Judith Podell is now reviewing non-fiction for Publisher’s Weekly. In her spare time she channels blues legend Memphis Earlene Gray on www.memphisearlene.com. Judith holds an MFA from USM-Stonecoast and lives in Washington, DC. She has reviewed books for numerous publications, including the Washington Post. An excerpt from her novel in progress, The Last of the Khazars was in the first issue of The New Guard Review of Literature: www.newguardreview.com.
Back on the late Planet Krankton, he was crown prince but when the meteor struck and he was flung into the cosmos, he landed in Astoria, Queens, one of the Outer Boroughs of Planet Manhattan, and sent to dancing school.
The young Christopher Walken looked like Faye Dunaway’s near identical fraternal twin. That same kind of tense prettiness, and nothing is more disturbing in a man’s face than a hint of prettiness. And, as Meryl Streep puts it, he moves like a god. Then there’s the voice. It’s the voice I want on my GPS. Flat-affect yet avuncular. Like your twisted uncle, the one who did time for some imaginative swindle involving racehorses and shipments of uric acid to Uzbekistan.
“If I were you, I’d take the next left,” he’d tell me.
And when I proceeded on going on my own way, he would not bail me out and provide an alternative, like the current GPS voice does (generic females from out of space), he’d let me pay for my mistakes. Not so bad that I’d go up a one-way ramp and enter the Interstate going in the wrong direction. He’s not cruel that way. HE’s given up being amazed at just how dumb earthlings are. He’s just haunted, existentially lonely, the survivor of some early, unspeakable trauma, the destruction of his home planet.
He came to earth to redeem bad movies.
For demonstration of Christopher Walken’s super-powers check out the video for Fatboy Slim’s video for Weapon of Choice.