Parsimonious Cox

I went over to see my friend Brian (Cox). He’s an asshole, but I like his work. I’m a fan of Manhunter, Red Eye, and Rise of the Planet of the Apes (those monkeys make me freaking crazy). All of his other performances I find kind of grating, to be honest. You know how Aimee Mann’s voice sounds like a dying car alarm? It’s like she only knows one mode. Brian has the same problem, he’s always all Scottish bluster and blarrgh and brummphh. Americans think he’s smarter and more talented than he is because he’s got the accent. Well. I can tell you he’s lacking taste and, as everyone can see, manners. “I like to honour the actor’s performance. With a Quentin Tarantino film, what you see is all Quentin Tarantino. That’s not me. I don’t want to do that.” Is his directorial debut Glenrothan any good? Jordan Ruimy of World of Reel says no: “Cox really shouldn’t talk. I had the misfortune of seeing his directorial debut at TIFF last year; it’s called Glenrothan, and it was one of the absolute worst films of the fest—I did the rarest of things and walked out of this bland, clichéd mess at the one-hour mark. Currently, it sits at 0% on Rotten Tomatoes.”

Moment!

Brian didn't stop there—he called Johnny Depp “overblown, so overrated,” Edward Norton “a pain in the arse,” Jeremy Strong “disruptive,” Magot Robbie “too beautiful [to play Cathy in “Wuthering Heights].” And he called My Sensei “meretricious,” which too many newspapers and online outlets have defined themselves in their articles, just to be clear. The common intelligence continues its precipitous slide into oblivion. Not even William Patrick Corgan knows what “contrivance” means (but Courtney Love does: “Fake. Something fake.”) I try to get Brian to say something about Miss World and the Big Pumpkin, but he won’t budge. “I don’t know who these people are. Fuck off!!!”

He still thinks he’s on Succession, a show that ended three years ago, and right on time if you ask me. I asked Brian if he was still bitter that his character was killed off so early into the final season. “You’re goddamn right I’m bitter! I’m angry! I make McDonald’s commercials for a living, Tony Hopkins steals my best character, and every grey-haired English and Scotsman gets to play in Harry Potter, but NOT ME! I never got the call!” The resentment is bugging me out, and since I only came for a pick-me-up of cocaine (Brian doesn’t indulge, but a bum outside of his flat definitely does), I try and get out of our dinner commitment. You see, people in the U.K. are more tolerant of my being a walking and talking bird with opinions and needs. Maybe people are just reacting to Brian in a negative way because it’s birdlike, not human. We understand each other on a profound level, so much so that I’m beginning to wonder why he didn’t cast me in his film debut as a director.

“Because you were off with that parlous twat Tarantella!” I’m still not sure he’s using that word correctly, but I let it slide. I won’t let this slide, though: “The way people treat Scotland, you know, it’s very beautiful and all that, but what we’ve done intellectually—we created television, the telephone, advances in medicine—it’s extraordinary. But we’re so low graded and because of that we don’t get what we deserve.” Sorry, the telephone? Television? Um, we all know a black woman is behind those miraculous advances in human technology. The man is off his rocker—maybe he’s high. “You done any ad work lately, Ben?” He calls me Ben. We know each other from a Pan Am shoot. “No,” I say, “I’ve been working with Tarantella. And Fincher. It’s a life, not a job.”

He winced. “Fincher shoots… many takes, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Have you ever told him to fuck off?”

“I’m not suicidal.”

“Cobblers…”

“I’m sorry?”

British people—sorry, Scots, all the same to me—love saying funny words. They love using their fucking language. They love it so much they add extra letters to certain words. Ridiculous. Haven’t they heard of American efficiency and bulk shopping? Buy a Toyota or a Hyundai, live a little. I don’t even know why I bothered to visit Brian (a former friend). He’s just bitter that he only became a name actor late in life, almost 80, and he’s firing in all directions and clearly not helping his cause. It’s just pathetic. Imagine James Gandolfini or Jon Hamm doing the same. No, no. They know which side their bread is buttered.

So do I. My Sensei isn’t “meretricious”—he’s a golden picnic on wheels. See? You can have fun with language without sounding like a fucking poof.

Mood.

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