National Treasure Two

A while back, Matty, my personal biographer, was eating a Big Mac and trying to get over a massive hangover, when an ad for the new Nicolas Cage film National Treasure Part Two aired on TV.

"Who's going to watch that sack of ass crack?" He said. "Isn't there a Lorenzo Lamas movie somewhere?"

I shook my head in agreement.

"I saw it."

It was Mads, my Norwegian companion. He was sitting on my couch, reading James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake.

"You watched what, Finnegan's Wake?" I said.

"You mean National Treasure Part Two?"

"Yeah, what did I say?"

"Finnegan's Wake."

"Oh, sorry. Anyway, why did you see that movie. National Treausure Part Two, I mean."

"Because. I felt I needed someone to patronize me, you know? I needed to be told: 'you'll like this movie because it's got Nicolas Cage and it's got cool special FX and cool plot twists. You'll not only like this, but you'll tell your friends it's a "Fun Movie", and they'll go an see it because they're just as dumb.' You know what I'm saying? That's why I saw it. I needed to be dropped down a peg. Sometimes I need to be a sales figure, a merchandising projection, a potential first weekend gross, right? I want to feel like all I need is a not only a poor rip-off of Indiana Jones, but it's sequel, to entertain me. I wanna be bored by foreign films from the 50s because they not only have subtitles, but because they're in Black and White too, you know? Is that so bad? I watched National Treasure Part Two, because I think I deserve to be stupid too, right?"

Matty and I both squinted at him.

"You don't expect us to believe that, do you?" I said.

"I guess, not, but it was a good try, no?"

Why Did I Doubt Nicolas Cage?

Mads was recently asked to be on Dr. Phil because one of his kids wanted to confront him or something. It was a free trip to LA, and he asked me if I wanted to go too. Why not, right?

While he was taping the show, I decided to take a trip to Rodeo to grab some clothes. I saw Nicolas Cage exiting a store by himself, putting on his sunglasses as the sun hit him. There were a couple of paparazzi who noticed, but that was it. I ran over.

"Hey, Man," I said. "How you been?"

"Oh my God, I almost didn't recognize you. What're you doing in LA? Walk with me to my car."

"I'm here because Mads is on Dr. Phil for one of his kids."

"That Mads, what a kidder."

We reached his car, a Lamborghini that once belonged to the Shah of Iran, and there was a pause. I wanted to ask him, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. I could tell he was getting impatient, so I blurted it out:

"Why don't you make good movies anymore?"

"What?"

"I've been meaning to call you about this. I know it's kind of harsh to bring--"

"No, I mean why would you ask? Isn't it obvious?"

"Obvious? Why you make movies so bad that you can't even screen them for critics anymore because you know what they'll say? I don't see what's obvious about that."

"I did Leaving Las Vegas, The Rock wasn't bad either. People know I can act if I want to. The plan now is to just take the dumbest script possible for the biggest film possible and cash my 8-figure paycheck. Call it a Kinski approach, only instead of doing as many small bad roles as possible, I do a few big ones for a bigger pay off."

I dropped my head.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, old friend."

"Don't worry about it. Wanna grab a drink?"

"I thought you'd never ask."