توی همین پیاده روی های بی محابا و طولانی فکرش به ذهنم رسید. قبلترش دفترچه سرخ را هم از غرفه داستان همشهری گرفته بودم و پر میکردم این هم بهانه شد تا بنویسم. تمام فیلم هایی را که دیده ام و ازشان خوشم آمده بنویسم. آن تکه های شاخ اش را آن تجلی ها و فکرهای ناب اش را ثبت کنم. از اول سال 13 فیلم دیده ام و اگر بخواهم ثبت کنم مجموعه خوبی از کار در خواهد آمدش .
این فیلم هم احسان بهم توصیه کرد."ساعت بیست و پنجم "را دیدم چون میخواستم فیلم هایی که ادوارد نورتن درش بازی کرده باشم.اماساخت و پرداخت فیلم آنقدر خوب بود که به شدت درگیرم کرد مانتوگمری جوان فروشنده مواد بوده که میخواهد از این کار دست بکشد که گیر می افتد و به هفت سال حبس محکوم میشود. یک جایی وقتی روز قبل از معرفی اش به زندان برای اجرا حکم می رود از پدرش که رستوران دار پیر و زحمت کشی است خداحافظی کند توی دستشویی درست یک گوشه از آیینه چیزی می بیند که بدجور تکانش میدهد.و بعدآن منولوگ شاهکار را حواله خود تو آیینه اش میکند. توی تمام قیلم حس کردم این تکه چیزی بود که نویسنده خیلی سعی داشت بنویسد. انگاری قلمبه توی گلویش مانده بود و باید مینوشت. انگار اصلا اول این تکه آمده و توی ذهنش و نوشته و بعد آمده برای ماندگار یاش فیلمنامه ای برایش نوشته است. اگر نمی نوشت انگار که چیزی از فیلم نامه اش ناقص است.
(Monty walks into the
bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written FuckYou!)
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city
and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking
job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs,
curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking
training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down
on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel
35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their
tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky
English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea
in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and
schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their
dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael
Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard
working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You
think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break!
Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst
fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans,
because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up
suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi,
Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar
Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all
taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play
defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want
to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred
and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots,
standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the
church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it,
fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the
hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin
Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist
assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you
spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a
jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal,
Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at
my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold
me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on
club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the
penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho.
From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the
split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires
rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this
whole, rat-infested place.
Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then
you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
