Paul Hogan: A RetrospectiveJason Bredle
Imagine the banality of being that guy who played Crocodile Dundee. It was like ten years of the same shit! I mean, I’m sure during the year they make the first movie, he’s happy to be employed and the movie seems promising— everyone involved in its production knows something vaguely special is happening. Then the next year he’s riding the movie’s success, you know, going to red carpet events, meeting the president of the United States or whatever. Then, like, during year three he’s still trying to ride the movie’s success, but some people are just like, Crocodile, man, you have to move on, so by the end of year three he’s all, yeah, it’s time to move on. But what are his talents aside from showing street punks what real knives are like? He has none. It’s sequel time. Perhaps he’s involved with the treatment, perhaps it’s just commissioned and written by somebody else, whatever, but year four he’s involved with the pre-production of the sequel and year five he’s off filming the sequel. And year six? Another wave of success, only this time not as big and glorious as the first. People are tiring of the “that’s not a knife” thing. And the cycle continues like this through many more sequels, especially if you count those Subaru commercials. Each time, less of a wave, until eventually the wave is just keeping him afloat, and he’s telling his friends, yeah, I think things are picking up for me again, I’m doing a Subaru commercial next week. But what kind of hard-ass big knife guy drives a fucking Subaru? And come on, no way somebody’s buying a Subaru because Crocodile Fucking Dundee is the spokesperson. Somebody’s buying a Subaru because of the 6.9%! (MISSING)APR financing offered by his or her local Subaru dealer. But anyway, he rides that for a while before optioning himself for a choose your own adventure series. To stay and wrestle the alligator turn to page 61, to run like hell turn to page 12, and on page 12? Aw yeah, it’s that woman who I used to think was Sharon Stone but who isn’t Sharon Stone, in a thong, slipping into a natural spring for a little “relaxation.” Page 61? You wrestle the alligator before getting all strange with some Aborigines as the woman I used to think was Sharon Stone spies on you. You go to New York City, show a street punk the size of your knife which is probably a metaphor for your penis, learn how to use a bidet, do a bunch of coke off of Sharon Stone not Sharon Stone’s breasts. Whatever the case, it’s doubtful this is how you’d ever envisioned your life, serialized for pre-teens and easily maneuverable. No, you’d imagined something much different, like, yeah, you travel to South America or something, taste a capybara and an emu egg omelet, open a weird zoo in a country where weird zoo laws are hazy at best, and there are a bunch of deer just wandering around everywhere for visitors to pet and feed salt to out of their palms, and you raise a family here, and it’s like everything works out so well despite the country eventually getting specific with its weird zoo laws and forcing you to close your snake exhibit and cage all the deer, but by that point you’re in your twilight years, and it doesn’t matter, you’re just going to ride this thing out with your loving wife. Your son Patrick is a famous tennis player, after all.
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