He is summoned in the wee small hours like some 19th century country doctor. A small town’s resident film critic – a column a week if the rag manages to squeeze out a late edition – but always dreaming of bigger and better markets. The local eccentric, all moustache and lambchops, waiting desperately for someone to give a shit. At last, somebody does. The local sheriff, in fact – Wydell, I believe he’s called – trying to solve a string of brutal killings but having little to go on. Except the names. Odd monikers indeed, from Rufus T. Firefly to Captain Spaulding. What do they mean? That’s when he’s called. Marty Walker, snooty and serious and clearly above his readers by a factor of a thousand, will get his moment in the sun. He alone can connect the dots. A hero, as they say, will rise.
“I rushed right over as soon as I got your call,” he pants, as if to finally justify putting in the phone that, until this moment, never rang. Maybe once when it was a wrong number. He continues, barely pausing to breathe: “I happen to be a self-proclaimed Marx Brothers expert if I do say so myself.” Which he does, with gusto, and not for the last time. A lifetime devoted to esoterica and the Hollywood of yesteryear, screeched and preached before an audience of one. Only now, he has others to consider, right here in the palm of his hand. He’s needed, goddamn it, and it’s the law of all things. But these are hillbillies. Boneheads. Men who don’t even know who Groucho is, let alone one no longer alive. As if they’ve even heard of Animal Crackers or Duck Soup. It’s the cross he’s been forced to bear since he landed in this two-bit nothing of a town. Philistines, all, just like the rest of humanity.
“I got a fuckin’ grocery list for you,” he cries, triumphant and cocksure. The case is as good as solved. The perpetrators, but a moment from apprehension. He’s even got a secondary list of anything even tangentially related to Groucho, including the fun fact that in Skidoo, he played God himself. And did you know it was directed by Otto Preminger, who also directed Exodus? From one anecdote to the next, dripping with certainty and the pleasure unique to he who has the inside scoop. He could stay here all night, on and on, never once considering the rest that brings the dreams. Nightmares, really, driving the madness that’s sure to take over in full one lonely day. This is all he has, these flickering images in the dark, in lieu of anything even remotely passing for friendship. He had a connection once, perhaps long ago. But they made that crack about Harpo and well, that’s a bridge too far. Some things are sacred, even now.
Predictably, a new crack is made, ruffling old feathers. One of the deputies displays unforgivable ignorance, and Walker is puffed and spoiling for a fight. “If you weren’t a cop,” he spits, “I’d wring your neck.” Insult me all you want but stay away from the legends. But Walker flies too close to the sun and forgets where he is. This isn’t New York or Chicago, and people hold fast to tradition. In defense of his beloved Groucho, he goes after another King. Elvis Presley, in fact, the one man next to Jesus who, at least around these parts, warrants hushed tones. Beyond all reason, Walker is pissed: “Elvis died three days before Groucho, stole all the headlines!” He won’t let it go. The crackers crack. Walker is grabbed. Brought close for a reprimand. An ass to be kicked if he insists on further insult.
Walker holds firm and is tossed for his trouble. Dismissed as a “Hollywood loving pussy” by a sheriff who’d just as soon shoot the bastard. He punctuates the scene with a blast for the ages: “Fuck Groucho!” Walker may have heard it, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. He’s crossed a line and better pack his bags. He’s running out of places to start anew, and critics aren’t exactly appreciated in the dying hamlets of a dying nation. Even the papers themselves are but a few years from extinction. And Walker isn’t at all suited for the digital age. He’s the pad and pencil type, forever and always. Still, he can leave knowing he’s dropped a hint. Helped push a case forward. Maybe that’s enough to keep the demons at bay. At the very least, it’s a story to tuck away for a new batch of saps. He’ll take his phone, just in case. Because you never know when you’ll need a sanctimonious film critic to make it all better.
Read Matt’s review of The Devil’s Rejects HERE
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