I had an awesome bedtime story told to me tonight:
Indiana Jones teams up with John Henry and Rosa Parks to travel to the future and rescue That Actor Mommy Likes (Manu Bennett) from a fortress full of zombies and save New York City from the zombies’ master, Killer Croc — who likewise had access to a time machine and apparently exists in some sort of bizarre symbiotic relationship with Davey Jones reminiscient of Etrigan and Jason Blood).
SPOILERS: Rosa Parks drowns wrestling her thousandth crocodile, John Henry gets eaten by the boss, Indiana Jones saves the day, and Manu Bennett marries Mommy. (Okay, I sort of threw that last bit in there myself.)
Mario Puzo’s The Godfather has me under such a spell that I’ve hardly been able to think (much less communicate) about anything else since I picked it up. I’ve already recommended it to more people in the past 24 hours than I generally speak to in a week, and though at one point last night I attempted to switch over to some Greek (if only to avoid bed sores), I found myself thinking about Latin roots of Italian words, which immediately served to draw me back into the world of the Corleone Family. (My having mentally cast Manu Bennett as Sonny hasn’t exactly helped.)
I say this now with all sincerity: this book makes the Coppolla films appear hurried and amateurish. The plot is more heavily seeded than an Amish vegetable garden, and each character carries his own queer sort of integrity, rendering even the most extraordinary characters credibly human and suprisingly compassionable.