Ah, Springtime, When the Grouchos Bloom

For the past two Aprils, a curious sight has popped up on my daily drive to and from my home. As you hit the eastbound lane side of the bridge that connects West Seattle and downtown, slow down just enough to take a look into the woodsy area south of the bridge.

There amidst the trees and the brush, you can spy -- like a National Geographic photographer on a field assignment in wildest Freedonia -- a guerrilla public art grouping of cutouts depicting Groucho Marx, each in full crouch as if foraging for wealthy widows among the greenery. (The spot is geo-marked at Wikimapia.)

If this year is like last, in a month they'll be gone, as stealthily as they came. Who puts them up every spring, and why, is a complete mystery to us locals. But we love them. Seattle generally has an out-there, quirk-heavy sense of humor, and it's gratifying to see that somebody in my own 'hood has a flair for the drive-by non sequitur. And possesses, evidently, a taste in movies similar to my own, at least in this one particular.

What's the word for a herd of Northwest Forest Grouchos? (Latin: rufusis t. fireflyus.) Perhaps they're hunting for cocoanuts, animal crackers, horse feathers, duck soup, or just some monkey business. If you listen closely you might hear their mating coo: "Helloooo, I must be going...."

It's no secret here at Film.com that I'm a pretty hardcore Marx Brothers fan. So last Friday, after a particularly frustrating day at work, while driving home gnashing my teeth (seriously, there were sparks), seeing my friendly neighborhood Grouchos was just what I needed to start scraping the day off my skin. It's like that scene in Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters: Allen's character -- suffering life's slings and arrows to the point of despondency and suicidal musings -- takes refuge in a movie theater. It's a revival house showing Duck Soup, the Marx Brothers' wildly funny comedy from 1933. Sitting there in the dark, with the Brothers' masterpiece flickering before him, Allen receives an epiphany: Is existence really so awful as long as it has the Marx Brothers in it?

...the whole day's crappitude...

Five minutes later I was home. Without stopping to check the mail or listen to any phone messages, I poured a glass of good-enough wine, kicked off my shoes, and headed straight to the Movie Room. There I turned on the big screen and went to my DVD shelves, some 300 titles arranged in rough chronological order from the silent era to, currently, There Will Be Blood. From the couple of board feet holding movies from the 1930s, I pulled out Universal's DVD boxed set of The Marx Brothers: Silver Screen Collection. Put Animal Crackers in the player. Slumped like a bag of sand on the couch with my wine. Hit the play button.

Within moments the whole day's crappitude was brushed away by Groucho, Harpo, Chico, and sometimes Zeppo. Okay, sure, the wine helped. Nonetheless, by the time Groucho had gotten to "One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas -- how he got in my pajamas, I don't know," I was feeling good with a smile on my face. When he quips the line that, to me, is the funniest dirty joke in cinema history -- "Signore Ravelli's first musical selection will be Somewhere My Love Lies Sleeping with a male chorus" -- all was right with my world.

And that's why I love DVDs.

-----------

Recommend (0)

|  Comments (0)

|  Email

|  Share

Share  Facebook Digg del.icio.us