A group that gets together weekly for an hour on zoom technology later gets together elsewhere for, well, a lot more than an hour. The ensuing marathon of sharing, listening, meeting gazes, talking, plus some emoting, yields a happy, enduring bond. We will stick together hereafter, we say, springboarding towards deeper explorations, understandings of one another. And yet, amid ruminations of loss, danger, and agency—three pillars of sobering growth—the group contemplates play, which entails mischief, creativity, and semi-drunken performance. A man says to me, tell us about the time you did that bit about the guy with a cigar and an I-phone, which was a play on that old film, and you had to improvise because the tech was glitchy. “What film?” asked a newcomer. “Dr. Strangelove”, said the man reporting the folklore. “Dr Strangelove? Who’s that”, replied the first man.
Uh-oh, intoned the group, knowing what was afoot. An education was called for, so l launched into my act, first orienting the newcomer to the casting idiosyncrasy, that of Peter Sellers playing four roles, including the eponymous Strangelove character. However, I first intro’d Mandrake, the everyman Englishman who is a bit like myself, a workman-like captain, deputy to nutjob #1, general Jack D. Ripper, commander of Burpelson air force base in the fictional yet not world of cold war paranoia, circa 1962. See, Ripper begins the story by telling Mandrake that “we’re in a shooting war”—an allusion to a presumably imminent nuclear strike by the Soviets. Ripper says order a wing (like 35 B-52 bombers) to launch an attack, shut down the base, and confiscate all radios that could be used by saboteurs to counter orders. The dutiful Mandrake complies, but when wandering through an emptied office, he discovers a small radio that plays a jazz tune, which signifies something not right, so he hurries to Ripper’s office to say, in effect, wtf.
By the way, my newcomer listener is thus far polite in his listening but not yet rapt as I have not yet hit my performative stride. The accent comes next. Bursting into Ripper’s office, Mandrake exclaims, “Excuse me sir, but if an attack were in progress we would not be hearing civilian broadcasts”. At this point, Ripper rises from his desk and sneakily locks his door, entrapping Mandrake, who is an unforeseen glitch in his plan. He then informs his subordinate and, in effect, the film’s audience, of the major plot point: nutjob general has taken matters into his own hands and ordered an unauthorized attack upon America’s enemies because—okay, get this—because he can no longer abide communist infiltration, communist subversion, indoctrination, or the international communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.
This bit yields the first earned laugh of my past and present presentation, largely because of its enduring relevance: what’s amusing about conspiracy theorists, etc. Anyway, I continue, as in reveal with loose attention to the story’s chronicling of events and the 3 major settings of Dr Strangelove (subtitle: How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb): the air force base and specifically the office wherein Ripper has ordered the strike, and within which Mandrake must endure a diatribe about Ripper’s reasons for this act, which include fears about fluoridation of water, and more deeply—cue Freud—the triggering event for this psychotic break, which featured an instance of Ripper’s impotence while having sex. He had to blame someone, of course, and guess what—turns out he has a few weapons at this disposal. Next scene is the infamous “war room” at the pentagon, peopled by at least one other nutjob general who is sympathetic to the unauthorized attack launched by Ripper. This is Buck Turgidson, a guy who will have specialized in giving nuggies to nerds in grade school, played by an ebullient and oversexed George C. Scott. The other major character in this scene, at least at first, is President Muffley, a stiff, liberal Adlai Stevenson type, also played by Sellers, who must determine what to do about Ripper. Well, first he orders troops to storm the air force base to arrest Ripper and compel a recall of the planes ordered to attack Russia. Then he thinks to call the Russian premiere to warn of the imminent strike.
Problem, says Turgidson. The attacking planes are fitted with specialized radios that will only receive “recall” orders if those orders are preceded by a special code—a code that will only be known by the renegade Ripper. This bit cues laughter because it reminds everyone of needing a password in order to…you know… do anything. Well, this is a glitch in the system, moans Muffley, just as the radio discovery was a glitch in Ripper’s plan leading to Mandrake’s inconvenient queries. And as I inventory the theme of glitches, of displacements that steer attention from bigger problems and oversights—problems such as nuclear war, or oversights that lead to nutjobs attaining high office in military and government (ahem, cue winking/nodding as audience resonates with contemporary insinuation)—I remind my newcomer listener that the point of this entire anecdote was to illustrate my playfulness, my adaptation to adversity, not to mention my poise in the face of an uncannily parallel glitch in my presentation.
The wifi wasn’t working, which is a statement that would have meant nothing in 1962. Actually, the aftermath secret is that I didn’t set the wi-fi prior to my beginning the presentation, which meant that something I’d intended—the playing of you-tube clips from the film—would not load and therefore play for my two-hundred deep audience. I can still recall the moment of frozen disbelief that was not yet panic that led to my nonplussed glance towards tech support by the side of the stage. I looked towards the young man sat before a laptop like a stuttering actor calling for his next line. The crowd started to glance around, tracking me, muttering their emergent knowledge that something was wrong. Back to the gathering: my newcomer listener was now gripped by drama and not comedy. And yet, there was a surprise coming, one that would inspire and also fit with the theme of glitches, of technology breakdown, or a system’s collapse. It’s all humankind’s fault anyway, I’d soon be declaring.
While a stoic techie worked vainly to fix my problem, I stepped towards the base of the stage and performed an impromptu skit based upon an imagined dialogue between Ripper and Mandrake. It was an outtake, as in a bit that I cut from the script of my talk, now re-instated because I now had ten minutes or so to fill. It was a reboot of sorts, replacing the film’s notion of bomber radios and recall codes with an idea about Ripper looking to use an I-phone app to track the flight of his precious bomber wing as they pursue their mission, plus weather events that might thwart them. Drama hits the skit because the app won’t accept Ripper’s password, and he and Mandrake argue over use of a phone as military hardware. Anyway, this piece of improv amused the crowd and latterly my newcomer, and more or less filled time before the techie guy shrugged and exited the stage, saying he could do nothing to help me.
Oh well, back to the film and its theme of unhealthy reliance upon technology, whether humans are responsible for it or not. At this point in the retelling, I say “you might also be wondering how this Strangelove thing comes in?”
“Yes!” said my listener, wholly prompted. So, next I describe Sellers’ third character, crazy ex-Nazi named Dr Strangelove who is a Bond-like villain, sort of a cross between Dr No and Ernst Blofeld, complete with a wheelchair and no hands, though his disability is mental, not really physical, I emphasize. He is summoned forward to validate a claim by a visiting Russian ambassador, who supplies the film’s dramatic twist—namely, that a successful attack, as in the exploding of a single bomb on Russian soil, will activate a doomsday device that according to Strangelove will render the Earth uninhabitable for over ninety years. Incidentally, this Strangelove character also has a malfunctioning chair and set of limbs, which affords Sellers the chance to make absurd gestures that betray the characters’ lingering Nazi sympathy. Also, I note for my listener that Strangelove is clearly the inspiration for the Dr Evil character from Austin Powers.
By this time, my performance is less about the traversing of glitches and resilience than it is my enduring love of storytelling. Having given my friend most of the film’s plot, I proceed until its bitter end. Thirdly, I describe the cockpit of the one bomber that viewers will follow throughout the film, that of major King Kong, not played by Sellers but rather rodeo cowboy Sim Pickens. The others of the men’s group love my portrayal of this guy because here is where the film indulges phallic humor. Because it is crucial from both sides of the cold war divide that the attack not happen, a coordinated USA/Soviet attack is leveled at all the bombers to prevent any one of them getting through to their targets. This missile attack is unnecessary for many of the planes because Mandrake has figured out the recall code shortly after Ripper has committed suicide rather than be taken prisoner by soldiers ordered to arrest him by Muffley. However, the concurrent missile attack on the planes, which destroys maybe 3 bombers, only damages Kong’s plane, which is able to maintain its course to its target. What’s damaged is the radio that might have accepted the recall code.
What’s also damaged are the doors that are meant to open such that the bombs could be dropped, which leads an exasperated but heroic Kong (nutjob #4) to venture to the bomb bay to fix the problem. Sitting atop one of the nuclear weapons, which is shaped like a rocket, he finds the short circuit, makes a repair, and then watches as the bomb doors open spontaneously below him. Next, the bomb drops with Kong sat upon it, and as the camera fixes upon him, he is seen waving his cowboy hat, exulting “Yeehaa” and riding what must be the greatest erection of all time between his legs.
Yeah.
The last piece for my newcomer listener, who by this point had resolved to watch this classic film despite my spoilers, was a review of Strangelove’s denouement speech: lecturing to a gathering of generals and a morose president, who are now all awaiting doomsday, Strangelove suggests that mine-shaft space within the Americas could be converted as lifehouses for a selection of survivors such that the species would in turn survive holocaust. He further stimulates the male-dominated gathering by adding that the ratio of men to women in this plan would need to be 1 to 10 in order to maximize procreation. Horror/excitement is on hold while Turgidson objects, claiming a war task still exists concerning a mine-shaft gap between the USA and the Soviets. His would-be rebuttal is then interrupted as Strangelove, rising miraculously from his chair, exclaims, “Mein Fuhrer, I can walk!”
The comedy ends there, followed by a montage of Mushroom cloud explosions: footage of nuclear tests of the 40s and 50s, with the tune “We’ll Meet Again” being sung over the soundtrack.
I’d affected Strangelove’s last line at the top of my voice, bringing my act to a close. There you have it: ruminations of loss, danger, agency. And play.
