Just make love to that wall, pervert!

Seinfeld

2.10: The Statue

The Premise

Jerry employs a cleaner, the boyfriend of an author whose book Elaine is editing. He leaves the apartment spotless, but Jerry is convinced he has made off with a statue.

Observational

A dazzling return to form, and one of the best episodes of the season. It also, as Michael Richards has noted, gives us a Kramer in full creative flow, so setting the tone for many of his later exploits. This should be no surprise, as the script comes from the more offbeat sensibilities of Larry Charles; there’s usually something slightly cartoonish about his scripts, which may be why they’re often my favourites.

Something we’ve seen little of so far are memorable supporting characters. Most have been other halves of the week, but here we have not one but two and both are very funny. Michael D. Conway’s Ray is an effusive English grad student so theatrical that you know something must be wrong somewhere. And sure enough, we see him return to his girlfriend’s apartment, grumbling and kicking his heels; the façade has fallen away.

Rava (Nurit Koppel) is a ravishing misery with a somewhere-in-the-vicinity Finnish accent and a commentary that can kill a convivial atmosphere stone dead. Koppel was apparently an ex of Richard Lewis, which caused a bit of tension on set with Jerry (as he had naturally been on Lewis’ side through the break-up). Both Koppel and Conway spark off the regulars and Charles seems charged by the creative possibilities; you could imagine an episode of double the length.

The best of Rava’s interplay comes with Elaine, although Jerry gets in the occasional glancing blow at her less than sunny outlook (“So what do you, write children’s books?”) Inevitably Rava and Elaine discuss the brouhaha over Ray, and inevitably they take sides. Tom Cherones stages this sequence with consummate skill, as their argument rages unseen when they enter a lift. Rava, smoking away, is causing distress to the fellow passengers and Elaine is never one to bite her tongue, even if it costs her the much-wanted editing role.

Rava: You are jealous of our love and you want to destroy us.

Elaine: Shouldn’t you be out on a ledge somewhere?

Jerry, very into his cleanliness, is incredibly impressed by Ray’s work (“He Windexed the little peephole!”), although his upbeat manner gives him pause (“Shouldn’t you be out on a ledge somewhere?”). While it’s Jerry who initiates the quest for justice against Ray, the full impassioned force comes form George and Kramer.

George, who has been studying new words to introduce into conversation (“It’s anathema”) has a vested interest; the statue (which Kramer discovered in a box of items left to Jerry by his grandfather) is identical to one he broke as a child (while pretending it was a microphone). By this point we have a clear picture of his not-yet-introduced parents (“My mother’s making her roast potatoes”), and we can all too easily see the likelihood of the sight of Frank Costanza’s naked frame scarring George for life.

But it’s George’s bout of indignant rage, directed at Ray in the diner, that really scores. As with the lift scene, the staging is superlative. George sits with his back to Jerry, who is failing to extract a confession from Ray. To each response from Ray George mutters invective, while dismissing Jerry’s attempts (“Did you call me a wuss?”) Finally, he gets up to confront Ray and his turning worm is both impressive and amusing. Until Ray starts to get angry, at which point he wilts.

The very finest scene comes right at the end, however. Kramer came away with most of Jerry’s grandfather’s items (mainly clothes, including a pair of knee socks and a hat like Joe Friday’s from Dragnet). But after his squabble with George over possession of the statue (resolved by a game of Inka-Dink, in which Jerry bends the rules so George wins) he is given to sporadic suggestions that justice should be served (“Let’s go get him”). With only three or four minutes left, Ray answers the door and finds Kramer posing as a police detective and demanding to search the premises (he accuses Ray of grand larceny, possession of stolen goods and “murder!”). Richards is a tour de force, a whirlwind of energy and limbs as he pushes Ray into the corner (“Just make love to that wall, pervert!”) and makes off with the statue.

I’m not sure Kramer ever actually ends up making things better for anyone, as well meaning as he is. So it’s no surprise that the final scene sees George show eternal gratitude, only for Cosmo (not yet known by that name) to pat him on the back. Which sends the statue flying out of George’s hands to fall to the floor, shattering.

Quotable

George: My parents looked at me like I smashed the Ten Commandments. It was the single most damaging experience of my life. Aside from seeing my father naked.

Ray: Greetings. I beg your forgiveness. My tardiness was unavoidable.

Jerry: Shouldn’t you be out on a ledge somewhere?

Jerry: Kramer, it’s Jerry. Jerry. Jerry. From next door. Jerry Seinfeld. Never mind where I am. Just dip the bread in the batter and put it in the pan. Okay, bye. My mother. She forgot how to make French Toast. You know hoe mothers are.

Rava: My mother left us when I was six years old. All seven of us. We never heard from her again. I hope she’s rotting in an alley somewhere.

Jerry: My mother’s down in Florida.

Ray: How about dinner?

Jerry: No, I can’t eat dinner. Dinner’s for suckers.

George: Who is this? I’m the judge and the jury, pal. An the verdict is, “Guilty!”

Ray: You are starting to make me angry.

George: Well… That was bound to happen eventually.

Elaine: Did you go out last night?
Rava: No, we made love on the floor like two animals. Ray is insatiable.

Elaine: There are degrees of coincidence.

Rava: No, there are only coincidences. (Turning to lift passengers) Are there big coincidences and small coincidences? Well? Well?

Man: Will you put that cigarette out?

Rava: Maybe I put it out in your face.

George: This experience has changed me. It has made me more bitter. More cynical. More jaded.

Jerry: Really?

George: Sure, why not?

Kramer: Just make love to that wall, pervert!

Ray: I think you’ve got me confused with someone else.

Kramer: Is your name Ray?

Ray: Yes.

Kramer: Yeah, you’re the punk I’m looking for.

Ray: Are you a cop?

Kramer: Yeah, I’m a cop. I’m a damn good cop. I’m a cop!

Verdict:

Your Mickey Mouse is one big stupid dope!

Enemy Mine (1985) (SPOILERS) The essential dynamic of Enemy Mine – sworn enemies overcome their differences to become firm friends – was a well-ploughed one when it was made, such that it led to TV Tropes assuming, since edited, that it took its title from an existing phrase (Barry Longyear, author of the 1979 novella, made it up, inspired by the 1961 David Niven film The Best of Enemies ). The Film Yearbook Volume 5 opined that that Wolfgang Petersen’s picture “ lacks the gritty sauciness of Hell in the Pacific”; John Boorman’s WWII film stranded Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune on a desert island and had them first duking it out before becoming reluctant bedfellows. Perhaps germanely, both movies were box office flops.

If I do nothing else, I will convince them that Herbert Stempel knows what won the goddam Academy Award for Best goddam Picture of 1955. That’s what I’m going to accomplish.

Quiz Show (1994) (SPOILERS) Quiz Show perfectly encapsulates a certain brand of Best Picture nominee: the staid, respectable, diligent historical episode, a morality tale in response to which the Academy can nod their heads approvingly and discerningly, feeding as it does their own vainglorious self-image about how times and attitudes have changed, in part thanks to their own virtuousness. Robert Redford’s film about the 1950s Twenty-One quiz show scandals is immaculately made, boasts a notable cast and is guided by a strong screenplay from Paul Attanasio (who, on television, had just created the seminal Homicide: Life on the Streets ), but it lacks that something extra that pushes it into truly memorable territory.

No one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.

The Matrix (1999) (SPOILERS) Twenty years on, and the articles are on the defining nature of The Matrix are piling up, most of them touching on how its world has become a reality, or maybe always was one. At the time, its premise was engaging enough, but it was the sum total of the package that cast a spell – the bullet time, the fashions, the soundtrack, the comic book-as-live-action framing and styling – not to mention it being probably the first movie to embrace and reflect the burgeoning Internet ( Hackers doesn’t really count), and subsequently to really ride the crest of the DVD boom wave. And now? Now it’s still really, really good.

Other monks will meet their deaths here. And they too will have blackened fingers. And blackened tongues.

The Name of the Rose (1986) (SPOILERS) Umberto Eco wasn’t awfully impressed by Jean Jacques-Annaud’s adaptation of his novel – or “ palimpsest of Umberto Eco’s novel ” as the opening titles announce – to the extent that he nixed further movie versions of his work. Later, he amended that view, calling it “ a nice movie ”. He also, for balance, labelled The Name of the Rose his worst novel – “ I hate this book and I hope you hate it too ”. Essentially, he was begrudging its renown at the expense of his later “ superior ” novels. I didn’t hate the novel, although I do prefer the movie, probably because I saw it first and it was everything I wanted from a medieval Sherlock Holmes movie set in a monastery and devoted to forbidden books, knowledge and opinions.

Say hello to the Scream Extractor.

Monsters, Inc. (2001) (SPOILERS) I was never the greatest fan of Monsters, Inc. , even before charges began to be levelled regarding its “true” subtext. I didn’t much care for the characters, and I particularly didn’t like the way Pixar’s directors injected their own parenting/ childhood nostalgia into their plots. Something that just seems to go on with their fare ad infinitum. Which means the Pixars I preferred tended to be the Brad Bird ones. You know, the alleged objectivist. Now, though, we learn Pixar has always been about the adrenochrome, so there’s no going back…

All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies.

Watership Down (1978) (SPOILERS) I only read Watership Down recently, despite having loved the film from the first, and I was immediately impressed with how faithful, albeit inevitably compacted, Martin Rosen’s adaptation is. It manages to translate the lyrical, mythic and metaphysical qualities of Richard Adams’ novel without succumbing to dumbing down or the urge to cater for a broader or younger audience. It may be true that parents are the ones who get most concerned over the more disturbing elements of the picture but, given the maturity of the content, it remains a surprise that, as with 2001: A Space Odyssey (which may on the face of it seem like an odd bedfellow), this doesn’t garner a PG certificate. As the makers noted, Watership Down is at least in part an Exodus story, but the biblical implications extend beyond Hazel merely leading his fluffle to the titular promised land. There is a prevalent spiritual dimension to this rabbit universe, one very much

Piece by piece, the camel enters the couscous.

The Forgiven (2021) (SPOILERS) By this point, the differences between filmmaker John Michael McDonagh and his younger brother, filmmaker and playwright Martin McDonagh, are fairly clearly established. Both wear badges of irreverence and provocation in their writing, and a willingness to tackle – or take pot-shots – at bigger issues, ones that may find them dangling their toes in hot water. But Martin receives the lion’s share of the critical attention, while John is generally recognised as the slightly lesser light. Sure, some might mistake Seven Psychopaths for a John movie, and Calvary for a Martin one, but there’s a more flagrant sense of attention seeking in John’s work, and concomitantly less substance. The Forgiven is clearly aiming more in the expressly substantial vein of John’s earlier Calvary, but it ultimately bears the same kind of issues in delivery.

He tasks me. He tasks me, and I shall have him.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982) (SPOILERS) I don’t love Star Trek , but I do love Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan . That probably isn’t just me, but a common refrain of many a non-devotee of the series. Although, it used to apply to The Voyage Home (the funny one, with the whales, the Star Trek even the target audience for Three Men and a Baby could enjoy). Unfortunately, its high regard has also become the desperate, self-destructive, song-and-verse, be-all-and-end-all of the overlords of the franchise itself, in whichever iteration, it seems. This is understandable to an extent, as Khan is that rare movie sequel made to transcendent effect on almost every level, and one that stands the test of time every bit as well (better, even) as when it was first unveiled.

In a few moments, you will have an experience that will seem completely real. It will be the result of your subconscious fears transformed into your conscious awareness.

Brainstorm (1983) (SPOILERS) Might Brainstorm have been the next big thing – a ground-breaking, game-changing cinematic spectacle that had as far reaching consequences as Star Wars (special effects) or Avatar (3D) – if only Douglas Trumbull had been allowed to persevere with his patented “Showscan” process (70mm film photographed and projected at 60 frames per second)? I suspect not; one only has to look at the not-so-far-removed experiment of Ang Lee with Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk , and how that went down like a bag of cold sick, to doubt that any innovation will necessarily catch on (although Trumbull at least had a narrative hinge on which to turn his “more real than real” imagery, whereas Lee’s pretty much boiled down to “because it was there”). Brainstorm ’s story is, though, like its title, possibly too cerebral, too much concerned with the consciousness and touting too little of the cloyingly affirmative that Bruce Rubin inevitably brings to his screenplays. T

They say if we go with them, we'll live forever. And that's good.

Cocoon (1985) Anyone coming across Cocoon cold might reasonably assume the involvement of Steven Spielberg in some capacity. This is a sugary, well-meaning tale of age triumphing over adversity. All thanks to the power of aliens. Substitute the elderly for children and you pretty much have the manner and Spielberg for Ron Howard and you pretty much have the approach taken to Cocoon . Howard is so damn nice, he ends up pulling his punches even on the few occasions where he attempts to introduce conflict to up the stakes. Pauline Kael began her review by expressing the view that consciously life-affirming movies are to be consciously avoided. I wouldn’t go quite that far, but you’re definitely wise to steel yourself for the worst (which, more often than not, transpires). Cocoon is as dramatically inert as the not wholly dissimilar (but much more disagreeable, which is saying something) segment of Twilight Zone: The Movie directed by Spielberg ( Kick the Can ). There

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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