Thoughts whilst watching Steven Seagal film Submerged

Now, if during this continuous commentary I happen to descend into maniacal convulsions of laughter it is because I have just put on the DVD of the latest Steven Seagal flick, an action film by the name of Submerged. That aforementioned mad convulsing could be very well underway right now, for the intro sequence features a hilarious bit where Seagal appears behind his textual credit and gives a sneering glance towards his fine audience of 10 year old boys and 40 year old men.

Fuck, what’s all this yakking about? And I don’t mean a scene where a yak comes into the board-meeting to talk to Seagal, and Seagal has to battle it to the death in an electrified pit surrounded by coked-up pandas screaming for blood, and pink milk. Punk milk? A rancid yellowish substance born from the teats of a mohawk. What the hell? Who do I think am I, Douglas Coupland? Christ.

But anyway, five minutes in and we have no Seagal, what the hell did I pay nothing for here!?! Whole lotta militarian bollocks, men in helicopters, men in fields draped in camo. Where’s our favourite ponytail wearing, pseudo-Indian, hard cunt, Seagal, himself?

Then suddenly, smacked in the face by an epiphany, a revelation ripped from the loins of a Greek god, not Zeus, that other one. The burgeoning clarity prophesised in the Old Testament is now coming to the front of my...hang the bejesus on! Seagal! In chains!

It’s fucking Chris Cody himself! It’s Seagal, and he’s a prison type, and, more to the point, obviously very consciously hung-up on his present ‘podgy bastard’ status, thus we get Seagal standing about in the shadows. So much so that I can barely make out his face. All I know is that he’s getting his crew, the old boys are back, including the infamous Henry.

Now let me explain to all those who are not acquainted with this running joke. The DVD box of Submerged features the hilarious blurb of: “With Vinnie Jones as Henry.” That’s right, he’s Henry! Now the major thing I wanted to know about this film as soon as I saw it, what jumped straight outta my breathe hole was, “Mothercunt of a Jandek! I wonder who’s gonna be playing Henry?” Then of course I saw the blurb and my life once again suddenly had meaning.

So anyway, before I got distracted by the face de la flaccid face-fat of a Seagal. His face may have went south of, well, most of his face for that matter, but on the plus side, because we always must look for a positive in this damned savage life, his jowls are coming together nicely. I foresee that the next flick, which is apparently already done, and apparently the guy from Grahams, I dunno, Graham, has seen it, and it is shit. [Edit: I’ve since visited the IMDB, and this new flickery must be either Today You Die, or Black Dawn] But how were the jowls I ask, or would have had the occasion been subject to my presence, I probably would have uttered a finely thought-out diatribe such as, “Shut up, cunt face, your DVD’s are too pricey, and that Seagal, those jowls, how the fuck are you standing?” With succinct speech like this my interlocutor would be helpless to dodge any such jowl queries, and I’d grill him, oh I would, for the jowls, the essence of life, they need to be pronounced with immaculate clarity.

No more digressing however, for to do that is to ignore my trains of thought, I have trains these days, TGV, bought in straight from the bowels of Parisian pigeon holes. I was saying about a realised prophecy, yes, it was the Old Testament, Ruth perhaps, not Rush as I just typo-ed there, although they should have been given their own book of the Bible, ‘And Neil Peart said let there be drum solos from now til the rapture.’ But it may have been in Ruth, Boaz and so on, hell its true, that’s the only thing I remember from primary school R.E, a good thing I’m sure. The revelation came to me early on in this film, as we are now a good half hour into it (some explosions are occurring), and this is what it was, this film, this Submerged, why holy Fahey why! This is shit, I cannot deny.

But was this not realised before? Well, yes, it was, but Seagal motherfucker! Fuck Seagal unfortunately. I think the simple truth is that these films are only good, assuming you are not part of the detailed demographic groups I highlighted above, are only good when watched with people with equally decent filmic tastes, preferably with a few Magners, and perhaps some Van Damme to follow.

And just to think that this time last night I was just finishing up a good, overdue rewatching of Sin City. Now that was a film, brilliant writing, excellent stories, super acting, visually awesome, and this...well Seagal has some fuzzy sideburns, which is something.

They seem to be submerged right now, lots of submarine halls, and galley’s, and pipes, and beep....beep....beep. Quite right too, were I to have bought this (I haven’t) and there was no fucking submerging in sight, I would have written to our Steven with the following message:

“Oi Seagal cunt, got that there Submerged on DVD, and while I enjoy the never-ending development and maturing of your jowls, I must chasten you a little, for the title made me think ‘Oh, bet Seagal’s gonna get all submerged and stuff’, but looky here, and this is my beef, there was no submerging, and not only that, but you didn’t even get wet!”

I’d of course include some portraits of Leo Tolstoy just to make it clear that we’re all friends here. Wait a minute, Under Siege, that WASN’T a Tolstoy adaptation! Buggering Bergerac!

Seagal’s got some sweat on his face at 42:31.

Wouldn’t it be great to get Seagal and Van Damme together into one almighty movie, the ultimate shit movie. It could be Seagal and Van Damme are cops, partners you could say, in the narc division (cos we all liked that movie), and they have to bring down the head honcho of a crime empire, played by Dolph Lundgren. And Stallone is their mentor. And Vin Diesel is the rookie cop assigned to help them. And Wesley Snipes is in it too. With Vinnie Jones as Henry.

Ah, sigh, that will be made, it must be. And, hell, might as well round this off, Uwe Boll to direct! And it’ll be called The Last Action Movie. Although we’d be lucky were its title to be true.

This film is really, really bad. I normally just keep sandpaper for when lovely ladies walk past, who I just can’t bear to look at, but I’d be tempted to give the irises a good rub-down right now. Save me from this guff.

This is the bit where I breakdown finally, I’m lying in a groaning heap of steaming flesh, squirming in the corner, unable to move, but a tune falls into my samba nostrils of hope and fertility:

The Seagal Samba
Hark oh thee Seagal
For thee of the Nico
Oh blubber and gluts
Jowls ain’t bad
(Repeat til dead)

“Listen here Henry, I wanna talk to you about Faith No More. The pertinent question is, The Real Thing or Angel Dust? I’ll ignore those others, because true be told I don’t have them.”

Henry doesn’t reply, he’s too busy punching some sniper in the brains. I continue nevertheless.

“I prefer Angel Dust, more variety like, musically, ya know. ‘Everything’s Ruined’ and ‘A Small Victory’ are both fantastical stand-out tracks.”

Henry’s not listening, he’s not even in this scene. How vulgar.

Seagal’s gonna be taking the place of some government official at an upper-class soiree? Like those aristocrats and establishment roaches are not going to notice that, hey, that’s not Billy blue blood, but it’s actually a podgy gut Seagal, acting badly, and grimacing as if in permanent pain.

Twenty minutes left, can I last it? This is endurance. Hahahah! He did it! They’re addressing him as Mr Ambassador! That crazy motherfucker pulled it off. I thought the only thing he’d truly be able to pull of was a wig (who knows?). Oh, it’s the opera. The fat lady, the obese octogenarian, and Seagal, what a medley!

Once again Seagal is sitting in the shadows, must be a standard contractual clause for him nowadays.

To try and get all straight for a moment (pretend this is Sight And Sound), this outdoor digital photography is horrendous, it’s like sub-Three Kings, and works atrociously against the regular interior work. Maybe the digitalia fucks with Seagal’s award winning acting (I’m assuming here, on both fronts). I can see what they’re trying to do here, local outdoor – bright, bright!, bad guy – dark and blue, etc. It’s all gone very Traffic, but whereas that film had story and dialogue, this has, well, um, no story and no dialogue. Sorry I’m running out of steam, bran crackers, and jaffa cakes.

There’s a moral here, never watch a Seagal alone. In fact, I must start the rumour now, if you watch a Seagal alone, following the completion of said viewing, you will receive a phone call with only the sound of a man’s out-of-breath grunting on the other end, and then after one week, Steven Seagal will crawl out of your TV set, and eat your eyes. You heard it here first kids.

We’re at the end of this epic now, thank fuck. Lobby gun fight, lots of blue (must be the bad guy’s hideout), explosions, Seagal’s just thrown down his gun in anticipation of some hand to hand combat with a large coloured fellow. Haha! Shadows, obvious post-production speeding up. But no! Hold the fuck up. Next scene, Seagal just kicked a guy through a window! Brilliant! Marvellous! Although I do suspect that to have been a stunt man’s leg, but oh well.

Aftermath, poolside, yadda yadda.

That’s 92 minutes of my life gone. I may need to watch Annie Hall now, or something else completely antithetical to that guff, just to regain my sanity and coherence.

Goodnight.