So Katie Price has made two announcements of late, both somewhat interrelated (hint: they have to do with attention and how to get more of it). One, she wants to start her own line of sex toys. It is unclear what exactly this new line of coitus enhancing (or indeed coitus substitute as the case may be) tools will bring to the table. Price told the Sun however, “It’s time for sex toys to go mainstream”. Note to Jordan: they went mainstream about a decade ago. In fact, so mainstream are they it is hard to see what new innovation Katie has up her sleeve, but I wouldn’t be all that surprised if she just gets a whole bunch of knock off dildos and then places a “Brought to you by Katie Price” sticker across the faux scrotums. Or perhaps I’m being overly cynical.
The second announcement is that she wants a movie made of her life. Now this one I like. And I know just the guy to call: venerable German filmmaker, Werner Herzog. Think about it. Would you pay nine pounds to see a visual hagiography of Katie Price? I almost certainly wouldn’t. A film about Katie Price’s life written and directed by the maker of “Even Dwarves Started Small”? Cinematic gold!
Goes without saying that Price would play herself. Highlights from the rest of the cast: Samuel L Jackson as Dwight Yorke (just imagine him shouting “I’m sick to motherfucking death of motherfucking Manchester!” in Trinidadian patois), Gerard Butler as Peter Andre (mostly to hear Butler annihilate the Aussie accent), Harmony Korine as Gareth Gates (this would be worth the price of admission alone) and Herzog himself as Alex Ferguson. Werner would play the ex-Man United manager like Herzog played the father in Harmony Korine’s Julien Donkey Boy – basically as himself but slightly angrier. Just imagine “Football. Bloody hell” said in that Bavarian way of his. I’m getting goose bumps from the cast alone.
The film stylistically starts out glossy, highly stylised as it moves its way from Price’s humble beginnings and into her modelling career. But as we progress into the film’s second act, the tone gets darker and yet more intimate. Price starts to break the fourth wall and have discussions with Herzog about how the film is going. It’s intentionally confusing to the audience, wondering whether Herzog is now just being himself as the director of the Katie Price bio pic, or playing the angry football manager from Govan. By the final third of the picture, the line between fact and fiction becomes totally blurred as it morphs its way into a full documentary. Herzog tells Price that the only way to close the film properly would be for them both to go to Grimsvotn volcano in Iceland, which last erupted in 2011, in order to climb to the summit. That in order to prove the value of her fame she needs to do something heroic, timeless, legendary, unvergesslich. Price agrees to travel to Iceland.
As they arrive in Reykjavik, the international press descends in a swarm. Price is over the moon – the attention she so craves has gone through the roof. So does the lava when they reach Grimsvotn unfortunately and Price, Herzog, the camera crew and the lion’s share of the world’s paparazzi all apparently die in the explosion. However, this is yet another wrinkle in the fold of the film, the Mobius Strip having come full circle: the whole group rise from the ashes, literally, to have a song and dance to (what else?) Price’s 2010, top 60 hit, “Free to Love Again”, with Price and Herzog at the very front of the fold. Roll credits.
However, if there ever is a Katie Price film made rest assured it will be written by some doorknob who’s worked on Corrie for the last thirty years and has had every ounce of creativity sucked from his marrow, and directed by whomever did the last Guy Ritchie rip off before the UK Film Council was put out of its misery. Still, a man can dream. While holding something from the new line of Katie Price sex merchandise, natch.