THE KILLING OF JOHN LENNON

by
R. O'DONNELL


KRISHA FAIRCHILD, ROBERT KIRK, GUNTHER STERN, JONAS BALL
DIRECTED BY
ANDREW PIDDINGTON

The Killing of John Lennon. This was hard to watch for about a second or two. I’m a big fan of John Lennon ( I remember John Lennon) and I even lived behind the castle Dakota, in The Park West, 73nd and Central Park West for 8 years. I met the legend and his Ono weeks before the killing. Like most people, I walked into his world, not the other way around. But this astounding film by Andrew Peddington set my mind at ease early on. It told me that this picture wasn’t going to be a slasher-stinky-beer-stained-carpet-in-the-trailer kinda romp, but a film that answers, for all of us… why? Why would you kill John Lennon? What the f#@k for? Are you that bored, that slam-dunk stupid, that whack-o that you pick on an immortal rock star? Mr. Beatles himself. Give peace a chance? Imagine? I’m-naked-in-the-bed with my sweetie, and the press don’t get it… That guy? Doesn’t make any sense, never has, never will. But. But. The “why” has finally and uniquely been answered. Am I gushing?

Yeah–well–you bet. Just like I did with Silence of the Lambs–that film carved itself into the skull of American pop culture while giving us Sir Tony, Ms. Jody, and Ted “it-puts-the-lotion-in-the-basket” Levine. Demme took us all hostage, forcing us into tight, really dark, dank places we’ve never seen or been to before. The Killing of John Lennon dropped me right there too, right inside Chapman’s inner sanctum. They used his diaries and court transcripts to piece it all together’s why. Glued the shattered egg that fell from hell, and landed on the upper West side to boil the bloody yoke of hate and disapproval. And because of the true-to-life leisurely pacing, the tension clings to you, like Hitchcock’s show the audience the ticking bomb theory: there it is, under the seat and ticking away. Only the audience knows it’s there. What do you do? You squirm. And squirm some more. That’s the experience. Squirming through a real live horror show. You know it’s true. We all know what happens. In this, everyone did their jobs: everybody! This is ensemble front and back, folks, and virtually flawless. It doesn’t begin or end like you think it would. It takes you right where you want to go. (Even though you’ll most likely have second thoughts once you get there.) Especially after hanging out with the ultimate loser, sitting on a dirty sofa while a sweaty Chapman tells you what he’s going to do–everything is credible.

The secondary cast is so casual, so fine-tuned that you keep forgetting it’s only celluloid. You’re casually walking “inside-the-mind-of” an infamous assassin, as if you’re actually hanging out with him. About to ask him why, man, why’d you do it? Which makes it extra disturbing when you’re standing right alongside him as he bags the elephant: a celebrity so big, so pop-f@#king right-on, that the whole world gasps. Insane. Yes he was. In my mind I think he was skipping tra-la through the rat-infested alleys of his mind. Poor schmoe though. A real nobody, a truly wounded animal, a coward needing our forgiveness, according to Yoko (which is why I always dug her the most). This all comes across in fine detail here. And one scene near the conclusion of the film, totally unexpected, and all Exorcist, had me tossing in my bed long after I pushed the eject button.

I Remember John...

By
R. O'DONNELL


A buddy just sent me an iCard with a picture of John and Yoko inscribed, "we miss you John."

It made me really sad. I couldn't help the tears. I remember all the hoopla that was the Beatles. The yeah-yeah days when they first arrived - all the girls on my block in Philadelphia picking their favorite in the band. I remember lunch boxes, buttons, and Saturday morning cartoons. I remember John saying we're as big as Jesus Christ and their records being burned in piles of protest throughout suburbia. I remember their switching gears, pop songs dissolving into folk rock about run away girls, "Rocky Raccoon," and "Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band." I remember weekend sleepovers with friends, listening to the long version of "Hey Jude," while making-out with someone's flower child. I remember their revolution/evolution into the world of lava lamps and psychedelics. I remember the secret messages if you played LPs backwards, about burying Paul, and I am the walrus. I remember my oldest brother waiting for their next LP as if he was going to shoot it into his arm. I remember the break-ups, the harsh words, and the bitterness between old friends Paul and John. I remember the goody Linda love thing while the black-sheeps got all bare-assed for the press. I remember John's struggle kicking cigarettes, and wanting to be a stay at home dad. I remember the solo sound of the rebels that lived in the castle Dakota on my block. I remember being 20-something and dropping acid just to Imagine. And I remember meeting John and Yoko on Seventh Avenue in New York. One week later he was gone.

The Beatles were the music that carved into our consciousness everything from wacky fashion trips to earnest war protests. And so now I get this silly reminder that I'm old enough to have been there, old enough to have thought when the announcement came over the television in Gleason's Bar on seventh avenue, that John was dead, that it had to be a lie. A really awful lie. I just talked with him, stood right next to him, talking doggies in the window at this pet store on our block.

I'm heading toward my apartment on 72nd street, the West side, my starving artists days, and I see this woman with gorgeous long black hair flowing down around her bum. I was young and stupid, so I made my way to meet her. I'm not even thinking about the tall lanky guy standing next to her. There's enough space for me to slip in there between them. So I did. They're chatting away about the puppies in the window when I join in, pointing and cooing like a jerk. I glanced to my right and noticed the woman was more mature than I had expected - I thought she was a teenager from behind. Then, I get all electrified because I instantly knew that standing to my left was John Lennon. Omigawd. I desperately acted cool. And to my delight they simply kept on chatting it up about pet care or whatever. John with his accent up and down and all sing-songy just like he was famous for, and I was mesmerized for good.

The whole thing lasted only minutes, but I walked away assured; felt I handled that pretty good, leaving them alone. They lived in my neighborhood, so I saw them walking hand in hand many times before. They often took rides in the horse-drawn carriages along Central Park and one time Yoko even sent a dish of food to our block party, but this was real up close and personal - he was a Beatle after-all.

Weeks later, I'm eating burgers and drinking wine with this pretty gal I just met and the television above our heads spouts its poison. Everyone stood up. The place was completely still. Some muffled screams, a few quiet sobs, but this could not be happening. It made no sense at all.

Later, I walked by the Dakota, before it was too heavily guarded and roped off. It was already happening though. The world was in mourning. The city felt so cold, a little sinister than before. It was dreadful. Really very sad. And I couldn't help but remember standing between the lost legend and his woman, wondering why'd they let me get so close? Just people I guess. A couple of lovers on a stroll. Easy going, no big deal, just watching the wheels go round and round.