Word: everyboy
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...here's a happy scene: a dozen glamorous models wearing cherry-red smocks are cooing contentedly in a dim room, hunched over Virtual Boy, Nintendo's long-awaited, low-cost virtual-reality rig for Everyman. Or Everyboy. Or Everygirl. Whatever. The women are learning how to demonstrate it, fooling around with a prototype of a boxing video game. ("Face down in the goggles, please. That's it. Click here to throw a right, there to throw a left, and don't forget to duck!") But hurry. It's 7:30 a.m., and the wide glass doors are about to swing...
Politicians are suckers for the Schwab's drugstore myth. So when George Bush plucked Dan Quayle from obscurity and made him his running mate, he no doubt thought he had discovered a raw young talent who could be molded into a Lana Turner sensation, a blue-eyed Everyboy who could appeal to conservatives, baby boomers and women alike. But Quayle may turn out to be the Marion Davies of the 1988 campaign; like the young, little-known comedienne William Randolph Hearst tried to impose on the public as a Hollywood glamour queen, Quayle does not fit the grandiose role that...
Maggots! Corpses! Brutal cops! Fascist regalia! Devouring moms! Faithless wives! And on every possible occasion blood spurting and puddling. At the center of the chaos an innocent everyboy (Bob Geldof, lead singer with those punkers' punkers, the Boomtown Rats) broods about how iniquitous life is driving him crazy. It is a story so familiar that it requires almost no dialogue to tell. Simple-minded songs from the Pink Floyd's 1979 five-time platinum seller do the job, along with banal, if sometimes lively, imagery supplied by Director Alan Parker (Fame, Midnight Express). He has warmed over...
Playwright Shaw's (Bury the Dead, The Gentle People) story of Everyboy is far too familiar to yield large stage dividends; simply told, however, it might have possessed warmth and humanity. But besides fancying it up as a constantly interrupted dream, Shaw has put frills on the dialogue, lace pants on the sentiments, and- for extra tone - he tosses in comments on Beethoven, Brahms, Renoir and Keats. Finally, even the point of Sons and Sol diers is feeble: for a real mother to affirm life after having lived it would mean something; but a young girl's affirmation...
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