etnobofin

There was no shortage of self-interest in hurrying to see Peter Jackson’s King Kong last night. Sure, there was a modicum of national duty, for this is a kiwi movie (OK, apart from minor factors like big-name American actors and Universal Studios finance and distribution).

But the main reason I was eager to see this film was because I am in it. Briefly and insignificantly. In the New York theatre where Kong is displayed as a captured trophy before a dumbfounded audience, there is an orchestra. There’s a trumpet player (one of several) flinching in the side of a wide shot as Kong roars and threatens to break his shackles. Yes, that’s me. 3 pixels of Hollywood immortality. The Central Warhol Agency will now have to deduct several milliseconds off my 15 minutes.

So what did I think of the film? Well, it’s a big, dumb, monster flick. At heart Peter Jackson is a horror fan. Give him a threadbare plot like Kong, and Mr Jackson will fill it with gratuitous dinosaurs, giant bats, spiders, carnivorous worms and giant cave wetas (yes that’s wetas, not “vampire crickets” as the New York Times put it. Come to NZ sometime and see some.)

If you haven’t seen the film yet, I’m not spoiling it by saying that by the end you’ll be cheering for the gorilla. The magnificent metaphor of the beast atop the skyscraper, defiance amidst the concrete jungle, is all the more poignant for the fact that the most human character in this movie is the ape himself.

And one day, I’ll be able to tell my grandkids (or somebody’s grandkids) that once, I got paid by Universal Pictures to dress up in a tuxedo, pretend to play my instrument, and then run away terrified from a big digital monkey.