The Keaton Blues

My mother used to say to me, “That Michael Keaton, he is a wonderful fellow.” Often it would interrupt the flow of a conversation, like I’d be telling her about my day down the mines and she’d suddenly stop me and speed off herself on a tangent about One Good Cop. But what could you do, those were hard days. Kids down round the block used to rent their livers to homeless drunks just to scrape together enough cash to pay for a quick turpentine rubdown (as was all the rage in my neighbourhood at the time).

As with all good conditioning I never thought to question the concept of Michael Keaton as a deity (much like the Christian god, only with better dirty looks). One day I was walking down old main street and a weary octogenarian hobbled over to me with a large smirk on his face, he says, “Hey sonny, did ya know the local picture house has just got the latest Keaton talky in, it’s called Night Shift.” Wow, I fell over twice at the shock, but luckily one cancelled the other out so I was left upright. I then wandered on down there, only taking a moment to glance at some theatre students doing a street performance of a ballet adaptation of Joy Division’s Closer. Christ it was bleak.

I spent the rest of that day watching not only the Keaton but also old Henry Winkler, playing the straight man to Keaton’s Bill Blazejowski (I still think Blazejowlski would have been a superior character name).

The day ended in a self-nihilist frenzy worthy of some Nine Inch Nails discord as I attempted to access Keaton’s very navel via EMP (Electromagnetic Pulse). Didn’t work, the EMP went astray and I spent the rest of the summer being prodded by goat farmers in Cincinnati eager to dispel me from the cow of which I had taken residence (they were mainly goat farmers but had cows too).

A night like the night before last Tuesday was not unlike the morning I watched Pacific Heights for the first time. Was a wondrous occasion to witness Keaton being a relentless cunt. I would have liked to have seen more of that from the man, just imagine how much better Jack Frost would have been, “Oh Dad, please stop lying and stuff.” “You lied to me, cunt face, my lawyers are already on the case, I’ll see you in court on stalker charges you little shit.”

Long before Batman became an American psycho, he was a Keaton, born and raised. Remember that great punch in Batman Returns? How could anyone forget, right straight to the heart. Even Dio wrote a song about it. The furniture moves every time my mind visualises it.

Watching Multiplicity just earlier today I was reminded of the glory, the prestige of the man. Not only does it feature a tetralogy of Keatons, but also a reference to The Fly, best reference to the film ever I might add, even beats Arnie getting all Brundlefly in The 6th Day and melting Henry’s portrait.

When you’ve had a hard day at the office, or a hard day wondering the two-facedness complex of Maggie Gyllenhaal, the best remedy can only be a viewing of Beetlejuice. Bit like how Orson Welles steals The Third Man, Keaton owns this flick despite really only being in it about twenty or so minutes. I always thought of Keaton as a successor to Welles; even though he doesn’t direct and (probably) has a fierce hatred of Shakespeare, they might as well have the same name, or a unification, Michael Keaton Welles has a nice ring to it.

Finally a hasty mention of the Frasier guest appearance. Beats even Cracker and Withnail’s. Oh how a dear physically impaired Keaton messes with Frasier, only Sir Keaton could do that.

Concluding remarks, I have taken it upon my being to proclaim Michael Keaton a knight of the realm. The realm of streaming dish-cleaners awash with tectonic regalia that pounce repeatedily between here and Zurich.