Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Brando Island to Become Luxury Resort


(image via Tahitinuitravel)

The Corsair doesn't know why he is so obsessed with the soi-disant "Brando Island." It just sounds so thoroughly louche. Disreputable. In bad taste. It's something Don King and Donald Trump would want to hold controlling interest in. "Brando Island" (Averted Gaze) -- just the name -- it all sounds so ... excessive, de trop, like Brando himself, embodied in his later years as he lay on his back, mantanned, belly aquiver in the floral breeze, after a rough day of "rutting" with the locals, being fed fiery rum-concoctions from bamboo cups by giggling children ("Big Daddy is so funny!"), frisky and fancy-free in the Polynesian sun. Pagan!

Perhaps we are so fixated because it conjures up memories of the mysterious TV show "Danger Island" that played a big part in our formative years. Anyway, according to CNN:

"As he pondered his own twilight, Brando envisioned sharing his private atoll in French Polynesia.

"Celebrities could go there to escape the paparazzi. Each villa could have a Polynesian couple to cook for guests, take them spearfishing, teach the Tahitian names of the plants and birds and play the guitar at night."

We imagine this is called "The 'Id' Vacation Package." (Averted Gaze) It should be gangbusters with pro-athletes, mafiosi, rock musicians and Damn Dash. (see #23 of the Corsair 25)

"Less than a year after his death last July from lung failure at age 80, Brando's vision could be nearer reality.

"An environmentally-sensitive 30-bungalow resort, to be called, 'The Brando,' is scheduled to open in 2008 on Tetiaroa, the island the actor bought in 1965. The only current inhabitant is Brando's son, Teihotu, one of his children with ex-wife Tarita Teriipia."

One pictures lazy afternoons engorged on and sticky with pulpy, overripe South Pacific fruits. A truculent belch is immediately followed by the self-satisfied smile of a Pagan God. The smell of the sweet South Pacific sea air mingling with vivid island flowers excites the passions. Lording over the seashore with an imperious air, ordering the children to carry you in your chair (faster!), like Tiberius on Capri. Sloppily copulating in the sand and volcanic ash with golden goddesses, flowered hair, whose hips are lethal weapons. Hmm. On second thought: Sign me the fuck up for that vacation package -- shnell! "Id," indeed.

"'Marlon always felt that the Polynesians, more than anyone else in the world, had found an unhurried and humorous way to go through life. He always hoped his life could be so uncomplicated, but unfortunately that was not the case,' said developer Richard Bailey, CEO of Tahiti Beachcomber SA, who worked with Brando in the years before his death.

"Brando spoke fondly of that privacy, once telling CNN interviewer Larry King: 'When I lie on the beach there naked,"

(The Corsair winces)

" ... Which I do sometimes, and I feel the wind coming over me .."

(Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment)

" ... And I see the stars up above and I am looking into this very deep, indescribable night, it is something that escapes my vocabulary to describe."

Which is not difficult for Brando, a fine actor, but one who often painted with the rather limted palate of grunts, incoherent speechifying and the occasional groan. The full article on CNN


Peggy Archer said...

My retinas are burning.

No, really. They are.

What's disturbing me more is the renting of a 'Polynesian Couple' to clean one's overpriced beach bungalow.


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