I watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics hosted by London. I was expecting spectacular. They didn’t have to compete with China, they had to only be themselves. Well, maybe because I’m part English, I wanted them to excel, but it really didn’t matter what I am, I just wanted to see a really good show. I had been looking forward to this for a long time.
At one point I thought I was watching Good Morning America or the Today Show, at another point I thought I was watching the Macy’s Parade at Thanksgiving, then it’s off to the races at Churchill Downs for the Kentucky Derby, then I think I’m back at Sturbridge Village in New England, then I think I’m watching a commercial, which was really part of the show, then I’m seeing the Tea Party, then I’m seeing a replica of the Queen jump out of a plane. Then it goes to Mohammed Ali. What was he doing there? The big surprise of the night was who was going to light the torch last, and I somehow missed it, because Bob Costas decided to take a break from his never-ending commentary. Guess 7 unknown kids did that and he never spoke about it after it happened. He did say however in the run-up to it, after he named a bunch of people I never heard of, that it was none of the above.
My assessment throughout the first 2/3rds was–grotesque, then it became–pathetic. There was a short reprieve when I saw, and Steve did too, a glimmer of hope, the torch rising. But that glimmer was short lived when Paul McCartney came out and sang Hey Jude. Grotesque in the beginning, ended with grotesque. The song selection was horrible–for the Olympics. Even I, who cannot sing a tune, could have sang it better. He kept saying Jew, not Jude. I even looked at his mouth to see the forming of the words, just in case I didn’t hear it right. He never pronounced the d in jude. He was drunk. Everybody in the stadium knew it. He acted like a complete baffoon. I’m not sure how to spell baffoon. Frankly, I don’t need to know how to spell it. Everybody who watched it knows it.
Except for the doves riding on bicycles, the show was a total disaster.
Looking back on the political fight in the USA between Obama and Romney regarding the Olympics, Romney was kind. He hoped for the best, but the best didn’t happen.
Danny Boyle, the creator of this major flop of a show, whom Bob Costas kept calling Danny Boy, showed the world on his own personal level who Brits are–they’re just like him–eccentric.
This is the Olympics. No. This is England. In his ego trip down memory lane, a memory that he didn’t have, because he wasn’t there–he only dreamed that he was there–he missed the point by a galaxy, maybe even a universe or two. He gave England credit for every good thing that ever happened in the world as a result of their colonization of that world. The picture he painted was sheer ugly. And maybe in his demented artist of a mind he wanted to express that ugliness.
The Olympics is supposed to be apolitcal, nonpolitical, that which does not involve politics. The coming together of all nations, all peoples, which transcends occupation, war or differences that divide us is for a few days what is suppose to make us one global community.
Danny Boyle in his eccentricity told the world the truth about Britain. They cannot be trusted to make peace in any area of the world. They are the occupying power that keeps Palestinians enslaved, Africans enslaved, Canada enslaved, island communities enslaved.
Long live the Queen or God bless the Queen, how does that go? Even the Queen couldn’t muster a smile for the whole world to see.
Danny Boyle separated the world, he did not unite the world. Maybe he was right, maybe he was wrong to express his art in that way. Maybe somebody had to say it and he elected himself, through his artistry, through the Olympics to do that. The whole world was definitely watching.