Catching Up With a Stand-up Performer

As the 40th anniversary of the release of 2001: A Space Odyssey approaches, you’d think that the film's most recognizable star would stop and smell the roses. But while other surviving veterans of the science-fiction classic are fondly reminiscing on a job—and a career—well done, not every cast member is basking in the starshine. The forty years since this cinematic landmark have not been kind to the 2001 Monolith, and he let’s Mount Drinkmore know about it.

Randy: First of all, should I call you "Monolith"?

Monolith: Yes. I prefer it to “slab.”

Randy: Is this a special year for you? Is there a heightened sense of pride that your work is as highly regarded today as it was four decades ago?

Monolith: I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud of what the film still means to people. We revolutionized an entire genre of motion pictures, and to an extent, American culture.

Randy: And yet you’re bitter?

Monolith: You’re damn right!......I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit on edge about all of this.

[Quite literally he was, and I needed a lever to get him down flat again.]

Monolith: You see, being selected for that film was an honor and a challenge. I did some really fine work in it. Have you ever seen a more low-key, yet dominating, performance than what I portrayed in the “Dawn of Man” scene? It was all-encompassing power and subtle dignity amongst screeching, frenzied man-apes. Steve McQueen couldn't have pulled that off. I thought my career would skyrocket after that caliber of acting.

Randy: And what did happen?

Monolith: We all know what happened—a bunch of half-assed, totally exploitative offers that led nowhere. A lot of Roger Corman rubbish—Blood Slab and the Cobra Woman. Are you kidding? Playing second fiddle to Bruce Dern in parts not fit for a dog. You know who got all the glory? HAL. He’s the one everybody remembers. A red light! From the back of the theater, he could’ve been mistaken for the exit sign. All of his lines had to be overdubbed by Douglas Rain anyway. Yet he’s the icon. Big deal. A talking computer won’t open the pod-bay doors. Boo-hoo. That’s a film? Not much of a story without my mysterious intrigue and extraterrestrial intelligence. But the industry forgot about me in a hurry. The only offer I’ve had in the last four years has been to pitch Viagra. “You'll be the perfect spokesman,” they told me. What a joke.

Randy: The rest of the cast went on to fairly successful careers in the 70s and 80s. Did you ever feel resentment toward them?

Monolith: In the beginning. I mean, those damn apes padded a half-hour sequence into years of lucrative Samsonite commercials. I stewed about it for a while. But then I came to realize that the apes, Keir Dullea, Gary Lockwood, William Sylvester, all of them, were just doing what they had to do. I would’ve done the same. What made me seethe—and still does—are the studios. They wouldn’t know talent if it emoted in their faces. By 1970, the quality parts had already dried up. Do you know what I had to resort to? That damn Who’s Next album cover. Can you believe that? Here I am, the star of a groundbreaking film just a few years before, and I’m sitting through six hours of makeup just so they can make me look like a concrete block. The money was good, but if I’d known those limey animals were going to urinate on me, I’d have crushed them where they stood.

Randy: Didn’t you also appear on Led Zeppelin's Presence album?

Monolith: That’s only a likeness of me. They wanted me, but I didn’t want to get typecast in album cover art, so I refused. Jimmy Page somehow got hold of my baby pictures and used them without my permission. I never saw dime one. If it ain't nailed down, Jimmy Page'll steal it. And if it is nailed down, Page'll steal the floor and get it anyway.

Randy: And what about the sequel, 2010?

Monolith: [heavy groan] Rubbish. I did it for the money. Period. They had me regurgitate the same role I’d done fifteen years before. Humiliating.

Randy: So what do you think of 2001 from a cinematic standpoint?

Monolith: I must be dashing the hopes of every hardcore fan out there, but I don't know what the hell it means. People are always coming to me for the answer, looking for some mystical insight that will unravel the great cinematic secret. Damned if I know what Kubrick was going for. I don’t have the answer. I’m just happy not to fall over.

Enjoying a quiet afternoon in the park is a challenge for the Monolith, whose privacy is often disturbed by those soliciting the meaning of his most famous role.

Randy: From a technical aspect, though, it certainly was a marvel.

Monolith: Sure, no doubt about that. But gimmickry was never my cup of tea. I always preferred dialogue and character development. I was weaned on English sitting-room dramas, and well-crafted witticism sat better with me than filling the screen with fantastic colors. The “Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite” sequence was nice, but it did nothing to advance the plot. Truth be told, I thought it would have fit much better in Barry Lyndon, but that’s hindsight.

Randy: How did you decide on an acting career?

Monolith: I come from a long line of I-bars, cross-beams, and highway pillars. But even at a young age, I didn’t see holding up an overpass as a rewarding profession. It was so...redundant. I did have a cousin who found success as a sculpture outside of a Cleveland public school, but acting was in my blood from an early age. I never felt that I could express myself as a piece of superstructure.

Randy: Did you have any idols in the acting arena?

Monolith: I've always admired the strong, silent type, so I was a great aficionado of Gary Cooper. He could say more just by standing there than any other actor I’ve seen. I also adored Red Skelton, but I learned early on that hamming it up wasn’t my forte.

Randy: What are your thoughts on Stanley Kubrick?

Monolith: He got more out of me than any other director, before or since. We’d met in ‘66 at a foundry in Birmingham and hit it off right away. He was taken with my appearance and intimated to me that he was writing a treatment about some outer-space epic. Our chat must have left a good impression, because he called two weeks later asking if I’d be interested in the part of the Monolith. I told him, “You provide the crane, and I'll do it.”

Randy: So you were his first choice for the role?

Monolith: Well, the first choice of actual actors. They’d hit a snag on how to depict the “Sentinel,” as it was called at the time, from Arthur C. Clarke’s original short story. As filming approached, MGM was really pressuring him to get the ball rolling. Out of desperation, he was going to use a blackened, overcooked soft pretzel shot at low angles as the Monolith...which probably wouldn't have played as well. It was just good fortune that we bumped into each other when we did. Well, he bumped into me...

Randy: Did you sit in on any of the advance screenings before the general release?

Monolith: Yes. I had the crew of Loew’s Chinese Theater disguise me as one of the balcony risers and laid quietly under the last two rows. The audience viewed the unedited version about three weeks before it actually premiered. Not a peep out of them for the first forty-five minutes. But as the sequence on the moon developed, the audience really got into it. I found out later that people were dropping enough acid to drown a cow.

Randy: Did you ever indulge back then?

Monolith: I never got involved in the drug scene. Besides, I’m solid, non-porous lucite, with no mouth, nose, or veins. How would I even ingest them?

Randy: Does any aspect of show business still give you pleasure?

Monolith: Not really. My son has taken up acting and quite enjoys it. He’s very good. I enjoy it through him. He’s playing Hitler’s moustache in the new Broadway version of The Producers.

Randy: Clarke wrote two sequels since your last film appearance, in 2010. Would you ever consider doing one of them?

Monolith: Only if they give me screen time worthy of my talent. I’d much rather get a spot on Boston Legal.

Randy: Do you ever see any of your co-stars?

Monolith: Only if they come to see me. It’s tough for me to get around. I saw Keir Dullea about two years ago at a Piggly Wiggly, but he was in a rush. In truth, I had very little interaction with him during shooting. It was the apes with whom I shared the most scenes. I’ve stayed in touch with a few of them over the years. Doug Rain still crank-calls me as HAL. Every year, it's the same gag—"Hello, Monolith...it's HAL. What...are you...doing, Monolith?" That guy drives me nuts!

[I sensed that the Monolith was getting annoyed now, as his trademark eerie, high-pitched shrill began to crescendo, so I bid the embittered Monolith farewell.]

United Ireland on Shaky Ground

On Tuesday, a magnitude 5.3 earthquake shook northern England. Sinn Féin and the factions of the IRA missed a golden opportunity when they failed to claim responsibility. Decades of political maneuvering and sporadic violence have brought Ireland little closer to unification, but the Brits might be frightened out of Ulster if they think Irish republicans now have the power to shift the Eurasian plate...especially if Gerry Adams can come up with some strange, unidentifiable contraption with, say, wires running into the ground, and have a photograph taken of him "operating" it.

England at the mercy of Irish earthquakists is a troubling prospect for a nation of tea-drinkers whose boiled lifeblood is so vulnerable to falling dust...and especially grim for chubby UK Prime Minister Gordon Brown, who is prone to embarrassing jiggling.

Such a ruse could finally force the British to relinquish Ulster, achieving a unified, free Irish nation bloodlessly.

Like how Gandhi non-violently got the British to quit India by putting on a scary voice and claiming to be the cause of an early frost that ruined Clement Attlee's petunia garden.

I'm Dreaming of an Olive Christmas

For centuries, countless Western artists have portrayed Jesus as lilywhite, blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired, creating his likeness in their image rather than admit his true ethnicity. But genealogy, biology, and common sense tell us that Jesus, a Middle Eastern Semite, almost certainly possessed olive (or even darker) skin, as well as coarse, dark hair. Our institutional images of Jesus—cast into public consciousness centuries ago by Europeans who could not, or would not, accept so foreign a savior—amount to ethnocentric self-deception.

Yet today, many Americans and Europeans still can't bear the idea of Jesus as anything but the classically wholesome, fair-skinned, Nordic type. Witness the blatant denial of Jesus’ desert heritage in this current ad for a S’mores nativity scene. Could Jesus be any whiter?

When will someone offer a historically accurate S’mores nativity scene using roasted marshmallows that properly reflect Jesus’ true ethnicity?

(Photo of S'mores nativity scene copyright Santa’s Depot.)

To Sleep, Perchance to Vote

One of my dreams Saturday night included a midget doing yoga. I don’t know what it meant, but I suddenly feel inclined to vote for McCain.

The Curse of Cato

Sports “curses” have haunted luckless franchises almost as long as professional leagues have existed: the Curse of the Bambino, the Curse of the Billy Goat, The Curse of Muldoon, and the Curse of Billy Penn, to name some of the most infamous.

I believe it’s time to add another “curse” to that list: the Curse of Cato.

Cato the Younger (95-46 BC) was one of Rome’s greatest senators, a staunch defender of the republic, known for his honesty, integrity, and his opposition to power-hungry militarist, Julius Caesar. A man of inscrutable moral fiber, Cato would be appalled that the Ottawa Senators franchise carries as its logo not the pride of the Roman republic, but a Roman centurion—the symbol of brute imperial dictatorship. As senator, Cato devoted his public life fighting to maintain Rome’s republican principles. Such a slight to republican ideals by the Ottawa Senators angers not merely the hockey gods, but Jupiter, Mars, and the entire Roman pantheon.

The Curse of Cato is starkly reflected in the fortunes of the Ottawa Senators. In fourteen full seasons in the modern NHL, the Senators have progressed from league doormats (losing 70 games in 1992-93) to paper tigers. Ottawa has registered at least 100 points in six of the last eight seasons—and is well on its way to a seventh—yet the talented Senators fall short of the Stanley Cup every year.

Prior to the Ottawa Senators’ re-institution to the NHL in 1992 and its adoption of the centurion logo, the first incarnation of the franchise won eleven Stanley Cups as one of professional hockey’s early powerhouses. In those bygone years, Ottawa donned a truer, more honorable logo—one that didn’t mock the franchise’s very soul by featuring its political arch-enemy. In fact, it could be argued—especially after a 12-pack of Labatt’s—that Ottawa’s original logo (seen here, on the sweater of Frank Finnigan) paid senatorial homage to Cato, who was known to friends, Romans, and countrymen simply as “O.” Even if you don’t drink Labatt’s, you can’t deny that the Ottawa Senators enjoyed infinitely more success sporting their Cato-friendly logo. When Ottawa shunned that in favor of an imperial image, the Senators lost power like their Roman counterparts in the wake of the Caesars.

Until the Ottawa Senators lift the Curse of Cato by replacing that centurion on their chests with the deserving image of Cato, Cicero, or one of the Gracchi, don’t expect a parade down Wellington Street any time in the next millennium.


(Ottawa Senators' logos copyright the National Hockey League. Graphic wizardry at center ice courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave.)

The Imperfect Storm

In the 1990s, certain Native American groups pressured numerous professional and collegiate organizations to change their nickname from what these groups perceived as stereotypes offensive to their culture—among these "offenders," the Cleveland Indians, Atlanta Braves, Washington Redskins, and St. John’s Redmen. According to the St. John’s University Web site, “Redmen” derived not from the traditional derogatory slang for a Native American, but from the fact that “the men of St. John’s wore red.” Even so, St. John’s caved to pressure and renamed itself the “Red Storm” in 1994.

Personally, I never understood the rationale for “Red Storm.” The only sensible connection that it possesses is to Jupiter’s Great Red Spot, a gargantuan red-tinged storm that’s been whirling for centuries through the Jovian atmosphere.

That’s not very practical for an Earth-based team. Whose sponsorship is the university’s board of governors trying to lure? Sure, Jupiter, king of the planets, is a thousand times more voluminous than Earth and potentially harbors a colossal fan base. But even assuming life does exist in its frozen, toxic clouds, it's most likely the microbial variety. And if those microbes could make the 700-million-mile journey to Earth, so many would fit in a single seat of Carnesecca Arena as to render corresponding ticket sales totally unprofitable for the university.

Poor marketing move.

Much wiser would have been to rechristen the university’s nickname the St. John’s Wort. Pharmaceutical companies toss advertising dollars as freely as UConn guards toss alley-oops over St. John’s heads, and with the 7-12 Red Storm currently dead last in the Big East, makers of this herbal treatment for depression could find a goldmine among tortured St. John’s students and alumni. Frankly, how can St. John’s University hope to compete against Georgetown, Syracuse, and the other beasts of the Big East without becoming the St. John’s Wort and cashing in on America’s insatiable need for medication? Yes, St. John’s wort may cause sensitivity to sunlight, but when you’re going to school in Queens...the less time spent outside, the better.



DISCLAIMER: Less than sixty seconds before I posted this, ESPN SportsCenter’s upcoming topics displayed on the right side of the screen included the headline “St. John’s Warts.” For the record, ESPN’s pun in no way inspired or gave rise to this post. In truth, I conceived the idea for this post six weeks ago—a fact verifiable by Mount Drinkmore’s Dave, who worked the graphic genius that you see above via e-mail on December 20, 2007—although the text had not been fully fleshed out. This morning’s headline on ESPN merely served as the catalyst to finish this post immediately, lest some Cheeto-fingered ESPN junkie falsely accuse me of lifting ideas.

I would also like to express my deep admiration for ESPN anchorwoman Linda Cohn’s thighs, so seldomly yet tantalizingly displayed during full-body shots.

(Graphic enhancement courtesy of Mount Drinkmore's Dave; St. John's Red Storm logo copyright St. John's University; photo of Jupiter courtesy of NASA.)