. I thought them extinct, but no. He tuned in and listened to Scottish tones from a place called Kearny, over in Jersey. On hearing the man say this, I never for a moment thought I’d end up on the streets of Kearny. But I did. Taking the tour. Before I took the tour, I watched The Sopranos again and noted two things. One, I set down. Here’s the observation…

   I am slowly chewing my way through The Sopranos. Very interesting, watching it from the start. The actor who plays Vito in later years pops up as a character called Gino inside a bakery in an early episode. Just a bit-part. Clearly, the people who made the show felt he could return as a major character. Violent, funny, tragic, weird. Often in a single episode. A great telly show.

   If you watched a movie, a TV show, or a play…someone, somewhere, somewhen, somehow acted in it. The other thing I noted became significant on the tour. Very significant. I was drawn to a particular scene. There was nothing in it. That’s what drew me.

   Tony Soprano’s wife Carmela, played by Edie Falco, sits at a table in the Plaza Hotel over in New York. A waiter approaches and wordlessly drops off his delivery. He then leaves. That’s it. I watched, thinking that poor bastard didn’t get any lines.

   There’s an actor. Some bit-part guy. You’ve probably seen him in countless things. He can say he’s worked with Edie Falco on The Sopranos. No one gave him any lines. Realistically, he should at least have said something.

   You really notice bit-part acting in TV comedies. The star utters witticisms to people in a queue and they laugh or shrug or roll their eyes. Oh. That’s bit-part no-line acting. A little exaggerated, to play up the comedy. The only reason for drinking from that cloudy well.

   This scene sticks in my mind. I have no clue why. Though I could pretend my crystal ball was firing on all cylinders. I think about the actor. His glorious scene in the show. The lack of lines. An oversight, I’m sure.

   The tour starts with a button. This is a giant model of a button on a needle, situated at 39^th Street and Seventh Avenue. (Dat’s life in the Big City. Or on 39th, anyways. Hey, if I don’t plug my own work then who will?)

   I meet the tour guide and hop on the bus with a whole bunch of fans, not knowing what to expect. The guide says he’ll give us a few more minutes if anyone wants to meet one of the actors from the show. No takers. Just me. I hop off the bus and head to the back for a rendezvous with…

   Joseph R. Gannascoli. In the show he played Gino, and Vito. At the back of the bus, he’s operating out of his car. There’s a merchandising opporchancity. Joe is in the act of packing up. The queue to talk to him came and went while I was photographing the giant button.

   He spies me. We have a quick chat, as I don’t want to hold the bus up. I mention his Gino appearance. Joe tells me that two or three people on every tour spotted his earlier unrelated role in the bakery scene. I only noticed because I watched the whole show before the tour.

   We talk about episodic TV. I always like to see a minor character suddenly take on a major storyline, as his character did. The twist in the storyline came from Joe himself after he read Murder Machine, a book by Jerry Capeci. Joe’s character of Vito took on a life of his own. He wasn’t just some hit-man in see-through socks.

   Joe signs some merch for me, and I hop back on the bus. What can I tell you? He’s a stand-up guy. Our guide introduces himself. We head for the tunnel Tony Soprano emerges from at the start of every episode. Not to go all Dr Melfi on you, but this is as though Tony is born when he appears on the Jersey side of the tunnel.

   Marc Baron is our guide. How informative is he? David Chase created the show. By the time the tour is over, I wonder if David Chase himself could be more informative. The tour means a lot to fans. I catch a woman taking a photo of the Bada Bing parking lot. The look on her face is ecstatic. Come on. The Bada Bing. Fuggedaboutit.

   I watched the whole show before I took the tour. There’s a quiz. We can win prizes. There’s a pen worth going after. From the Bada Bing itself. All sorts of prizes are up for grabs. These are often themed to the question. Yes, I watched the whole show before I took that tour.

   How did I do at the quiz? No better than anyone else on the bus. Marc Baron failed to hand out the pen. He tried again later with another question. Still no takers. I watched the show! Before the tour! Some questions were beyond arcane.

   You start to wonder how many females were murdered on the screen. Is that the trick to the question? We’re going for body-count and names, now? Just for fun, where was Frank Sinatra born? Loads of people answer questions for fun. The pen finally goes to someone on a serious question. Damn. I wanted that pen.

   Facts. Locations. Quiz torture. Up for grabs – another prize. Oh, I know this one. No one on the bus speaks. This is an obvious one! I claim the prize. Wow. I’m astonished that I paid a lot of attention to a particular type of scene in the show. Maybe because I was looking for something to happen. And it almost went down in one episode.

   That’s a writer’s imagination at work. What if this happens to Tony Soprano? Surely the writers will address that. They did. Marc tells us who he really is. Why, he’s the guy who starred in an unlucky thirteen episodes of the show. Either as a stand-in or as a minor character. A bit-part moment here, there.

   For example. Say Carmela Soprano has to visit the Plaza Hotel, and a waiter waltzes through the scene. Marc Baron will step in and be that waiter. I perk up at this, as I’d zoned in on that moment when I watched the show not long before I took the tour. Why? Writerly instinct. I’m an analytical marvel. Just dumb luck. Take your pick.

   Marc treats us to an epic discourse on this scene he shares with Edie Falco. It’s not true to say that half the cast of The Sopranos came from GoodFellas and half came from Cop Land. Though that’s close. I remembered Edie from Cop Land.

   The Plaza Hotel had an arrangement with the makers of The Sopranos. An actor could play the part of a Plaza waiter, but accuracy in presentation had to be preserved. Marc Baron was sent on a course to become the waiter. Method? Eat your heart out, Pacino.

   Edie Falco broke the scene into fragments by asking Marc questions he was obliged to answer. The director was having none of it. Marc Baron had no lines. He wasn’t getting any lines, just because Edie Falco tried to do him an actorly favour.

   For me, that was a great moment on the tour. Something I’d specifically noted was discussed by the man himself. Beyond that, Marc’s knowledge of the production went way past spooky. We toured familiar places. Heard anecdotes. We were treated to continuity glitches pointed out as we drove along.

   The tour was exceptional. I knew from my San Francisco trip that it was strange walking through places that you’ve seen in movies or TV. There I was, suddenly, on the streets of Kearny. Thinking back to San Francisco and the radio-ham who’d noted my accent.

   Okay. Look for a Scottish connection. Anything. You have a few minutes here. Right there. Just along from the Fire Department. A place selling fish and chips. THISTLE. Box ticked. Job done. Off we go.

   Bada Bing. Located in Lodi. Satin Dolls is the real name of the place. I snap an image of a fake rust-stain painted on a wall to make the location seem grimier than it is. There’s a shift-change inside. Some of the scantily-clad women who work at the bar prefer not to tangle with the tourists.

   Marc Baron points out the fact that the show, dealing with the Mafia, is inaccurate in its depiction of the club. In New Jersey, you get the boobs or the booze in clubs like that. It’s illegal to have it all. The TV show depicts a topless bar. Maybe Tony paid to have a few rules removed.

   Tour guide Marc talks to me about atmosphere and memories of certain deals that go down in various episodes. There’s a merchandising opporchancity, which I take. Various women strut the stage when not serving drinks. I’m in the queue to buy a T-shirt, not realising I’m standing against a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

   “Excuse me.”

   A leggy blonde in a red bikini brushes against me on her way to the changing room. She returns in a black baby-doll nightie and nudges a strategically-placed pole. It’s all research, of course. I can put stuff like that in stories. Research. Honest.

   Before more scantily-clad women manage to throw themselves in my direction, I’m at the head of the queue. I spy the pen I didn’t win in the quiz. As I’m buying a T-shirt, the manager throws the pen in free anyway when I ask after the item. I read the inscription. SATIN DOLLS AKA BADA BING. 230 ROUTE 17 S. LODI, NJ.

   The pen still works. Lady Gaga has moved on to other things.

NEXT BLOG: SOCK PUPPETS.