Memphis Movie (33 page)

Q:
 
Well, that's certainly a provocative statement.

A:
 
I was not aiming at provocation.

Q:
 
Well, quickly, Sandy, before we have to end, can you give me a plot summary,
something
, a reason you finished the movie and Eric could not, something in the writing? Something in Eric Warberg's character and the movie's premise? What about
Memphis Movie
drove Eric away and brought you onboard?

A:
 
(After a long pause) I'm sure I don't know what you're getting at.
Memphis Movie
, which may be renamed—they are now playing with titles—
Ralph Meeker's Blues
is one,
Bananas on Bananas
another, and there was a cryptic message left on my voice mail—a young girl's voice—with I believe another suggestion,
Boo Enema
, imagine that,
Boo Enema
—or my choice, which is
Regicide
—but this movie exists because of Eric Warberg. It is Eric's movie. And I will tell you this last thing—maybe it's important; maybe it's only another soap bubble. Here is the tagline they will use to sell this movie. Ok?

Q:
 
Yes, please.

A:
 
“In Memphis he went searching for soul. Unfortunately, he lost his.”

Q:
 
That's it?

A:
 
That's it.

DELETED SCENES

Eric and the Ghost of Sergei Eisenstein

Eric had grown frustrated with the day's shooting. They only had the one scene scheduled but everyone seemed to be off their game. He had repeatedly told Kim not to block the key. Even after explaining to her what that meant she continued her histrionic movements. He wanted to shackle her.

He headed to the men's room during a break. There he splashed his face with cold water and stood long before the mirror. The face in the mirror was his and not his. He didn't know how long the little man had been sitting there before he noticed him. He was suddenly in the mirror as if his portrait had just developed.

Eric turned to face him. He looked familiar. The nose, the strong jaw . . .

“Hello, Eric,” the man said.

“Do I know you?” Eric rightly asked.

“You do,” he said.

“I'm sorry—I—”

“I am Sergei Eisenstein,” the man said. Even his smile looked grim.

“Another ghost then,” Eric said.

“Yes, if you like.”

“Whether I like it or not. Apparently, the line between the dead and the living has become smudged.”

“Other specters, then,” Eisenstein said.

“Yes—my father repeatedly.”

“One's father is omnipresent. Death does not diminish that.”

“Yes. I see.”

“How's the shoot?”

“Frustrating.”

“Always, always. Do you know how many times I shot that damn baby carriage?”

“No, that is, I have read . . . somewhere.”

“At any rate. Stay with it. You are the visionary. Everything else is just—lunch.”

“Yes,” Eric said, uncertainly.

“Watch some of the master's work, Eric. Study your predecessors. I had no such luxury.”

“You—you were like God. You practically invented the language of film.”

“Ach, nice of you to say. We did what we could. I was an architect, in a way, an engineer. We were working in a new medium. The field was wide open. A liberating feeling at times. At times overwhelming.”

“I can see that.”

“Go home and watch
Nevsky
. Watch
Sunrise. Pandora's Box
. Any Chaplin. Chaplin worked those fields as if he were alone. And perhaps he was, alone on the mountain. Watch
Napoleon.
Gance, goddammit, he was so
ferocious
. Pay attention to where his camera stops.”

“Yes, thank you. I've seen all the films you mentioned.
Sunrise
—what a masterpiece!”

“Don't just
see
the films, Eric. Study them. Inspect.”

“Yes, sir.” Eric felt as if he were in school. Or heaven.

“Oh, and Eric.”

“Yes—”

“
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. It's the finest film ever made. I still believe that.”

And his image flickered and was gone.

Sandy and Jimbo after the fight

“He said to me, ‘You're a stoop.' So I hit him.”

“But—”

“He called me a stoop!”

“No, dear, he said astute. You're astute.”

“What's a stoot?”

“Astute. One word.”

“There is such a word?”

“Yes. There is.”

“What does it mean?”

Eric and Sandy in the morning

“Did I wake you?”

“I didn't know I was asleep.”

“So I woke you?”

“I didn't know I was asleep until I wasn't.”

“Uh-huh.”

“There's a metaphor there but I need coffee first.”

“Who needs metaphors?”

“Ortega y Gasset said something or other about the metaphor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can I just have coffee before we continue?”

“Is this to be continued?”

“Coffee?”

More Sue Pine

Sue Pine took the last flight out of Memphis on a damp, dark Memphis evening. She found her aisle seat and watched as the flight attendants moved up and down the plane with their synthetic smiles. One attendant, a burly male who could have played tight end in college, stopped in front of her seat.

“Sorry,” he said, his blond hair like styled flower petals. “I know you . . .”

“I don't think so,” Sue Pine said.

“Are you on TV?”

“Are you supposed to chat up female passengers?” Sue asked with a feline smile.

“No,” he said, quickly. “I am not. I really am not.”

His apprehension made Sue repentant.

“I'm sorry. I won't narc on you. My name is Sue, Sue Pine.”

“Willie. Waugh.” He shook her beautifully manicured hand.

“You may have seen me. I'm an actress. I just finished shooting the Eric Warberg picture.”

“Oh, Jesus. With Dan Yumont?”

“Yes, that's right.”

The poor swain was speechless. He was also handsome as mountain snow.

“You wanna be in pictures?” Sue asked. She retook his hand and tickled his palm as if it were his foreskin.

Willie Waugh's beam spread across his face like mercury on glass.

“I think maybe you are a dangerous woman,” he said, still smiling.

“You have no idea,” Sue Pine said.

On Babel

Camel took his time answering when Lorax asked him if he would critique her newest painting. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, thoughtfully.

“I'm not sure a critique is what you want from me,” he said finally. It still sounded wrong.

Lorax's face went through a few contortions.

“But, Camel, dear, what do I want? I want you to see it,” she said.

“Yes,” Camel said. “It's just—never mind. Let's look at it.”

“And you'll tell me what you really think,” she added.

“Yes, of course,” Camel said.

They walked the 20 feet to the next room as if they had been called by forces beyond their own control. Lorax held Camel's hand.

Camel wangled his way in front of the canvas. The room was small and chaotic. He felt sorry he could not have offered her a better space.

Camel felt as if his eyes were blurring. He blinked many times. What was he seeing?

“I wanna call it ‘On Babel,'” Lorax said.

The painting was of the Tower of Babel but it was a modern view, so far from Brueghel's as to be in a different medium. Camel was sure that Lorax had never seen the Brueghel. She was painting from ignorance, and from that
other place
.

“Sweetheart,” Camel said, moving slowing forward and slowly back, “I am momentarily stunned into silence.”

Lorax stood patiently by. She was not sure what her Camel meant. She began to feel dread in her chest, a painful little thrum.

“It's magnificent, of course,” Camel said. “It's beyond magnificent. It's marvelous, as in full of marvels.”

“You like it?” Lorax sang. She executed a little dance in what space was there. She may as well have been a brownie on a toadstool. Camel laughed, his great face crinkling with pleasure.

“I do. I like it very much, Lorax,” he said.

“You said my name,” she said, stopping her twirl.

“Yes. Is that ok?”

“You have never said, have you?”

“I'm not sure,” Camel said. He watched her young face wrinkle.

“I'd rather call you My Paramour,” he said, quickly.

“Yes, that's it,” she said. But neither of them knew what she meant.

“My Paramour,” Camel said. “Your painting. It seems to grow beyond the canvas. It seems to occupy a liminal space outside the physical world, outside of time.”

“Wow,” Lorax said. “They are trying to reach Heaven.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“These figures toiling, climbing, moving toward their false goal, their false gods . . . I recognize some faces, don't I?”

“I think so,” Lorax said.

“They're—movie people.”

“Yes, some of them are,” she said.

“Hm,” Camel said. He put his face nearly flush against the canvas.

“They're climbing, climbing . . .” Lorax sang.

“Yes. It's quite a struggle for them, isn't it? A meaningless struggle, you might say, except that all struggles have meaning.”

“You say nice things, Camel,” Lorax said.

“You paint wonders,” he answered.

“Camel. My Parapet.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do you want to know my real name?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A portion of this novel appeared in
Southern Gothic
, edited by Jeff Crook, and another in
Alice Blue
, and another in
A cappella Zoo,
and another in
The Prague Revue.

Special thanks to my readers Terry Bazes, Peter Coyote, Chris Ellis, Nicki Newburger, and Joel Rose.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

“The Chronosynclastic Filmmaking of Eric Warberg.” Stanley Kauffmann.
The New Republic
, August 1990.

“But No One Wants to Be Eric Warberg.” Aleah Sato.
The Sum Times
, January 1994.

“Eric Warberg: The Director Interview.” Chris Agee.
Filmmaker Magazine
, November 1994.

“Eric Warberg and the Culture of Dissolution.” Creole Myers.
Film Forum
, January 1995.

“
Sunset Striptease
: What Eric Warberg isn't Telling Us.” Jojo Self.
Premiere
, August 1995.

“Kiss Kiss Wink Wink: Eric Warberg's
When I See Beverly.
” Andrew Sarris.
The Village Voice,
September 1997.

“Sandy Shoars and Eric Warberg: A Marriage Made in Stop-Motion.” Creole Myers.
Premiere
, February 2000.

“Eric Warberg: From
Shlomo Stern
to
Spondulicks
: Can Anybody Here Direct a Movie?” Jay Cocks.
Time
, April 2005.

The Films of Eric Warberg
. Stefan Kanfer, ed. New York: Grove Press, 2005.

“Stuck Inside of Memphis with the Eric Warberg Blues.” Luke Apenail.
Newsweek
, September 2007.

BOOKS BY COREY MESLER

POETRY

For Toby, Everything for Toby
(1997), Wing & the Wheel Press.

Ten Poets
(1999), editor only, Wing & the Wheel Press.

Piecework
(2000), Wing & the Wheel Press.

Chin-Chin in Eden
(2003), Still Waters Press.

Dark on Purpose
(2004), Little Poem Press.

The Agoraphobe's Pandiculations
(2006), Little Poem Press.