Kingsley is a hoot...

I really would have loved to have been on set and watch Kingsley give this performance. He is so wooden, so purposefully bad, I can just imagine him - from time to time - actually cracking up. I'd love to know if Boll even noticed that he was doing his best, to act his worst? Can you imagine how frustrating it must have been for Kingsley, to be acting so horribly and yet Boll doesn't notice? All the other actors and crew must have been laughing inside constantly, after each take. And yet, Boll never notices. Slowly, Kingsley finds this so irritating, that he actually goes on a mission to deliver the worst performance of all time.

Boll: "Wow, Sir Ben, that take was just fantastic!"

Kingsley: "Er, what?"

Boll: "Whew, you're giving me gold, here. Next scene... and... ACTION!"

Kingsley, in the most monotone, absurdly flat manner, adlibs the worst lines he can think of: "I will have her. Yes, I will. Bring her to me. She shall be mine. Oh, yes, mine she shall be. Fear not, she shall be mine, and when she is mine, she shall be mine and I will have her".

Boll: "Cut!"

Kingsley stops, he is sure now that Boll will ask for another take, that he will, at long lost, oh god please, at long last recognize that his acting is purposely atrocious, a continuing quest by himself to find one scintilla of craft in the bones of Uwe Boll. Instead, Boll runs up to him, squinting his eyes, brandishing a huge, childlike grin on his stupid face. A face that Ben now wants to render into mush with any number of the bludgeoning weapons at his disposal on set.

Boll: "Wow, that was even better! I love the monologue you came up with there, did you work on that all night? I mean, it was just fantastic!"

Kingsley: "Really?"

Boll: [squeals] "YES! Of course! I am just knocked out by your talent. Each take is pure gold. I got another tax incentive from the government this week, so in doing this film I'm actually making money."

Kingsley: "What? How can you be making money before the film is in the theaters? Pre-sales? Distribution rights?"

Boll: "No, no. I'm exploiting loopholes in my country's incentives to native filmmakers, and my lawyers are so good at it that the government has not only paid for the entire budget, but there is quite a surplus, some of which I would love to give to you as a bonus for your fine work on my film!"

Kingsley is now experiencing a real ethical dilemma. All of his life he has studied, trained and worked to become one of the world's finest actors. He has never really cashed in to make tripe until now. He has, for weeks, rationalized his reasons for cashing in, with some of the most intuitive and rank cognitive dissonance ever accomplished by man. However, now his spirit rebels. He was Ghandi, for crying out loud, how in the name of all that is holy can he accept even more money from this no-talent hack and yet turn in such a soul-crushingly bad performance? Will not Brahman strike him dead in his tracks? Won't Krishna reach out in his Vishvarupa from, with several of his bluish arms and squeeze the life from this neck, which delivers the lines of this insipid (so-called) "script"? Suddenly it comes to him, he will achieve excellence in it's antithesis. He will deliver the best, worst performance ever given, and in this way he will perform the ultimate act of passive resistance (in deference to his once alter ego, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi). He will resist this manifestation of all that is wrong with the filmmaking world, by turning in a tour-de-farce performance of Kagan and in doing so he will repel the satan spawn, Uwe Boll.

Ben makes a mental note and a query to himself... the mental note: "Uwe is a far worse director than I had ever imagined in my darkest, most vile nightmarish imagining". In fact, he is the anti-James Moriarty to Kingsley's Sherlock. Though he doesn't even know it, Uwe has become Kingsley's most nefarious foe, whose incompetence knows no bounds. Though Ben has plumbed the depths of mediocrity, Boll shows absolutely no sign of talent. It is beginning to look like an impossibility to find any molecule of talent in his body. And the query: "can I actually do a worse acting job than I am now? Is it even possible for me to put in a more horrific performance?" He now has purpose, a vision to rebel with the worst performance ever, but can he do it? Is it possible for him to be any worse? He ponders this deeply, searching his mind for a way to accomplish his Machiavellian mission.

A plan is forming... from now on, he uses an old method acting trick, he puts himself in the mindset of the character, but instead of putting himself in the mindset of Kagan, he imagines himself to be a block of wood as he delivers his lines, or Forrest Gump's dumber brother. "No", he thinks, "it's wood. Yes, I will imagine myself to be a block of wood, but not just any wood! The lightest wood in the world, the most brittle of wood, the Balsa. From now on I will imagine myself to be a raw cut, ragged block of Balsa as I deliver my lines. The entire world will understand my cause, to expose Boll once and for all for the bottom dwelling, steaming pile of dung he is. Never again will there be any question who is the worst director on earth. I will put an end to this debate with a performance so rank that theaters will issue vomit bags with each ticket, and not as a publicity stunt as they used to do in the days of 50's, B-movie, horror films. No, this time the audience will have a genuine need of these bags as I stink up the theater with the most vile, infamous performance of all time! Ed Wood will seem like Fritz Lang in comparison to Boll after I'm finished!" These thoughts give him purpose and suppresses the urge to kill Boll every second of the day, with a sharp-edged weapon or by stuffing this absurd leather costume down his putrid throat.

Boll watches as Kingsley seems to be deep in thought and mistakenly assumes he is diligently meditating on honing his craft, when in actuality it has now become Ben's life mission to sweep the Razzie awards this year, and strive for a special, never-before-bestowed, honorary Razzie award for his performance in BloodRayne. His stomach churns with excitement to see how good Ben can get in his movie. He will silence the critics with this opus. Never again will they pan his films and liken them to the excrement of domestic animals. Sir Ben will save him. Little does he know that Ben has pledged himself to the exact opposite cause, locked in an epic battle to mine the depths of celluloid abomination.

And so now the stage is set. Boll's unconscious mission, to be the worst director of all time. To be absolutely and completely unaware of the horrific performance Kingsley is purposefully turning in. Ben's mission? Twofold: one, to actively resist this incubus by fashioning the worst performance of all time, and secondly, to force this golem-child to recognize that Ben is doing this. Kingsley believes in his quest, in his ability to act so horridly that Boll must recognize that his performance is lacking and also to unequivocally convince the world of Boll's ass-hat-ness. Can Kingsley force Boll to find a single amino acid of talent in his DNA helix? Or will Boll defeat Sir Ben by actually becoming a worse director than he already is, which is by far the worst director of this planet or any other (or a meteor or a streaking, ice comet)? The stage is set for the showdown of gargantuan proportions, and of course a porn scene in a jail cell. Who will prevail? How bad can it get? Can the audience survive? Can the film be so bad that it manifests an actual, detectable, foul stench? Will film projectors go on strike, lest they screen this "film"? Will God or Brahman understand Kingsley's quest, or will the Supreme Being strike him dead when the film is first screened, to a horrified audience that demands revenge from a just god?

Boll asks for quiet, and then... "action!"

Kingsley (adlibbing): "Did. You. Find. The. Damphir? I. Want. Her. Brought. Before. Me. Like. Here. Where. I. Am. Now. So. That. I. Might. Crush. Her. And. Stuff. Now. I. Sort. Of. Command. It. Like. You. Know."

Silence on the set... Kingsley waits with bated breath...

Boll: "...WONDERFUL! WOW, the WORDS! Just... I mean... unreal. The talent of this man! The words were so authentic, and sound just like an ancient, ruling vampire would sound. Astonishing! Just when I think it can't get any better... it does!"

Kingsley stares into space. The rest of the cast and crew snicker and chuckle, attempting to staunch the laughter by stuffing hands to mouths. Kingsley is now sure that god is revealing a frightening truth to him: Boll is the Antichrist. The batwinged-one from the gaping maw of Hell itself, sent by Satan as a malevolent force to destroy all art, culture and civilization as we know it. His collective works sucking the last drops of lifeblood from a bankrupt industry. His wicked agenda? To steal the souls of every man, woman and child, one audience member at a time... and it looks as if he just may succeed.

"...nothing is left of me, each time I see her..." - Catullus