On that beach the sky and the ocean were perfectly flat and blue. Then we went back to the shack and the parrot. The parrot was blue, too, but things were different. You pulled its beak and wings with chains. Finally, to punish me, you shot it in the head. Small red. We waited a day, then had its body stuffed and sold it.
Andy Warhol is not dead. Instead, he is somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere, working on a set of screen tests featuring a new superstar: Dick Cheney. We watch while the grainy gray blood moves slowly, very slowly, through Cheney’s body. It takes hours. We just sit there and wait for it to end.
A few weeks after I turned in my program notes for the film festival, the program coordinator called me:
“The notes are fine, except I wanted to let you know, we need to add a sentence to the beginning of one of them.”
“What does it say?”
“‘I LOVE DOCUMENTARIES!!'”
“Um, OK, but maybe you could take my name off the note then.”
“But we’re trying to add a more personal flavor.”
I’m talking on the phone in my apartment with the view of the Bay Bridge, saying I can’t believe how Mr. Hitchcock has chosen me to star in the remake of Vertigo. I mean, not only am I not an actress, I don’t look anything like Grace Kelly! I hobble downstairs on my new heels and head down the hill toward the bay, trying not to step in the cracks in the sidewalk. The shoes are beautiful, but I’m not sure I can walk all the way to Bodega. My gray skirt binds around the knees. It’s the color of pigeons.
I was standing around in the rec room on the spacecraft vaguely watching Forbidden Planet on the monitor embedded in the carpeted wall. My colleague was writing a letter by the dim light emanating from the screen. A stranger in a space suit padded quietly into the room and shut the carpeted door. With his ray gun he vaporized my colleague’s letter. “What crap are you watching?” he asked, then aimed for my colleague. The ray bounced off the screen and suddenly both colleague and stranger were gone. There was a little flame, a puff of smoke, and the screen went dark. I tried the door but it was locked. I looked around the room for something to do, but the only thing on the entertainment shelf was an ancient videotape of 2001. There are no books in space. So I undressed, folded my clothes and put them in my suitcase, folded myself into the sheets, and prepared to sleep until the ship reached the end of the universe.
This film series is brought to you by FLOOM, which should be spelled with hearts instead of Os, judging by the T-shirt of the very large person of indeterminate sex serving as master of ceremonies: the T-shirt reads “My Name is FL[heart][heart]M and I [heart] Formalist Cinema!” FLOOM has a theory, which is that D. W. Griffith was a great formalist. Also Carl Dreyer and R. W. Fassbinder, and Howard Hawks, and Nagisa Oshima, and Kenneth Anger, and Steven Spielberg. Signs around the room declare “Rossellini: Formalist!” “Kidman: Formalist!” “Michael Bay: Formalist!” This is the history of cinema as proposed by FLOOM. I’m not sure I agree, not sure I disagree, although to the best of my knowledge, Nicole Kidman is not a director; what do I know anyway? FLOOM’s heart seems to be in the right place, but I wish instead of putting up signs, someone around here would show us some movies.
Oh, the hippies, frolicking naked and hairy across the screen. They have utopian visions that they will fulfill through irrigation, flooding their back-to-nature fields with torrents of muddy water. I can’t look, I’m revolted, but R says look, these are your people! They love plants and growing things! And even though their roots are rotten the plants are growing. I can’t face it.