Shambling Towards Hiroshima by James K Morrow

Author:James K Morrow [Morrow, James K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Alternative History, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781892391841
Google: 0MNYAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1892391848
Barnesnoble: 1892391848
Goodreads: 5226180
Publisher: Tachyon Publications
Published: 2009-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Although we got through the entire script in a mere three hours, with a satisfyingly flattened Shirazuka to show for our efforts, the run-through was a mélange of misadventures. When Whale ordered the dreadnought Yamato and her sister warships to shell the monster, her guns emitted not BB’S but only feeble puffs of smoke. The passenger train I was supposed to devour hurtled off its trestle before I could seize it. As I set about trampling a factory complex underfoot, the counterattacking fighter planes and dive bombers lost their bearings, some crashing into Mount Onibaba, others suffering fatal encounters with the lifeguard stand, only a few getting close enough for me to bat them out of the air as the script required. And while Gladys had carefully set the flamethrower nozzle to position three, the regulator had evidently gone kablooey during the bumpy journey to Hangar B, because the gasoline streamed forth with uncontrolled exuberance, so that much of Shirazuka was instantly immolated in an exhibition as perfunctory as a fireworks display at a church picnic. Disappointment clouded the sailors’ faces as they smothered the residual flames.

Surprisingly, none of these disasters fazed Whale. He declined to chew out Obie over the obstreperous props or scold the Rubinstein twins for acquiring a persnickety flamethrower. Au contraire, the worse things went, the more fun Whale seemed to be having. Perhaps he subscribed to the principle that a disastrous dress rehearsal portends a successful opening night — a truism that in my experience happens to be true. Instead of indulging in a Katzmanian tirade or a Beaudinesque sulk, this suave gentleman put all his energies into his art, feeding me brilliant bit after brilliant bit as I performed my slow dance on the killing ground. When we practiced the sea battle, Whale suggested that I seize two aircraft carriers and smack their flight decks together to the crash of cymbals, a sound that Waxman’s percussionist was pleased to provide. Under the master’s direction the behemoth’s appetite for human flesh became a darkly comic affair, with Gorgantis stuffing Nipponese homunculi into his mouth like handfuls of popcorn. After the Japanese armored divisions took up their positions in the Chiaki Mountains, prepared to defend the Emperor at any cost, Whale had me grab the Chi-Ro tanks two at a time, soften them with my breath, and tie their gun barrels together, the resulting configurations suggesting knotted pairs of socks. Only once that afternoon did Whale waft out a genuinely bad idea. Calling down from his lofty roost, he asked Obie whether Gorgantis might gouge and scrape Mount Onibaba with his claws until it became a bust of Hirohito, which the monster would then pulverize. Before Obie could reply, a chorus of suppressed groans arose. Absorbing this spontaneous critique, the director declared that on second thought it would be better simply to plant a large packet of stage blood in the Imperial Palace.

Whale’s greatest contribution to What Rough Beast was a concept that lay outside the domain of Brenda’s script.

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