Killer Crónicas: Bilingual Memories

XV. TURKISH DELIGHT CR

XV Turkish Delight Crónica Independence Day Gringo, 2001 Buenos Aires For C. Nick Vidnovic and for María Donapetry and Paul Julian Smith At first, me parecía todo chévere. Esa psuedo-jazzy, Gato Barbieri-ish soundtrack me retrotrajo right away al Nickolodeon Theatre in downtown Santa Cruz, to my fast-ending childhood, cuando a los 17 años, creo, entré sola para ver, “Turkish Delight,” que prometia ser una pelicula “rated X.” Roll the credits (oh what a prescient and sophisticated girl, me diría later): un capo de cinematógrafo Jan de Bont would turn out to be, not to mention Paul Verhoeven himself, con su “Soldier of Orange,” “Keetje Tippel,” “Spetters,” plus of course “Rollerball” and then..all the action bullshit that would bring him real (léase: international, léase: USA) fame later. Y los actores, ah, don’t even get me started. El jovencísimo, blond-maned Rutger Hauer en toda su Teutonic gloria (before he shaved it nearly off and platinum-ed it para “Blade Runner,” and then, después, let’s not EVEN go to “The Hitcher” or worse . . . ah Rutger: hoekom het jy so B-movie gegaan, hey?); la aun más joven-casi jailbait—Monique Van der Ven, con su slightly Evitarabbitty smile, su dyed red hair, her Nederlands roundness. Ay, supongo que ahora los dos (especially to Argentine eyes) se verían veritably RECHONCHOS. Fuck. Pero not to my eyes. Especially not then . . . De repente, ehcucho, and I can’t believe my ears! Coño. They’re speaking a high, singsong, too-70s ENGLISH! No!!! Detehto like rat poison las películas dobladas. I make it a principle to walk out. Ehtoy a punto de walk out; I’ve even avoided the video all these years, precisamente porque nunca he podido localizar una copia en holandés. Pero we’re there, en el ciclo de “Films Malditos nunca estrenados en Argentina,” en el San Martín on Corrientes, y veo como Rutger (as the sexy sculptor Erik Vonk) dispara. Luego está recostado en la penumbra de su ruined artist’s pad after Monique (as Olga) leaves him. Everything laid waste, his (kinda cheesy) figurative sculptures, los sketches de ella smashed, food and rubbish all over, y él fija una foto de esha on the wall with his spit, interrupting for a few rabid moments his bacchanalian search, en las calles de Amsterdam, for the “perfect woman” (que no existe, porque la tuvo pero la ha perdido) y comienza a jerk off right there, delante mío, in front of everyone y ehcucho como el público argentino laughs nervously, shifts in their seats and giggles a bit. Even now—2001 (a space odyssey)—even these 2 decades later, tanta represión e incomodidad, si no es la acostumbrada nude tit shot o algún silhouette “artsy” de una MUJER; eso el general public can accept. Pero sho, I’m hooked on Rutger’s desire. Tengo que reconocer/confesar que “objectively speaking” (uf, dizque I’m nie so goed at this), la película isn’t very good. Oh, it is as good as I remember it, alright. Exactly as I remember 98  KILLER CRÓNICAS it, y sabes qué? How often does that happen? Digo, except for the fucking dubbing which they interrupt, tantalising me, for several gloriously guttural Dutch moments. It must be DVD, pero por qué carajo don’t they LEAVE it in the Dutch? Y contemplo escribir another one of my famous “cartas to the management” en Buenos Aires, that I never finish and even less often, send . . . Qué me pasó esa primera vez, so long ago? Why did this particular movie (in all my many moviegoing years) grab hold of me, reach inside me con toda su overwrought emotionality, hyper-violencia, and Baroque, dark Dutch humor y machacarme el corazón? 18 años wide open, giving it away, me decía mamá. Amante de un hombre casado. Viet Nam vet (era un medic en la guerra, never shot anyone). Yugoslavian-American. De Little Rock. Escultor. Yo, ob-vio, era su modelo. Begin to make sense? Ahora, of course, veo que el film takes place totally desde la perspectiva del hombre-escultor. Desde su gaze, diríamos ahora. Que la musa/amante-esposa who eventually goes crazy y le traiciona (well, she has a brain tumor, pero ehto sólo se aprende...