When I invested a not-inconsiderable sum in the dirtbag squat cum online arts and culture magazine known as The Last Estate, certain stipulations accompanied my generous gift. I was to be given, for example, free rein to renovate the plantation home that houses the magazine’s corporate headquarters (as well as its ragtag assortment of reporters and columnists). This option I exercised almost immediately upon taking up temporary residence at the home, having found that the species of black mold produced by the structure’s ancient and moldering wood disagreed most violently with my admittedly fickle constitution. Not to mention, of course, the veritable orgy of dust bunnies, spiders, bat bugs, termites, and icky pigeons found in every turret, corridor and chimney of the house – all of which agitate my fragile nerves and stimulate a most vigorous allergic response in my delicate humors. Every resident agreed, too, that none would touch my things, nor enter the private spaces I built with my money, unless expressly invited. For as much as I value The Last Estate’s, ahm, unique approach to cultural criticism, I simply cannot have its rowdy gang of rabble rousers traipsing through my quarters, tracking dirt and goo and God knows what else on my good Turkish rugs, stealing my boiled eggs, or sticking their grubby little meathooks in my expensive poultices. My friends, it simply won’t do. 

 

Given the above, the words I am about to utter should come as no shock. 

 

As I have stated during several house meetings, no one is allowed in the Martine Sackler de Huguenot Dry Memorial Home Theatre & Entertainment Complex except for me, and certain special guests, on my express invitation. Now, I have it on good authority that multiple house residents have been using the Theatre & Entertainment Complex without my permission, and, what’s worse, someone has been touching *MY* Endorphin-O-Meter! For your information, the Endorphin-O-Meter is a proprietary invention of Pat Dry Enterprises & The Pat Dry Health Elixir Concern, and is patent-pending. Furthermore, the device has a sticky note attached to it, which is CLEARLY visible and which CLEARLY states, “No one may use this device without my express permission. -Pat” 

 

Any further infractions of these rules shall result in swift, harsh – yet thoroughly just and resoundingly moral – punishment. Certainly, I did not anticipate that my role at The Last Estate would be that of moral rehabilitator, or executor of justice, yet however, as I have long assumed both roles in my function as President of the Pat Dry Health Elixir Concern, I am fully prepared to shoulder the responsibility.

 

In addition to these duties, I shall henceforward occupy the position of Lead Film Critic. Indeed I shall do so gladly, as film criticism is chief among my many passions (which also include crooning, camping, cardistry, and cookery). It may seem unusual, given my significant contributions to the beverage and self-help industries, but I believe it is my life’s true purpose to revolutionize and scientize criticism, a field which has lately become a revolting free-for-fall of petty, ill-informed, unscientific, opinionated blather. Why, what do you suppose I invented the Endorphin-O-Meter for in the first place? Personal sense impressions, aesthetic judgments, moral and political philosophies: none have the slightest importance in the sacred art of criticism. One thing matters in evaluating works of cinema. One thing, and one thing alone: ENDORPHINS. If a film should release a high number of endorphins within the brain of the viewer, that film is a great one. Should it release but a trifling quantity, it is most assuredly poor. 

 

A man of my age naturally turns his thoughts to intimations of mortality. What shall I contribute to the great story of man? Kombucha? Herbal tea? For some, this would be enough. But I hunger for more. Something permanent. Something lasting. A Comprehensive Compendium of Movies, ranked from best to worst. This is my life’s work, the culmination of centuries worth of wisdom, experience, and knowledge. What stroke of Tyche’s gubernaculum led to the meeting of myself and the proprietors of the Last Estate, I could not venture to guess. But I know that together, we have what it takes to extract this singular Compendium from my rapidly deteriorating encephalon, and bring it at last to the public, where it shall live in perpetuity, a shimmering beacon in the darkness of a culture all but lost. 

 

This brings me to the purpose of the present disquisition, namely, Kenneth Branagh’s new film, Death on the Nile.

 

Death on the Nile is a sparkling cannibal romp featuring everyone’s favorite Belgian, Hercule Poirot (portrayed with mustachioed aplomb by Mr. Branagh himself). The plot, as it were, concerns Poirot’s hilarious and heartfelt attempts to heal his psychic wartime wounds by shacking up with a swarthy, soulful jazz singer (Sophie Okonedo), all whilst dodging the devious machinations of a twisted tribe of Hollywood cannibal elites (led by the ravishing Annette Bening, who, like a fine cabernet, seems only to get better with age). The presence of young Armie Hammer, himself a noted cannibal, lends the film an element of delightfully juicy veritas. The Drys and the Hammers, as I’m sure you know, go way back. Why, it seems like only yesterday that old Julius and I were stomping around Odessa, racing up and down the Potemkin Stairs, splashing in the Black Sea, not a care in the world. Ah, how the flickerings of the past return. How the memories flit and flutter across the eyelids, in those tender moments between wakefulness and sleep, when the fairies of the night have sprinkled their dust, and the heart quickens briefly before settling into its bottomless laudanum slumber. O Past! How I long for thy return. The now-ness of the present: that’s what I cannot endure. How can one bear it, when all you’ve known has long since faded, the smiling faces of loved ones turned to ashes, familiar haunts fallen to ruin, favored species of flora and fauna passing feverishly into extinction. It is too much for a man to bear, gentle reader. Too much, I fear, by far. 

 

But where was I? Ah, yes. The cannibals. 

 

Cannibalism has long been a taboo subject in Hollywood, and so to see it depicted on screen with such compassion and nuance, and with such a deft, humorous touch, left this crotchety old oligarch tickled halfway to Kathmandu. Blacks, lesbians, transgenders, pagans, and now cannibals. All have faced the fickle winds of public opinion, and all have most assuredly triumphed. A good thing! I may be old, but I’m as progressive as they come. Why, did you know that the Pat Dry Health Elixir Concern was rated as one of the most LGBT-friendly Panopticons in the western hemisphere by Ämnesty International? Anyone who knows me, knows that I have always stood on the side of the belittled and the oppressed. As such, I could hardly help but shed a tear, at the film’s ravishing conclusion, to think of all the wonderful progress made for cannibals, and other persecuted minorities, in our fair nation, in the first decades of this most tolerant and salubrious century. Kudos, then, to Mr. Branagh, and his crackerjack team of artists and artisans, for advancing not only the timeless medium of CINEMA, but also the ever-turning wheel of social progress, a wheel whose paddles churn the frothing rapids of history ever onward, as surely as Minerva’s owl hoots but thrice per second fortnight, or the buttons on Orion’s fabled Belt gleam burgundy the night before Michaelmas (when viewed from the Vatican’s secret observatory beneath the white sand beaches of Nauru, of course). 

 

My verdict? See Death on the Nile. See it, dear reader, and be transformed! Morals uplifted! Senses refined! And oh, the endorphins! The endorphins, dear reader, the endorphins! This is surely one of the finest films yet to be produced in this or any other century. More, please! More! Mr. Branagh, I implore you! Like that lovable little rapscallion Oliver Twist, I must humbly beg, good Sir, for MORE!

 

Postscript. Both sections of Death on the Nile – the cannibal subplot as well as the sparkling romantic comedy – reminded me greatly of my youthful sojourns in the wilds of southwestern Netherlands New Guinea, following my embarrassing military defeat in the Ten Days’ Campaign. Of course, in my case, the cannibals and the lovemaking were altogether more intimately entwined, if you catch my drift. Let’s just say, nothing tastes sweeter than a man-eater’s downstairs toupée – excepting perhaps a spit-roasted Rockefeller. But that, as they say, is neither here nor there. 

ENDORPHINS: OFF THE CHARTS