And the theme for the night is: Why did Marlon Brando fall so hard? Was he always mad, and we just didn't know it for his beauty? Or did his beauty destroy him? Or maybe beauty like that is never long for this world.
Roy and I finished watching Reflections in a Golden Eye a few nights ago. It's hard to find, and I was excited to stumble across a copy on e-bay. It sounded like a lost masterpiece - directed by John Huston based on a novel by Carson McCullers, and starring Brando as a repressed gay military commander of a southern army base and Elizabeth Taylor as his out of control nymphomaniac wife. Julie Harris cuts off her nipples with a pair of garden sheers, Zorro David plays an embarrassingly campy Filipino house boy, Taylor whips Brando during a garden party, and Robert Forster rides his horse bareback and bare ass naked through the woods.
All that, yet all the movie does is bore you. It tries to scandalize us, as if that would be enough. It doesn't even work as camp - it's too slow moving. Brando is hot in middle-age but mumbles his lines. He's more of a caricature of Brando than the actual man.
And now, for the second time in a week, Brando supplies the craptastic. His posthumous novel has been nominated for Britain's Literary Review Bad Sex in Fiction award. The Guardian has the long list of nominees, and while Brando is awful my vote still goes to Giles Coren. Like Zorro indeed.
This is going to be painful. You have been warned.
from Fan Tan
by Marlon Brando and Donald Cammell
In a moment Annie was on his side, Madame Lai was like a plant growing over him, and her little fist (holding the biggest black pearl) was up his asshole planting the pearl in the most appreciated place.
"Oh, Lord," he cried out. "I'm a-comin'!"
She could not answer. It is the one drawback of fellatio as conscientious as hers that it eliminates the chance for small talk and poetry alike. But nothing is exactly perfect in this life, and for Annie Doultry the delicate but firm pressure on his rear parts was in perfect harmony with the eruption of his cock. He came and he came - we are dealing with a hero here. At one point his lover backed away to inspect the unaltered gush of it, like a plumber saying to a customer, "Don't blame me. This water supply will stop when the dam's empty."
The bed creaked and its old springs twanged as he levered into action with his hungry stomach and his big slippery mouth. Annie was at work again. With a practiced flick of the wrist designed for heavier work, he eased the cheongsam's slit wider to expose the entire butterball thigh. Without perceptible movement, her legs were now definitely farther apart, and their musculature was unresistant and frothy, as if they were no longer bearing her weight. In a sense, she seemed to float upon the musty air like an arrangement of balloons. Evidently the dexterous licking of the inside of her left knee was contributing to her support, as it would soon to her downfall.
When it came, it was a float rather than a fall. Annie's left hand was completely occupied, each finger playing a separate tune upon the delicate complexities of her pussy, so it must have been the right one that slid under her ass and elevated her and floated her onto the bed - or more precisely, onto Annie, onto his broad stomach, the sturdy muscles beneath expressly relaxed to provide the comfort of a mattress of familiar Celtic flesh. An unintelligible muttering sound came from Yummee as she subsided on top of him. It could have been a prayer to one of her goddesses, or a threat. ...