Saturday, October 6, 2007

Yes, We Have No Bananas!

The other day, the man who may or may not be named Che' Lovell challenged me to review his play, The Bananas of Revenge. Just to confuse everybody, Act I of the play is posted here, and Act II is posted over here. I recommend reading the whole play (it's not very long) before continuing here.

Also, Eegahinc of The B-Movie Catechism has already reviewed the play. Because Che' uses real movie stars for all his characters, this is probably more up Eegahinc's alley than it is up mine. Eegahinc is rattling off filmographies while I'm asking, "Who the heck is Sean Penn?" Che''s pop culture references aren't quite fringe enough for me.

For that reason, I have recasted Che''s script so I can be more comfortable with it. Here is the new cast with its equivalency to the old cast:

John Travolta is now Charles Stross
Tom Cruise is now John C. Wright
Sean Penn is now Robert Heinlein
Danny Glover is now Ray Bradbury

Charles Curran is now H. P. Lovecraft

And the new script, abbreviated, goes something like this:

CHARLES STROSS runs an evil banana plantation. JOHN C. WRIGHT is one of his oppressed workers, who CHARLES STROSS is now in the middle of taunting.

CHARLES STROSS: Buahahaha! I'm too lazy to actually learn how you *^%$#% think or what you *^%$#% do, so I'll just use a lot of big *^%$#% words from my studies in pharmacy and computer science and call you names, you *&^#%#!

JOHN C. WRIGHT: Oh, you want big words do you? How about anagnorisis???

CHARLES STROSS: How about mecha battlecorpse???

JOHN C. WRIGHT: Wait, what?

The door dilates and ROBERT HEINLEIN enters.

ROBERT HEINLEIN: Evil Mr. Stross, sir, we have caught one of the harvesters of synthetic futuristic bananas doing things he oughtn't.

CHARLES STROSS: What the *^%$#% did he do?

ROBERT HEINLEIN: He used excessively lengthy metaphors, sir.

ROBERT HEINLEIN drags in RAY BRADBURY, whose hands are tied behind his back.

RAY BRADBURY: This banana, long and sleek and yellow, reminds me of the old time, the new time, the summertime when I as a child, always named Douglas, played in Illinois and cast magic from my summer bedroom, awakening the whole town like a brilliant festival of active light. And then came the long, hot days of ammonia and ice cream when we would all beneath a glowing moon eaten up bit by bit await the coming of the Big Black-and-White Game.

CHARLES STROSS: What the *^%$#%?

JOHN C. WRIGHT: I cannot permit you to oppress this man, evil banana-growing Charles Stross! Surely he is a haunting poet even if his depictions of alien cultures generally suck.

ROBERT HEINLEIN (snorting, to JOHN C. WRIGHT): You, sir, are clearly a man with opinions different from my own. I must conclude therefore that you are nothing but an ignorant yeoman with dung on his boots.

JOHN C. WRIGHT: Ignorant yeoman? Ignorant yeoman??? I will have you know, sir, that I am a lawyer and a scholar! I read Greek! I have read the classics! I have memorized Nine Princes In Amber! I play City of Heroes! I will never permit you to call me ignorant or a yeoman, and I have wiped off my boots! You, sir, are nothing but a smokestack that stinks!

CHARLES STROSS: What the *^%$#%?

Havoc ensues. Several characters are punched in the nose. Bananas are squashed. At the end, most everybody is dead. H. P. LOVECRAFT enters and picks up a banana.

H. P. LOVECRAFT: This banana is clearly of a degenerate line because it has been grown in the forests of New England. It is moving backwards along the evolutionary scale; now soon, mulattoes and half-breeds will harvest it and offer it to their dark, eldritch, blasphemous, putrescent alien gods. Like a dark, bloated corpse festering in a dank and eldritch cellar, these unspeakably blasphemous rituals will be full of vileness and rot and horror to drive a man mad by the mere thought of them. All nature will cringe as the Old Gods arise from their dark and eldritch graves, and soon terrible eldritch powers will reach up from the dark and eldritch sea, reaching forth with unspeakably blasphemous and terribly eldritch tentacles to grasp us all and break our minds. We will all perish under the onslaught of superior eldritch gods and inferior degenerate bananas! And all because we didn't listen to Nietzsche!

Exunt.

Okay. That's, um, actually nothing like Che''s play, but I don't see why that should matter. I'll, uh, let you all digest that...and I'll be back with an honest review a little later.
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