Daniel
Nester
Rescuing
Bobby Brady
from a Disaster
Movie
The
Towering Inferno
(1974)
Before
the skyscraper
erupts,
his
mother wipes
his front choppers
clean,
consoles him
in the smoky
den -
a paper
napkin, a private
moment
drying
off his signature
striped shirt.
Leo
Buscaglia wants
to hug him
tonight.
San
Francisco's
emergency brakes
lean
in salute.
Celluloid
second-stringers
feed
him sushi on
shiny caterer
plates.
They
simply adore
him. Machine
fetishist
and
architect Paul
Newman, a towering
inferno
of
love, makes
his speech
-
"We
got a fire
here!"
He guilt-trips
everyone
into adolescence.
Even
the mayor
remembers
dry outfield
grass
scalded
in August by
a brush fire,
his
hands dowsed
with gasoline.
"Don't
look down!
Trust me!"
Bobby's
suckling parched
mouth is speechless.
"You're
the man now,
you take care
of these
ladies."
Paul's
prime mover
monologue
helps emergency
reunions
along.
Drown
the building
from
top to bottom
with water,
the fire
will
go away, he
says. We'll
all get wet,
the
world finally
sexy. We'll
explode
among
phallic obelisks.
Only fireman
Steve
McQueen protests:
"We
tell ya don't,
but
you keep buildin'
'em higher."
"Trust
me, hold on!"
Paul says.
"Fly
solo,
away from your
brothers. Be
a single
point of action.
Extinguish
your
fear. Don't
look down!
Take my hand!"
On the
86th floor,
a charred child
star
screeches,
drops into
a rescue net,
rushes
to relatives,
crying, embracing.
Hold
on. I'm almost
there.
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