The first, unfunny way goes like this: Cut to the guy walking, oblivious. Cut to the banana peel, lying in wait. Cut to a wide shot of the guy approaching the banana peel. Cut to a close-up of the banana peel, just as the guy’s foot hits it. Cut back to the wide shot, as the guy slips on the peel and lands on his rear end, which, as everyone knows from cartoons, is the funniest part of the human body.
The second, funny way to film that same sequence is as follows: Cut to the guy, walking. Cut to the banana peel, lying in wait. Cut to a wide shot of the guy approaching the banana peel. Cut to a close-up of the banana peel, just as the guy’s foot almost hits it. Cut back to the wide shot, as the guy deftly steps over the banana peel, a self-satisfied expression on his face. And just as his smug smile reaches its widest point, he falls into an open manhole.
Get the difference? It isn’t the falling that’s funny; it’s the gloating. Slipping on a banana peel doesn’t make you a comic buffoon. Pompous self-congratulations, though, most certainly do.
Volumes have been written (and volumes more, sadly, are being churned out this minute) about the troubled state of relations between the United States and Europe. We all have our theories; inside every overeducated newsmagazine reader lurks a foreign-policy expert yearning to break free. But the central question in today’s little piece of international slapstick is who, exactly, plays the part of the guy walking down the street? Who is playing the part of the banana peel? And who, especially, is the open manhole?
From out here on the California beaches, it’s tempting to cast the movie in the obvious way. And the Oscar for best performance as a pompous grandee goes to: Jacques Chirac!
That’s what’s known as “casting to type,” and it certainly fits the bare bones of the story so far. Smug pronouncements, self-satisfaction, pomposity–yep, all there. George W. Bush sitting in the dark theater, popping Milk Duds, must be enjoying the show. Wouldn’t it be best for the rest of the cast if Chirac would just climb out of the manhole and take his bows? It would also, I think, make economic sense. No one can resist a comeuppance scene, so in the wake of fewer American tourists bringing fewer American dollars may I suggest the following French Tourist Board slogan: This summer, come to France! Come for the food! Come for the wine! Come to gloat!
As we say out here in Hollywood when we’re working out a script, that’s certainly one way to go. But every story needs a twist, and although giving the audience what they expect is a time-honored moneymaking axiom in show business, it’s also possible to cast the movie a different way. Maybe we’re the guy walking down the street. And maybe just at this moment, after the lightning-fast invasion of Iraq, we’re turning to the camera with a smug expression on our face, adjusting our boutonniere, our foot poised above the unseen manhole, wondering why that French guy in the audience is smiling. Didn’t he just see us make quick work of the banana peel? Doesn’t he get that we’re invincible? Haven’t we shown how incredibly smart we are? Hey, what’s he pointing at?
