The other day we had two movies come in the mail, both in that genre of "what the heck, they're on Netflix, we won't really lose anything": Club Dread, and The Number 23. The former was way better than Scary Movie as a horror comedy, although I don't mean to damn with faint, etc . Bill Paxton is a hoot as Coconut Pete, the washed-up, burnt-out rock star bitter at Jimmy Buffett for stealing his schtick. (We checked out the soundtrack on Amazon, and everyone who's ever even looked it up seems angry that it contains none of Coconut Pete's ridiculous ditties).
The premise is that he now owns a tropical resort based on his own songs, where a mad killer is picking off the various attractive and/or eccentric employees. The murders seem to be based, Ten Little Indians style, on an old song Coconut Pete doesn't even remember, a nonsensical "Octopus's Garden" kind of tune, off a 70s album called Sea Shanties and Wet Panties. "Our lives depend on interpreting the stupidest fucking song I've ever heard!" the most sensible babe complains.
I immediately started contemplating a movie based on that classic piece of acid-related whimsy, "A Giant Crab Comes Forth." I've got the LP handy. And I've seen way more implausible set-ups for horror movies that were supposed to be taken completely straight.
So yesterday, just for the heck of it, I went to see how many people are out on MySpace claiming to be Coconut Pete. The number? 23. Spooooky. Although we still haven't watched the movie yet, so I don't know what it's going to end up signifying, other than sound and fury.
Fortunately my life doesn't actually depend on any of my interpretations. It's all still subjective. Whew! But if someday I sound a little tense, well, it could happen.