Spoons hurt. Even plastic ones.
It's one of the many lessons learned after spending a Friday night at Milwaukee's historic Oriental Theater with Tommy Wiseau, his epically awful film “The Room” and what looked to be a full-house of his fans. Spoons are among things flung without regard before and during the movie, along with footballs and a torrent of insults, questions, and other assorted comments that violate every theater courtesy.
And, it's awesome.
Wiseau is the mystery man of jet-black tresses and at least four belts worn simultaneously around his waist. His film is the subject of another movie, “The Disaster Artist” starring James Franco who did a spot-on Tommy as well as a pretty solid cast of others who play what can best be described as horrified onlookers, wondering just what they signed up for when they agreed to help Wisreau bring his cinematic dream to life on the big screen. Franco won a Golden Globe for his portrayal and “The Disaster Artist” picked up other hardware along the way.
Many dream of making a movie but Tommy got to do it with virtually no training, no connections and no hope because he had the one thing that counts: money. And cash is power. Mind you, no one knows for sure where he got his wealth (in this particular interview, he says it came from “building” but he probably said something else a few days later 'cause that's how he rolls)Â but as “The Disaster Artist” shows and others attest, Tommy's checks never bounced. So it was on with the show, no matter how crazy Wiseau acted, how lilttle he rehearsed, how bizarre his edits or strange his plot.Â
“The Room” has been out for 16 years and the momentum shows no sign of letting up. Franco's portrayal only added heat to the simmering cult caldron that was building around the movie, one that had folks trekking to midnight Friday showings around the country ala “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Thing is, “Rocky” has some chops.
“The Room” has spoons. And footballs.
Friday's crowd came packin' flatware because there are scenes played out in Tommy's apartment where there's a picture on the table, a framed portrait of…a spoon. When it's on the screen, your spoon is in the air, flung who knows where. I heaved with the best of 'em Friday night and I hope I gave as good as I received because I caught a couple-three of those little plastic bastards in the melon and lemme tell ya, they smart if they hit you right.
Footballs sailed through the pre-show air, an homage to a pair of scenes during which Tommy and his best-friend-for-life Greg play awkward games of catch. Greg seems to have a clue as to how to throw a spiral. Wiseau has none. It's hilarious. A lighted Nerf model got flung the width of the Oriental's main theater floor a bunch of times–some of these kids look like they're on scholarship, juding by the quality of their heaves and considering they were probably, ahem, over-served. A real live football also got tossed around but my son showed wisdom beyond his years, snagging it just before the screning began and then sitting on it until the credits rolled lest some fan catch said pigskin square in the face unawares.Â
There are things you yell repeatedly through the night because if Tommy is nothing else as a director, he's consistent. Characters continually come to Wiseau's apartment and leave the front door open. “SHUT THE DOOR!” we'd scream, but alas, Tommy kept air conditioning the San Francisco environs. “WHO THE F–K ARE YOU?!?” we'd beller everytime someone showed up on screen with lines, the director finding no reason to tell us who they were and why they were part of the film. In fact, the guy playing a psychiatrist apparently had his fill of Tommy's, um, unique way of working and bolted mid film. Rather than re-shoot his scenes, Wiseau just found someone else to play the character.Â
“WHO THE F–K AREÂ YOU?!?”, indeed.
For all the yelling, laughing, cavorting and heckling, the decible-meter peaked when Tommy himself took the stage–late, of course, because he had fans to greet, folks who paid extra to walk down a second set of velvet ropes to press his flesh and buy his merch which includes a Tommy brand of underwear. He answered questions but damned if I could tell you what he said because it didn't make much sense–and I'd only had a handful of drinks to that point. Maybe that was my problem, I was under-medicated.
It was all a novce could have hoped for and more. Having seen “The Disaster Artist” before Friday night's screening, I had a rough idea of just how awful “The Room” would be and how strange Tommy is. The crowd's fervor was an added delight, and the fact my son and his significant other deemed me cool enough to attend not just with them but with some of their 30-ish contemporaries is a compliment I won't soon forget. Sure, I was probably the oldest guy in the house but no one yelled, “WHO THE F–K ARE YOU?” I felt like just another fan, celebrating the big screen mess that is a Wiseau joynt.
That's because “The Room” doesn't stand alone as Tommy's lone body of work. No. There's “F(r)iend” which chronicles the relationship between Wisreau and Greg, and a shark-themed horror opus due out soon, judging by the trailer that rolled before the screening. Tommy is bad at films but good at realizing film-lovers embrace the good but will celebrate the bad over and over and over again.Â
And all that time, Tommy laughs his way to the bank, as he will when he wraps up his Milwaukee stay Saturday at 9:30. I'd bet my bottom dollar it's another full house at the Oriental, and that future patrons will be finding white plastic spoons under their seats and in darkened corners of the historic moviehouse for weeks to come. They may wonder what happened.Â
Tommy happened. If he returns, you may want to take it in for yourself. Bring your own flatware. Leave the real footballs at home.Â
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