The Perfect Nobody
=——–disclaimer——-=
These are my personal thoughts on the characters created by Bruce Robinson, neither related to author’s orignal idea, nor the real life prototypes and actors who brought the characters to life. I endlessly love “Withnail and I”, but it didn’t stop me from being quite bitter about the eponymous heroes, and now I finally figured why.
=______End disclaimer____=
There aren’t enough words to describe how sorry I feel for Marwood. “I” doesn’t exist. This is absolutely terrifying, He is not noticed, and never will be. If, hypothetically (in my wildest fantasy of getting avenged for mistreating “I”) his rage had overwhelmed at some point, he could kill the miracle, a miracle that is an eccentric, childish, hammy man he held for a partner (it’s really hard to find the proper word to describe that kind of a relationship). And who would he be, after he kills? The Herostratus setting the Wonder on fire. Little they know that, unlike the Greek arsonist, “I” is not seeking for fame and attention. Modest, patient, suportive, realistic, warm and empathetic, he is nothing. He is taken for granted, he never counts. He is the background, the scene. They say, the beauty of a flower shows only when it is surrounded by plain green leaves. No one deserves to be the leaf.
I hate wonders, I hate miracles. Miracles are murderers, the murderers of equality, and the equality is the greatest thing in the world. Ha. Did I just sound like a cheesy anti-utopian dictator? I can almost hear the army of 1984-ish grey-clad equals stomping on the pavement… Idiots. Equality is scary, when one doesn’t understand what it’s about.
I hate a cult being created around filth and rot. “No beauty without decay”. Oh, sod off. Broadly, I hate the very idea of a cult.
“I” who is strong and clear, is ignored. What’s in purity and order?
Boredom reigns when no miracles happen. But who said the people like Withnail should not exist? Wrong. They must, and they do, they make us laugh and cry. That is not my point. Everyone has a right to exist and be whatever they are. The saddest part is that it’s deep in human nature, this need to celebrate everything outstanding and devaluate the ordinary.
The chaos is praised, the chaos is worshipped, quoted, remembered. Even in his death the bastard wins and becomes a hero. He is glorified for his abnormality, for the sadness of his life he had none but himself to blame.
Should we die, just to spit in life’s face? This brings us to the brink, not the glorified decadent bastards. They don’t suicide, haha, we wish. The cowards die of substance abuse and are idolized. We go on, pathetically move on, without being appreciated. Living a life, what’s the big deal. Feeling all this makes you jump off the rooftop, not moping over your talents not being recognized.
He wouldn’t cry over you. Those umbrella tears were the lament over an abstraction, the inevitable past, the lack of future, but not for the loss of you. You would be called an ordinary envious sod, a secondary figure. He was majestic, and you won’t be even granted and adjective.
My feelings and words worth crap, yet I dare to fight for “I”, and I always will. I love you, Marwood.
P.S. Maybe, it’s Chardonnay talking.
