By Robert Coover
From Hollywood B-movies to Hollywood classics, ?"A evening on the Movies"?invents what "might have occurred" in those Saturday afternoon matinees. Mad scientists, vampires, cowboys, dance-men, Chaplin, and Bogart, all flit throughout Robert Coover's riotously humorous reveal, doing issues and uttering traces which are as surprising to them as they're humorous to the reader. As Coover's software broadcasts, you'll get Coming sights, The Weekly Serial, event, Comedy, Romance, and extra, yet became upside-down and inside-out.
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Extra resources for A Night at the Movies, or, You Must Remember This
Then, slowly, he lifts his eyes and gazes about him: he is alone, the cemetery is empty. The pallbearer stumbles to the gate of the cemetery and stares down the dusty road leading to the village. It, too, is desolate. The village lies distantly on the treeless plain, the cathedral rising above it. The pallbearer starts running down the road, limbs out-flung, mouth agape, the camera following at a discreet distance. He arrives at the edge of the village, stops, peers about as though confused. The village is, as at the beginning, empty and silent under the overcast sky.
The futility of it all maybe. He sighed. He was alone. Alone with the Mexican. But: where was the Mexican? The Sheriff of Gentry's Junction, tall, lean, proud, his cold blue eyes squinting into the glare of the noon sun, walked silently, utterly alone, down the dusty Main Street, the jingle of his spurs muffled only slightly by the puffs of dust kicked up by his high heels. Sun straight overhead. He hauled out his pocket watch. Just a couple of minutes now to 12:10. It was on. Like it or not. He slid the watch back into his pocket as though dropping anchor.
She is cracking down across the face from the white hair to the white throat and then away she is tearing from the skull with a peculiar very sucking sound. Only are remaining the big wet eyes in their mournful sockets. Very funny, yes, of course, but, eh. . macabre. Yes, of truth one would say, I think, macabre. The round brown Mexican he is giggling as a young boy with the teared-away flesh bunching up like bar rags in his fat hands. He looks at one hand and he looks at the other hand. He laughs in himself and his grand balloon of a belly she shakes and shakes.