“Well. Well. Well,” I say, standing there replaying what I’ve done.
And there I am. A cameo. I’m to the left of frame with the light from the street catching my face equally on the left side. I’m wearing a Futori denim floral shirt, a pair of Evisu jeans and a neck tie from Angels. My hair is cropped now and looks black though really it’s dark dark brown like the hair on that pastel-loving guy (Christopher Marciello) in the Explorer Sandal ad. In the center is Karen and she looks, to be honest, absolutely brilliant. She’s wearing a pink Etam satin slip dress and a pair of black flat-fronted trousers from The Dispensary. Her hair is pinned in three places so it hangs over her right eye, but is bunched up over her left ear. She has on buff colored lipstick which makes her lips look like pure skin, like her lips just pick up where the rest of her leaves off.
Karen calls: “So, Ciaran, how is it looking?”
“Awful,” I lie. “It’s looking awful. Too much red.”
“Oh, God,” I think, “I can’t stand this.” Every shot visually brilliant. Pans. Zooms. Dollies in and out. Trucks. Arcs. Elevates. All having to be in the right place now. Everything properly paced. Height. Body position. Every frame matching every frame. Seamless continuity. All the possibilities covered. And veritè. Very very veritè. Overmodulated sound. Cutting on my movement. Just lingering now and then on one thing or another. The sequence disordered but every message clear. Karen. Duchovny. Campbell. Tyler and Paltrow. And now Nicolas Cage, who is coming into the shop wearing three days of facial growth, a black suit, a bad shirt (bamboo pattern, Fijian), and a look like he’s going to eat the gherkin right out of your bun, leading in Holly Hunter, who is not his wife, and followed by, and this I do not believe, Woody Harrelson. I mean, that is Woody Harrelson isn’t it? I see Detective Rick Santoro, Jack Singer, H.I.McDonnough, Smokey: the whole Cage oeuvre playing out right in front of me. I could get it wrong any second. And then what? My film will be nothing more than daytime TV. It will be no better than Quantum Leap. No better than The Six Million Dollar Man. My film will be nothing then.
“When’s lunch?” says Karen, abruptly.
Duchovny smoothly checks his Heuger. “Now,” he says. “Now . . . if you want.”
7
Cooking a meal on a small student budget doesn’t have to be a problem. Under any Financial Aid options, it is still entirely possible to construct something interesting, tasty, and also nutritious. Take for example this recipe, among others:
Andean Mountain Bread
(10 Servings) To be served with meals or combined with ale to give that keeping the cold out winter boost. The cardamom seeds are optional but are authentic, and the whole thing should be served on a rough cloth if possible. A sweater can work, if it comes down to it.
400 ounces cornflour, plus extra for dusting
1 tablespoon of salt
2 tablespoons of cardamom seeds
1 tablespoon pumpkin seeds
1 tablespoon caraway seeds
Cooking Time: 25–35 minutes
1. Combine the flour, salt and seeds in a bowl. Add, at steady slow pace, 15 fl oz of tap water, mixing all the while until the texture is soft but firm. Knead for 30 minutes. Form a smooth ball. Put it under cloth for 30 minutes
2. Split dough into 10 equal balls. Smooth and flatten into pancake style. Cover with cloth.
3. Bring griddle pan to warm on a medium heat. Put two breads at a time in a griddle pan. Pat down with palm of hand. Do not allow seeds to burn. Turn each over and over until brown (2 minutes). Remove from the heat and place on woven mat. Keep covered with cloth.
4. When all are cooked serve immediately, while still warm.
(Library Shelf: Z03478: Nitinia Lugushi, Warm Tastes from Down South, Condominium Books, 2006)
8
I can’t believe they made me cut that right where they did. I can not believe I’m not now shooting five guys around a brass coffee table, upstairs, using a cuke, while Bridget Neilson is in the corner dressed in white fox, a shit load of Amatyl caps which have been hidden in dug out copies of Patricia Craig’s International Cookery Bible, now opened on the table; but instead I’m sitting here in El Monkey, overlooking the beach, ordering the Inam Bayildi, a banana cake and coke while Harrelson and Cage are three tables away with Holly Hunter and someone new, whom I’m positive is Milos Forman, and they’re talking about spending a cool $60,000,000 on a new film of Starsky and Hutch while I look Colleen Rumsey right in the center of the lens. Colleen who is also doing an MA in English literature, the subject of which escapes or, frankly, doesn’t interest me, and who is asking Karen if she can come with us this afternoon when we register with our supervisors. And Karen says, before going over to the counter to get a Lucosade:
“Cool!”
Alone, I try to smile at Colleen who is probably, I decide, dating a McDonalds’ trainee manager. Captain Big Mac or someone. She wears Sportif sunglasses but I can see her eyes behind them racing each other from side to side. A McDonalds’ trainee manager who also goes fly fishing at weekends, has a father named Errol and drives a silver blue ’82 Town Car, a 3.8 V6 auto quite incidentally. I send her in and out of focus and I’m thinking I might use Body Bumpin’ Yippie-Y-Yo by Public Announcement as a background here. I’m thinking I might cover whatever it is she is now saying that I am not listening to with a full three minutes of Body Bumpin’ Yippie-Y-Yo. She orders the Reuben Sandwich.
“So Ciaran,” she says, “you know Christopher Isherwood was an honorary graduate of Southport?”
“And?” I say.
She raises her eyebrows which are not plucked but spring up like moustaches above her thoroughly forgettable glasses. She seems to think I don’t understand what she said: “Isherwood. Christopher Isherwood, the writer, is an honorary graduate of this university. Didn’t he write the screenplay for The Loved One?”
Because I have no intention of answering she goes on: “You know. The Loved One. Evelyn Waugh?”
“Yes,” I say, defeated. “Yes.”
“I suppose you’re a member of the USP Film Society?”
I dig my fork into my Inam Bayildi, pull out a small round union and slice its heart open. “Those planks?”
I can see her eyes behind her sunglasses have fixed on me.
“They’re into Gandhi,” I say, stating the obvious.
“So?”
This, obviously, is pointless.
“So what are you into exactly . . . Freddy Krueger or something?”
For some reason, now taking up my phone, I zoom in on the Mexican Beans with Chorizo and Chilies sitting on the table next door. I’m picking up in tight shot the pinto beans which are oily and black and then the guajillos which are red and thin. I’m finding the macro setting is very useful. I’m wondering how low the battery is by now but the warning symbol isn’t showing in the window so it’s probably fine. I’m picking up the chorizo sausage, thickly sliced, the onions, the garnish of coriander.
“My supervisor’s going to be Heather Rebane,” says Colleen, like a voice-off. “Rebane.”
“Listen . . .” I say, but now I notice Karen is coming back.
Colleen continues, whispering: “How is that Karen ended up with Krotow? I mean, I know he does body theory or .