OK, so a really, really, really, really long time ago, there was this broad… this princess. She was a princess, right? So, she had this real wonderful, real fantastic life. Real luxurious. It makes me real jealous, to be honest, OK.
And when I say “luxurious,” I mean the whole kit and caboodle: butlers, clothes, indoor plumbing, centralized air, a Russian nesting doll collection. Why does she have a toilet in her house and I don’t? Who decided that? I have a Beanie Babies collection but no one ever offered me a dress.
It’s complete bullshit, alright; I’m telling you.
I was sleeping on Lawrence Bender’s sofa when I wrote Reservoir Dogs, God bless him. I was a bum, but I was also a starving writer, a starving director, and starving. I had a lot of empty time on my hands.
I was working in a video store around this time–Blockbuster Video, you know, may it rest in peace. I was watching a lot of movies by a lot of fantastic directors: Fellini, Bergman, Herzog. You know ‘em. A lot of Europeans. I saw a lot of cinema’s best creators, and I think it helped me grow as a person and as a creator. You need that relationship with your art, I think. You need to know its history and where it's going, and how you can impact it and move it forward; and that’s what I wanted to do with Reservoir Dogs.
And, you know, people always ask me–and I understand why, of course; it’s just something I’m asked a lot–and that’s, “Who influenced you?” and I give them the usual answers: Kurosawa, Herzog, Fellini, Hitchcock. But who hasn’t been influenced by them, really?
I really identify with the psychology of a Disney princess, you know; I have a lot of issues with my father and a foot fetish.
And it’s interesting; someone who no one–and I mean no one–brings up is Walt Disney. Sure, he wasn’t a director, per se, but he was a genius when it came to selling a film that worked, and creating characters, and hating Jews, and saying the n-word a lot. And I think that’s what a lot of people enjoy about my films, that sense of personality and charisma.
And it’s interesting–I’ve kind of always imagined myself being a Disney princess. I really identify with the psychology of a Disney princess, you know; I have a lot of issues with my father and a foot fetish.
And no offense, but a lot of these dresses the princesses wear are pieces of clothing that are so tacky, so gaudy–I frankly don’t understand who designs these things. I mean, I’m sure I could design a better dress with one eye open and one eye looking slightly off to the right, like it usually does.
I’ll even model these dresses, OK. I’m a full-figured man. I’ve been on The Simpsons. I have no shame. “Shame?” What’s that? A Michael Fassbender film? The feeling I get when I visit my parents? Never heard of it.
Something we’ll also probably need to do to make sure the princess’s look works–and this is while I’m modeling–is put me in the whole get-up, OK; I’m talking lip stick, eyeliner, foundation, mascara. I want her to be fully realized and understood, visually speaking. She needs to be aesthetically pleasing–one, for the kids; they’ll eat this stuff up; two, for the 54-year-old hard-working, blue-collar Americans who are into pre-pubescent fictional girls, sort of like those guys on the internet who are into those Japanese anime girls. Waifus.
And another thing I have a problem with is the guys that these princesses fall in love with–they’re all idealized, and perfect, and in shape. Bleh. That doesn’t describe the average 54-year-old man. We need real men–men that look like me, that have my face; men that look like Guillermo del Toro; not Benicio.
OK, so, here’s what I’m thinking for this picture: young broad, dark hair. Teenager. Casting? I already have someone in mind: Uma Thurman. Make-up can work wonders. Did you know Ving Rhames is actually white? Anyway, we’re gonna get Uma on this picture. Think The Good, the Bad and the Ugly meets Ratatouille. An actual spaghetti western. Disney hasn’t tapped into the spaghetti western/exploitation/food porn genre enough.
I’m not one of those “funny, ha-ha comedy guys,” but if I were to get into television really hardcore, really go balls-deep–which I never do–and I wrote a sitcom, the premise would be something like this: 1889, 74 years before I’m born.
Cut to a hospital. A father holds up his newborn son and says, “I love art.”
Cut to twenty years later. That same boy, he’s going to art school. He moves in with this guy. They’re roommates. He has a haircut like Richard Spencer and a mustache like Hitler. It’s Hitler, and he hates art. “My Roommate Is Hitler,” coming to you this fall on Amazon Video. Really funny stuff.
Let me know if I answered your question.