Last night, at the costume fitting for my role in a German film as spectator at a concert in the year 1992, they dressed me up in the most absurd trappings. I’m not even calling them clothes. The jeans were off-brand, loose about the waist, skintight around the hips and flared and baggy everywhere else. The shoes were hobnailed and stiff as canoes. The shirt and sweater and jacket looked like something conceived in the bowels of some dim-lit, dirt-floored Cambodian sweatshop.
“Feast your eyes! Glut your soul on my accursed ugliness!” ~ The Phantom of the Opera (1925)
And then I was sent up to hair and makeup where they gave me a middle-part, plastered my bangs to my temples like Shemp from The Three Stooges, and superglued this hard, bristly mustache to my lip that made smiling impossible. Now, I’ve had mustaches before. I had this fake one for a movie I did a couple years ago. And this real one in 2012. But nothing compares in atrociousness to the thing they adorned me with last night, not to mention the get-up. Never have I looked in a mirror with so much caution. “Are you sure I’m not playing a pervert of the Otis Toole variety?” I wanted to ask. Well, we’ll find out Friday night. Hopefully they don’t arrest me on the set. I would.