ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER

by BENJAMIN ASA SMITH
a nd me

8:50 pm, Sunday, November 12. Well, seeing a pair of nipples was not like seeing
God, and neither was seeing Arnold

Schwarzenegger.

I've just returned from an informal interview
session with Arnold Schwarzenegger - one of
the perks of being a high-fallutin’, elite-type
Influx press hack with a penchant for
sweet-talk, and I'm not too sure what

to make of the whole thing.

During the rather short interview time
he came across as a decent and
regular fellow, an intelligent
businessman with a sharp sense
of humour who definitely knows,
after twenty years on the circuit,
how to handle a room full of
Canadian reporters. He tossed a
few well-informed jibes at the
American electoral process, he
bemoaned the Yankees'
money-grubbing attitudes
towards disallowing extra-
national film production (his
latest film, The Sixth Day,
was shot here in
Vancouver), he described
his rise to stardom
from its humble
beginnings of idolizing
the likes of body
builder Steve Reeves and
his Hercules films, he
spoke in anti-studio terms
about how he paid for the flight to
Vancouver himself when he heard
there was a cast and crew screening,
and he allowed a little regret, mixed
with thankfulness, when questioned
about his typecasting.

While | was puttering on down
to Tinsletown (the interview was
held in one of the cinemas), that
hideous, senses-assaulting,
industrial design hell-hole,
| practiced going over some
questions that my friends had
suggested: Will there be a
third Conan movie? What is
best in life? Do you feel
manhood requires rites of
violence? Do you wear
women's clothing (This
one was from my friend,
Ehren, who was obviously
hoping to partake in the
joys of outfitting herself
for a funeral) None of
these questions felt
particularly pertinent or
interesting, aside from
their humour, and as |
drew closer to Abbott and
Pender | began to wonder
what exactly | was hoping
to get from the experience.
So Arnold Schwarzenegger emerged
from the interview process as a regular,
down to earth guy who was pretty funny
and pretty nice and who understood the
confines of the film-flogging press circuit.
Basically, he seemed like my friend's dad. Is
this what the guy is really like? Beats the fuck
out of me. Do | care? No, | don't think | do.
And anyway, by now there's been a load of
articles and television spots telling you all
about everything I've just detailed.

Was there anything that |
could ask this man that not only
was | unable to answer myself,
but that would be, in some way,
born from the fact that | was intelligent
and media savvy/saturated, not some
slavering dolt with a hard-on for celebrities?
As | entered the cinema and took my
appointed seat nothing was

coming to mind, and |

contemplated leaving.

What | care about is how the moment he
walked into the room | was faced with the
reality of being confronted with a media
icon, a hitherto wholly mediated personality.

Just when | was leaning forward in my seat
to go | paused for a moment. | could hear the
throng outside chanting "Arnold". | looked around
at the frenzied camera operators desperately trying to

figure out which door he would use to enter. | espied I'm not just shooting my ass off; this was
nervous-looking reporters as they wiped their sweaty and adulation seriously bizarre. | mean, does anyone understand
palms across their pantlegs. And | thought | might disappointed me. My very first celebrity close what I'm talking about? | have played this man in
stay, after all. encounter was akin to the first time a girl popped her video games. | have assumed his persona and in his
bra clasp for me. In both cases | expected, as everyone name | have functioned through his pixelized likeness.
When Schwarzenegger strode into the room looking had always described from their own experiences, | have killed in the name of Arnold Schwarzenegger.
tanned and, well, large-muscled, | was not filled with some sort of thrilling something-or-other that would
the exultation that seemed to permeate the room rush across my brain like I'd just seen God.

around me, and my unexpected lack of excitement

@)18
eo

ARNOLD SCHWARZENEGGER

by BENJAMIN ASA SMITH

8:50 pm, Sunday, November 12.

I've just returned from an informal interview

session with Amold Schwarzenegger - one of
the perks of being a high-fallutin’, elite-type

Influx press hack with a penchant for
sweet-talk, and I'm not too sure what
to make of the whole thing

While | was puttering on down
to Tinsletown (the interview was
held in one of the cinemas), that
hideous, senses-assaulting,
industrial design hell-hole,
| practiced going over some
{questions that my friends had
suggested: Will there be a
third Conan movie? What is
best in life? Do you feel
manhood requires rites of
violence? Do you wear
women’s clothing (This

cone was from my friend,

Ehren, who was obviously
hoping to partake in the

joys of outfitting herself

for a funeral) None of

these questions felt
particularly pertinent or
interesting, aside from
their humour, and as |
drew closer to Abbott and
Pender | began to wonder
what exactly | was hoping

to get from the experience.

Was there anything that |
could ask this man that not only
was | unable to answer myself,
but that would be, in some way,
bom from the fact that | was inteligent
and media savvy/saturated, not some
slavering dott with a hard-on for celebrities?
As | entered the cinema and took my
appointed seat nothing was

coming to mind, and |

contemplated leaving,

Just when I was leaning forward in my seat
to go | paused for a moment. | could hear the
throng outside chanting "Amold”. | looked around

at the frenzied camera operators desperately trying to
figure out which door he would use to enter. | espied
nervous-looking reporters as they wiped their sweaty
palms across their pantlegs. And | thought I might
stay, after all.

When Schwarzenegger strode into the room looking
tanned and, well, large-muscled, | was not filled with
the exultation that seemed to permeate the room
around me, and my unexpected lack of excitement

@

and adulation

disappointed me. My very first celebrity close
‘encounter was akin to the first time a girl popped her
bra clasp for me. In both cases | expected, as everyone
had always described from their own experiences,
some sort of thriling something-or-other that would
rush across my brain like I'd just seen God.

and me

Well, seeing a pair of nipples was not like seeing
God, and neither was seeing Arnold
Schwarzenegger.

During the rather short interview time
he came across as a decent and
regular fellow, an intelligent
businessman with a sharp sense
‘of humour who definitely knows,
after twenty years on the circuit,
how to handle a room full of
Canadian reporters. He tossed a
few well-informed jibes at the
‘American electoral process, he
bemoaned the Yankees!
money-grubbing attitudes
towards disallowing extra-
national film production (his
latest film, The Sixth Day,
was shot here in
Vancouver), he described
his rise to stardom
from its humble
beginnings of idolizing
the likes of body
builder Steve Reeves and
his Hercules films, he
spoke in anti-studio terms
about how he paid for the fight to
Vancouver himself when he heard
there was a cast and crew screening,
and he allowed a litle regret, mixed
with thankfulness, when questioned
about his typecasting.

So Amold Schwarzenegger emerged
from the interview process as a regular,

down to earth guy who was pretty funny.
and pretty nice and who understood the
confines of the film-flogging press circuit.
Basically, he seemed like my friend's dad. Is
this what the guy is really like? Beats the fuck
out of me. Do I care? No, | don't think I do,
‘And anyway, by now there's been a load of
articles and television spots telling you all
about everything I've just detailed.

What | care about is how the moment he
walked into the room | was faced with the
reality of being confronted with a media
icon, a hitherto wholly mediated personality

I'm not just shooting my ass off; this was
seriously bizarre. | mean, does anyone understand
what I'm talking about? | have played this man in
video games. | have assumed his persona and in his
name | have functioned through his pixelized likeness.
have killed in the name of Arnold Schwarzenegger.