By Kaleb Horton
Rob Ford is dead. His story is finished: he has reached the peak scandal level afforded by his office. Rob Ford drinks vodka in the woods and smokes crack on camera and darkness has descended on Toronto. There is nowhere to go and there are no jokes left to make. It’s done. He would need to murder a man in low-earth orbit to top himself. No longer is it a mere novelty that a man who looks like Chris Farley can be so unrepentantly evil yet walk the earth a free man.
It is possible for him to ride the publicity afforded any dangerous person in the public eye and host a talk show on a fledgling cable channel. But that is not a story. (Besides, John McEnroe’s talk show only lasted six months.) It is certain he will get a book deal. Now that he has admitted to everything and threatened to murder everyone he will ever likely threaten to murder, his story is told. Anything else is anticlimax. Rob Ford is dead. Now he belongs to the ages.
All that’s left to do is make the movie. Rob Ford is a desperately evil man, higher on his notoriety and lovable late night talk show whipping boy status than he ever was on crack cocaine. He’s cinematically evil, and his story begs to be tackled by a non-judgmental auteur and a well-traveled character actor. But who should make this movie? What will the finished work look like?
The Coen Brothers: Desperate Little Man
Forget the Coens. They’ll wait until Ford dies in 6 or 7 years and fictionalize his story beyond all recognition. They’ll set it in the 1960s and have the film revolve, inexplicably, around a bank heist. And they’ll have it star, obviously, anybody who’s available and has ever been shortlisted for a Confederacy of Dunces adaptation (John Goodman). They’ll name it after a truncated prewar folk song. Let’s go with “Desperate Little Man.” There, done.
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