John August and Jane Hamsher, �Natural Born Killers�
Much like how I said last month that I could not picture Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas being made into a movie, I could not picture Natural Born Killers being made into a film tie-in novel.
Not that long ago, I also reviewed a film tie-in for Network, and complained that the author was getting money off of somebody else�s screenplay, essentially taking out the dialogue cues and adding little else.
And with Natural Born Killers, I mean hell, that film had such a barrage of visual images that you couldn�t possibly put it all down in a small book and not make the reader�s head explode. I declared that it couldn�t be done, and then vowed to read the book when I got the chance. Just so I could witness the hubris of others. Well, I finally got the chance.
And guess what? My hubris is showing.
The authors (Hamsher was a producer of the film), were smart enough to stay away from the standard regurgitation of the screenplay and instead wrote this like a true crime novel, telling you the story from the perspectives of witnesses and filling in the time lapses in the film. They probably figured, hell, if you�re buying the book, you�ve seen the film. Why would you want to read all the same stuff that you�ve already seen? That�s what screenplays are for!
When I first saw the film, I saw it at a preview where tickets were given away in advance (I got mine at Streetlight records, so you could see whom they were courting as viewers. I didn�t know anything about it — all I knew was that I liked Oliver Stone films (For the most part — I hated The Doors, didn�t care about Wall Street, and was bored out of my mind with Any Given Sunday). I also knew the screenplay was written by Quentin Tarantino, and I loved the chaotic violence of Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and True Romance.
We got to the theater early, as I thought the place would be sold out, and our tickets didn�t guarantee admission. I didn�t need to worry — the theater was barely half full. What transpired was us sitting in a theater waiting for over an hour for the film to start.
In front of us were four cheerleader-type girls who spent the time talking about the latest episode of Friends using the character�s first names as if they actually knew these people. The passion with which they talked about the characters made it seem like they did indeed know them. If I hadn�t heard the introductory, �did you see last night�s Friends?� statement, I wouldn�t have known better.
The previews wanted to set a certain mood, playing clips from four shoot �em up glorified kill �em all action flicks. I don�t know if this was intentional planning from Stone but if it was, it was a truly inspired stroke of genius. The audience was ready for blood.
And then the movie started. You could see the cheerleaders getting restless. Twenty minutes into the film, when Woody Harrelson and Julette Lewis killed her father (played brilliantly and terrifyingly by Rodney Dangerfield) to the backdrop of a sitcom, complete with laugh track and closing credits, they started talking to one another.
�I don�t understand what�s going on!�
�Me neither. This is pretty weird.�
�What�s with the laugh track? This isn�t funny.�
�I don�t get it! What�s the point?�
I really, really wanted to lean over and scream in their ear. �You don�t get it because they�re making fun of people like you! People so caught up in television and media that it becomes the only way they can think, even if it�s dealing with something completely horrible! Slap a laugh track on it, and everything will be fine! That�s what your fucking �friends� taught you, isn�t it?!?�
But I didn�t say anything and thankfully, the cheerleaders walked out of the film soon after that. (Truth be told, nearly 20 people walked out of the film.) I was electrified. I thought it was fan-fucking-tastic. Nearly every piece made you want to shout in glee when they killed somebody, and then Stone showed you how unbelievably fucked up we as a society were for relishing the violence we just witnessed. It was like the film handed you what you wanted to appease your base instinct, then slapped you in the face for being fucked up for enjoying said violence.
It was beautiful.
And that�s where this book fails. The end result of this is entertaining as hell, but it misses that slap that the film provides. This then justifies the violence and media worship the film despises. And the one thing I don�t do is revel in the violent behavior of others.
If I did, I would have voted for Bush.
