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"Look, uh, I know I only get Jake on weekends, but his school is having a career day on Thursday, and I was wondering if I could-" "No."
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Aug 2, 2009 23:25
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You'll think I'm lying, but when you're in uniform and full-Hitler, there's not a dog on earth that'll growl at you. Sometimes when I'm feeling really low, I'll go to the park in regalia, just to pet the dogs that run up to me, their tongues lolling, eyes twinkling. Later their owners will eye them suspiciously as they lie napping in a slanted sunbeam, legs twitching, dreaming of running with Hitler.
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Aug 2, 2009 23:26
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Julie found the pictures today. I should have held my ground when we were talking about whether to get a second computer for the office. I should have only kept my work on a flash drive. They were innocent pictures, just messing around in photoshop. Some of his more famous pictures, with my head pasted on, just to see how exact I was getting with his mannerisms. Nothing weird, nothing freaky, just work. From the look on her face I think she would have preferred to find porn.
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Aug 2, 2009 23:33
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Krinkle posted:I posted those like eight posts up and I used deep links so they don't have to skip ahead well you can be secure in the knowledge that you're better than me how's that?
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Aug 2, 2009 23:43
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my reaction to this thread:
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Aug 3, 2009 01:16
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Kumo posted:well you can be secure in the knowledge that you're better than me A true Hitler would not have admitted this. This is off topic, but, Prince of PURRsia, do you have the full image of your avatar?
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Aug 3, 2009 01:21
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I think I'm out of ideas. Great job, everyone. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tckr6IFVWPU
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Aug 3, 2009 01:33
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this thread rules keep it up
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Aug 3, 2009 01:36
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Schwarzwald posted:A true Hitler would not have admitted this. Yeah, but it's out of focus and blurry due to being taken on a lovely digital camera. Why do you ask?
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Aug 3, 2009 01:51
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Prince of PURRsia posted:Yeah, but it's out of focus and blurry due to being taken on a lovely digital camera. I just think it looks neat. It looks like the cat is a book!
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Aug 3, 2009 02:03
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so much history in these rooms, a succession of events and people. Some still here, some long gone. Like Maurice. When I first started coming to these auditions, nobody in casting would really look at us, nobody except Maurice. He made a point to come to our auditions, learn our names, get to know us. He brought home-made bagels and pastries every time we were coming in. It was something small, something that meant a lot in a sea of dislike and indifference. Last week, he retired. He came to one last audition and give each of us an envelope, asking us not to open it until he left. I opened mine that night. The message read. "My grandmother died in Treblinka. I pissed in the bagel dough every time, you pathetic nazi fucks." It's a mark of how long I've been doing this that his betrayal didn't hurt at all. No pain, no surprise, just the affirmation of low expectations. All I could think about was how tasty his croissants had been. Buttery, with an unidentifiable tang.
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Aug 3, 2009 02:51
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Schwarzwald posted:I just think it looks neat. It looks like the cat is a book! my parents have a cat that likes to climb behind books and stuff on shelves and sit there and look that cat's crazy
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Aug 3, 2009 03:08
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Petey posted:this thread rules keep it up are u sure
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Aug 3, 2009 04:13
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When people ask me why I chose to become a Hitler, I usually say for the challenge, the thrill, of playing the greatest villain in history. I wanted people to see me and sympathize with me, and be disgusted with themselves. Really though, there was more too it than that. Something drew me to Hitler. Something undefinable, something irresistible. Let me try to explain. My first job as Hitler was right after of college. I'd been in love with theater since I was twelve and I was still coming to terms with the fact that I'd never be a movie star -- I didn't have the face for it. I was considering giving up acting entirely when I saw an opening at a local playhouse. It was a play about World War 2 and the only open parts were for Eisenhower and Hitler. I didn't want to get a haircut, so I picked Hitler. I am dead serious. After that, I was offered a job playing Hitler the bad dog owner in an obedience school commercial. Someone else saw me in that and invited me to do a bit part on for their low budget comedy show as the main characters' imperious landlord Adolf. That show only lasted six episodes, but by then I was a Hitler. It was what I did, and it came naturally to me, and the best part was it made acting fun again -- or it used to. Now, after fifteen years of playing Hitler, I feel like, sick as this may sound, he's become a part of me. I can't escape him. So when people ask me why I chose to be a Hitler, the reason I can't answer is because I never chose to be Hitler, he chose to be me.
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Aug 3, 2009 04:40
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IM A Minorite
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Aug 3, 2009 05:55
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"So, would you like to meet him?" Sometimes the question confronts us over drinks, spilling from the mouths of one of the young Hitlers, the ones who don't know any better. Sometimes a rail-thin skinhead corners us in an elevator. Sometimes, most of the time, it's a question we ask ourselves, and there is no one in the echoing cathedrals of our minds to hear our answer. Some Hitlers will say "Of course not," try to dodge the question as something utterly absurd. Others will bluster, say they'd like to punch Hitler in the nose, or shoot him dead. I wonder if they are sincere, if we men who have spent so much time climbing within his skin could really ever truly wish him harm. Others try for humor, saying they would do it to meet Eva, or to perfect their technique. Weak, sickly, black jokes that draw laughter that sounds like a smoker's cough. For us, even this tepid humor is vital necessity. I always liked Randy's response the best. When someone asked him the question, Randy would look down at the floor, like he was ashamed. Then, suddenly, he would spring to his feet, his left arm stabbing skyward, the Voice rolling out of him in its shrill, sharp-edged perfection, his eyes alight with daemonic flame. "I don't know," he would say, in perfectly accented German, standing on the balls of his feet, rearing like a cobra about to strike as his voice rose, sharpened. "WOULD YOU?" Randy's answer was always closest to the truth. They say that Hitler never referred to himself as a politician. No, to the end of his days, he called himself an artist. A painter of war. A sculptor of genocide. An actor, evoking and channeling all the raw, murderous gorilla-fury of mankind. An actor. We've all watched the tapes. Speeches, walks in the Biergarten, the Olympic Ceremonies. We know his mannerisms when we see them. Of course, we are imperfect men in an imperfect world, but sometimes, he shows through. With Randy, it was the Voice, not just shrill, but Hitler-shrill, pitch perfect. For John, it's something in the stride, the set of his head and shoulders. For Eric - a new kid, a kid who should be doing Notler work but is too drat stupid to let this go - it's the hands. I don't think the kid even knows it, but a man who shakes his hand has shaken hands with der Fuhrer. Moments of perfection amidst a sea of mediocrity, but they add up. In aggregate, they form a mosaic more powerful and terrible than the sum of its parts. None of us are playing Hitler. Hitler is playing us. Hitler is still here, panting in the collective unconsciousness, grinning at humanity through a paper-thin shroud. We are the holes through which he peeks. There are a lot of questions I don't have the answers to. Where my next paycheck is coming from, what I'm going to say at the custody trial, why I got into this rotten, soul-sucking business to begin with. But I've never had trouble answering the big question. Would I like to meet Hitler? No. I already know him better than I know myself.
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Aug 3, 2009 07:04
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