Saturday, March 28, 2015

Errol Flynn

T h e   R e v i e w s

Supported by my investigations of available materials (text, celluloid film, video and audio interviews, web sites), I arrive at my review of this clunking canard. 

The autobiography supposedly written by Errol Flynn, *My Wicked, Wicked Ways,* is nauseating drivel that no man would write about himself. 

This text defames the memory of the dead in typical style.   I have read oceans of other such ghostwriters.  One thing a fiction writer cannot hide from is the signature stamp of his voice.  Every writer has a style that identifies him to his readers.   This book, as is the wont of other such fakes cranking from the same bullshit mill, reads like a patchwork of fiction writers.  Indeed too nice a word.  They are calumniators.  Literary sayanim.  Some of them read like newbies.  Writing is a craft.  It takes years of experience to hone your blade.  You corn balls.

In this bunko of a yarn, interestingly enough, the false accusation for which they jailed Dr. Fredrick Toben was for “defaming the memory of the dead.”  Bitch please.  Toben’s Galahad was barred from the courtroom.  Had he galloped in, he would have run them all through.  Truth is a lance, a burning sword.  And don’t you tares forget it.

Come I to write in defence of Errol Flynn. 

Flynn was killer good-looking.  Ouch.  Addressing Flynn’s false rape charge, his second wife said in an interview, “He doesn’t have to rape anybody.  Women instead are trying to rape him.”  Nora Eddington Flynn met and fell in love with her husband during his rape trial where she was employed by the court.  Go gettum tiger.

The tares of our wheat field hate Mr. Flynn for the same reason they hated John Fitzgerald Kennedy.  He was Celtic, well-bred, well-turned, bright, beautiful, talented, could navigate like a buccaneer, fetch anything he looked at and girls loved him.  Dang that smarts.  

In Flynn’s case, he came out smelling like a rose after a bit of meandering at risky jobs.  His formal education was that of a thespian amid London’s finest.  The tares cannot take this away from him.  Nor that his father was a brilliant professor of marine biology.  The boy didn’t come from white trash, you clunkers.

The ignorant average joe would think so, reading this tall tale.  A fetid forgery, it is full of contradictions to the public domain.  News releases, interviews, television programs, other books and articles have published opposite comments that are claimed by the book.  Any devoted fan of Flynn’s would know this.

Some of the sycophants and clingers on of Flynn’s day came out of the woodwork to smear him.  I infer this is because they were bribed and needed the money.  There is much truth to the adage “Every man has his price.”  Oh for the power of avarice.

One of the Nelson Twins is even on the smear wagon, calling the former owner of his boyhood home a pervert.  How much did they pay this Tiger Beat flash-in-the-pan?  I'm sure he can use the money.

Upon investigating the backgrounds of these back-stabbers, one finds that their acting and music careers never got off the ground.

But Errol’s did.  He took off like a rocket as Captain Blood.  Thence to plum role after plum role.  Headliner.  Blockbuster.  Sir Robin of Locksley.  Every woman’s dream. 

With not one bum-shot or trace of Hollywood sleaze.  A tidy, well-groomed gentleman to the last, if you please.

Despite the ridiculous, photo-shopped mustache and groucho marx eyebrows on the cover of this doozy.  The tie is suspect as having not existed in Flynn’s lifetime.  What movie star would pose for a portrait in a tie this ugly?  In Flynn’s day, clothes were a class act.  The tie in this photo bears the “tare signature” of modern art.  Which is no art.  Just insult.  A wire clothes hanger spray-painted orange and stuck in the ground.  Is their idea of art.

On a note of similitude, I recall how after Princess Diana was killed, the tares photo-shopped her visage for their magazines.  Yellow teeth, bloodshot eyes and a distorted nose.  To me it was glaring, but to others it may not have been.  They pick up the magazine and see a woman, whose beauty was besmirched with software, thinking “She ain’t that much.” The aim of the yellow press is to smear, defame, contort, ugly-up and calumniate the quick and the dead.

Note how Flynn's dead body has been published on the world wide web lying on a coroner's slab. You shall compare this indignity with a mirror outrage to President John F. Kennedy whose murdered body can be found there too.

Who would have enough money and control enough industrial choke-points to release those kinds of photographs into the public domain?  Particularly in that we journalists were taught that decorum governing the dead is a strident affair.  If you want a litmus test of my premise, see how many other dead presidents you can find on a slab in the public domain.  Or how many other public figures for that matter.  Flynn and Kennedy had a common enemy.  And they are in good company. 

Ever heard of the band called "Dead Kennedys?"  How more obvious could they be.  They even have a song entitled "Kill the Poor."  About a bomb that wipes out unwanted people and leaves their material "wealth" unscathed.  Puts a clear stamp on who is behind everything from income tax to 9/11.

So why do tares hate Flynn beyond their predictable envy?  Perhaps because he beat the crap out of Jimmy Fidler of their yellow press.  A calumniator, Fidler smeared Flynn where it hurt after Flynn’s beloved dog fell overboard and drown.  Struck a nerve.  Flynn tracked the little weasel down to the Mocambo Club.  From the many accounts I read, it was a public pouncing.  Fidler was beaten unconscious.  This put Flynn in the General Patton category.  Albeit, Patton only meted out a slap by comparison.  It was the slapping a jewish guy that earned him top spot on their shit list.

One thing about the Irish, they know how to throw a punch.  They don’t call them the fighting Irish for nothing.  Ask the army on the receiving end of Patrick Cleburne’s steel at Chicamauga.

Flynn’s admirable filmography stretches from the mid-30’s to his death in 1959 with not one break in rhythm.  Despite the labels affixed to him by this book, Flynn was a working actor till the day he died.  He starred in three movies per year on the average.  Sometimes more.  He was a moneymaker.  And they stole from his earnings like they stole from Michael Jackson.  Managers are often tares.  As are the owners of music and movie industries.

If one swallows the satanic drivel of this book, Flynn was a juvenile delinquent, dropout quitter, petty thief, satyr, gambling fan of blood sports, slave trader, honourless pig and all around scumbag.  If you go one further and read the rubbish on the web, he was a keyhole-peeper too.

Given Flynn’s hard-working career of 25 years, three wives, four children and a 118-foot schooner, I doubt he had much time for keyholes.

Paladin Communications cranks out smear jobs on Flynn. They can be seen on YouTube if you can stomach the narration.  Their Mary Matzen quotes Gunnar Nelson in one of her smear pieces from their web site.  Then natters on about secret passageways and trick mirrors in a house that was demolished to make room for new construction.

It is interesting to note how at the bottom of Matzen's smear piece, one finds a link to a page of hebrew.

One could question Flynn's text quoted from a personal letter to his German friend, Hermann Erben.  But given the concerted storm of hatred swirling around Flynn's memory, it bears consideration. 

I tip my raven plume to Errol Flynn – along with JEB Stuart.  I tip it with Shakespeare to a thespian worthy of the Round.  I tip it on behalf of George Armstrong Custer and The Charge of the Light Brigade.  O’ Kipling, O’ Tennyson, death cannot brag that he wanders in the shade. 

To this day, who can touch him?