Misunderstood Masterpieces 4.15.08: Pink Floyd The Wall

Posted by Will Helm on 04.15.2008

…or, Just Because I Get It Doesn’t Mean I Have to Like It

Way back during the days when I was a denizen of a certain video-rental chain – the aforementioned one with the shirts, we had a contest to "suggest" films to the patrons and whichever employee's "suggestions" were the most rented won a prize. I think that sentence makes sense. Anyway, the wise and attentive employee knew there was one video, above all others, which would nearly guarantee victory in this competition due to its provenance with pretentious, artsy stoners . . . and just stoners in general. It wasn't Monty Python and the Holy Grail, nor was it Evil Dead 2. No; it was actually a rock-n'-roll movie and the third entry in this rock-flick trilogy: Pink Floyd The Wall.

Released in 1982, Pink Floyd The Wall is the cinematic adaptation of the quintessential art-rock band Pink Floyd's smash hit 1979 album The Wall. Yeah . . . I said "quintessential art-rock band"; take that, Moody Blues. Interestingly, the idea to turn The Wall into a film was hatched even before the album was recorded, dreamed up in the fertile brain of Pink Floyd overlord Roger Waters. Envisioned as a concert film with Waters as the lead and featuring interludes of animation by Gerald Scarfe, studios passed on this treatment of The Wall. A few years later, however, director Alan Parker lobbied to adapt the album into a film, and, as the album was now a proven hit, the band and MGM assented to finally transform the work into a film, and, thus, Pink Floyd The Wall was born. Now, twenty-six years later, Pink Floyd The Wall remains a legend among fans of Pink Floyd and anyone who enjoys lording their intellectual superiority over everyone else . . . which would be quite enough to make the film a Misunderstood Masterpiece. But, alas, it isn't until I decide it is! Now, let's find out!

In a dank, featureless hallway in some hellish abyss of a hotel, a maid does some cleaning. All the while, the camera slowly sneaks up on her sweet drudgery, probably for nefarious purposes. Luckily for the maid, she unwittingly steps on the camera while turning on her vacuum before it can do something unmentionably horrible to her. Like look up her skirt. Or would that just be her horrible unmentionables? Either way, the deceased camera gives way to the bleak opening credits – hmm . . . I sense a theme, and then, elsewhere, someone (James Laurenson) lights an oil lamp in a damp basement. By the firelight, this mystery man then mopes in sepia tones, which can only mean that these are olden times. While explosions rock the area around him, the emotionless fellow drearily cleans his gun during a musical number. Apparently, according to the libretto, there was a battle during World War II . . . and, remarkably, if the film is to be believed, a field exists inside the flame of the oil lamp. How very metaphysical!

While war slightly bothers some guy cleaning his firearm, some other guy with a Mickey Mouse watch (Bob Geldof) lounges around in his hotel room. The camera, resurrected and again up to no good, gives the lazy gentleman an impromptu retinal exam until the maid from earlier in the picture interrupts by trying to open his bolted and latched door. Somehow, the maid's tumult causes a bunch of rowdy Pink Floyd fans to go crazy and some World War II-vintage soldiers to charge. Sadly, while the Pink Floyd fans run riot through the streets of some city, Mike Schmidt shills for 7-Up stoically in the background, doing nothing for the Pink Floyd fans as they get arrested for their mischief. High above the chaos, Fuhrer Bob Geldof addresses some apathetic teens and then he causes explosions to occur during World War II. Who knew Bob Geldof had the power to bend time and space? Finally, during World War II, a Messerschmitt (which isn't shilling for 7-Up) blows up some guy – specifically the dour man with the revolver from earlier.

In the aftermath of this random character's tragic demise, some pasty woman (Christine Hargreaves) naps after teatime. I guess the battle was just a minor inconvenience in the life of a British housewife. Apparently, motherhood is as well, as the unconscious pasty woman is totally unaware that her newborn baby's carriage is sitting unprotected in the sun! Doesn't she know about the harmful UV rays? Probably not, if the carnage of World War II does nothing to faze her; sun damage is probably just a minor wrinkle. No pun intended. Back at the hotel, the lazy guy actually gets up out of his chair to take a little dip in his suite's pool and float in blood and explosions.

During the lazy guy's aquatic meditations, he dreams of wrinkly pictures while some kid (Kevin McKeon) plays with a toy plane in church. Sometime later, the same kid, probably a self-loathing emo-to-be, hangs out at the playground, but everyone there resents his existence for no apparent reason. It's probably because he's always so droll and cuts himself on MySpace. Back at the house, the kid, who may, in fact, be suffering from bipolar disorder, cheerily whistles while making himself a jam sandwich. Ah; there's nothing more exciting than the banal details of everyday life. Although if the next scene is him dropping a deuce, I'm shutting off the movie. Seriously. Luckily, instead of the kid pinching a loaf, he goes through his mother's drawers . . . literally and figuratively. Hmm . . . maybe the defecation would've been better than making the kid a fledgling transvestite. Thankfully, the kid neglects to don some granny panties, instead opting to fish out some World War II memorabilia and his mother's bullets. And I ain't talking about a bra, either.

While the kid probably schemes to shoot up the playground, an animated dove explodes in a shower of gore and then a metal eagle tears up the Earth below it. Hmm . . . I sense some war symbolism. After the metal eagle transforms into a demon – or a demon just shows up . . . I don't remember which, a metallic demon gives birth to a squadron of planes, which turn into crosses. The sudden appearance of scores of religious symbols somehow causes hordes of zombie soldiers to walk the Earth . . . as is this were some sort of convoluted Dungeons & Dragons module. Although, hopefully, there's nothing as contrived as this planned for 4th Edition; it's bad enough that the gnome is only a monster now and not really a playable race. Not that anyone played a gnome, but it's the principle that matters most.

As the zombie soldiers presumably terrorize the world's metropolises, everything's quiet in the highlands, where a trio of scamps wanders around until they get to a railway. While his two compatriots protest, the kid from earlier takes one of his mother's bullets and places it on the tracks. Uh-oh . . . something tells me this is the point where someone will learn a tragic lesson. Then again, this isn't an ABC After School Special. As such, the bullet merely explodes – and no one dies or is arrested – but the sudden shock causes the kid to hallucinate a train full of prisoners and a demented schoolmaster (Alex McAvoy), who scolds him for being a playful scamp armed with live ammunition. Or something like that.

Later, in school, elderly teachers – the demented schoolmaster among them – stalk the halls of a bland, grey institution. The demented schoolmaster, as per his particular idiom, spews derision at his students and then he mocks the kid for writing out Pink Floyd lyrics. Ooh . . . isn't that a rather nifty pop-culture reference! But, remarkably, the film does reveal why the demented schoolmaster is so demented: he's pussy-whipped by an emasculating wife at the dinner table. Meanwhile, at a kid factory, students are manufactured and put in a maze. Hopefully there's some cheese at the end! Actually, it's the pussy-whipped, demented schoolmaster waiting for them as he drops them unceremoniously into a meat grinder. The kids, not content to end up as mincemeat – probably to go with the cheese at the end of the maze, rebel against authority and set fire to London, much to the demented schoolmaster's chagrin, probably because his wife didn't OK this behavior.

Back at the hotel, the lazy guy makes a phone call, but, alas, no one picks up. Perhaps because he's lonely – and horny, the lazy guy then dreams of making out with some chick (Eleanor David) and of the kid alternating between snuggling with his mother and spying on some teenage girl getting naked next door. Unfortunately, she isn't Elisha Cuthbert, so it's just kind of pervy. After the bizarre fantasy sequence, the lazy guy goes back to watching TV, this time enjoying a footie match while some chick gets naked and the kid gets sick. I guess it really is unhealthy to be a peeping tom! Hopefully he shaves his hairy palms, at least. Or doesn't freak out when he finds his mom sleeping with a skeleton.

No, really.

Meanwhile, the lazy guy gets married to the chick, and, remarkably, they look younger at the wedding. The honeymoon isn't that great, though, as the lazy guy merely sits around catatonically writing music, while the chick tries to get his attention. Damned artistes; they're always so ascetic. Sometime later, Bob Hoskins yells at the lazy guy at an airport, probably for being lazy. The lazy guy, not content with being scolded by Bob Hoskins – and I can't say I blame him, goes to his hotel and mopes while the chick does the same thing at home, mainly because she wants world peace . . . or a piece of the guy talking about it.

Elsewhere, at a dance, the kid trips the light fantastic with a giantess and the chick cheats on the lazy guy with some middle-aged peacenik. The lazy guy, perhaps sensing with his superpowers that there's some cuckolding going on, tries to call his chick, but the middle-aged peacenik rudely hangs up on him. Probably because it was a collect call. The lazy guy, realizing he's been played for a fool, goes back to what he does best: moping . . . and imagining two flower monsters mating until skyscrapers are built with luxury items. Somehow, the bliss of the lazy guy's fantasy is shattered by some random thieves smashing a shop window with a hammer. OK; whatever, movie.

That evening, Bob Hoskins, totally unaware of the lazy guy's plight, throws a party, where some groupies use their oral skills – and I'm not talking about debating – to get past a very surprised security guard and to show the roadies some love, earning themselves guest passes in the process. Sadly, even though there's rampant debauchery around him, the lazy guy mopes in his trailer . . . until he spies a rather fetching groupie (Jenny Wright) and he takes her back to his hotel. Once there, the lazy guy plops down in front of the television because he wants to simulate married life, I suppose. The funny thing is that women will do that for enough money. Oh, wait; that's called "alimony." Anyway, the groupie isn't having any of this laziness, so she sucks the lazy guy's fingers, which somehow makes him flip out and trash the hotel room. Maybe he felt he wasn't being sufficiently "rock and roll" for the groupie's liking.

Sadly, the lazy guy's now a little too "rock and roll" for her, so she bugs out before she has a chance to watch the lazy guy toss his television through the hotel room window. After venting his anger on unsuspecting furnishings and consumer electronics, the lazy guy then relaxes in his pool of blood and dreams of his wife cheating on him. Hmm . . . at least now I know where Kubrick stole it from. Disturbingly, perhaps to signify that, in fact, BITCHES BE CRAZY, the lazy guy's wife's shadow turns into a vagina monster. Incongruously, it seems the only way to defeat the vagina monster is to smash another television, so the lazy guy does just that . . . and then he flashes back to earlier in the film. Oh no! Time warp!

At least my Bob Geldof/space-time continuum theory still holds true.

Case in point: the lazy guy ends up back at the beginning of the film, watching television and, this time, dreaming of fondling a giant wall . . . in his mind! I'm sure Freud would be proud, although I think he was more concerned with tunnels. Either way, the lazy guy tires of trying to get through his wall, so he busies himself by building a battlefield on the floor of his hotel room with the debris of his little tantrum the night before. Or he's just practicing for a game of Warhammer. Probably not, as, unlike most Warhammer players, the lazy guy takes a shower and shaves . . . his face, chest, nipples, eyebrows, and head. OK; I think that classifies as shaving with extreme prejudice. After cleaning up, the lazy guy goes back to watching television . . . until he teleports to the middle of a field and he transforms into the kid! See what I said earlier? Metaphysics rules!

The kid, unhappy with the fare on the small screen, wanders off to a nearby asylum, where the lazy guy is imprisoned . . . in his own psychoses. The kid, unsurprisingly, freaks out at the horrific vision of his future self, so he runs off to a battlefield full of dead soldiers. He finds no solace there, so he tries a nearby train station, but everyone there ignores him and resents his existence, mainly because they're too busy singing a chorus in unison for no particular reason.

Back at the hotel, Bob Hoskins busts into the lazy guy's room and some doctors give him oxygen, thinking he's probably OD'd like some sad rock-‘n-roll stereotype. Elsewhere, the kid finds a rat in a field, but his mother doesn't approve of his discovery. The kid, not content to just give up the rat, puts in a tool shed and gives it his sweater. Umm . . . I think it's already got the whole warm fur thing covered, kid. It's all for naught anyway, as the rat unceremoniously dies sometime later, much to the kid's chagrin. It was probably his mother all along. It's just a hunch. Meanwhile, in the hotel room, Bob Hoskins has the doctors shoot up the lazy guy and then, afterward, some guys drag him out and he starts melting. Yeah; that makes sense.

In the lazy guy's limousine, the lazy guy, somehow energized by slowly liquefying, tears off his goopy skin to reveal Fuhrer Bob Geldof underneath! Dum-dum-DUM! Fuhrer Bob Geldof, free of his leprosy, ends up at a rally, where he gesticulates and addresses the crowd before throwing out any and all undesirables. The crowd, unsurprisingly, goes wild at the violent ejections . . . so much so, in fact, that they break out in a precisely choreographed dance number while the lazy guy's goons tear up an "urban" café and prevent rampant miscegenation on the streets. A good time was had by all.

The next morning, the goons have a parade where they somehow morph into animated hammers. The lazy guy, somehow back to his normal, hirsute self, freaks out in an arena bathroom and he washes himself in poo water, just for good measure, until a bizarre play breaks out in his mind. As the players take the stage, the lazy guy's avatar is put on trial, presided over by a big-assed, testicular-chinned judge. While artsy symbolism rudely interrupts, a demented schoolmaster puppet, yet another vagina monster (remember kids: BITCHES BE CRAZY), and the lazy guy's animated mother testify against him. In the face of such damning evidence, the judge sentences the lazy guy to tear down his psychological wall that he was so gently fondling earlier. In response, the lazy guy has flashbacks to earlier in the film yet again until the wall blows up. In the aftermath, some random kids clean the streets of London, which means . . . something. Unfortunately, I'll never know, because the movie ends here.

Alright, I know I probably ticked off a bunch of Pink Floyd fans with this one, but I do have to admit that Pink Floyd The Wall isn't really that bad. More than anything, though, it is infuriating. Pink Floyd The Wall, due more to its nature than anything else, is one of those terribly inscrutable movies that sort-of makes sense when pondered, but still lies one step beyond full comprehension. Yes, it's all about a psychological wall built up in the main character's mind and all the "bricks" of his past that comprise the "wall." Unfortunately, the film never really takes the time to fully elaborate on that fact as it's nothing more than a feature-length music video for Pink Floyd's The Wall. Therefore, attentive fans of the album can certainly pick up some semblance of a plot – which is oddly reminiscent of The Who's Tommy, but for everyone else, Pink Floyd The Wall is certainly a Misunderstood Masterpiece.

Join me next week as John Carpenter returns to this column after a long hiatus with a VERY ill-conceived sequel. See you then!