Young man, itโs time we had a talk. Your mother and I have never wanted to be those kind of strict, clueless parents who canโt understand what young people are into โnowadays,โ but I have to put my foot down. You are forbidden from joining that rowdy, no-good Zorba the Greek fan club. No ifs, ands, or buts about it!
Because I said so, thatโs why.
Oh, you think youโre grown up enough to deserve some reasons? Well, if that were really the case, you wouldnโt have to be told to stay away from a bunch of Kazantzakis-worshipping juvenile delinquents. Youโd be mature enough to realize that theyโre nothing but a bunch of morons drunk on ouzo and the Academy Awardโwinning cinematography of Walter Lassally.
And donโt think I donโt know about that bouzouki youโve got stuffed under your bed. Do you really think you could sneak a trichordo in this house without making your mother cry?
Youโre smart. We didnโt raise you to blindly fall in with the kind of people who think that romanticizing the construction of a lignite mine in Crete is โfireโ and โbussin.โ Son, you know as well as me that lignite is an inferior form of soft coal, and thereโs nothing to be proud of in mining it.
Goddammit, son, lignite?
LIGNITE?
Iโm sorry. I flew off the handle. No matter what kind of Zorba the Greek crowd youโre falling in with, Iโm the adult here and have to act like it.
Son, I know you think Iโm the bad guy here. You think thereโs nothing wrong with trying a little modern Greek cinema here, a little Michael Cacoyannis auteurship there. You must be thinking, โItโs not like Iโm mainlining Spentzos Filmsโ back catalog.โ
Zorba the Greek is a gateway movie, son, and before you know it, youโll be drowning in a nightmare of life-affirming drama-comedy.
Those kids that you think are so โGucciโ are probably already out on the street, doing god knows what to afford to rent out a local arthouse cinema to show a 35mm print of Zorba the Greek and buying history after history of the Balkan Wars. That is, if theyโre not shoplifting them from our townโs sole remaining Barnes & Noble.
I get it. When I was your age, I experimented. I used to play hooky and catch a matinee of Zorbโ with my friends sometimes, absorbing the hard-won humanism and strength of the human spirit in the face of bleak poverty and shocking femicide when I should have been bettering myself. Once, the guys and I pooled all the money we had and bought tickets to the 1983 Tony Awardโwinning Broadway revival of the Zorbโ musical and hitchhiked all the way to NYC.
Yes, we called it Zorbโ. I know it sounds outdated, but that was the slang of the time, son.
Your mother and I have tried to turn an indulgent eye to the Anthony Quinn poster above your bed and your constant Alan Bates impressions. Youโve kept us up all hours playing your Mikis Theodorakis LPs.
We can tolerate a lot, son. But weโre not going to see you flush your future down the drain just to impress some degenerate Zorbaheads. You will neverโdo you hear me?โnever join that fan club. I forbid it.
Good night, son. I know youโre angry now, but youโll grow out of this Zorba the Greek phase soon enough.
We all do.
