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Friday, December 16, 2011

Bring Me His Head

This guy writes, you know the guy, Mamet, he writes dialogue that sounds like one side of a phone conversation.
Where did he grow up that people -- I'm telling you, listen to what I'm saying -- that people talk like the EL train's roaring by and you only hear part -- it doesn't matter WHICH part, just a part -- and they have to repeat it.
The guy writes, it's all herky jerky, it's all clicky-clackey, like the tracks on an old railroad bed.
That guy, the one like a turbine with words, the one they call Mamet. Bring me his head.
I don't care if it's still on his body, you ape.
Just bring me his head, that cerebral kiln of hot, ruddy verbiage and cadence -- yes, I said writing you can dance to -- and I'll toast to the rare guy who re-wrinkles my brain.


Harry said...

I'm on it!

susan said...

The words, oh. The words. I've suddenly been slammed back a million years ago staging scene from Mamet (feh). Stupid. South Mississippi sophomores cannot click and clack like that. Damn Mamet.