When I re-encountered him in the post-boom 1980s, Rudolph Grey had a much different public persona than he'd evidenced in the late 1970s. The formerly silent and occasionally menacingly façaded guitarist/vocalist for Red Transistor had mutated into a friendly and funny guy who could talk all night ... about Ed Wood.
Unlike most obsessed individuals, Rudolph's discourse was remarkably engaging because he wasn't a blind worshipper at the stiletto-shod feet of the man who created some of America's most notable cult movies. Whatever components he'd discovered in Ed Wood to identify with were multifarious, universal and profound, and it was obvious that Rudolph was using conversation to constantly refine and sharpen his insights.
What a pleasure to see all that and more on the page when Nightmare of Ecstasy: The Life and Art of Edward D. Wood, Jr. was published a few years later. The biography is presented as oral history; Grey's expansive valuation is conveyed purely through the editing and layering of harvested, first-person recollections from Ed's cronies. It's quite an accomplishment, a touching tribute crafted with a loving hand.
Then that big stupid-head Tim Burton came traipsing along and crapped all over it.
Don't get me wrong; it's a very fine thing that Rudolph Grey received accolades and a wad of cash and maybe even some hot lovin' because of the release of Burton's Ed Wood film. It's just a shame that glorified production designer Burton was allowed to take a genuinely poignant tale and mangle it into what appeared to be yet another one-dimensional, sappy wallow in the endless sea of cheap sentimentality, with scenes that never quite knew when to quit and actors who bounced off one another like renegade, excited atoms, never quite connecting.
Okay, obviously, I've never been a fan, but after Ed Wood I began to sincerely hate Tim Burton, not just because he's a sucky, suck-ass director who sucks, but in a personal way. I'd even find myself thinking about how much I hated him in my spare time and apropos of nothing. What did Lisa Marie see in that lumbering, pseudo-Goth baby man? Where's he hiding his USDA "Douche Bag" Stamp and aren't those things required to be displayed where everyone can see them? What kinds of noises would he make if you fed him feet-first into a wood chipper?
Yeah, I hate Tim Burton. Boy, do I hate him. And do you know what hating Tim Burton makes me? A complete moron who sucks just as much as he does, because the hating of celebrities is even more egregious behavior than the worshipping of them.
Having strong opinions about people you don't actually know, whose actions really have nothing to do with your life, is creepy and sad and pointless and unhealthy. Celebrity worship is a pandemic that the human race may never recover from, but celebrity hatred is possibly an even more ridiculous expenditure of time and energy.
By being a celebrity hater, I'm only feeding the beast and providing fodder for celebrity worshippers who are more than happy for an opportunity to passionately defend their favorites against my bile. Let's face it: Conversations about Britney and Kevin or Jessica or Brad, pro or con, are everyday absurdist performance art. My hatred of Tim Burton does not make me a better or more interesting person, even though I have a barely even tenuous connection to him. I haven't talked to Rudolph in years. Maybe he was perfectly happy with the way the film turned out... Who the fuck knows?
Hopefully, this article outing myself is the beginning of the end of my Tim Burton hatred. From now on, I'm putting my energy into ignoring him instead.
Then I have to work on my feelings about Renee Zellweger."
Fuente: http://www.thesimon.com/magazine/articles/telling_stories_short_story_archives.html
